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■> 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



MONTHLY MAGAZINE 



OF 



General Literature and Science. 



VOL. XIX. 
APRIL, 1874, TO SEPTEMBER, 1874. 



' ' « « 



NEW YORK 

THE CATHOLIC ..PUBLICATION HOUSE. 

9*'<^d'rren Street. 

1874. 



6b. bb/ 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the rear 1S74, by 

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY 

in the otBce of the Librarian of Congress^ at Washington, D. C. 



• 1 • 



; . • • . - 






• • • • ' 

• • • • . * 



•• • • 



JOHN ROSS ft CO., PRINTERS, 27 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK. 



CONTENTS. 



Anglican Orders, 467, 6x0. 
ATtist*t Stadio, Visit to an, 373. 
Assunts Howard, 765. 

Caio. What Hast thou Done with thy Brother ? 

Ckaries X. at Holyrood, 419. 

Church Music, 654. 
Cooainff Transit of Venus, The, 145. 
rompariaon of Waves with Flowers, 669. 
Craven's The Veil Withdrawn, z6a, 333, 454* 

597. 74«* 

Dante Gabriel Roaetti, 263. 

Deffand, Mme. du, 693. 

Discussion with an Infidel, A, 433, 637, 833. 

Sducation, Self, 198. 

Farm of Muiceron, The, 39, 187, 308. 
Father Louaf^e's Philosophy, 331. 
Female Religious of America, The, 36a. 

Glimpse of the Green Isle, A, 408, 536, 663. 
Grapes and Thorns, 68, 247, 388, 480, 671. 

Hello's Cain, What hast thou Done with thy 

Brother ? 698. 
Home Rnle for Ireland, 54. 

Infidel. A Discussion with an, 433, 637, 833. 
Ireland, Home Rule for, 54. 

lesait Martyrs of the Commune, The, 509. 



Kathleen Waring, 843. 
Looker-Back, A, xoa. 

Madame du Deffand, 693. 
Matter, 578, 731. 
Music, Church, 654, 785. 

National, A, or State Church, 99, 

Odd Stories, 137, 570, 7x4. 

Old vertMt New, 140. 

On the Wing, 15, 309, 347. 54»« 6aa, 807. 

Origen : Was he a Heretic } X09. 

Philosophy, F. Louage*s, 331. 

Pius VI., 755. 

Principles of Real Being, The, x, X73, 289. 

Public Worship, 333. 

Relatfo Itinerls in Marylandiam, 537. 
Rheil's The Farm of Muiceron, 39, 187, 308. 
Rosetti, Dante Gabriel, 363. 

Self-Education, 198. 

Social Shams, 135. 

Southern Flight, A, 15, 309, 347^ 54** 633, 807. 

Switzerland in X873, 375, 557. 

Veil Withdrawn, The, x63, 333, 454, S97» 74«« 
Visit to an Artist's Studio, 373. 

Was Origen a Heretic ? X09. 

Week in Wordsworth's Haunts, A, 79s. 

Word for Women, A, 377. 



Answered Prayer, 333. 

Antar and Zara, 336, 303, 531, 593, 735. 

Botterfly, The, 186. 

Captive Bird, The, 38. 
Cora, 418. 

Dante*s Purgatorio, 450. 

Easter, 346. 

Epigram on Abraham Lincoln, 387. 

Epigram : The Widow's Mites, 139. 

For Ever, 373. 

Fragment of Early English Poetry, 197. 

Hymn of the Flowers, 841. 



POETRY. 

Legend of Vallambrosa, The, 7x0^ 

Material Faith, 407. 

One Corpus Christi, 536. 

On Hearing the " O Salutarls Hostia .*" 14. 

Rock of Rest, The, 609. 
Sonnet : Good Friday, 67. 

There was no Room for Them at the Inn, 335. 
To S. Joseph, X36. 

Visions, 376. 

Who Will Remember ? 653. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Adeline de Chazal, 860. 

Alexander the Great, 859. 

Amelia ; or. The Triumph of Piety, 858. 

ArchdalTs Monasticon Hibernicum, 7x9. 



Baltimore Gun Club, The, 575. 

Begins La Sainte Ecriture et La Regie de Foi, 

719. 
Bellasius' Cherubini,7X9. 



Iv 



Contents. 



Blened Margaret Mary Alacoque, 855. 
Buckley's Sermons, Lectures, etc., 286. 

CasUniza's The Spiritual Conflict, 856. 
Catholic Church, The, in its Relations to Human 

Prog^ress, 575. 
Catherine Hamilton, 43a. 
Catherine of Genoa, 573. 

Cherubini : Memorial Illustrative of his Life, 7x9, 
Children of Mary, 576. 
Christian Cemetery in the XlXth Century, The, 

573. 

Church and the Empires, The, 859. 

Commonitory, The, of S. Vincent of Lerins, 719. 

Complete Pronouncing Gazetteer, A, 720. 

Conferences on the Spiritual Life, 143. 

Consoling Thoughts of S. Francis of Sales, 286. 

Conway ^s The Sacred Anthology, 574. 

Count de Montalembert's Letters to a School- 
fellow, a8c. 

Coxe's Catholics and Roman Catholics, 575. 

Curtius' History of Greece, 431. 

Deharbe*s A Full Catechism, 7x8. 

De Vere's Alexander the Great, 889. 

Dialogues of S. Gregory, 575. 

Dictionary of the English Language, A, 720. 

Dr. Coxe's Claims to Apostolicity Reviewed, 281. 

Dubois' Madame Agnes, 430. 

Ecclesiastical Antiquities of London, 143. 
Essay Contributing to a Philosophy of Litera- 
ture, An, 858. 

Fairplay's Notes of the Wandering Jew, 144. 

Farm of Muiceron, The, 430. 

Favre, B. Peter, The Life of, 142. 

Francis of Sales, S., Consoling Thoughts of, 286. 

Franco's Tigranes, 575. 

French Prisoner in Russia, The, 431. 

Full Catechism of the Catholic Religion, A, 7x8. 

Fullerton's Rosemary, 860. 

Fullerton's Short Stories, 860. 

Garside's B. Margaret Mary Alacoque, 855. 
Garslde's The Helpers of Holy Souls, 860. 
Gaume's The Christian Cemetery, 573. 
Glory and Sorrow, 43a. 
Grapes and Thorns, 856. 
Gregory, S., Dialogues of, 575. 

Hedley's Who is Jesus Christ ? 431. 
Helpers of Holy Souls, The, 860. 
History of Greece, 431. 
Hodge's What is Darwinism ? 429. 
Holy Places, 718. 

In Six Months, a8x. 

Lancicius* Meditation, 431. 

Lasserre's The Month of Mary of Our Lady of 

Lourdes, 7x8. 
Letter-Books, The, of Sir Amias Poulet, 576. 
Letters to a School- fellow, 281. 
Lewis' Life of S. John of the Cross, 429. 
Life and Doctrine of S. Catherine of Genoa, 573. 
Life of B. Peter Favre, S.J., 14a. 
Life of S. Thomas of Villanova, 573. 

McMullen's Snatches of Song, 287. 

Madame Agnes, 430. 

Manning's Sin and its Consequences, 431. 

May Papers, 43a. 

Meditations for Every Day in the year, 431. 



Meditations on the Holy Eucharist, 287. 
Meline's In Six Months, a8x. 
Monaiticon Hibernicum, 7x9. 
Montagu's On Some Popular Errors, 573. 
Moriarty's The Catholic Church, etc., 575. 
Morris' The Letter-Books of Sir Amias Poulet, 
576. 

Neptune Outward Bound, The, 860. 
New Manual of the Sacred Heart, The, 431. 
Noel's The Red Flag, etc., 144. 
Notes of the Wandering Jew, 144. 
Novena to Our Lady of Lourdes, 387. 

O'Sullivan's School Hygiene, 576. 

Olmstead's De 1' Autorit^ ; ou. La Philosophie du 

Personnalisme. Lettre au Rev. Ptee J. F. 

Hecker, etc., 7x7. 
On Some PopuUir Errors, etc., 573. 

Paradise of God, 288. 
Personal Reminiscences, 576. 
Philippe's, Brother, Meditations, 287. 
Pope, The, and the Emperor, 43X. 
Pride of Lexington, The, 142. 
Purbrick's May Papers, 43a. 

Ramsay's Bishop Grant, 855. 

Ravignan's Conferences, 143. 

Red Flag, The, etc., 144. 

Report of a Committee on a New Bellevue- 

Hospital, a8o. 
Rheil's The Farm of Muiceron, 430. 
lUvi&re's Holy Places, 7x8. 
Rosemary, 860. 
Ryan's Dr. Coxe's Claims, a8x. 

Sacred Anthologjr, The, 574* 

School Hygiene, 576. 

Selim, Pacha of Salonica, 43a. 

Seton's The Pride of Lexington, x4a. 

Short Stories, 860. 

Sin and its Consequences, 43<* 

Sketches of Illustrious Soldiers, 7x9. 

Snatches of Song, a87. 

Spiritual Conflict and Conquest, 856. 

State Charities Aid Association, aSo. 

Sweeney's The Pope and the Emperor, 431. 

Sylvia, and Other Dramas, 576. 

Theologia Moralis Novlasimi Ecclesiae Doctoris 
S. Alphonsi, in Compendium Redacta, etc., 

576. 
Thomas and Baldwin's Gazetteer, 720. 

Thomas's Dictionary of Biography, 7ao. 

Thomas Grant, First Bishop of Southwark, 855. 

Thomas, S., of Villanova, Life of, 573. 

Tigranes, 575. 

True to Trust, a8x. 

Twelve Tales for the Young, 576. 

University Laval: Sixl^me Centenaire de S. 
Thomas d'Aquin k S. Hyacintl\e et k (Que- 
bec, a8x. 

Verne's The Baltimore Gun Club, 575. 
Virtues of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, The, a88. 

What is Darwinism ? 429. 

Who is Jesus Christ ? 43X. 

Wilberforce's The Church and the Empires, 859. 

Wilson's Illustrious Soldiers, 719. 

Wood's Ecclesiastical Antiquities, X43. 

Worcester's Dictionary, 720. 



\ 'Jv^ NEW- YORK 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XIX., No. 109.— APRIL, 1874. 



THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING. 



IV. 



INTRINSIC PRINCIPLES OF SUBSTANCE AND SUPPOSITUM. 



We have briefly shown in the 
preceding article that a complete 
being, to be a substance and a 
suppositum, requires no positive 
addition to its three intrinsic prin- 
ciples, but needs only to be left to 
itself. This is, in our opinion, an 
obvious truth. But as there are 
philosophers of high repute who do 
not fully share the same opinion, 
and, on the other hand, the notions 
of substance and of suppositum are 
l)Oth intimately connected with 
some theological truths which can- 
not be well explained without a 
distinct knowledge of what these 
two notions really imply, we deem 
it expedient to enter into a closer 
ciamination of the subject, that 
we may better understand by the 
light of reason, and confirm by the 
weight of authority, the traditional 
doctrine on substance and sup- 
positum, their essential constitution, 
formal distinction, and supernatu- 
ral separability. 



Substance is very commonly de- 
scribed as " that which is in itself 
and by itself" — quod in se et per se 
subsistit. This definition exhibits 
the " predicamental *' substance — 
that is, a substance ultimately com- 
plete, which is at the same time 
a suppositum also, according to 
Aristotle's comprehensive concep- 
tion of substance. And it is for 
this reason that such a definition is 
made up of two members ; of which 
the first — viz., " that which exists in 
itself" — strictly applies to substance 
as such; whilst the second — viz., 
"that which subsists by itself" — 
strictly refers to the suppositum as 
such, and »exhibits substance as 
possessing its own natural subsis- 
tence or suppositality. 

Philosophers, when speaking of 
things as existing in their natural 
state and condition, are wont to say 
indiscriminately that substance is 
a being which " exists in itself," or 
a being which "subsists by itself." 



Satered according to Act of Confn>ess, in the year 1874. by Rev. I. T. IIsacBit, in the Office of 

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



Tki Principles of Real Being. 



This they can do without any 
danger of error so long as they 
keep within the bounds of pure 
nature ; since, in the natural order, 
anything that exists in itself sub- 
sists by itself, and vice versa. But 
natural things can, by supernatural 
interference, be raised to a mode of 
existence transcending their natural 
condition, as we know by divine 
revelation ; and in such a case, the 
mode of substance and the mode 
of the suppositum must be, and 
accordingly are, most carefully dis- 
tinguished from one another. 
Thus we know by faith that in 
Christ our Lord there is the true 
substance of a human body and of 
a human soul ; and nevertheless we 
know that his human nature does 
not subsist by itself, but by the 
Divine Person of the Word. The 
obvious inference is that a nature 
which exists in itself does not neces- 
sarily subsist by itself; in other 
terms, the formality of substance 
and the formality of the suppositum 
are entirely distinct from one an- 
other, and the one can remain with- 
out the other. " What makes sub- 
stance to be essentially a substance," 
as Suarez remarks, " is not its sub- 
sisting actually by itself, but its 
having an essence to which sub- 
sistence is naturally due — viz., an 
essence which is of itself a sufficient 
principle of subsistence.*** From 
this we learn that the words per se 
esscy or " to subsist by itself," are 
inserted in the definition of sub- 
stance, not to show what substance 
as such is, but only to point out 
what is naturally due to substance — 
viz., what accompanies it in its 
natural mode of existing. Substance 



* '^ Essent'alis ratio substantiae ut aic non con- 
slslit in esse per se^ quatenus per hacc verba 
describitur ipsum subs-.siere in actu, sed in hoc 
quod ha )eat talem essentiam, cui debeatur sub- 
sisten'.ia, seu quu: ex se sit sutficiens principium 
illius.'*— Suarez, Metaph. Disp. 34, sscL 8, n. 11. 



as such would therefore be suffici- 
ently characterized by the words, 
" that which is in itself." 

Let us now inquire what is the 
legitimate meaning of these last 
words. A thing is said to exist in 
itself which not only has in itself 
what is needed for its own susten- 
tation, but is moreover actually un- 
sustained by anything lying un- 
der it, while it is itself the first 
subject of all its appurtenances. 
Such is the legitimate and tradition- 
al meaning of the words, " to exist 
in itself.*' Hence substance may 
be legitimately defined as " a being 
which by its intrinsic constitution 
has no need of being supported by 
a subject, and which is not actual- 
ly supported.** 

A living author, however, in a 
valuable work to which I have no 
access at this moment, and from 
which, therefore, I do not make any 
quotation verhcUim^ asserts that sub- 
stance " up to the present day *' 
has always been understood to 
mean "a thing which by its intrin- 
sic constitution has no need of be- 
ing supported by a subject,** with- 
out taking into consideration its 
actual mode of existing. We shall 
presently show that this assertion 
is not true, and that this pretended 
definition is essentially incomplete. 
Meanwhile, let us observe that the 
precise difference between our de- 
finition and this new one consists 
in this only: that whilst the first 
presents substance as having no 
actual supporty the second presents 
it as having no need of actual sup- 
port, whether it be supported, at 
least supematurally, or not. This 
difierence, of course, would amount 
to nothing, and might be entirely 
overlooked, if things could not 
exist but in their natural condition ; 
for anything which is in no need of 
support will naturally exist unsup- 



Tki Principles of Real Being. 



ported. But as philosophy is the 
handmaid of theology, we must re- 
member that natural things can be 
raised to a supernatural state, and 
thus change their mode of existing ; 
and in such a case the difference 
between the two said definitions 
luy amount to much ; because, if a 
thing which is naturally in no need 
of support be actually supported, 
then, according to the first defini- 
tion, that thing thus actually sup- 
ported would cease to exist as a sub- 
stance, whilst, according to the 
second definition, it would still con- 
tinue to exist as a substance, as it 
would still have no need of support. 
Hence the importance of ascertain- 
ing which of the two definitions we 
are authorized to hold according to 
the traditional doctrine of philoso^ 
phers and theologians. 

And first, Aristotle, at the head 
of the peripatetic school which held 
its sway for centuries, defines sub- 
stance to be ultimum subjectum — 
" the last subject " — that is, the un- 
dermost subject ; by which he un- 
questionably means that substance 
is something which not only lies 
underneath (subjacet)y but is more- 
over the " last " thing which lies 
underneath. In other terms, sub- 
stance, according to Aristotle, must 
have nothing lying under it, and, 
while supporting all its appurte- 
nances, is itself actually unsupport- 
ed. Hence it is, that quantity, for 
bstance, though lying under some 
%jre and supporting it, is no sub- 
sunce at all ; for, though it i^asub" 
ject, it is not the undermost. 

This definition of the Greek phi- 
Icsopher has been universally ac- 
cqjted and made use of by Chris- 
tian as well as pagan philosophers 
of all times, though many of them 
called thf first subject what Aristo- 
tle had called the last — a change 
vhich docs not affect the meaning 



of the definition, since what is last 
in the analytic is first in the syn- 
thetic process. It is clear, there- 
fore, that both Aristotle and his 
followers do not define substance 
simply as that which has no need of 
support, but as that which is actual^ 
ly unsupported, 

S. John Damascene, in the fourth 
chapter of his Dialectics^ defines 
substance to be '^ that which is in 
itself in such a manner as not to 
exist in anything else "; * and after 
a few lines, " Substance," he says, 
'' is that which has its existence in 
itself, and not in anything else "; f 
and again in another chapter of 
the same work, "Substance," he 
says, " is anything which subsists 
by itself and has its own being, not 
in any other thing, but in itself. *'J 

According to these definitions, 
which are identical, substance is a 
thing which not only is able to sup- 
port itself, but actually supports it- 
self to the exclusion of any other 
distinct supporter. This is quite 
manifest; for, if substance, in the 
opinion of this great doctor and 
philosopher, had been only a thing 
having no need of support, how 
could he require so pointedly and 
explicitly t/ie actual mode of exist- 
ing in itself and not in anything 
else? 

S. Ambrose admits a notion of 
substance quite identical with that 
of Aristotle and of all the ancients, 
and employs it even in speaking of 
God himself. "God," says he, 
" inasmuch as he remains in himself, 
and does not subsist by extrinsic 
support, is called a substance. "§ 



* Tb iv tavTcp Sf, koI fii) *¥ MfHf ix'^^ "^^ vwof^^w- 
-^Dialed. ^ c. 4. 

t *Eirl irdt^un> ri»v hvrmv^ rh iv kavrtf, koI . ^i| iv 
irifnf ix^v rd clyoi, owta c<rri. — DiaUct.t c. 4. 

X 'Ovyta tori irai' ortrcp avBvnSvrarov «<rT4, <cai 
fii| iv iT*p<f cx'i rb tlvai. — Diaitct.^ c. 39. 

S '^ Quod in 8U0 maneat, iiec ope subsistat aliena 
(DeuB), appelUtur subttantia."— /.V Iiuarn.y 
c. zo. 



The Principles of Real Being. 



God, of course, does not fall under 
the predicament of substance, as 
philosophers know ; and yet the 
substantiality even of his nature, 
according to this holy doctor, im- 
plies the actual absence of extrin- 
sic sustentation.* 

S. Thomas, as we might expect, 
teaches the very same doctrine. 
" Substance," says he, " is a thing 
whose quiddity requires to exist 
unsupported by anything else" — cut 
convenit esse non in alio j f and he 
adds that this formality {esse non 
in alio) is a mere negation; which 
is evident. And in another place, 
^^ Substance^'' says he, " does not dif- 
fer from being by any difference 
which would imply a new nature 
superadded to the being itself; but 
the name of substance is given to 
a thing in order to express its spe- 
cial mode of existing." % Two 
things, then, or two constituents, 
are needed, according to S. Tho- 
mas, that we may have a substance : 
a physical being and a special 
mode of existing. The physical 
being is a positive reality, a nature 
perfectly constituted, both material- 
ly and formally, whilst the special 
mode is a mere negation; but, 
though a mere negation, is that 
which causes the thing to be a sub- 
stance, as the name of substance is 
given to the thing in order to express 
its special mode of existing. There- 
fore the thing itself apart from 

* This absence is % real oe|ration-Ht nef^ation 
of imperfection, so long as we speaic of God, who 
cannot admit of ai^ inferior nature being insert- 
ed in the plenitude of his reality ; but a nega- 
tion of further perfection when we speaic of 
created things, which are potential, and can be 
raised supernaturally above tlieir natural con- 
dition. 

t Contra Geni.y lib. i, c. 15. 

X *' Substantia non addit supra ens aliquam dif- 
ferentiam, quae significet aliqnam naturam su- 
peradditam enti : sed nomine substantise expri- 
milurspecialis modus essendi" (De Verit.^ q. i.a. 
i). Hence this special mode does not constitute 
the nature or essence of the thing itself, and for 
this reason it is not mentioned in its definition, 
as S. Thomas says, Quodlib. 9, q. 3. 



such a special mode cannot be a 
substance, any more than a six- 
pence apart from its rotundity can 
be a circle. 

Toletus includes in his definition 
of substance both the thing and the 
special mode of existing. He says : 
" The first substance is a sensible 
nature which is not predicated of 
any subject nor exists in any sub- 
ject." * 

Suarez says even more explicitly, 
" It is not necessary for the essence 
of substance that it should have its 
own subsistence, but that it should 
have the mode of substance. " t 
We cannot, then, overlook, and 
much less discard, this special 
mode without destroying the essen- 
tial notion of substance as such. 
Now, he who defines substance to 
be simply a thing which has no 
need oi ^M^^OTt overlooks and dis- 
cards this special mode ; hence he 
destroys the essential notion of 
substance as such. 

Balmes, in his Fundamental Phi- 
losophy, says : " In the notion of 
substance, two other notions are 
implied — to wit, that of permanence 
and that of non-inherence. Non- 
inherence is the true formal con- 
stituent of substance, and is a 
negation; it is grounded, however, 
on something positive — that is, on 
the aptitude of the thing to exist in 
itself without the need of being 
supported by another."} This 
passage establishes very clearly the 
common doctrine that the aptitude 
of a thing to exist without being 
supported is not the formal con- 
stituent of substance, but only the 
ground on which the proper formal 

* ** Prima substantia est qusedam natura sensi- 
bilis, quae nee de subjecto dicitur, nee in sub- 
jecto aliquo est" — In Logic. Arist.y c. 5, Dt Sub- 
ttantia. 

t^^Non est de essentia eius subsistentia, sed 
Dodus substantiae."— in 3 part, q. 77, a. x. 

X Ub. xL c. 14. 



The Principles of Real Being. 



constituent of substance (non-in- 
herence) is conceived to be possi- 
ble. 

Ferraris, a modem Italian Tho- 
mist, in his course of philosophy, 
says explicitly that substance is 
destroyed if its " perseity "—per se 
esse — ^be taken away.* The word 
" perseity " stands here for the 
"special mode" of S. Thomas, the 
**mode of substance" of Suarez, 
the "non-inherence" of cBalmes, 
etc. 

Liberatore has the following: 
" Going back to the notion of sub- 
stance, we may consider three 
things which are implied in it : the 
first, that it exists, not in any man- 
ner whatever, but in itself; the se- 
cond, that it consists of a deter- 
minate reality or essence, from 
which its determinate active pow- 
ers arise; the third, that it is in 
possession of itself — sui Juris — ^with 
regard to its manner of existing. 
Of these three things, the first ex- 
hibits properly and precisely the 
notion of substance; the second 
presents the concept of nature; 
the third expresses the notion of 
suppositum." t 

The preceding quotations, to 
which others might be added, are 
more than sufficient, in our opinion, 
to refute the assertion that sub- 
stance at all times was considered 
simply as a thing having no need 
of support ; for we have seen that 
the most prominent philosophers 
and theologians of all times uni- 
formly consider the actual negation 
^ support as an essential principle 

'Vol. 9, q. X, de accideni, 

***Id solMUntiaD rationem redeuntes, txia 
quad ipsaiD coasiderare possumus : primum, 
TBod ezisUt. et quidem in se ; alterum, quod Utll 
pottm qaam alia realitate constat, sea essentia, 
ei qua determinatae rires operandi dimanant; 
'■artiaaa, quod s« poMldeat, aitque sui juris in 
ex «eodo. Primum proprie et praecise consti- 
•'311 BOiiooem aubstantiae ; alteram conceptual 
cff rt naturae ; pottrenum denique. . . . ideam 
«9poiiti praebat."— J///4t>>l. Gtm., n. 64. 



of substance. Sanseverino, a very 
learned modem philosopher of the 
Thomistic school, treating in his 
Logic of the predicament of sub- 
stance, establishes the fact that, ac- 
cording to the common teaching 
of the scholastics, " not the essence 
of the thing, but its mode of exist- 
ing, formally constitutes the pre- 
dicament of substance." Although 
that special mode of existing is not 
implied in the essential concept of 
the thing, inasmuch as it is a things 
yet, according to the doctrine of the 
schoolmen, the same special mode 
is implied, as a formal constituent, 
in the essential concept of the 
same thing, inasmuch as it falls 
under the predicament of substance ; 
so that, in the constitution of sub- 
stance, the essence of the thing is 
to be ranked as its material, and 
the special mode of existing as its 
formal, principle. And the learned 
writer sums up all this doctrine in 
one general conclusion of Henry of 
Ghent, which runs thus : " Every 
predicament arises out of two con- 
stituents, of which one is the thing 
which is to be put under the pre- 
dicament, the other is its mode of 
being which determines the predica- 
ment, and by these same constituents 
are the predicaments distinguished 
from one another " * — a doctrine ex- 
plicitly taught by S. Thomas him- 
self t And here let us reflect that, 
if all the schoolmen, as Sanseverino 
with the authority of his philoso- 
phical erudition declares, affirm 
that the mode of substance, the 
non-inherence, the negation of sup- 
port, is an essential constituent of 
substance as such, we are free to 
conclude that to affirm the contrary 
is to give a false notion of sub- 

* ^* Ex duobus, nempe ex re prapdicamenti, et 
ratione esscndi ejus, quae est ratio pnedica- 
menti, constituitur Ipsum praedicamentum, et 
diversificatur unum prsedicamentum ab alio/' 

t Dt Verit.^ q. t, a. x. 



The Principles of Real Being. 



stance; while to say that philoso- 
phers have at all times, or at any 
time, taught the contrary, is to 
give a very false statement of facts. 
This may suffice to convince the 
student that the essential formality 
of substance as such is the negation 
of actual support. And now let us 
inquire what is the formal con- 
stituent of suppositum. Supposi- 
tum and substance, though not 
identical, are similarly constituted. 
The positive entity of both is the 
same, and the difference between 
ihem arises entirely from the differ- 
ent character of their negative 
formality, as we are going to ex- 
plain. For the essence or nature 
of every created being is naturally 
accompanied by two negations^ of 
which neither is essential to it, 
while either of them, absolutely 
speaking, can be made to disappear. 
The first is the negation of any- 
thing underlying as a supporter and 
acting the part of a subject ; and it 
is to this negation, as we have 
proved, that any complete nature 
formally owes its name and rank 
of substance. The second is the 
negation of anything overlying^ so 
to say, and possessing itself of the 
created being in such a manner as 
to endue it with an additional com- 
plement and a new subsistence ; 
and it is to this negation that a 
complete nature formally owes its 
name and rank of suppositum. 
The complete nature, or the thing 
in question, when considered apart 
from these two negations, does not, 
therefore, convey the idea either of 
substance or of suppositum, but 
exhibits a mere potency of being 
either or both ; as it is evident that 
there cannot be a substance with- 
out the formal constituent of sub- 
stance, nor a suppositum without 
the formal constituent of supposi- 
tum. 



This doctrine, which is so simple 
and clear, and which fully explains 
the true meaning of those phrases, 
'^ it exists in itself," and " it subsists 
by itself," can be confirmed by 
what S. Thomas teaches on the 
subject. And since we have al- 
ready said enough in regard to the 
mode of substance, we shall give 
only what he says concerning sub- 
sbtence or suppositality. That the 
words per se — " by itself " — which 
strictly exhibit the formality of the 
suppositum, are the expression of 
a mere negation^ is admitted by S. 
Thomas in a passage above men- 
tioned. This would lead us im- 
mediately to conclude that the 
formal constituent of suppositum, 
in the judgment of the holy doctor, 
is a mere negation. But we may 
find a more perspicuous proof of 
this in those passages where he ex- 
plains how the human nature in 
Christ subsists without the human 
personality. The absence of the 
human personality in Christ does 
not depend, says he, " on the ab- 
sence of anything pertaining to the 
perfection of the human nature — 
but on the addition of something 
that ranks above the human nature, 
to wit, on the union of the human 
nature with a divine Person."* 
And again : " The divine Person, 
by his union, prevented the human 
nature from having its own person- 
ality, "f It is manifest from these 
two passages that, according to S. 
Thomas, the absence of the human 
personality in Christ is to be ac- 
counted for by the addition of some- 
thing above the human nature, and 
not by the suppression or subtrac- 

* ** Non propter defectum alicujus quod ad per- 
fectionem humaoie naturae pertioeat. sed prop- 
ter additionem alicujut quod est supra humanam 
naturam, quod est unio ad diviuam i'erM>oam." 
— Summa Tkeal,^ p. 3« q. 4, a. a. 

t ** Persona divina sua unionc impedivit, ne hu- 
mana natura propriam personalitatem haberet.^' 



The Principles of Real Being. 



tion of any positive entity belong- 
ing to the human nature. If, then, 
the absence of the human per- 
sonality entails no absence of posi- 
tive reality, it is obvious that the 
human personality is not a positive 
reality, but a real negation. Such 
is S. Thomas's doctrine, endorsed 
by Scotus and many others. 

There are, however, some phi- 
losophers and theologians, Suarez 
among others, who consider person- 
ality as something positive ; and we 
must briefly discuss the grounds of 
their opinion. 

They say that, if the human per- 
sonality is nothing positive, human 
person will be the same reality as 
human nature, and therefore the 
one will not be really distinct from 
the other ; and if so, the one cannot 
be assumed without the other. How, 
then, can we say that the Eternal 
Word assumed the human nature 
without the human person ? 

We reply that all negation which 
belongs to a real being is a real 
negation, and constitutes a real 
mode of being. Accordingly, al- 
though the human personality is 
only a negation, the nature existing 
under that negation realty differs 
• from itself existing without that ne- 
gation, no less than a body at rest 
really differs from itself in move- 
ment, although rest is only a nega- 
tion of movement. And this suf- 
fices to show that the objection is 
wholly grounded on the false sup- 
Tosition that nothing is real which 
4 not positive. 

They affirm that subsistence or 
Jcppositality gives the^last comple- 
oent to the nature, as it terminates 
it and makes it subsistent. Hence 
subsistence, as they infer, must add 
something positive to the nature; 
which it cannot do unless it be a 
positive reality. 

We deny the assumption alto- 



gether. Subsistence, in fact, gives 
no complement whatever to the na- 
ture, but, on the contrary, presup- 
poses the complete nature, which, 
when simply left to itself, cannot 
but be subsistent by itself, and 
therefore is said to have its own 
subsistence. It is not subsistence 
that causes the thing to subsist ; it 
is the thing which abides by itself 
that, in consequence of this same 
abiding by itself, has subsistence, 
and is called subsistent; just in the 
same manner as it is not rest that 
causes the body to be at rest, but 
the concrete resting ; as rest is evi- 
dently the consequence of the rest- 
ing. Hence this second objection^ 
too, is based on a false assump- 
tion. 

Another of their reasons is the 
following: In God, personality is 
a positive reality, therefore in crea- 
tures also ; for the created person 
is a participation of divine person, 
which is a positive reality. 

We do not see how this assertion 
can be true. In God there are 
three Persons, but neither of them 
is participated or communicated to 
creatures. Indeed, creatures bear 
in themselves a faint imitation of 
the three, divine Persons, inasmuch 
as they involve three intrinsic prin- 
ciples in their constitution, as we 
have explained in the preceding 
article; but these three principles 
are not three persons. Yet, if di- 
vine personality were in any way 
communicable to creatures, crea- 
tures would subsist in three persons ; 
for how could the personality of 
the Father be communicated in any 
degree without the personality of 
the Son and of the Holy Ghost 
being communicated in the same 
degree? Personality in God is a 
relative entity, and cannot be con- 
ceived without its correlative; and 
consequently, if the human person- 



8 



The Principles of Real Being. 



ality were a participation of divine 
personality, it would be impossible 
for man to be a single person ; 
whence it appears that human per- 
sonality is not a communication of 
divine personality, and is not even 
analogous to it. What we call a 
human person is nothing but a hu- 
man individual nature which is sui 
juris — that is, not possessed by a 
^superior being, but left to itself and 
free to dispose of its acts. It there- 
fore imitates, not the divine Per- 
sons, but the divine absolute Being, 
inasmuch as it is independent in 
disposing of everything according 
to his will. Now, independence, 
even in God, implies the negation 
or absence of any necessary con- 
nection or conjunction with any- 
thing distinct from the divine na- 
ture. It is but reasonable, then, 
to hold that the human nature also 
exists free and independent by the 
very absence or negation of person- 
al union with a higher being. We 
remark, however, that such a nega- 
tion in God is a negation of im- 
perfection, while in creatures an 
analogous negation is a negation of 
a higher perfection, since it is the 
negation of their union with a more 
perfect nature. 

It has been argued, also, that to 
be a person is better than not to be 
a person; whence it would follow 
that personality is a perfection. On 
the other hand, negations are not 
perfections ; hence personality can- 
not be a negation. 

To this we answer that the pro- 
position, " to be a person is better 
than not to be a person," can be 
understood in two different man- 
ners. It may mean that to have 
a nature which is capable of per- 
sonality, and is naturally personal, 
is better than to have a nature in- 
capable of personality ; and in this 
sense the proposition is true, for it 



is certainly better to have the na- 
ture of man than the nature of an 
ox. This, however, would not show 
that personality is a positive for- 
mality. But the same proposition 
might be taken to mean that to 
have one's natural personality is 
better than to exist without it, in 
consequence of hypostatic union 
with a higher being; and m this 
sense, which is the sense of the ob- 
jection, the proposition is evident- 
ly false. For the whole perfection 
of the human person is the perfec- 
tion of its nature; so that human 
personality, instead of being a new 
perfection, is only an exponent of 
the perfection and dignity of human 
nature, which is such that the same 
nature can naturally guide itself 
and control its actions. We there- 
fore concede that human personal- 
ity is a formality of a perfect nature^ 
but we cannot admit that it is a 
perfection of itself. If human per- 
sonality were a perfection of human 
nature, we would be compelled to 
say that human nature is less per- 
fect in Christ than in all other men ; 
for, though the Eternal Word as- 
sumed the whole human nature, 
he did not assume that pretended 
perfection, human personality. But 
S. Paul assures us that Christ's hu- 
man nature "is like ours in all 
things, except sin." We cannot 
therefore suppose that the human 
nature is less perfect in him than in 
other men ; and this leads us to the 
conclusion that human personality 
is not a positive perfection. 

Some have pretended that the 
mystery of the Incarnation would 
become quite inexplicable if the 
human person were nothing more 
than the human nature left to itself 
Their reason is that by the Incar- 
nation the human nature is separat- 
ed from the human person ; which 
they deem to be impossible if the 



The Principles of Real Being. 



person is nothing else than the na- 
ture alone. 

This is, however, a manifest pa- 
ralogism. If, in fact, the human 
person is the human nature left to 
itself^ the •nature assumed by the 
Word will certainly not be a human 
person, since it is clear that the na- 
ture thus assumed is not left to it- 
sdf. This suffices to show the in- 
consistency of the objection. Let 
us add that it is not entirely cor- 
rect to say that by the Incarnation 
the human nature is separated 
from the human person ; it would 
be more correct to say that the hu- 
man nature is prevented from hav- 
ing that natural subsistence which 
would make it a human person. 

Lastly, it has been said that, if 
the human nature which has been 
assumed by the Eternal Word was 
entirely complete, the union of the 
Word with it could not be intimatie 
and substantial. Hence, according 
to this reasoning, there must have 
been something wanting in the hu- 
man nature assumed, which some- 
thing has been supplied by the hy- 
postatic union. 

We cannot but repeat, with S, 
Thomas, that the human nature as- 
sumed by the Word is absolutely 
perfect, and therefore exempt from 
any deficiency which could have 
been supplied by the hypostatic 
onion. And as for the reason al- 
leged, we say that it is grounded 
on a false supposition. The union 
of the Word with the human na- 
ture is not a conspiration of the 
divine and the human into oneness 
of substanee^ for the thing would 
be impossible; and therefore it is 
not wholly correct to say that the 
union is substantial. The proper 
term is hypostatic — that \^^ personal ; 
for, in fact, the human nature con- 
spires with the divine Word into 
oneness of person^ the two natures 



or substances remaining entirely 
distinct. Now, the oneness of per- 
son is not obtained by supplying 
any deficiency in the human na- 
ture, but by adding^ as S. Thomas 
teaches, to the perfect human na- 
ture that which is above it — that is, 
by the Word taking possession of 
it in his own person. 

Such are the principal reasons 
advanced by those who consider 
human personality, and supposital- 
ity in general, as a positive mode. 
We think we have answered them 
sufficiently. 

We cannot better conclude this 
controversy than by inviting the 
same philosophers to take cogni- 
zance o^ the following argument. 
The mode of suppositum, as well as 
the mode of substance, is not an 
accidental but a substantial mode, 
as all agree, and every one must 
admit. Now, no substantial mode 
can be positive ; and therefore 
neither the mode of suppositum 
nor the mode of substance can be 
positive. The minor of this syllo- 
gism can be proved thus : Positive 
modes are nothing but positive ac- 
tualities or affections of being ; and 
unless they are mere relative de- 
nominations (which is not the case 
with substantial modes), they must 
result from the positive reception 
of some act in a real subject. This 
is an obvious truth, for nothing is 
actual but by some act; and all 
acts which are not essential to the 
first constitution of the being are 
received in the being already con- 
stituted as in a real subject. And 
since all acts thus received arc ac- 
cidental, hence all the positive 
modes intrinsic to the being must 
be accidental modes ; and no sub- 
stantial mode can be positive. 
Therefore whatever is positive, in 
the suppositum and in the substance 
belongs to the nature of the being 



fO 



The Principles of Real Being. 



which has the mode of suppositum 
or of substance, whilst the modes 
themselves are mere negations. 

This truth, however, should not 
be misunderstood. When we say 
that " to be in itself " or " to be by 
itself " is a mere negation, we do not 
refer to the verb " to be " ; we only 
refer to the appendage " in itself " 
or " by itself." To be is positive, but 
belongs to the nature as such, as it is 
the essential complement of all be- 
ing, whether substance and suppo- 
situm or not. The negation con- 
sists, in the one case, in not being 
sustained by an underlying support- 
er, and, in the other, in not being 
taken possession of by an overlying 
superior being. Indeed, *when we 
unite the verb to be with either of 
the two negations, we unite the 
positive with the negative. But 
the positive comes in as determina- 
ble, while the negative comes in as 
determinant. Hence the resultant 
determination or formality b only 
the actuality of a negation. Now, 
the actuality of a negation, though 
it is real inasmuch as it is the affec- 
tion of a positive being, yet it is 
negative ; for all actuality is de- 
nominated by its formal principle, 
and such a principle, in our case, is 
a negation. 

A writer in a Catholic periodical 
has ventured to say that if the for- 
mality of substance (and the same 
would also apply to the suppositum) 
is negative, then substance " will 
consist merely in a negation." It 
is surprising that a philosopher has 
not seen the absurdity of such a 
conclusion. Substance is not to 
be confounded with its formality. 
There are many positive things 
which involve a negation. In an 
empty pocket, emptiness is a nega- 
tion ; ignorance in the ignorant 
is a negation ; and limit in all 
things finite is a negation. Yet no 



one will say that an empty pocket, 
an ignorant pupil, or a finite being 
" consist merely in a negation " ; 
and therefore, although the formal- 
ity of substance is a negation, it 
does not follow that substance is a 
mere negation. 

It now remains for us to show 
that neither of the two aforesaid 
negations is essential to any creat- 
ed being, and that a created being 
can therefore, absolutely speaking, 
exist, at least supematurally, with- 
out either of them. Our first 
proof is drawn from the fact that 
neither the one nor the other nega- 
tion is reckoned among the essen- 
tial constituents of created l^eings. 
All complete nature, by common 
admission, consists " of essence and 
existence " — ex essentia et esse — the 
existence being the formal comple- 
ment of the essence, and the essence 
itself involving, as its principles, an 
act with its corresponding term, as 
the readers of our last article al- 
ready know. Accordingly, there 
is nothing essential in a complete 
being besides its act, its term, and 
its complement; and therefore 
neither the mode of substance nor 
the mode of suppositum is essential 
to a complete created being. 

Our second proof is drawn from 
the notion of existence. " To exist 
strictly and simply," says Suarez, 
'^ means only to have a formal en- 
tity in the order of nature; and 
therefore things existing are equal- 
ly susceptible of the mode of being 
which consists in leaning on a sup- 
porter, and of the opposite mode 
which excludes all support."* This 
is a tangible truth; for although 
a complete being possesses in its 

* " Existere ex se solum diclt habere entiUtem 
extrm causas, seu in rerum natura ; undc de te 
indlffereos est ad modum existendi inniteodo 
alteri ut sustentanti, et ad modum existendi per 
se sine aliquo sustentante."— ^//to/A. Z>/j/. 33, 
sect. 4, a. •4. 



The Principles of Real Being. 



II 



own constitution what is required 
for its own existence, yet it has 
nothing in its constitution which 
implies the necessity of existing in 
itself and by itself. It can indeed, 
and will naturally, be in itself with- 
out anything underlying as a sup- 
porter, since it sufficiently supports 
itself on its own term ; but it con- 
tains nothing that would make im- 
possible^ the sub-introduction of a 
supernatural supporter. And, again, 
a complete being can subsist by 
itself without further completion, 
since it is sufficiently complete by 
its formal complement ; but it con- 
tains nothing which would exclude 
the possibility of its acquiring a 
further completion and a superna- 
tural subsistence. 

A third proof might be drawn 
from the fact that our own bodies 
exist indeed in themselves, but do 
not subsist by themselves, as their 
material nature is taken possession 
of by a spiritual being — the soul — 
and subsists by its subsistence. 
From this fact, which is alluded 
to in S. Athanasius' Symbol as an 
image of the assumption of the hu- 
man nature by the Word, we might 
show that suppositality can, even 
naturally, be supplanted by the 
union of a lower with a higher na- 
ture. But we will not develop this 
proof, as it requires too long an ex- 
planation and many new consider- 
ations, which cannot be embodied 
in the present article. 

Last, but not least, it is evident 
chat all negations which are not 
3icluded in the essence of a thing 
ran be supplanted by the position 
of their contrary. Hence the mode 
of substance and the mode of sup- 
positum, which are negations, and 
are not included in the essence of 
■.reated things, can be supplanted 
bjr the intervention of a supernatu- 
ral power. 



As we must here keep within the 
bounds of philosophy, we abstain 
from discussing other cognate ques- 
tions which can be safely answered 
only by a direct appeal to dogmatic 
definitions and theological argu- 
ments. We may, however, state 
that the old scholastic theologians 
and the fathers of the church, both 
Greek and Latin, admitted that the 
mode of substance, as well as the 
mode of suppositum, can be made 
to disappear from the thing to which 
it naturally belongs in the manner 
above explained. For their com- 
mon doctrine on the mysteries of 
the Incarnation and of the Holy 
Eucharist is, that the two mysteries 
are analogous to one another,* and 
admit of a parallel mode of reason- 
ing for their explanation. The 
analogy more or less explicitly 
pointed out by them involves the 
admission of a principle which may 
be expressed in the following words : 
"As the whole human nature can 
exist in Christ tvithout the mode of 
human person^ which is excluded 

* It is known that this analoe^y has been erro- 
neously interpreted by some old and modern 
heretics, who Uu^ht that Christ's body is in the 
Holy Eucharist by impanation or by consubstan- 
tiatioHy and not by transubsUnliation. The 
heresy of impanation asserts that the Ktemal 
Word in the Holy Eucharist becomes bread by 
eusuming hyposiaticaUy the substance of bread. 
The heresy of consubstantiatlon assumes that in 
the Holy Eucharist the substance of Christ's body 
is united with the substance of the bread, and that 
therefore the Eucbarist contains both substan- 
ces. These heresies are, of course, mere corrup- 
tions of the traditional doctrine. The first cor- 
rupts it by confounding the substantive susten- 
tation with the personal assumption, and by sub- 
stltutlnif the latter in the place of the former. 
The second corrupts it by supposing that a thing 
substantively supported by an underlvintr sub- 
stance continues to exist as a substance; which 
is against the traditional definition of subsUnce, 
and against the very analoj^y of which it pre- 
tends to be the interpretation ; for, in virtue of 
such an analogy, it is as impossible for a thing 
thus supported to be a substance as it is impossi- 
ble for the human nature assumed Xo be a human 
person. Hence what logically follows from the 
analogy of the two mysteries is neither impana- 
tion nor consubstantiatlon, but real and proper 
transubstantiation— that is, a real substitution of 
one substance for another under the remaining 
sensible species. 



12 



The Principles of Real Being. 



by the hypostatic union of the 
Word with it, so can the whole 
sensible nature (species) of bread 
exist in the Holy Eucharist without 
its mode of substance^ which is ex- 
cluded by the substantive presence 
of Christ's body under it." This 
traditional doctrine has been al- 
most ignored in these latter centu- 
ries by those who were anxious to 
explain everything according to a 
special system of natural philoso- 
phy, and who little by little formed 
a new theory of the sacramental 
species; but the physical system 
on which these theologians took 
their stand having given way, and 
their new theory having lost its 
plausibility, we are of opinion that 
instead of seeking for new explana- 
tions, as some do, it is more pru- 
dent to fall back on tradition, and 
take into consideration the author- 
ized teachings of our old polemic 
writers, of those especially who so 
valiantly fought against Berenga- 
rius and other heretics in behalf of 
the Eucharistic dogma. 

Before we conclude, we wish to 
make a few remarks on some am- 
biguous expressions which may be 
a source of error in speaking of 
substance and of suppositum. We 
have said that Aristotle includes in 
hisi first category the suppositum 
as well as the substance, and that 
for this reason the words, " by it- 
self," "to support," "to subsist," 
have been promiscuously applied to 
the substance as well as to the sup- 
positum. This has been done not 
only in philosophy, but even in 
theology. Thus we read in good 
authors that the divine Person of 
the Word " supports " or " sus- 
tains " Christ's human nature. 
Yet these words, as also " sustenta- 
tion," when applied to subsistence, 
must have a meaning which they 
have not when applied to sub- 



stance ; and it is plain that to em- 
ploy the same words in both cases 
may give rise to serious mistakes. 
Some authors, besides overlooking 
the distinction to be made between 
"existing in itself" — esse in se — and 
" subsisting by itself "—^^rx^ subsis^ 
tere — confound also with one an- 
other their opposites — viz., " to ex- 
ist in something else" — esse in alio — 
and " to subsist by something else" 
—per aliud subsistere, Suarez, for 
instance, though usually very ac- 
curate in his expressions, says that 
" the mode of existing by itself and 
without dependence on any sup- 
porter has for its opposite to exist 
in something else;* which is not 
correct, for the divinity of Christ 
exists in his humanity, and never- 
theless does not depend on it as a 
supporter. It would be more cor- 
rect to say that the mode of sub- 
sisting by itself has for its opposite 
to subsist by something else. And 
it is evident that to subsist by 
something else is not the same as 
to exist in it. 

To get rid of all such ambiguous 
phrases, we observe that the word 
" sustentation," as compared with 
any created nature, can have three 
different meanings, according as 
we apply it to the act, the term, or 
the complement of the created be- 
ing. 

When sustentation is considered 
in connection with the act or the 
formal principle of a being, it 
means positive conservation ; for all 
contingent being comes out of no- 
thing by the positive production of 
an act, and needs to be kept out of 
nothing by the positive conserva- 
tion of the same act, as we know 
from special metaphysics. 

* " Subsistere dicit determinatum modum exis- 
tendi per se et sine dependentia a sustentante ; 
unde ilU opponitur inesse vel inexistere ; dicitque 
determinatum modum existendi in alio."— £>/i/. 
Mttaph, 33, sect. 4, n. 24. 



The Principles of Real Being. 



13 



When sustentation is considered 
in connection with the intrinsic 
tenn of a being, it means underly^ 
if^ ; and in this sense we say that 
substance sustains its accidents. 
This meaning of the word ^' susten- 
tation " is most conformable to its 
etymology ; and thus, if anything is 
lying under any reality in that 
manner in which substance lies 
under its accidents, we shall say 
Tcry properly that it sustains that 
reality. In this sense, sustentation 
and support may be taken as sy- 
nonymous. 

When sustentation is considered 
in connection with the formal com- 
plement of a being, it means overly- 
ing in such a manner as to superin- 
duce a new complement and a new 
subsistence. Such is the manner 
in which the Person of the Word 
sustains Christ's humanity. This 
kind of sustentation implies hypo- 
static union and super-completion. 

We might, therefore, divide sus- 
tentation into conservative y substan- 
irve^ and hypostatic. The first is 
usually called conservation; the 
second might keep the name of 
sustentation ; whilst the third might 
f)erhaps be fitly styled personaliza- 
tioHy as this word seems adequately 
to express the nature of personal 
sustentation. 

As to the phrases, " to be in it- 
self" and "to be by itself," we 
have seen that their distinction is 
most important. It may be useful 
to add that, even in God, to be in 
himself and to be by himself are 
lo be distinguished by a distinction 
of reason indeed, but which is 
grounded on a real foundation. 
God is essentially a sc, in se^ and 
per se — that is, of himself, in himself, 
and by himself. These three attri- 
butes are absolute, and belong to 
the divine nature as an absolute 
reality; but atr in this absolute 



reality there are intrinsic relations 
of personalities, we may reflect that, 
in this relative order, to be of him- 
self can be considered as owing 
especially to God the Father, who 
does not proceed from any other 
person, but is himself the first prin- 
ciple of their procession; to be in 
himself can be considered as hav- 
ing a special reference to God the 
Son, in whom the whole entity of 
the Father is found as in the sub- 
stantial term of his eternal genera- 
tion ; and, lastly, to be by himself can 
be explained by reference to the 
Holy Ghost, who is the essential 
complement of the Blessed Trinity, 
as that is said to be by itself which 
is ultimately complete in its own 
entity. 

Accordingly, God, as existing es- 
sentially of himself — a se — has no 
need or capability of conservation ; 
as existing essentially in himself — in 
se — he has no need or capability of 
sustentation ; and as existing essen- 
tially by himself— ^^r se — he has no 
need or capability of silper-comple- 
tion. But with contihgent beings 
the case is quite different. And 
first, contingent beings are not "of 
themselves," as they are from God ; 
and for this reason they have an 
essential need of conservation, as 
we have stated, so far as their es- 
sential act is concerned. Second- 
ly, although they naturally exist 
"in themselves," yet this their 
mode of existing is not the result 
of an essential necessity, but only 
of a natural ordination, which God 
can supersede. They exist in 
themselves when the term of th^eir 
own essence is their undermost sup- 
port; for then the whole essence 
supports itself in a natural manner, 
and is a natural substance. Third- 
ly, although created beings natural- 
ly " subsist by themselves," yet this 
manner of existing is not the con- 



14 



On Hearing the " O Salutaris Hastiar 



sequence of an essential necessity, 
but only of a natural ordination, 
which can be superseded by the 
Creator. They subsist by them- 
selves when the formal comple- 
ment of their essence is their ultu 
mate complement; for then the 
whole being is left to itself as a na- 
tural suppositum. 

These explanations will be of 
some assistance, we hope, to the 
philosophical student in forming 
a correct judgment as to the formal 
constituents of substance and sup- 
positum, and as to the manner of 



speaking about them with proper 
discrimination. We wish we had 
handled the subject in a better 
style and a less monotonous phra- 
seology; but it was our duty to 
aim at preciseness rather than or- 
nament. If there is any part of 
philosophy in which precision is 
more necessary than in another, it 
is that which treats of the princi- 
ples of things ; and if we succeed 
in presenting such principles in 
their true light, we shall deem it a 
sufficient apology for the dryness 
of our philosophical style. 



TO BB OONTINUBD. 



ON HEARING THE "O SALUTARIS HOSTIA."* 

Song of the soul, whose clearly ringing rhythm 

Throbs through the sacred pile, 
And lengthened echoes swell thy solemn anthem 

Past chancel, vault, and aisle. 
An occult influence through thy numbers stealing, 

A strange, mysterious spell, 
Wakes in the longing heart a wondrous feeling, 

A joy no tongue can tell ; 
A dreamy peace, a sense of unseen glory. 

Wells through thy thrilling praise, 
And calls a fairy vision up before me, 

A dream of brighter days. 
I hear the seraphs' sweet-tongued voices pleading. 

The cherubim's accord, 
And see the sun-robed shadows softly thridding 

The gardens of the Lord. 
I linger on the sight, and growing weary 

Of earthly dross and sin, 
Sadly, yet hoping, like the wistful peri, 

I long to enter in ! 

• • . . 

The rolling echoes peal . 

Whilst glorious above 
The face of God smiles on the storied altar, 

Well pleased, and rich with love. 
And through the living air and slumbrous music, 

And through the chancel broad, 
The Heart of Jesus glows in mystic splendor^ 

And lights us unto God ! 

* At the consecration of b church to the Sacred UeBit. 



On the Wing. 



IS 



ON THE WING. 



A SOUTHERN FLIGHT 



What induced us to pick our 
way on foot from the railway car- 
riage to the H6tel du Pare et Bor- 
deaux, near eleven o'clock at night, 
on our arrival at Lyons, I cannot 
possibly conceive. 

It was the 3d of January that 
we performed this unnecessary 
penance; and the only explana- 
tion I can give is that we were all 
rather dazed by the long journey 
from Paris, and had forgotten that 
of course there was waiting at the 
station an omnibus to carry on the 
passengers. We had been silent 
and sleepy for some hours, when 
the bright lights twinkling up and 
down the heights of the city of 
Lyons, and across the bridges, and, 
corruscating at the station, had 
roused us all up, and made us ex- 
claim at the fairy sight. I had 
seen it again and again ; but I al- 
ways look out eagerly for the first 
peep at that tossed-about town 
after night has closed in, and I 
know none more brilliant and pic- 
turesque. I thought we all looked 
rather rueful as we entered the 
hotel, and that it suddenly struck 
OS we had come on foot, and 
might therefore look too economi- 
cally inclined to suit the views of 
the buxom lady who advanced to 
meet us. I saw her cast rather a 
doubtful eye to the rear; but her 
iace brightened when she found we 
had at least been able to afford a 
porter to carry such luggage as we 
might want for one night. We had 
Lo valid reason to give in reply to 



her anxious enquiries as to why we 
had not availed ourselves of the 
hotel omnibus; which very soon 
afterwards came rattling into the 
yard, quite empty, the guard and 
coachman viewing us indignantly. 
Madame, finding we had nothing to 
say for ourselves, compassionately 
furnished each with a candle, and al- 
lowed us to gather together our scat- 
tered wits in sleep. 

The "we" consisted of brother 
Frank, sister Mary, and I; also 
of Ann, our maid. I suppose 
I must describe the party. I 
wish I could draw them instead. 
Frank is dressed all over in a gray 
tweed. I sometimes tell him he 
looks like a gray parrot ; but that is 
absurd, because he is so extremely 
taciturn, which gray parrots are not. 
He makes a capital courier. He 
always knows what we poor women 
shall want, and how much we can 
do, which is a great comfort to me ; 
because, as Mary is delicate, and 
we are travelling on her account, I 
should be so worried if Frank in- 
sisted on doing fourteen hours of 
railroad per diem. He is such a 
good fellow that he would never 
wish us to overtask ourselves. But 
then he i^ so strong that I know it 
must seem very extraordinary to 
him that we should be such poor 
creatures, and get tired out so soon. 
I sometimes wonder what has made 
Frank so tender and gentle, and 
so considerate. Perhaps it is the 
being so much with Mary. She 
makes everybody gentle who comes 



i6 



On the Wing. 



near her. Somehow she seems to 
stroke everybody's fur the right way, 
no matter how ruffled they were 
before. Poor Mary! she has for 
many years been a widow, after a 
brief and unhappy married life, and 
having lost both her children, a girl 
and a boy. She is the eldest of us 
three, but has a marvellous knack 
of looking the youngest and the 
brightest. She has been very beau- 
tiful, and is so still in many ways. 
Now I come ! But how shall I de- 
scribe myself? The more I think 
of it, the more impossible I find it. 
As I am the relater of our adven- 
tures, I suppose my readers will form 
for themselves some idea of what I 
am like. So I will only say that 
my name is Jane, and that I am 
an old maid, but that I do not 
feel old. As to my looks, I really 
do not know what to say. I am 
not always altogether dissatisfied 
with them ; but then, on the other 
hand, when I am inclined to judge 
them leniently, the unlucky feeling 
comes over me that it is solely 
owing to my hat, or the way my hair 
is done, or some fortuitous circum- 
stance upon which I cannot reckon 
as a permanency, and which may be 
gone before any one else has had the 
time to observe it. So that though I 
have my lucky moments, I have little 
or no capital to go on. Now, Mary, 
with her large, soft eyes, her exquisite 
mouth, and beautiful teeth, attracts 
strangers wherever she goes; al- 
though she is always insisting upon it 
she is quite an old woman. And now 
comes Ann. She is about my age, 
but does not at all consider herself 
an old maid, and therefore always 
contradicts me when I speak of 
myself in such disparaging terms. 
I generally say something in reply 
about the observation being six for 
me and half a dozen for herself. 
But this she does not like. Ann is 



a very good girl, and a capital 
maid. She has pretty, fuzzy black 
hair, and bright though small black 
eyes ; she has a very white skin, and 
a neat figure. But she does not 
like travelling, and is especially 
disgusted when the sceneiy is very 
bold and magnificent. Mountains 
are her abhorrence, distant views 
her antipathy. This is far from 
being our first journey; and 
whenever we have found ourselves 
in the railway carriage from Dover 
to London Bridge, Ann invariably 
remarks how lovely the country is 
as we dash through the flat green 
fields and monotonous cherry gar- 
dens of simple Kent. And her ad- 
miration culminates when we pass 
any gentlemen's seats. The ab- 
sence of striking features, the un- 
broken, unaccidental horizon, the 
universal green, and the level lines, 
give Ann a sensation of peace and 
repose ; while I, who have some- 
thing of an artist's soul, am feeling 
how very difficult it would be to 
get an effective subject or a " nice 
bit of color " out of the platitudes 
of dear England's quiet home- 
steads. 

We were off the next day by day- 
light, I feeling like a swallow flying 
south ; and very soon we perceived 
in the clear air a warmer glow than 
any to be had the other side of 
Lyons. Even the desert region of 
La Crau seemed full of charms to 
me. The, dim, gray expanse of 
thick-lying stones that Hercules 
persuaded by his prayers the angry 
Jove to shower down on the Ligu- 
rians, broken only by thin tufts of 
mint and^ scant rosemary, them- 
selves also of a gray green, and 
leading on over thousands of acres 
to the blue distant hills that were 
blushing into rosy hues when we 
crossed the desert, were not withou* 
delightful "points," which I could 



On the Wing. 



17 



have transferred to my sketch-book 
had time allowed me. '* La Belle 
Provence "is a very journalilre 
beauty, and requires a bright sun- to 
clothe her in sparkling jewels, and 
to dye her dress in Wue and violet 
and rose-madder, to be •worthy of 
the name that centuries have agreed 
to give her. When there are no 
lights, there is apt to be an air of 
desolation and barrenness. Those 
hills, arrayed in many tints, give 
back the lights from rocky and 
unproductive cliffs; but down in 
the valleys, with the exception of 
La Crau, the culture is rich and 
varied. The first stunted olive- 
trees as we approached Marseilles 
were welcome less on their own ac- 
count — for they are miserable speci- 
mens — than for the association of 
ideas connected with their pallid 
leaves, and because they gave pro- 
mise of the large ones that would 
gladden our eyes further on. 

The station of Hy^res is a few 
miles from the town. We had order- 
ed a carriage to meet us ; and all the 
way Mary was looking out for the 
large umbrella pine that she re- 
membered so well years ago, when 
there was no railway so far south. 
\i had been the great landmark on 
the road from Hy^res to Toulon. 
We measured our rides and walks 
in that direction by the grekt pine. 
There it stood, the same as ever, 
and brought back all Hy^res and 
the two winters spent there, besides 
other shorter visits, to our memory 
with one rush. All else was chang- 
ed. New houses had sprung up 
on all sides. Mme. Susanne's old 
tumble-down hotel, where Mary 
had stopped for a few days on her 
wedding-tour, is changed into a 
magnificent building with carya- 
tides supporting the facade like a 
Genoese palace; and the palms 
on La Place des Palmiers, which I 

VOL. XIX. — 2 



had known in their babyhood, have 
grown to a size that would not dis- 
grace Arabia. The hotel we went 
to stands in what used to be Le Jar- 
din Frassinet. It had been full of 
orange-trees when we first knew it, 
as had all the other gardens in the 
place. But one very severe winter 
having greatly injured the trees, the 
inhabitants have given up the cul- 
tivation of oranges, and have plant- 
ed peach-trees instead, much to 
the detriment of the beauty of 
Hy^res. I found Mary, the day 
after our arrival, gazing wistfully at 
a group of tall cypress and one 
palm-tree that had marked the 
boundary of the gardens belonging^ 
to the house where she lived with 
her children the second time she 
came here. We missed her soon 
afterwards, and refrained from fol- 
lowing her, for we knew she wanted 
to visit alone the scenes of some 
joys and many sorrows long ago 
passed away — so far as anything is 
really past which is worthy the 
name of joy or sorrow. She came 
back with her hands full of the little, 
dark, mottled arum and its lance- 
head leaves that grow so profusely 
on the hills and by the roadside. 
They are of a dingy-purple hue, 
shaded off into white ; and we ex- 
claimed against them as she put 
them in a glass, alleging that they 
had an unpleasant odor. ^* I know 
they have," she answered ; " but 
their quaint, twisted shape, and 
blossoms like the head of a snake,, 
are so full of memories that I rather 
like the smell than otherwise."* 
After that we let her enjoy her 
arums alone, for we knew how much, 
that meant. Doubtless she had 
been wandering about, recalling 
visions of the past : the dead — the 
lost, but not dead, that worse sepa- 
ration ! — and all the tangled maze 
of the years that are gone. Mary's 



t8 



On the Wing. 



bouquet of arums was redeemed by 
a handful of the sweet white alys- 
sum ; and these two flowers, with 
a few of the bold-faced, unflinching 
daisies of Provence, so unlike our 
modest northern flowers, were all 
the wild blossoms we could hope to 
fmd in January. 

We could not leave Hy^res with- 
out performing a pilgrimage to 
Notre I>ame de Consolation, the 
old church on a hill overlooking 
the coast. The ascent is marked 
by the Way of the Cross rudely 
painted in small niches of masonry 
by the side of the road. When we 
were last here, there was a daily 
Mass said by a hermit-priest. He 
had some years previously tried his 
vocation at the Carmelites', and 
had not succeeded. But the im- 
jjulse to seek utter solitude was too 
strong to be resisted; and for a 
long time he had lived in the sur- 
rounding mountains, a veritable 
hermit, subsisting upon the poorest 
fare, which was brought to him at 
regular intervals by the peasants. 
Whether he had erected a hut for 
himself, or lived in a cave, I never 
learnt ; but when the bishop of 
the diocese became aware of the 
fact, he thought it to be regretted 
that a priest should not celebrate 
Mass, and proposed to him that he 
should live in one of the small 
rooms of the deserted convent 
which is attached to the Church of 
Our Lady of Consolation, take care 
of the church, and say Mass. This 
offer he gladly accepted ; and there 
he resided for some time. We used 
to go sometimes, on a bright spring 
morning, to attend his Mass. Our 
breakfast was packed in a basket, 
and hung to the pommel of my don- 
key's saddle, to be eaten afterwards 
on the top of the low, semi-circular 
wall which encloses a piece of 
ground in front of the church. 



.1 always looked with a special inte- 
rest, not altogether unmingled with 
curiosity, at the slight, bent figure 
of the priest, who could not be more 
than forty years of age, as he emerg- 
ed from the door of the sacristy, 
and, with 'eyes so cast down that 
they seemed closed, passed by us 
to the altar. Who shall sav what 
had called up that deep thirst for 
utter solitude and silence which 
had driven him to so extreme a 
life? Was it some calamity, or 
some crime, or only — as is far more 
probable — that strange instinct 
which is implanted in the nature of 
some men to flee their kind, and be 
alone with themselves — an instinct 
which i>ossibly many have felt 
stirring within them at odd mo- 
ments, but which, when touched 
by divine grace, grows into a won- 
derful and exceptional vocation ; 
once more common, in the early 
days of Christianity, when the 
whole world lay in pagan luxury 
and gilded vice, and which even 
our subduing, taming, common- 
place civilization fails in some rare 
cases to smother in the soul } 

What became of the hermit of 
Our Lady of Consolation I could 
never learn. Perhaps the solitude 
seemed incomplete when ladies 
could attend his Mass, and picnic 
afterwards on his premises. At any 
rate, he has been gone for many 
years ; and Mass is only said on 
certain feasts, when the peasantry 
come in crowds, and bring flowers 
and offerings to the Madonna, as 
represented by a peculiarly ugly 
and dark-colored wooden statue, 
which has grown to be very pre- 
cious to those who have obtained 
special favors in answer to their 
prayers offered here. Many years 
ago, Mary, in her Protestant days, 
had brought a lace veil, the gift of 
a Russian prince, who was leaving 



On the Wing. 



19 



Hy^res with a sick wife, and who 
wanted prayers for their safe jour- 
ney; thereby producing a curious 
admixture of heretical, schismati- 
cal, and Catholic feeling which 
no doubt had each their separate 
value and acceptance before God, 
being all offered in simplicity and 
good faith ; for it was with no un- 
willing hands that, mounted on one 
of the prie-dieux in the church, she 
had arranged the veil over the 
statue, and then knelt to say a 
prayer for the prince's intention. 

The church is full of votive offer- 
ings. The walls are entirely cover- 
ed from roof to floor. As many 
of them have been put up by sail- 
ors, they more or less have reference 
to the dangers of the deep. There 
is a model of a ship hanging up 
near the entrance, probably because 
its larger copy was saved from 
wreck. The pictures representing 
recovery from sickness or preser- 
vation from peril arc often extreme- 
ly grotes(|ue, and might provoke a 
smile were it not that they carry 
one's thoughts direct to the faith 
and gratitude they represent. 

I had often wandered through 
the deserted rooms and cells of the 
old convent. There is no glass 
left in some of the windows; but 
the weather is kept out by the ex- 
ternal wooden shutters which are 
universal in the south. There is a 
lovely view from all sides. In front, 
the sea, with Lcs Isles d*Or (the 
Golden Islands) hemming it in as if 
it were a large lake, save to the 
left, where it opens out into the wide 
ocean. These islands form some 
of those originally called Lcs Larins, 
irhich name included the group be- 
fore the coast of Cannes. And in 
most of them the first religious 
houses for men were established by 
S. Honorius, though only one island, 
that on which he and all his monks 



were martyred by the Saracens, 
bears his name. Les Isles d'Or, or 
Les Isles d'Hy^res, as they are also 
called, are now but sparsely inhabit- 
ed. Years ago, "when we were 
young," we had landed on one of 
these islands, where stands a fort, 
and a few soldiers are stationed. 
There are also a half-dozen of 
cottages, inhabited by fishermen and 
shepherds. We were a joyous 
band, and had sailed from the 
mainland in the admiral's cutter, 
the French fleet riding at anchor 
off our coast. As we scrambled up 
the sandy beach, and pushed our 
way through the tangled under- 
growth of myrtle, heath, cytisus, and 
leutisca, we found ourselves face to 
face with the solitary sentinel pac- 
ing in front of the blind walls of 
the low but solid-looking fort. 
His face broke into smiles, and, 
with a saucy gleam in his dark eyes, 
he said to the foremost gentlemen 
of our party, " Comment, Messieurs ! 
vous nous en menez toutes ces 
belles dames } Mais vous allez 
revolutionner notre pauvre cur^."* 
We could find no remains of mo- 
nastic houses on the islands ; but 
there are traces of walls close to the 
sea, on the mainland, which are 
said to be the remains of a convent 
of nuns who met with a severe pun- 
ishment for an ill-timed jest. Pos- 
sibly they were not all that as nuns 
they might have been. At any rate, 
they seem to have found their life 
occasionally dull ; and when the 
longing for a little excitement 
became irrepressible, the abbess 
would toll the great bell of the con- 
vent, which by rights was never 
used save to ring the Hours and the 
Angclus, or to summon the neigh- 
bors for aid when any of the fre- 
quent panics about the landing of 

* What, sir I you brini;^ us all those preUy 
ladies ! You will revolutionize our poor cunXc. 



20 



On tin Wing. 



the marauding Saracens threat- 
ened the safety of the Sisters. The 
jest had been played too often, 
and when at length the oft-ex- 
pected Saracens really came, the 
poor nuns rang their bell in vain. 
No one appeared to the rescue, 
and the Saracens had it all their 
own way, and the convent was de- 
stroyed. 

The sea must have encroached 
since those days, for the waters 
wash over the scanty ruins, and I 
have picked my way along the 
foundations with little salt lakes 
lying between. Far to the left lie 
Les Salines^ where they evaporize 
the sea-water in shallow square 
spaces, and thus obtain a coarse 
gray salt. They say that sometimes 
flamingoes may be shot among this 
marshy land ; but I could never ob- 
tain one, though I know it abounds 
in wild fowl of every description. 
The deep orange-colored boughs 
of the large willow-trees give a 
peculiar charm to the distant land- 
scape in the winter when the leaves 
are off; and close upon the edge 
of the shore is a fine wood of um- 
brella pines, whereof three giants, 
standing apart from the rest, had 
been great favorites of ours. We 
had looked out eagerly on our arri- 
val for our three pines. Alas ! one 
was missing. Years ago these three 
solitary, magnificent trees had had 
a strange fascination for me. I 
wanted to find my way to where 
they stood ; but it was beyond the 
marshes, and near the salines. 
There was no direct road, and no 
one could tell me how to get there ; 
not even the young French naval 
officers, who used to come often 
aiid spend the evening with us, and 
who must have landed not so very 
far from where they stood. The 
craving to see my three pines face to 
face grew, however, too strong to be 



resisted ; and so one day I set off 
on donkey-back, taking Ann with 
me, and resolved that I would not 
return till I had accomplished my 
end. Great were our difficulties. 
We had to thread our way along 
narrow raised paths through the 
marshes, just wide enough for our 
donkeys to tread; and as, of 
course, we dared not leave these 
paths, which did not wind, but turn- 
ed at right angles, we as often 
seemed to be going away from the 
pines as the reverse. At one mo- 
ment we were pursued by a couple 
of savage dogs, who tore after us 
from the open yard of a farm-house, 
and who were so very angry at our 
intrusion that escape along our 
narrow way, and with our leisurely 
steeds, seemed questionable. At 
length I found myself at the base 
of a high sand-bank, on which the 
yellow sea-thistle, with its glau- 
cous leaves, found a scanty sub- 
sistence and a doubtful root-hold. 
This I had to scramble up, while 
for every ten inches I made in ad- 
vance I slid back six. At last I 
was at my long-desired goal, and 
my three giants were really magni- 
ficent to behold. It was on my fourth 
visit to Hy^res, with intervals of 
years between, that I accomplished 
this feat, and I had always looked 
at my pines the first thing in the 
morning, when the strip of sea be- 
tween the mainland and the isles 
was still lying gray in the early 
light. Then, again, I watched for 
the red glow of the setting sun on 
their smooth stems, painted, as it 
were, in burnt sienna. Again, on 
moonlit nights I had looked for 
their broad, deep black crests, fall- 
ing like an ink-spot on the silver 
sea. And now at last, when they 
had almost become to me like some 
mystery, meaning more than met 
the eye, I could throw my arms 



On the Wing. 



21 



iboat them, and lay m^ hot cheek 
on their noble trunks. 

It was not till then I knew how 
tired I was. I could not delay long 
with my old friends. I do not re- 
member anything about the getting 
home, save that the dogs who had 
so guarded my garden of the Hes- 
pcrides, and stood between me and 
the fulfilment of my desire, now 
that I had accomplished the feat, 
let me return in silence. I was 
very jveary ; but I was thoroughly 
contented and satisfied. And now 
one of my old friends was laid low ! 
How he came to his end I know 
not. But I felt that he had died, 
not that he had been cut down; 
And for a moment a strange, weird 
melancholy stole over me at finding 
1 had outlived a noble tree. It 
seemed as if I must be very old to 
have done that, and that it was 
hardly natural. I remember I ask- 
ed myself then, at the very time of 
my cuiU of the pine-trees, and I 
have repeated the question since, 
whether there was not in my feel- 
ings something of that dim instinct 
which binds man in an obscure 
afhnity with all nature, down to its 
lower strata and its primeval de- 
velopments. As man contains 
something of all in his own being, 
so must he have a sympathy with 
all; for, as has been wisely said, 
man is a universe in himself, with 
another universe to wait on him. 
Most people have a special attrac- 
tion to some race of animals. Some 
have a love for, and a power over, 
the horse and the dog greater than 
others ; and this not always nor 
only as the results of habit, but 
as a natural gift. Certain flowers 
have a peculiar attraction for many 
people, in preference to others 
equal in beauty and perfume. All 
these preferences may point to hid- 
den laws of afhnity, of which we 



know very little more than the bare 
fact that all in creation finds its 
portion in each man, and that in 
his own single self he is chemical, 
vegetable, animal, and spiritual. I 
am afraid to say any more, lest my 
readers should think I believe we 
are in general descended from 
the little open-mouthed sea-squirts 
called ascidians, but that I claim 
for myself in particular some high- 
er origin in the shape of a conifer 
great-grandfather. I assure them 
it is nothing of the kind. With re- 
gard to my sympathy with animals, 
of course, being an old maid, I 
ought to prefer cats and gray par- 
rots. On the contrary, I prefer 
dogs, and Frank is the only gray 
parrot I ever thought of loving. 

Before leaving Hy^res, I made a 
sketch from the top of the hill 
(which in my younger days, for 
want of knowing better, I used to 
call the mountain) on which stand 
the picturesque ruins of the old 
chateau which formerly belonged 
to the French branch of the huge 
family of Fox ; who, varying their 
name, if not their nature, according 
to the sky under which they flour- 
ished, had taken root in England, 
France, and Germany in the old 
feudal times. They possessed cer- 
tainly a magnificent abode at Hy- 
^res, and probably kept all the 
neighborhood in awe. It is a glori- 
ous situation. It overlooks a long 
stretch of the road to Toulon as 
that winds through the fertile, well- 
cultivated valley ; and to the right 
rises the rocky summit of Le Con- 
don, the point of land that first 
strikes the sailor's eye as he leaves 
the coast of Africa, and which on 
exceptionally clear days is dimly 
visible even from the coast itself. 
Next to it comes Le Phare Pharon, 
a lower mountain crowned by a 
fort. I know few views which 



22 



On the Wing. 



combine such an exquisite variety 
of form and color as this. The 
small cork-trees and the stunted 
oaks, equally beautiful, whether 
wearing their russet leaves through 
the brief winter, or almost match- 
ing the cork-trees in dark-green 
foliage ; the olives, here of a very 
respectable size, with their gnarled 
trunks and fantastic shapes; and 
then the patches of vivid-green 
com, winter peas, and the green ar- 
tichokes ; the undulation of the land, 
assuming every shade from deep 
violet to light red — make altogether 
one of the loveliest views I know 
anywhere. But then, I am bound 
to acknowledge that there are not 
many such in the neighborhood of 
our much-loved Hy^res, and that, 
on the whole, the simple little place 
has far less beauty to recommend 
it than many of the towns along 
the Riviera. Its great merit for 
invalids arises from the air being 
a good deal softer than at most of 
the sea-coast resorts of the sick. 
Mary could sit out for hours in the 
open air at Hy^res, when at Cannes, 
and even at San Remo, she could 
only have driven in a close carriage ; 
for, in spite of the brilliant sunshine 
in those places, the air is apt to be 
too exciting both for irritable lungs 
and susceptible nerves. One rea- 
son — probably the principal reason 
— ^for this is that Hy^res is three 
miles from the sea, and more in the 
mountains than are the towns of 
the Riviera generally. 

We had a lovely afternoon jour- 
ney from Hyeres to Cannes ; pass- 
ing numerous little bays and creeks 
where the blue waters lay in deep 
repose, or fringed with tiny wave- 
lets that but kissed the shingly 
shore, and died in a gleam of light. 
As you looked down on them from 
the railway-carriage, you felt you 
might have seen a mermaid comb- 



ing her sea-green hair, or a cupid 
astride a dolphin, as quite an ex- 
pected vision. The intense blue 
sky and deeper blue sea, the vari- 
ous-tinted rocks, and perhaps a 
solitary pine hanging over, and 
near by a group of the same, with 
their dense crowns of ever-mur- 
muring boughs, through which the 
evening air sings like the hum of 
winged insects, were each so full of 
harmonious and yet gorgeous color 
that they leave on the mind the im- 
pression of a Greek idyl, full of 
serene beauty — mere beauty, it may 
be — but intense, placid, and eter- 
nal. There are scenes in nature 
that are like the forms in Greek 
art. They are one; and they are 
typical. No wide view, albeit 
glorious, can produce this effect, 
however much it may appeal to 
the imagination. But a rock-bound 
cove on the Mediterranean, with its 
sparse vegetation and its depth of 
color, is as suggestive of thoughts 
beyond itself as is the pure grace 
of a Greek statue. It belongs to 
another world than ours, and to a 
region of thought rarely lighted on 
in these times, and then by a few 
only. When I question myself of 
the " why," I am at a loss to answer. 
Perhaps it lies in the fact that, to 
produce this abstract effect on the 
mind, the objects in nature must 
be few, simple, and perfectly beauti- 
ful of their kind. Then they recall 
Greek art, in which there is no 
multiplicity, no overlaying, but 
which represents as absolutely a 
pure idea as it is possible for art to 
do. It is without subtlety, as it is 
without crowding. It can be felt 
better than described, for the feel- 
ing is too deep for words. Nothing 
in English scenery, no accidental 
combination of beauty, has ever 
brought the Greek g€ist before my 
mind. Never for a second, amid 



On the Wing. 



23 



the birchen groves and flower- 
frioged lanes of my own land, had I 
thought of old Greece and the old 
Greek feeling. Pantheism would 
not be the natural religion of our 
northern skies. Never had I so 
strongly felt the tie between nature 
and art, and, as a necessary se- 
quence, between nature and Grecian 
thought, till I had wandered on the 
pale sands by the calm blue waters 
of the tideless sea. It is like a 
floating essence, too intangible for 
words. If I could express it, the 
expression would perforce be brief 
and veiled. I would sing my idyl 
to a three-stringed lute, or paint 
my white nymph against a whiter 
sky. 

It was essential to Mary not to 
live close to the sea, therefore we 
engaged apartments at Cannes in 
one of the hotels situated among 
the hills, and full a mile and a half 
from the coast. It so happened 
that nearly all the people whom we 
met at the tabU-^hdte were English 
like ourselves, or rather British, 
for some came from the Emerald 
Isle; and amongst these a family 
of three charming girls, full of the 
spirit and humor of the race. They 
had with them an elderly maid, who 
had been their nurse, and whose 
(|uaint sayings afforded us much 
amusement while we were there. 
She had joined them only just be- 
fore we arrived, bringing out the 
third sister, who had shown symp- 
toms of delicacy like the second, 
and both were under the supreme 
care of the elder sister. Mrs. 
O'Brien had managed her journey 
in foreign parts very cleverly, 
though making every inch of the 
way under protest at the heathen- 
ish customs and abominable prac- 
tices of these " foreigners," as she 
deigned to call the French in their 
own land. 



It had been with the greatest 
difficulty that she had, on leaving 
Ireland, been prevented from taking 
with her a large boxful of house- 
hold stores, which, as she expressed 
it, would be such a comfort to 
" those poor darlints, just starvin' 
in foreign parts, with nothing but 
kickshaws and gimcracks to keep 
the life in them." In spite of all 
the remonstrances of her master, she 
had actually succeeded in so far 
cheating the custom-house that she 
had smuggled *^jist a nice little 
hand of pork, salted down at home," 
among the young ladies* linen. 
Norah flew into our room, amid 
fits of laughter, to show it to 
us, and to consult upon how we 
could possibly get it boiled. We 
could not insult the hotel by ask- 
ing that it might appear at the 
tablC'dhdte ; and a hand of pork 
was rather a peculiar dish for three 
young ladies to keep up in their 
bedroom for private eating. On 
the other hand, Mrs. O'Brien would 
never recover it if her eleemosy- 
nary offering were discarded. It 
ended in my explaining the state 
of the case, under seal of secrecy, to 
the landlady ; and then we actual- 
ly held a supernumerary feast in 
our drawing-room, at a late hour, 
all to show Mrs. O'Brien that her 
kindness was appreciated. We did 
not sleep particularly well that 
night, and the rest was made into 
sandwiches and eaten on our next 
excursion up the mountains. 

Mary and Mrs. O-'Brien became 
great friends; for Mary's sympa- 
thetic nature and marvellous con- 
trol of countenance at once drew 
the old lady out, and prevented her 
discovering how intensely 'amused 
her listener was. Amongst other 
topics, she was very eloquent upon 
the subject of the Prince of Wales* 
recovery from his serious illness. 



24 



Oh the Wing. 



declaring how she, '* as is a nurse 
myself, know well what a fine 
healthy man he must have been 
bom ever to have got over the like 
of that. And now, sure, we must 
pray that nothing may happen to 
the blessed, darlint prince ; for if he 
were to l^e taken, the country would 
be just ruined, and nothing left us 
but the constitution !" 

She would talk by the hour of her 
** darlint " young ladies, sometimes 
blaming their conduct, sometimes 
extolling them to the skies. Occa- 
sionally, to tease her, they would 
pretend to walk lame, and tell her 
that was all the fashion, and was 
called the Alexandra limp. " Och ! 
now, honeys, you, with straight limbs 
as God has made you, mocking at 
the darlint princess, as may be isn't 
lame at all. If I saw you mocking 
at me, as is no princess, but is blind, 
and me groping round the table, 
don't you think, honeys, as I should 
feel it ?" Then turning to Mary : 
" Ah ! your honor, they was always 
as wild as a litter o* pigs on a 
windy day, good luck to them. I've 
seen them all come into the world, 
bless their hearts, one after the 
other, pretty nigh as fast as nature 
would let them. And a nice hand- 
ful I've had wid them, too, bringing 
the most of them up by hand like a 
weaned calf. Children's stomachs 
is just like sponges. But if you 
overdo the binding, may be you'll 
give them obdurate bowels.** Mary 
bore even this without a smile; 
but we all laughed together when 
the morning after her arrival she 
found the nice little boy Celestin, 
who brought in the lamp and the 
basket of wood, and helped in the 
house generally, and who could not 
have been above fifteen, innocently 
aiding Marie, the housemaid, in mak- 
ing the beds. She could not un- 
derstand a word of French, and of 



course he knew no English ; but 
she seized him by the collar, and 
ejected him violently from the 
room, exclaiming, " Get out o' that, 
you young varmint!" and protest- 
ing that he should never touch one 
of her "darlints' sheets in this 
heathenish land, where they made 
no difference between a man and a 
woman, but put the men to make 
the beds and the women to tend 
the cattle." The end of it was that 
she took the bed-making into her 
own hands, though she never got 
reconciled to the mattresses stuffed 
with the outer sheaths of the Indian 
corn, or the pillows with wool. 
"That pillow is as hard as a dog's 
head, and won't do for my young 
lady ; and the other's as limp as a 
dead cat," she remarked aloud to 
herself one day that Elina was 
going to bed early with a bad 
headache. 

By degrees we became rather 
well acquainted with the other 
visitors at the hotel, which arose, no 
doubt, from the fact of our all being 
fellow-countrymen. For a long 
time Mary was the only married 
woman of the party ; and with the 
exception of the three merry Irish 
girls, the 'adies were all old maids 
like myself. Frank found Cannes 
rather slow, as he expressed it, and 
spent the greater part of the six 
weeks we were there in making ex- 
cursions in the neighborhood, stop- 
ping away three or four days at a 
time. It was long before we got 
thoroughly comfortable with any of 
our fellow-sojourners in a strange 
land. In the first place, we were 
the only Catholics, and most of 
the others were very decided Pro- 
testants, and so rather shunned us at 
first. Some of them especially ob- 
jected to Mary, and seemed to 
think that her good looks and her ac- 
curate French pronunciation were 



On the Wing. 



25 



rather offensive than otherwise. It 
made no sort of difference to her, and 
Jam sure she never even found it 
oat. One day, as I was coming 
down-stairs, Miss Marygold was 
crossing the wide passage which 
vent from the entrance to the din- 
ing-room door. As I passed her, 
she tossed her head, and said, '* I 
have just met your sister. Miss Jane, 
going out for a walk, and looking 
about five-and-twenty. I must say 
I think it must be very inconvenient 
not to show one's age better than 
that." " At any rate," said I, " it is 
an inconvenience, Miss Marygold, 
that many would be happy to share 
with her." And I swept along the 
wide passage lined with oleanders, 
myrtle, and cypress in large pots, 
sat down to the piano in the public 
m/mt, and dashed through the over- 
ture of " Robert le Diable " with 
much brilliancy of execution. I 
afterwards found out that both the 
Miss Marygolds strongly objected 
to a little red bow which Mary was 
apt to fasten in her hair when we 
went down to dinner. Their own 
coiffures resembled either a doll's 
apron stuck on the top of her head, 
or a small ** dress-improver" of stiff 
lace. I suppose they thought there 
was some virtue in wearing 
what was at once ugly and ridicu- 
lous. 

No one, on first arriving at Can- 
nes, can form any idea of the ex- 
quisite beauty that will be within 
their easy reach as soon as they 
get beyond the long, straight street 
parallel with the flat coast. The 
iowR itself has no pretensions to 
beauty, except from the pictu- 
rescjue, fortified old church, stand- 
;*^ high above the town, and whose 
iioiiklering walls assume so many 
•lifferent tints against the dark- 
^irlct background of the Estrelle ; 
that beautiful line of mountains 



that runs far out into the sea, ^nd 
forms the most prominent object 
of the scenery. The market is 
held down the one long street, 
where it opens on the small garden 
and esplanade by the shore. This 
is planted with magnificent plane- 
trees, and nothing can be more 
picturesque than the groups of 
peasant-women, with their bright- 
colored kerchiefs crossed over 
their shoulders, and their thick 
woollen skirts, sitting each at her 
little booth of cakes, or sweets, or 
household utensils, and especially 
the charming little crocks, pots, 
and pans of native manufacture. 
At a short distance from Cannes, at 
Valory, there is a very fine establish- 
ment of pottery works, well worthy 
of a visit. The native clay pro- 
duces the most beautiful colors; 
and as the numerous visitors at 
Cannes have taken pains to supply 
the manufactory with very good 
models taken from the antique 
and from some of the best speci- 
mens of Minton and Staffordshire 
china, the result is most satisfactory. 
We found that they are in the 
habit of sending very large crates 
of garden-vases, besides smaller and 
more delicate articles, all over 
Europe. The road along the 
coast towards Antibes is bordered 
by beautiful villas with gardens 
running down towards the sea, and 
generally laid out in terraces. Even 
now, in the month of January, they 
were full of roses, geraniums, agera- 
tum, and violets in blcom. Part 
of this picturesque spot is called 
California, on account of the bright 
yellow blossom of the mimosa, 
which, when fully out, is truly 
"a dropping well of gold." 
The light, feathery flower covers 
the whole tree, and there is scarce- 
ly a leaf to be seen. The beauti- 
ful eucalyptus, or blue gum-tree, is 



26 



On the Wifig. 



much cultivated here. The pecu- 
liar variety of its foliage, the lower 
and older leaves being almost 
heart-shaped, and the upper ones 
often a foot in length, and hardly 
two inches wide, makes it very re- 
markable. The lower leaves are 
of a blue green, shading off into 
deep bronze, and the new shoots 
are almost yellow. It is quite re- 
cently that this beautiful tree has 
been transplanted from Australia 
to Europe ; but as it makes twenty 
feet in a year, there are already 
magnificent specimens. It has a 
highly aromatic gum; and it is 
supposed that in time it will great- 
ly supersede the use of quinine, 
having medicinal properties which 
resemble that invaluable remedy, 
while it will be less expensive. 
When Mary is suffering from one 
of her neuralgic headaches, no- 
thing relieves her so much as 
steeping the long leaves of the 
eucalyptus in hot water, and hold- 
ing her head over the perfumed 
steam. A branch hung near the bed 
is also, they say, conducive to sleep. 
The beauties of the position 
of Cannes are far outdone by that 
of the little town of Cannet, dis- 
tant about three miles, and built 
among the mountains, and where 
the air is softer. Nothing can ex- 
ceed the loveliness of the view 
from the Place, shaded by splen- 
did plane-trees, of the half-deserted 
little town, or the same view seen 
from the terrace of the one Pension, 
where we found every preparation 
for receiving guests, but which was 
locked up and entirely empty. 
You overlook numerous orange- 
gardens of the most vivid green, 
the starry blossoms and golden 
fruit gleaming amid the foliage. 
Then, far down the valley, and 
clothing an amphitheatre of hills 
and mountains, are groves of olives. 



with their soft velvet folds, mass 
overlapping mass of tender, dim 
green, shimmering all over with sil- 
ver touches, as the air stirred the 
branches, and turned upwards the 
inner lining of the leaves — after 
which all other foliage is apt to 
look crude and hard. The blue 
sea lies beyond, and the sharp, 
purple outline of the Estrelle; 
while to the right the mountains 
fade off further and further, ending 
in snow-capt heights. 

From amid the dense, soft shad- 
ows of the valley rise the old tower 
of the church a-nd the picturesque 
cupolas of the strange Moorish villa 
where poor Rachel, the famous 
French tragedian, breathed her 
last, and which is fast falling to 
decay. It is no longer let to 
strangers; but we made our way 
through the tangled gardens and 
wilderness of orange-trees. Every- 
thing looked tumbling to pieces. 
The house itself is in ruin; and 
being painted in bright colors ex- 
ternally, and chiefly built of wood, 
at least in the ornamental parts, it 
looks like the cast-off decorations 
of a dismal theatre. Two white 
pigeons were picking up the scat- 
tered grain in the little, untidy 
court. A few mutilated placer fig- 
ures of gods and goddesses near 
the entrance added to the tawdry 
and unreal aspect of the whole. It 
was as if the poor actress had se- 
lected it to die in for its scenic ef- 
fect, and so had closed her life on 
a mute and deserted stage. I fan- 
cied I could see her lithe form 
and her sinuous glide (for she 
never seemed to walk like a common 
mortal) along the veranda. I could 
recall the intense passion of her 
matchless voice as she thrilled you 
through with the words : 

'• Je ne me verrai point prdWrer He rivale. 
Gnfin. tous tes con!teils ne iiont plus de aaison : 
Sers ma fureur, CEaone, et non pas ma raisoa.* 



On the Wing. 



27 



And then she came here, alone, to 
die! As I turned away/rom the 
place, so beautiful even in its deso- 
lation, I wondered if the rumor 
might be true which was prevalent 
at the time — that her maid, a French 
Catholic, seeing her poor mistress 
in a state of coma just before her 
death, had dared to baptize her — 
and thus give us a large-hearted 
hope for the woman and the 
Jewess. 

We drove through the narrow, 
siurp-angled streets of the little 
town of Cannet to the church in 
the valley. The streets were so 
narrow, and the turnings were so 
iharp, that it always seemed that 
our horses were in one street while 
we and the carriage were in an- 
other. Three little children, with 
bright, dark eyes and tangled hair, 
hung over a wall, each with a rose 
in its mouth. They looked as if 
they would drop the flowers, and 
themselves after, into our laps. 
The church was very clean and 
well cared for; full of tawdry 
decorations, but fresh and neat, as 
if all were often renewed by loving 
hearts, if not by cultivated taste. 
M. le Cure is very old, and has not 
sufficient help for the wants of so 
large a parish; and there are no 
Sisters to teach the children. They 
icem a simple people ; and if only 
there were a habitable house, what 
Heasure might be found in living 
in this earthly paradise, and work- 
ing amongst them ! 

It is said that the Englishman 
«vries Bass* pale ale and War- 
ren's blacking with him where- 
cver he goes, to say nothing of 
Harvey's sauce. At any rate, he 
has established his own special 
amusements at Cannes, with no 
apparent consciousness of their 
incongruity with the scene around 
them. Of course we took our 



share, though, denouncing and pro* 
testing all the way at the hor-^ 
rors of pigeon-shooting. We Mlw^ 
over sandy lanes close to the snore, 
through groups of pine-trees on 
either side; a glorious panorama 
of mountains and snow-clad peaks 
beyond, the dark-blue sea, and 
the purple Estrelle. There was 
a vulgar booth and a shed, and 
some rickety benches like those 
at a country fair. We sat down, 
facing three boxes, in which the 
innocent birds were concealed until 
the moment — unknown, of course, 
to the sportsman himself — when, 
bursting open, the pigeons spread 
their wings at liberty, to be per- 
chance instantly killed by a clever 
shot. I acknowledge that I tried 
not to look, and that my heart 
gave a spasmodic leap every time 
I heard the clap of the lid of 
the box and then the sharp shot. 
1 looked at the pine-trees and the 
far-off mountains, with the many- 
tinted, undulating middle distances, 
and tried to forget the coarseness 
and cruelty of the scene I was 
supposed to have come to as 
an amusement. The nuts and the 
ginger-bread were wanting, and 
Aunt Sally was distinguished by 
her absence; but there was never- 
theless a milder reflection of every- 
thing that might have graced this 
same kind of scene in England ; 
and so the English gentleman of 
the XlXth century, brought by 
fortuitous circumstances into a 
new and exquisitely beautiful land, 
was doing his best to make himself 
" at home,*' and to inspire the 
natives and foreigners with his own 
tastes. I am fond of sport, though 
I am but an old maid ; but some- 
how this does not strike me as 
being sport in the true accepta- 
tion of the word. And I sat won- 
dering how long it will be before 



28 



On the Wing. 



my own brave countrymen, who 
are already addicted to bcUtueSy 
will build one-storied, round sum- 
mer-houses in their woods, painted 
inside with arabesques, Cupids, 
Venus, and Diana, and having six 
or eight small windows all round 
it ; then, seated in a large gilt 
fauteuily with a bottle of choice 
Chambertin by his side, he will 
languidly pop his short gun at the 
thrushes or the finches as they 
flutter from bough to bough before 
him ; and so, at the end of a 
couple of hours, saunter home 
with a bagful of " game," wearied 
with the exertions of la chasse au 
tirCy like the gentlemen in France 
in the times of La R/gence. 

The Due de P. was there, and 
the Due de C, and the Duke of H., 
and actually one of the men — what 
may they be called? — who preside 
over the pigeon-shooting at Hur- 
lingham, and who had been got 
over to ensure everything being en 
r^gle. What more could any one 
want? I wondered to myself 
whether the extraordinary beauty 
and sublime majesty of the surround- 
ing scene had anything to do with 
enhancing the pleasure of the 
pigeon-shooters ; whether, in short, 
the successful slaughter of the poor 
birds was rendered more enjoyable 
by the fact of its taking place under 
a sky and in a spot fraught with 



exquisite beauty ; noble and sercnC; 
vast and varied. 

And if not, why did they not 
stop among the cockney flats of 
Hurlingham ? When all was over 
and we returned home, I actually 
found myself semi-conscious of a 
sort of pride that the best shot, in 
this decidedly trying proof of skill, 
was an Englishman ! So much for 
the inconsistency of human, especi- 
ally of female, nature. 

We are in the land of perfumes. 
Acres of roses, violets, and other 
scented flowers are cultivated solely 
for the perfume manufactories at 
Grasse, a few miles from Cannes. 
Of course, this is not the time of 
year to benefit by this exceptional 
form of farming; but in the spring 
it must be lovely. 

We are preparing to leave Can- 
nes, and, as I write these lines, 
Frank silently lays a sheet of paper 
by my side. And I see — a Sonnet. 

Thb Olivb-Trbb. 

That dusky tree Krows in a noted place — 
A garden on the rocky mounuin's side, 
O'et looking (in the evening of its pride) 
The doom^ city of the chosen race^ 
There, as the swathicg evening mists efface 
Temple and fane, in sunset glory dyed. 
And round the city walls the shadows glide, 
Beneath the dappled gloom our hearts may 

trace 
The lingering footsteps of the Holy One. 
Our Master walks alone ; and who can know 
All the deep mystVy of his awful woe, 
As on the earth sinks God's eternal Soa? 
But ever shall the gray-green oli?e-trM 
Recall the Image of faiia agony. 



A National or State Church. 



29 



A NATIONAL OR STATE CHURCH. 



Fifty -THREE peers protested 
against the disestablishment of the 
Protestant Church in Ireland, " be- 
cause it is impossible to place a 
cfanrch disestablished and disen- 
dowed, and bound together only 
bfthe tie of a voluntary associa- 
don, on a footing of equality with 
the perfect organization of the 
Church of Rome." Mr. Disraeli 
kid previously said the same thing 
m the House of Commons : " The 
iscipline, order, and government 
of the Roman Catholic Church are 
not voluntary. They are the crea- 
tion of the simple will of a sovereign 
jxmtiff " (if he means Jesus Christ, 
the phrase is Catholic), ''and do 
not depend at all on the voluntary 
principle. ... I maintain that as 
long as his Holiness the Pope pos- 
sesses Rome, the Roman Catholic 
religion, in whatever country it is 
found, is an establishment." In 
fact, there is a great deal of truth 
in these remarks. How, indeed, 
can undisciplined guerrillas contend 
against a well-trained army of vete- 
rans? How can a number of vo- 
luntary associations, like so many 
insurance or stock companies, liable 
It any moment to disband, with no 
cohesive power, compete with a 
pand organization whose charter 
is divine, whose officers are divinely 
a)>pointed, and whose laws bind in 
conscience in spite of adverse im- 
perial, royal, or republican legisla- 
tion.^ The peers were right; Mr. 
I>israeli is partially right. No sect 
or combination of sects can for any 
length of time, in a fair field, com- 
pete with the Catholic Church. 
Hence the cry of the sects in this 



country for state aid. The Catho- 
lic Church never asked for it except 
as a matter of justice or restitution. 
Whenever it was bestowed on her 
institutions, it was because they de- 
served it. If much was given to 
her, it was because her hierarchy or 
her religious orders, inspired by 
divine zeal, had founded and organ- 
ized charitable institutions while 
the sects were asleep, lacking even 
in sufficient philanthropy, not to 
say charity, to provide for the wants 
of their own suffering members. 
The Catholic Church built and or- 
ganized her asylums, schools, and 
other institutions, tried to support 
them, and did bravely support them, 
as she still does in this country, by 
the voluntary contributions of gene- 
rous Christians, before the state gave 
anything. The sects did very little. 
They were too indolent, too de- 
ficient in vitality, to do much. They 
begged from the state. They threw 
the burden on the state; so that, 
whereas in Catholic times there 
were no state poor-houses, state 
asylums, or state charities, now they 
swarm. Protestantism is too cold 
a system to warm the hearts of men 
into life-giving charity; so it de- 
pends, except in rare cases, on the 
state for the support of the poor 
and the orphans. The money is 
taken from the public treasury for 
the support of schools, asylums, and 
kindred institutions.* Such being 

• According^ to Gov. Dlx's report for 1874, 
our ** evang^eUoiI ** state church will have to 
draw the sum of $8,600,000 (eight million, six 
hundred thousand dollars!) out of the public 
treasury to erect two *' evangelical " asylums, 
one *' evangelical" hospiul, and one ''evan- 
gelical " non-iaectarian state reformatory ! From 
the same report we leara that our *' evangelical " 



30 



A National or State Church. 



the case, who can blame Catholics 
for receiving a portion of their own 
taxes to help their own institutions, 
mainly supported on the voluntary 
system? Are riot the frequenters 
of Catholic schools and the inmates 
of Catholic institutions the children 
and citizens of the state as well as 
others ? Will the state educate or 
support as cheaply as the church 
has done, or make as good citizens 
as she makes? If Catholic chari- 
table institutions are abolished, if 
Catholic schools are broken up, how 
much will it annually cost the state 
for the building of new institutions 
and for their maintenance? Are 
the Sisters of Charity as safe custo- 
dians of the morality of orphans as 
the spinsters and political hirelings 
of the state institutions ? Are teach- 
ers and matrons who work prima- 
rily from a religious motive as apt 
to discharge their duty faithfully as 
those who labor primarily for the 
"consideration" attached to their 
services? Well do the gentlemen 
who attack the Catholic Church 
know how futile it is for any sect to 
strive against her unless backed up 
by state aid; and hence, perhaps, 
the cry which has recently resound- 
ed throughout our country for a na- 
tional or state church — a national 
Protestant church in opposition to 
the never-ceasing progress of Ca- 
tholicity. 

The late " Evangelical Alliance " 
publicly endorsed the cry of a na- 
tional church. The Rev. W. H. 
Fremantle, M.A., of London, an 

system of public education cost the state for the 
year ending Siptembcr 30, 1873, the sum of 
$20,355,341 (twenty million, three hundred and 
fifty-live thous.inil, three hundred and forty-one 
dollars !^ ; and that our *; evangfelical " state 
church owns twenty-seven millions, seventy 
thousand, three hunared and ten dollars* worth 
of school property ! Remember that Catholics 
pay tticir prop )rtion of the taxes, and that mo«»t 
of the public schools are not only '* cvanpelicar' 
in iheir rclif^ion, but some even formally Metho- 
dibt by the ''hymns'' and prayers taught ia 
them! 



ecclesiastical functionary of the na- 
tional church of England, in "a 
manner," as the report in the 
Tribune has it, " quick and ener- 
getic, and, as he warmed to his sub- 
ject, eloquent to a degree which 
elicited ^reat applause^* on October 
9, 1873, at a meeting of the "Al- 
liance," urged on his hearers the 
advantages and necessity of having 
a national church, " the true ruling 
elders " of which should be " our 
statesmen, our judges, and our of- 
ficers who bear the supreme man- 
date of the whole Christian com- 
munity." With laconic pith, he 
said : " The Christian nation is a 
church." The applause elicited by 
his remarks was no doubt due to 
the fact that his auditors remem- 
bered how admirably the Chris- 
tian " statesmen " in Congress and 
our late Vice-President, some of 
our "judges," our "Evangelical" 
bankers and merchants, represented 
the interests of the Alliance in their 
respective avocations ! The Rev. 
W. J. Menzies, of Edinburgh, 
emissary of the national church of 
Scotland, seconded and approved 
the doctrines of his Episcopalian 
brother. In vain did a sturdy 
American, the Hon. J. L. M. Curry, 
LL.D., of Richmond, try to de- 
fend the American system and 
the principles of our Constitution 
against these well-fed and well-paid 
gentlemen. The rubicund foreign- 
ers of the church establishments of 
Denmark, Sweden, and Germany 
came to the rescue of their English 
and Scottish brethren. They had 
preached to the " Alliance " in 
favor of the tithes, taxes, and intol- 
erance of their own establishments 
and were not willing to allow Mr. 
Curry to oppose them. The very 
president of the " Alliance," him- 
self an American, was obliged to 
coerce the honorable gentleman 



A National or State Church. 



31 



into silence. His voice was drown- 
ed in an " evangelical " chorus of 
national churchmen. We are no 
longer, then, astonished to read that 
the Rev. Dr. Stoughton, of England, 
was greeted in a Protestant Sunday- 
school in this city with the an- 
them of " God save the Queen." 
It was not a religious hymn, mark 
it well, but an anthem in praise of 
the head of a church establishment, 
rho is more than pope, for she is 
mpeccabU as well as infallible, ac- 
cording to the axiom of English 
law that "the king can do no 
wrong." No longer are we surprised 
to learn that the head of another 
national church, the would-be pope- 
Emperor of Germany, gave the 
** Evangelical Council " his bless- 
ing; that several of our highest 
magistrates, unless they are belied, 
have been secretly leagued against 
the Catholic Church in favor of a 
state Protestantism. Newspapers of 
reputed rank have been continually 
striving to create a Protestant pub- 
lic spirit in the state, and thus, as 
it were, to prepare the way for an 
absolute union of church and state 
on a Protestant basis. Indeed, we 
have a national, or at least a state, 
church already ; although it has so 
far been administered to us only 
in homoeopathic doses. Have we 
not a state school system with a 
Protestant Bible on its rostrum.? 
Have we not "Juvenile Asylums," 
'"Soldiers' and Sailors* Homes," 
state charitable institutions all con- 
trolled on the Protestant system, 
conducted to a great extent by 
Protestant clergymen? Are not 
the Bibles used in them Protestant > 
.\Te not the school-books essential- 
ly sectarian in which such expres- 
sions as "gor-bellied monks," the 
** glorious Reformation," the "great 
and saintly Martin Luther," are 
frequent? Have we not a Pro- 



testant Indian policy and a Pro- 
testant " Freedman's Bureau " ? 

It is true you cannot call the 
colorless Protestantism of these in- 
stitutions peculiarly Methodist, or 
peculiarly Episcopalian, or peculiar- 
ly Baptist ; but it is nevertheless 
Protestantism. We have a name for 
it. The late " Evangelical Alliance" 
gives it to us. The word ** Evan- 
gelicalism " will express the Pro- 
testantism of our incipient national 
and state churches. We defy any 
impartial visitor to the so-called 
" non-sectarian " state institutions to 
deny that their chief male officers, 
superintendents, guardians, and 
teachers have been chosen on ac- 
count of their " Evangelicalism." 
Every one that knows the inner 
working of our state institutions for 
charitable purposes is aware that 
they are mere pastures in which 
Evangelical ministers are retired on 
salaries of thousands a year taken 
from the state pocket. 

The desire for having a state or 
national church is growing stronger. 
German imperialism, or pagan Ro- 
man Cajsarism revived, has given 
an impetus to it in Europe, in order 
to create a foreign public opinion 
to sanction its own persecutions 
of the Catholic Church at home. 
Switzerland has been moved by the 
pull of the German wire. Perhaps 
the same influence is at work in our 
republic. Or is it that a certain 
class of the Protestant clergy, dread- 
ing starvation if left depending on 
the bounty of tlocks tliat are losing 
their Christianity and its generous 
impulses, envious of the portly 
frauaes and plethoric purses of the 
foreigners of the European estab- 
lishments who lately visited our 
shores and banciueted at our ex- 
pense, long to draw nutriment from 
the bosom of an established mother, 
rather than risk death from maras- 



22 



A National or State Church, 



mus at the breasts of a dry and 
barren voluntary system ? If this 
be the cause of the growing " Evan- 
gelicalism " of the sects, of their 
effort to combine for the purpose 
of giving us a national church, let 
us devoutly pray that the next 
delegates from abroad will be as 
spare in person and purse as our 
own country parsons. For the 
sake of our republican institutions, 
may his divine and imperial majesty 
of Germany and her gracious ec- 
clesiastical majesty of England 
send hither no more of their rotund 
and jocund functionaries, to make 
the hearts of our Evangelical clergy- 
men yearn after the flesh-pots of 
Egypt ! 

Or can it be that the venerable 
heads of our " Evangelical " may- 
ors, governors, and their compeers, 
returning in their senility, as is not 
uncommon with decaying brains, to 
tlieir early loves, are striving to 
restore the state establishments of 
the old Puritan colonies? The 
recollection that all the original 
colonies except Catholic Maryland 
had a state church has not yet 
died out among these " Evangeli- 
cal " ancients. They remember that 
so late even as 1793 an attempt was 
made even in New York tc^saddle an 
Episcopalian establishment on the 
back of our state, and this, too, at 
a time when the members of the 
Holland Reformed Churches were 
in the proportion of fifteen to 
one Church-of-Englander ! Perhaps 
Governor Dix has an agreeable re- 
collection of this beauteous trait in 
the character of his sect. Perhaps 
he remembers how well she had bat- 
tened on the flesh and blood of the 
Irish people for centuries, though 
her votaries were not one-twentieth 
part of the Irish population. In 
1643, the ** orthodox " Episcopalian 
colony of Virginia expelled two 



New England Puritan ministers; 
while the New England Puritans, 
by way of " Evangelical " retalia- 
tion, sent back to Old England two 
professors of Anglicanism. The 
poor Quakers were driven out by 
all the colonies except Catholic 
Maryland. Indeed, even our 
modem " Evangelicals " had not 
the courtesy to invite them to 
their "Alliance." In Virginia, the 
man who refused to have his child 
baptized was fined two thousand 
pounds of tobacco. In the colonies 
of Massachusetts and New Haven, 
for a time only church members 
could exercise the full powers of 
citizenship. The legislatures of 
the New England colonies convok- 
ed even the church synods. These 
were truly " Evangelical " times, 
and after these do the " Evangeli- 
cals " hanker. So late even as 1779 
tithes were collected by law in 
some of the colonies. In fact, it 
was only in 181 8 that the separa- 
tion of church and state was effect- 
ed in Connecticut. But in those 
days the Catholics were few, and 
nobody feared them. If they had 
been as numerous and formidable 
then as they are now, the disestab- 
lishment would never have been 
accomplished. These were the 
halcyon days when, in the words of 
Rev. Mr. Fremantle, already quot- 
ed, " the Christian nation was a 
church," " the true ruling elders 
of which were statesmen, judges, 
and officers who bore the supreme 
mandate of the whole Christian 
community." What a yearning 
there is for the return of those 
good times when none but " Evan- 
gelicals " may hold office to de- 
fraud the revenue, invest in Credit 
Mobilier stock, or manage banking 
houses for the purpose of swind- 
ling credulous " Evangelical " de- 
positors ! 



^ NEW- YORK _ 



A National or State Chm 



33 



It is timely to warn all good citi- 
zens against the Protestant effort 
to restore the state-church system 
of the early colonies. The Rev. 
\V. H. Campbell, D.D., of New 
Brunswick, at one session of the 
"Alliance " said : " Revolution has 
everywhere borrowed the force of 
its political ideas from the Pro- 
testants of the XVIth century/* 
Never was language more correct. 
Rebellion against lawful authority, 
the overthrow of legitimate govern- 
ments, the subversion of civil so- 
ciety, the destruction of law and 
order in modem times, are all trace- 
able to Protestant principles. Nor 
can you ever tell where they will 
stop. As there is no fixity or cer- 
tainty or unalterable code of doc- 
trine or morals in Protestantism, a 
statesman can never tell when its 
councils will be impelled by whim, 
fanaticism, or prejudice. There is 
no telling but that the Protestant 
assembly which to-day favors the 
state to-morrow will be in revolt 
against it. It has been on the side 
of unbridled license, of the extreme 
of liberty ; and, again, it has been the 
creature, the slave, the blind instru- 
ment of despotism. A statesman 
always knows what to expect from 
the Catholic Church and her assem- 
blies. Her principles are patent, 
her system plain, her doctrines un- 
changing, her secondary discipline 
modifiable according to law or ne- 
cessity, but only by the spiritual 
I>ower. She is always conservative, 
never revolutionary. She gives to 
Caesar what belongs to him, but no 
more. She makes a reserve in her 
allegiance to the state : she reserves 
the rights of God, the rights of con- 
science. She must obey God ra- 
ther than men when men try to 
alter or subvert God's revelation. 
If the state wishes to persecute her, 
it may begin at once. She has no- 

VOL. XIX. — 3 



thing to hide from the state; and 
she will alter nothing of her doc- 
trines. If the state dislikes her, at 
any rate she is an open foe. But 
Protestantism is a fickle subject. 
Like the ancient pagans, she admits 
the supremacy of the state over 
her ; admits that the church is only 
a voluntary corporation subordinate 
to the state ; yet practically she is 
never to be depended on. Fickle 
by nature, the state can never tell 
when a fit of madness may seize on 
her ; when her imagination may be 
possessed by some idea subversive 
alike of good order and even of 
morality. We all know the history 
of the Anabaptists and Antinomians 
in Germany ; the deeds of violence 
of the Independents in England. 
Protestantism, like a wanton filly, 
carries the state as a rider, but al- 
ways at the risk of its neck. Let 
our statesmen, then, beware of the 
attempt which is being made to 
give us, if not a national, at least a 
state church. The threat has been 
made that when slavery was abolish- 
ed, the next thing to undertake 
would be the destruction of the Ca- 
tholic Church by the establishment 
of a state church. 

It is easy to show that a national 
church is essentially opposed to our 
American principles, and that con- 
sequently all attempts to establish 
one are anti-American. On this 
point many rationalists and infidels 
agree with Catholics, as they logi- 
cally must when they argue from 
sound principles of pure reason or 
of pure politics. The Catholic re- 
ligion recognizes the competency 
o^ reason in its own sphere, and ad- 
mits its logical inerrancy. All the 
principles of the natural, political, 
metaphysical, or moral order known 
with certainty even by those who 
do not believe in revelation at all, 
are the common property of the 



34 



A National or State Church. 



Catholic Church ; for although she 
insists on the subordination of rea- 
son to faith, she asserts emphati- 
cally the autonomy of reason, and 
condemns those who would abridge 
its powers. Hence true statesmen 
who judge our Federal or State con- 
stitutions from the viewing-point 
of reason alone agree with Catho- 
lics in opposition to the so-called 
" Evangelicals," the chief of whom 
believe in "total depravity," the 
loss of free will, and unmerited 
damnation. The ablest lawyers in 
the country teach that the funda- 
mental idea of our civil govern- 
ment is that there shall be no inter- 
ference of the state in church af- 
fairs. Absolute independence of 
the church ; no interference of the 
state in religious matters — such is 
the American idea. It is express- 
ly laid down in the first amendment 
to the Constitution of the United 
States that Congress shall have no 
power to legislate on religious ques- 
tions. The ablest commentary per- 
haps ever written on the Constitu- 
tion is the Federalist ; some of the 
best articles in which were written 
l)y Alexander Hamilton, whose son 
has recently published them. The 
teaching of this great man is that 
the framers of the Constitution were 
especially anxious to eschew church 
establishments or state religions in 
the policy of our republic. Indeed, 
some of the leading authors of the 
Constitution were rationalists, and 
more afraid of Protestant sectarian 
interference in state affairs than 
they were of the Catholic Church, 
which in their days was not strong 
enough to be feared. " Our theory 
is," writes Gerrit Smith, "that the 
people shall enjoy absolute free- 
dom in politics and religion." Of 
course this freedom could not exist 
if we had a state church. Mr. 
Smith, whose intelligence and Amer- 



icanism no one can dispute, in his 
celebrated letter on the school 
question,* from which the above 
phrase is taken, adds: "A lawyer 
than whom there is no abler in the 
land, and who is as eminent for in- 
tegrity as for ability, writes me: 
* I am against the government's 
being permitted to do anything 
which can be entrusted to individu- 
als under the equal regulation of 
general laws.* " How few of the 
" Evangelicals " would be willing to 
act on this correct interpretation 
of our Constitution? How could 
they so easily give up the govern- 
ment pap that nourishes the Meth- 
odist preachers of the " Freedman's 
Bureau " and the " Indian Bureau," 
not to speak of the other countless 
branches of our homoeopathic na- 
tional church 1 

The attempt to establish a state 
church is also opposed to most 
of our State constitutions, and 
notably to that of New York. The 
first constitution of this State was 
so essentially hostile to a church 
establishment that it contained an 
article incapacitating any minister 
of the Gospel from holding any 
office, civil or military. Tradition 
has it that some Episcopalian minis- 
ter, playing the political marplot in 
the preliminary convention, had so 
annoyed Mr. Jay that he had the 
article inserted. In 1846, this ar- 
ticle was expunged ; and ever 
since our State legislature, our pub- 
lic offices, and even our judiciary, 
have been afflicted by ambitious, 
incompetent, sometimes even il- 
literate, and always bigoted, polit- 
ical preachers. They are always 
striving to inflict on us more and 
more of their bigotry, while their 
acts show that one of their chief 

♦ How little publicity the " Evan};:e1ical " press 
have given to this letter, because it favored the 
Catholics ! 



A National or State Church. 



35 



aims is to gratify the " Evangelical " 
appetite for power. We must es- 
pecially guard our State constitu- 
tion from the treacherous assaults 
of the sects. Even now their ex- 
press provisions are violated or 
evaded.* They are easily modifi- 
ed, t Some of them are not incon- 
sistent with a church establish- 
ment, and may at any moment be- 
come the prey of " Evangelical " 
bigotry or fanaticism. 

Catholics are by conviction op- 
posed to a change in the character 
of our Federal and State — ^we speak 
of New York — constitutions. They 
do not conflict with the Catholic 
IDEA. There is nothing in or out 
of the Syllabus that is opposed to 
our system of government. This 
we shall now proceed to show. 
Pius IX., on December 17, i860, 
in an allocution condemned a pro- 
position which begins with these 
words : " National churches may be 
(stablishcdy It is number 37 in the 
Syllabus, We know that it will be 
objected to us that the Pope also 
condemns the attempt to separate 
church and state in countries in 
which they are by law united, and 
the abstract principle that they 
ought to be separate. It is true 
that where church and state have 

* One of our \MA%t%— aa ex-Methodist mials- 
ler— lately in open court violated the parental 
right over off iprini; by sending a Catholic child 
to a Protestant establishment in spite of the re- 
tpectable faiher's opposition. 

^ The foUowinpr are the words of our State con- 
tuturion in regard to religion : 

" The free exercise and enjoyment of religious 
l»rr>fe»«ion and worship, without discrimination 
'it preference, shall for ever be allowed in this 
State to ail mankind."— Art i, sec. 3. 

Now. it is known that the *'free exercise" of 
the Catholic religion is not **free" in most of 
<^rMate institutions; and in most of them there 
i*" preference and discrimination " in favor of 
"* Bran. • eiical " clergymen and against the Catho- 
Ik, Church. The writer could prove by affidavits 
that in the very city of New York there is religi- 
ous p(;r!^cutiun in some of the state institutions, if 
the general s(*oi>e of his remarks permitted him to 
go into many details. Where is the Catholic 
priest living near a state institution but knows 
'hat there is ^ discrimination '* made against 
him? 



been united, not by force, but by 
the nature of things and the sanc- 
tion of laws, it is condemnable to at- 
tack their union as iniquitous or 
improper; but it is also true that 
it is not always obligatory or ex- 
pedient on the part of the state, as 
such, to establish a church, build 
its institutions, and salary its clergy 
out of a common fupd. The Ro- 
man pontiffs, in the height of their 
temporal power, never compelled 
the Jews to build with their money 
Catholic churches and pay the sal- 
aries of Catholic priests. Let us his- 
torically examine the character of 
the union of church and state in 
the Catholic countries of Europe, 
and we shall find how just, fair, and 
honorable such an union becomes. 
What was the title to most of the 
Catholic church property in Eu- 
rope .'^ None better. The barba- 
rian baron or king, grateful to the 
priest, the monk, or the bishop who 
had civilized him and taught him 
to save his soul, generously built a 
church or a monastery and endow- 
ed it. Legacies, donations, free 
gifts — these were the means by 
which the bishopric and monaster- 
ies grew rich. No title to proper- 
ty is better than this, which a thou- 
sand years had sanctioned. Of 
course every new donation increased 
the power of the church. The tem- 
poralities of the church had natural 
influence in the state. The abbots 
and bishops were peers of the 
realm. The church lived on her 
own resources — neither asked nor 
received anything from the state 
except protection and liberty. Be- 
fore the Reformation, this was 
the character of the close union 
between the church and state. 
After the Reformation, when the 
church had lost her power chiefly 
through the corrupting influence; 
of the kings and barons on the- 



36 



A National or State Church. 



bishop>s and abbots, despite the 
protests and the efforts of the 
popes, the politicians confiscated 
the church property. This confisca- 
tion was simply robbeiy, for the 
church corporations, as well as in- 
dividuals, had rights which the state 
was bound to respect. But it hai>- 
pened, as it often happens, that 
wicked kings or mercenary and un- 
principled politicians used the poli- 
tical machinery of the state legally 
to rob the church. They abus- 
ed the right of eminent domain. 
<yOv. Dix himself, in his annual 
message for 1874, limits the exer- 
cise of this right. *' The right," 
says he, " of every individual to be 
secured in the undisturbed enjoy- 
ment of his property lies at the 
foundation of all responsible go- 
vernment. It is, indeed, one of the 
primary objects for which govern- 
ments are instituted. To this fun- 
damental rule there is but one pro- 
per exception. If private property 
is needed for public use, it may be 
taken by making just compensation 
to the owner; but the use must be 
one which is common to ally or which 
is indispensable to the accomplishment 
of some object of public necessity. 
This right of eminent domain, as it 
is denominated, is an incident of 
sovereignty, and it is one of the 
most arbitrary of all the powers of 
government."* It is unquestion- 
ably the "most arbitrary of all the 
powers of government," if we con- 
sider how many are the demagogues, 
political traders, and mercenary 
corruptionists who help to make 
the laws in parliaments, congresses, 
or State legislatures to regulate the 
property of respectable people ; and 

♦ Will Gov. Dix, therefore, tell us by what 
neht of "eminent domain'* Victor Emanuel 
robbed the Pope and confiscated the church 
property ? Does Gov. Dix forget that he was one 
of those who approved this confiscation at the 
fi^reat "Italian unity " meeting? 



how often the executive power in 
the state, be it imperial, regal, presi- 
dential, or gubernatorial, is wielded 
by despotic and corrupt hands. 
Imagine a parliament of Commu- 
nists using the right of eminent 
domain of the state against the 
lands and tenements owned by the 
Trinity Church corporation of New 
York ; or an assembly of " Evan- 
gelicals " legislating in regard to 
Catholic church property I The 
state in France, for instance, during 
the Revolution stripped the church 
of her lawful possessions ; Napoleon 
endeavored to bring order back to 
the Republic by re-establishing the 
church. But it is plain that the 
salary allowed by his concordat in 
A.D. 1 801 to the clergy, and the 
revenue allowed by the state for the 
maintenance of church edifices, was 
not a tithe of the interest accruing 
from the property stolen by the 
state from the church. The sum 
now allowed to support the Catholic 
clerg}' of France is, therefore, only 
a fraction of restitution money due 
to them by the state. So it is in 
other countries in which the state, 
after confiscating the church pro- 
perty, salaries the clergy. The 
church in those countries does not 
get her due. She asks no favor 
from them ; she does not even get 
her rights. The propositions in the 
Syllabus referring to the union of 
church and state must be explained 
in the light of these facts. The 
Catholic Church does not go to 
China or to Turkey, and say to the 
governments of those countries : 
" You must establish me here ; you 
must build my temples and schools 
and asylums." No, she claims 
no right of eminent domain over 
the pockets of infidels ; and even 
when she converts them, she onlv 
asks their voluntary aid. All she 
asks is liberty to work and protec- 



A National or State Church. 



37 



tion in her legitimate duties. She 
and her converts will do the rest. 
This was all she asked of the Roman 
emperors ; this she asked of the 
mediaeval kings. If they gave her 
liberty and protection, she thanked 
them, blessed them, worked for 
them, and civilized them. If they 
refused, still she blessed them and 
worked in spite of them ; for she 
must ** obey God rather than men." 
She might with justice ask more 
than this in Prussia or England or 
Sveden ; for there she might ask 
back her stolen property. But in 
this country she only asks a fair 
field and no favor. Contrast her 
conduct with that of Protestantism. 
Protestantism goes to the state 
begging on her knees; admitting 
the state's supremacy over her; 
confessing that she is the humble 
ser\'ant of the king ; and asks his 
gracious bounty. She will gladly 
sit on the foot of his throne as his 
slave, though a dangerous and 
treacherous one, if he will only 
smile on her, clothe and feed her. 
She will even stoop to become the 
receiver of stolen goods. Is it not 
so? Where is there a national 
Protestant church really established 
that is not living on property stolen 
by the state from the Catholic 
Church ? Look to England and 
Scotland. Are not the Protestant 
establishments in those lands the 
{lossessors of ill-gotten goods — of 
lands and churches iniquitously 
>tolen from the Catholic Church.? 
Surely the orthodox Catholic laity 
of the middle ages who gave these 
demesnes to the monasteries and 
churches never intended that the 
kin;r should turn them over to a 
heretical establishment. The Prus- 
sian establishment is a theft from 
beginning to end; for every one 
knows that the apostate head of the 
Catholic religious order which ruled 



the duchy of Brandenburg, and laid 
the foundation of the Prussian pow- 
er, had no right to transfer the 
property of his order to a Protestant 
clergy. Who could defend such a 
proceeding ? Would our " Evan- 
gelical " brethren approve the con- 
duct of a Protestant board of trus- 
tees or vestrymen who, on being 
converted, or a majority of them 
being converted, to the Catholic 
faith, should by a trick transfer the 
property of their congregation, 
their church, or college to the 
Catholic authorities to be used for 
Catholic purposes.? How, then, 
can they approve the conduct of 
the English, Qerman, and Scandi- 
navian clergy who have received 
the lands and buildings taken from 
the Catholics by violence and regal 
usurpation ? There is truly a very 
great difference between the Pro- 
testant and Catholic church esta- 
blishments of Europe — a difference 
in origin, as well as in the manner 
of their continuance — and this dif- 
ference is by no means flattering to 
the honesty or manliness of the 
sects. Correctly, therefore, did we 
say that Catholic principles as well 
as true American principles are op- 
posed to a state church establish- 
ment in this country, and that 
nothing in the Syllabus condemns 
our system of government. 

It is time, therefore, for all true 
American citizens to unite under 
the Catholic standard of opposi- 
tion to national or state church es- 
tablishments. The rights of con- 
science, the rights of religion, are 
the rights of God. They are not 
national, but universal ; that is, 
catholic. We are not willing to 
come back to the pagan rd^ime of 
Roman Caisarism, and admit the 
ruler of the state or the state itself 
as supreme master of religion as 
well as of politics. The " Evangeli-- 



38 



The Captive Bird. 



cal " semi- paganized Protestants of 
Germany may bow the knee to the 
modem Caesar, and admit him to 
be supreme pontiff; but they must 
keep their despotism at home. 
The Swiss "Evangelicals" may 
revive the ancient Spartan worship 
of the state, and assert its suprem- 
acy in spiritual matters; but they 
must keep their statolatry from our 
shores. The true American, like 
the true Catholic, will bow the knee 
to no idol, not even to the state, 
much as he may love it. He 
adores only his God. The state 
shall not interfere with his con- 
science, or dare to come between 
him and his God, no matter how 
much these foreign " Evangelical ** 
emissaries may wish it. He is 
Catholic, even when he least sus- 
pects it. He hates despotisms, as 



the Catholic Church does ; he sus- 
pects that German " Evangelical- 
ism " is only a livery stolen to cover 
unbelief, as the Catholic Church 
knows it to be. He suspects the 
sincerity of those foreign " Evan- 
gelical " emissaries and their native 
hypocritical associates who preach 
in favor of state-church establish- 
ments ; he suspects them as traitors 
to American liberty or as seekers 
for notoriety or a full purse. When 
his suspicions have been clearly 
proven correct, he will turn from 
the sects in disgust, to love the 
grand old church which can be 
controlled by no national or state 
limits, and which has been battling 
all her lifetime against emperors 
and kings for the very principles 
of liberty that constitute the glory 
and the greatness of our republic. 



THE CAPTIVE BIRD. 



FROM THB FKBNCH OF MAKIB JSNNA. 

He is all yours — *tis true — for life or death. 
The hollow of your hand contains his fate. 

You have the power to still his dulcet breath 
And make the grove he dwelt in desolate. 

You hold him ! — He is weak and you are strong, 

But pity mly his liberty restore. 
Let him to shade and summer still belong, 

It is so sweet to live — with wings to soar ! 



The Farm of Muicerati. 



39 



THE FARM OF MUICERON. 



BY MARIE RHEIL. 



FROM THB KEVUB DU MONDB CATHOLIQUB. 



XIX. 



Now, to quiet your mind — for you 
must be as shocked as I am at all 
these horrors — we will speak, if you 
please, of our friend Jean-Louis. 
On the afternoon of the day which 
proved the last for the innocent 
Barbette, Jeannet, knowing that the 
wood-cutters would be dismissed, 
and that consequently he would 
have some leisure time, went off to 
the Luguets' to have a little con- 
soling conversation with good 
Solange. He kept no secrets from 
her, and expected great relief in 
recounting faithfully all that had 
happened ; but, on entering, he in- 
stantly perceived something new 
had occurred in the house. The 
men were out at work ; Mme. Lu- 
guet was seated by the fire, weeping 
bitterly ; and Solange, sitting on a 
stool at her feet, was speaking to 
her in an angelic voice of her de- 
sire to enter a convent. Jeannet 
discreetly wished to withdraw. 

** Don't go," said Solange to him ; 
"isn't it so, mother? Jeannet will 
not disturb us ?" 

" No, dear ; on the contrary, my 
child, I am happy to see you, Jean- 
Louis. Is it true that you will be free 
to accompany Solange to Paris ?" 

" Alas ! Mme. Luguet," replied 
Jeannet, " why should I not be free, 
having neither family nor friends, 
save only you and yours } The 
only roof that sheltered me from 
infancy is henceforward forbidden 
to me, without counting that, be- 
fore many hours, the only thing 
that I can call my own — on condi- 



tion that God leaves it to me — and 
that is my life, may be taken also." 

" What has happened V* asked 
Solange. " You speak in a quiet, 
serious tone that frightens me." 

" I have done my duty, dear So- 
lange, and often in this world, after 
performing an act of conscience 
and justice, any consequence may 
be expected." 

And he related that, having dis- 
covered the criminal dealings of 
Isidore with the brigands of La 
MariinCy he had been obliged to 
threaten the future husband of 
Jeannette, and give him warning 
that he must leave the country. 

"But," cried Solange, "that is 
just what I hoped; this fortunate 
event divine Providence has allow- 
ed, that Jeannette might be saved. 
Rejoice, then, Jeannet, instead of 
indulging in such gloomy ideas." 

"You are very kind to think 
so," replied Jean-Louis sadly ; " but 
I, Solange, see things differently. 
Jeannette, already so irritated, will 
not pardon me for saving her at 
the expense of Isidore, who is not 
the man to let himself be crushed 
like a wolf caught in a snare. 
Much will be said against me; I 
will be rashly judged, and less than 
ever will I have the right to present 
myself at Muiceron. No, no ; from 
that dear spot I am for ever sepa- 
rated. I have been already accus- 
ed of jealousy ; shall I expose my- 
self to Jeannette's reproaches that 
I have denounced Isidore to pre- 
vent her marriage V 

"I acknowledge," said Solange, 



40 



Tlie Farm of Muiceron. 



" that your reflections are just. 
The truth will one day be known, 
but it will take time; I see it as 
well as you." 

" I must expect the vengeance of 
the Perdreaux,'* continued Jean- 
Louis, " as well as of their friends, 
whose violent passions I 'know, and 
who will not leave me in peaceable 
possession of their secrets. Michou 
has discharged the workmen ; ap- 
parently, they went off contented. 
But Isidore, meanwhile, received my 
letter; no doubt before this he 
has communicated it to his cut- 
throat companions, and the easiest 
thing for all of them will be to get 
rid of me at the shortest notice." 

" My God !" said Solange, " why 
didn't you think of all that before 
writing the letter ? At least, you 
need not have signed it." 

" I thought of all that," replied 
Jeannet, smiling ; " but even if I 
had been sure of risking my life in 
saving Jeannette, I would not have 
stopped. Her father and mother 
preserved my existence, Solange, 
and therefore it belongs to them. 
And as for not signing such a letter, 
thank God ! you think so because 
you are a woman, that you love 
me, and that you feel I am in dan- 
ger ; but if you were in my place, 
you would think as I do." 

" My children," said Mme. Lu- 
guet, " you are both right. But my 
advice is that just now you had 
better plan for the future than dis- 
cuss the past." 

"Tell us what shall be done, 
mother," said Solange. " In the 
first place, Jean-Louis must not re- 
turn to the wood to-night; isn't 
that soV 

"Don't think of such a thing," 
cried Jeannet, as he rose hastily 
from his chair. " Did I come here 
to hide?" 

" Be still," said Solange with 



authority ; " don't be so proud. We 
all know you are brave , who, then, 
can accuse you of flying from dan- 
ger? But courage does not consist 
in throwing yourself headlong in 
the midst of it, but in providing 
against it." 

" I will return," said Jeannet, 
" Michou expects me." 

" You will not return, my child," 
said Mme. Luguet. " I will direct 
you for one day ; my age and friend- 
ship permit me. I order you to 
remain with us to-night." 

" But," said Jean-Louis, " to- 
morrow the danger will be still 
greater ; and, my good mother, you 
surely cannot count on keeping me 
a prisoner ?" 

" When you came in," said the 
good woman, " Solange was asking 
my permission to leave home. It 
was very painful for me to decide, 
and I sought to gain time from the 
good God — a little time only, to be- 
come more courageous; for never 
will I be so bold as to refuse to 
give my child to the Lord. Well, 
what you have just related makes 
me think the good God has direct- 
ed all with his own voice. My 
dear children, you will leave to- 
morrow." 

Solange threw herself on her 
knees, and laid her head on her 
mother's hands, which she kissed, 
weeping. Jean-Louis turned pale. 
His courage, which prompted him 
to face the danger, and his desire 
to oblige his friends, struggled 
violently in his heart. 

" Listen to me," said he. " I gave 
my word to Solange that I would 
accompany her ; but circumstances 
have changed since then. Cannot 
Pierre take my place ? They have 
gossiped about Solange and me, 
dear Mme. Luguet ; what will they 
say when they hear we have gone 
off" together?" 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



41 



"Pierre!" cried Solange; "but 
he knows nothing, nor my father 
either. My mother alone has my 
secret ; otherwise, it would be im- 
possible for one to leave." 

" It is true," said Mme. Luguet ; 
'* my men are good Christians, but 
not pious enough to understand 
Solange *s wishes. However, with 
the blessing of God, I will manage 
them. It is decided that I will tell 
the father she has only gone for a 
fortnight, to see how she likes it; 
there will be a fuss at first, and 
then we will go to see her ; and if, 
as I believe, the good God will 
take her entirely to himself, then 
the sight of her happiness will 
satisfy all our hearts." 

Thus spoke that good Christian 
woman ; and to the shame of many 
great ladies of the city, who show 
themselves so unreasonable under 
similar circumstances, I must say, 
with truth, she was not the only one 
in our village you might have heard 
speak in the same manner. 

Jean-Louis could urge no further 
objection. The public stage, which 
would carry them to the nearest 
railway station, passed the Luguets* 
house every morning at six o'clock. 
At that time of year, it was still 
dark, and the men, who rose at four, 
that they might go to the barn and 
comb the hemp, went to bed very 
early in the evening. Pierre and 
his father entered and supped, with- 
out anything being said before 
them, and Solange and her mother 
found themselves again alone with 
Jeannet as the village clock struck 
eight. 

It was then that Jeannet wrote 
the short note to Jacques Michou 
which we have already read; he 
ran and placed it in the box in the 
suburbs of the village, and quickly 
returned, as Solange had told him 
she would be half dead with fear 



during his absence, and that she 
would pass the time on her knees, 
saying her rosary. 

You see it was very evident the 
Lord and his angels watched over 
these good people. At this very 
hour, when it would have been so 
easy to have attacked Jean-Louis, 
he came and went through the 
wood, without incurring any risk, 
while the unfortunate Isidore use- 
lessly committed a great crime. 

Good Mme. Luguet and her 
daughter remained up until late in 
the night, busy making up Solange 's 
little bundle, in praying, and often 
embracing each other, mingling 
their tender and holy kisses and 
tears. Jeannet aided them to the 
best of his ability, admiring the 
courage of heart, which was worth 
more than that of the head and 
arms. Then the two women retired 
for a little rest, and he, in his turn, 
ended by falling asleep in his chair. 

At five o'clock, Solange came 
herself to awaken him, and told 
him, in a low voice, that she had 
made her poor mother promise the 
night before not to get up, and so 
she had just kissed her softly for 
the last time without disturbing 
her sleep. At that instant could 
be seen the heroism of that holy 
soul in thus wishing to bear alone 
the weight of the sacrifice. Her 
fare, without ceasing to be calm, 
was bathed in tears, and from time 
to time she kissed a little crucifix 
suspended from her neck, in order 
to sustain her brave heart. 

" Come," said she at last, " it is 
time, Jeannet; let us say the Our 
Father together, and then we will 
leave." 

"Courage, Solange," said Jean- 
Louis, much moved ; " the good 
God will bless you." 

They repeated the prayer, and 
went out noiselessly, and just then 



42 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



was heard the jingling of the bells 
on the horses of the country stage. 

Solange was well wrapped up in 
her black cloth cloak, with the hood 
drawn down over her face. Jean- 
Louis carried her little bundle, in 
which she had slipped two of 
Pierre's shirts ; for the good Jeannet 
carried all his baggage on his back — 
to wit, a woollen vest, a blouse, and 
his plaid scarf. But, as we have al- 
ready seen, it was not his habit to 
think of himself. 

They arrived safely at Paris 
that very day, rather late in the 
evening, to be sure ; and little did 
they dream of the great rumpus 
going on at that very time in our 
poor neighborhood. All along the 
route the strong family resemblance 
between Solange and Jeannet made 
every one think them brother and 
sister ; and by good luck, owing to 
the severity of the weather, none 
of the travellers in the coach be- 
longed to the village or its environs, 
so that they reached the station 
without the risk of being recog- 
nized. 

The Sister-Superior of the Sisters 
of Charity had been notified several 
days before of the coming of So- 
lange by our cur/^ who was the 
good child's confessor; but they 
had left home so suddenly, Jeannet 
was obliged to find a refuge for his 
companion the first night. Happi- 
ly, in Paris all is at your service — 
people and things — where there is 
money, and our children were rich 
with Solange's savings; therefore, 
there was no difficulty in finding 
respectable lodgings, where they 
passed the night in two beautiful 
rooms, well furnished, the like of 
which they had never thought ex- 
isted, at least for their use. 

The next day their first action 
was to go and hear Mass, after 
which, having inquired the way to 



the Convent of S. Vincent de Paul, 
which is situated in a very pious 
quarter of the city, they went there 
with hearts rather saddened; and 
one hour later Jeannet found him- 
self alone in the vast city. 

But no one is alone in this world 
when he carries in his heart faith 
in the Lord. All the children of 
God belong to one family, and feel 
in their souls a fraternal tender- 
ness for each other. Jeannet, on tak- 
ing Solange to the convent, found 
a mother in the good superioress, 
who received them both. She 
made him relate his story to her in 
a few words, and, learning that he 
was alone in the world and desi- 
rous of some engagement, she gave 
him the address of a good priest 
who passed his life in aiding young 
working-men who, owing to unfor- 
tunate circumstances or lack of 
employment, ran the risk of becom- 
ing dissipated from the want of a 
helping hand. 

He was called Abb6 Lucas ; and 
as he is now dead, and enjoying, I 
trust, the celestial happiness well 
merited by his great devotion, I do 
not think it indelicate to tell his 
name. 

He received Jeannet with great 
kindness, and the good boy soon 
won his heart with his frankness 
and amiability. The abb^ tried 
his hand, and seeing that he wrote 
well, and turned off a very good 
letter under dictation, advised him 
not to think of joining a regiment, 
as the conscription would be after 
him soon enough without his run- 
ning to seek it. Therefore, he took 
him in his own house, and employ- 
ed him with his correspondence, of 
which there was never any deficien- 
cy, owing to the great number of 
men who daily claimed his charita- 
ble assistance. 

The arrangement was perfectly 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



43 



to Jeannet's taste, who applied him- 
self to his new occupation with 
jof and confidence; and you can 
well imagine that Solange was very 
happy, and redoubled her prayers 
that her dear school-fellow might 
come as triumphantly out of his 
heart-troubles as he had been 
preserved from the dangers that 
threatened his life. 

She immediately wrote home, in- 
foraiing M. le Cur^ of all these 
little events, but left it to his great 
wisdom to decide whether he 
should tell more or less of every-? 
thing to the Ragaud family, Michou, 
and M. le Marquis. This should 
make us thoroughly understand the 
tnic virtue of this good child ; for 
she had not been ignorant of the 
base insinuations made in relation 
to her and Jean-Louis, and what 
ugly conjectures would be based 
npon their departure, Pierre joining 
with the rest, at least at the first 
news. These things go straight to 
the heart of a good, honest girl, and 
Solange, being of a quick, nervous 
timperament, had suffered martyr- 
dom from all this gossip without 
speaking of it, except to God. It 
was to him, then, that she remitted 
the care of her full justification, as 
she knew many persons would not 
have believed anything she might 
have said. This beautiful tranquil- 
lity of soul is not an ordinary thing, 
and our cur/ judged rightly that it 
proceeded from great holiness, as 
in the end he did not fail to speak 
of it, with profit to his hearers, in 
his Sunday sermons. 

This excellent pastor, wlio had 
been careful to keep clear of the 
whole affair before the downfall of 
the Pcrdreaux, contenting himself 
with praying and awaiting the 
grx^d pleasure of the Lord, reap- 
peared like an angel of consolation 
when nothing was left but tears to 



wipe away, hatreds to calm, sim- 
pletons to make hold their tongues, 
and truths to make known. It 
was wonderful to see how he for- 
got his great age and infirmities to 
fulfil his task, which was not the 
easiest in the world. 

With the chiteau it was quickly 
done. In a conversation of two 
hours with M. le Marquis, who 
was a man of great good sense — 
except in what touched his political 
hopes — ^he made the scales fall from 
his eyes, and decided his departure ; 
and as, after all the villany of the 
Perdreaux, our master's fortune had 
not suffered as much as might have 
been expected — ^as it was very great, 
and could have stood a much 
larger rent — our good pastor reserv- 
ed his pity and real work for a 
comer of the country where it was 
infinitely more needed. 

You can guess that I wish to 
speak of Muiceron. There truly 
sorrow, shame, and unhappiness 
were at their height. 

So many blows at once had 
crushed the Ragauds, who no 
longer dared go out, and remained 
at home, devoured with grief. The 
old farmer, struck on the tender 
side of his pet sin, which was vanity, 
thought really that heaven and 
earth had fallen upon his shoulders, 
and that he should only leave his 
home for the cemetery. Pierrette, 
long accustomed to receive implicit- 
ly her husband's opinions, thought 
also nothing wiser could be done ; 
and as for Jeannette, overwhelmed 
with grief to see herself abandoned 
by all her friends at the same time, 
although apparently the strongest, 
it looked as though she would go 
the first to the grave, so plainly did 
her pallor and hollow eyes show 
the ravages of internal grief. 

All the joy and life of rural labor 
had disappeared from around this 



44 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



house, formerly so happy. The. 
door was closed, the shutters also, 
save one or two in the back rooms, 
where these poor people kept them- 
selves hidden, afraid to speak, as 
they knew one subject of conversa- 
tion was alone possible, and just 
then no one would approach it. 
The passers-by, seeing the house 
shut up, and not supposing all the 
inhabitants were dead, ended by 
feeling uneasy as they passed the 
buildings, but not one ventured to 
inquire about them, not even Ra- 
gaud's most intimate acquaintances. 
It is only truth to add that these, 
understanding well the sorrow that 
reigned within those silent walls, 
acted thus from respect, and not 
from indifference. 

Big Marion went twice a week 
to the market in Val-Saint, to buy 
provisions needed for immediate 
use, and returned at a gallop, to 
shut herself up with her master's 
family. 

Since Muiceron had belonged to 
the Ragauds, it was certainly the 
first time any food had been cook- 
ed but the beef and poultry raised 
and killed on the place. Poor 
Pierrette, like all good housekeep- 
ers, had always prided herself 
upon supplying the table with the 
fruit of her labors ; for with us, a 
farmer's wife who buys even a 
pound of butter or loaf of bread 
passes, with good reason, for a 
spendthrift ; but, alas ! self-love was 
no longer thought of, and La Ra- 
gaude cared little what was said of 
her management, after she knew 
tongues could wag about affairs of 
much greater importance. Poor 
woman ! she must have been fear- 
fully depressed. Judge how the 
chickens ran wild, scratching up 
the gravel during the day, and 
perching on the trees, stiff with 
snow, during the night, at the risk 



of freezing. The pig, so fat it 
could no longer stand on its legs — 
as for a fortnight its true place 
would have been in the salt-tub — 
continued uselessly to eat his al- 
lowance. The hens that recom- 
menced to lay deposited their eggs 
at random, without any one taking 
the trouble to go after them, not- 
withstanding the little coricoco of 
warning, which showed that they 
never failed to cluck at the right 
time most faithfully. But Marion 
could not see after everything ; and 
besides, as she had always been 
very stupid during the time that 
all were well and happy at Mui- 
ceron, she became more and more 
stupid and bewildered after affairs 
went so badly. 

Such was the miserable condi- 
tion in which our cur^ found his 
old friends on the first visit which 
he made them, about two weeks 
after Barbette's funeral, with the 
sole object of raising them from 
the deep despondency into which 
they had fallen since the terrible 
shock. 

Pierrette received him in the big 
parlor, which was very dark, as the 
shutters were closed, and for a 
quarter of an hour he could get 
nothing out of her but sobs ; then 
Ragaud came in, looking thin 
and miserable, as much from want 
of air and exercise as from shame ; 
and finally Jeannette, who, with a 
remnant of her old pride, tried to 
keep from weeping, but was nearly 
suffocated in the effort. 

" My children," said the dear, 
good man, " God tries those whom 
he loves, and I certainly do not ap- 
prove of your shutting yourselves 
up in this manner, so as to avoid 
the society of your neighbors and 
friends, on account of a sentiment 
which doubtless you think good, 
but which I call honor ill placed — 



Thi Farm of Muiccran. 



45 



that is to say, wicked pride, to 
speak frankly." 

"Alas!" said Pierrette, "who 
wishes to speak to us now?" 

"Whom have you offended?" re- 
plied the cHr/. " And why has the 
esteem in which you have long 
been held diminished ?" 

"Monsieur," said Ragaud, "my 
daughter was on the point of marry- 
ing a revolutionist and an assassin. 
That is enough to kill a family like 



ours. 



»f 



**I acknowledge," said the cur^ 
quietly, " you could have made a 
better choice ; but, in reality, since 
all has ended without your playing 
any other part in this unfortunate 
affair than that of victims, I do 
not see why you should hide your- 
selves from the eyes of the world 
as though you were criminals." 

** As for me," said Ragaud, " I 
can never reappear again in public, 
and support the looks and words 
of the people around, who certain- 
ly desj)ise us." 

" Ragaud," replied the rwr/," when 
a man's shoe hurts him, he usually 
sits down by the roadside, and 
looks to see whether it is a thorn 
or a flint that causes the pain ; then 
he takes it out, and all is over. 
But if, instead of that, he continues 
walking, his foot would swell, the 
wound would inflame, and the cure 
would no longer be easy. Do you 
understand me ?" 

" Not at all," said Ragaud. 

*' Nor I either," added Pierrette, 
still continuing to weep. 

"Well," said M. le Cur^, "it 
means that a wise man like you 
who fears anything of that kind 
should seek after the cause, to see if 
by chance it would not be as easy 
to drive such an idea out of his 
head as to take a thorn out of a 
shoe. .'\nd, between ourselves, it 
ii precisely your case. P'ar from 



despising you, each and every one 
in the neighborhood only feels for 
you compassion, sympathy, and 
kindness, which they would willing- 
ly show in words and actions. I 
am constantly asked about you, 
and all desire you to return to the 
common life. They do not come 
to disturb you, through pure dis- 
cretion ; but for which, your house 
would be well filled. But as long 
as you live like wolves in their den, 
the pain increases in your heart, 
and soon it will be with you as 
with the man, wounded in the foot, 
who will continue to walk — you 
cannot be cured." 

"M. le Cur6 is right," said 
Jeanne; "we must reappear, dear 
father." 

" Without counting," resumed 
the pastor, "that you are not act- 
ing as Christians when you show 
so much pride. A Sunday has 
passed, and you were not seen at 
Mass, and nevertheless it is an ob- 
ligation. Do you, then, intend to 
neglect your religious duties ?" 

" I would go to church if no one 
were there," said Ragaud. 

" Is it you, my friend, whom I 
hear speak thus?" replied the cur(f 
sadly. " So you prefer the esteem 
of men to the blessing of God ? 
And you, Pierrette, whom I have 
always known as such a good par- 
ishioner, have you the same miser- 
able ideas?" 

The Ragauds lowered their 
heads without replying. They 
felt they were wrong, especially for 
the bad example given their daugh- 
ter. Little Jeanne, on her side, 
came to a resolute decision. 

" Father and mother," said she, 
" M. le Cure makes me understand 
all my sins; for it is on my account 
you are thus borne down with grief. 
I, then, must be the first to trample 
pride under foot. Well, then, I 



46 



The Farm of Muueron. 



will go to Val-Saint on Sunday, 
and assist at Mass and Vespers in 
our usual place." 

" You shall not go alone, my 
poor child," said Pierrette. 

"That is right," said the cur/; 
" I expected as much. As for you, 
my dear Ragaud, as I know you to 
be truly honorable, you will not, I 
suppose, allow these two women to 
bravely fulfil their duty, and leave 
you behind V 

" I will see ; I can't promise any 
thing," answered Ragaud. 

''I count upon you," said the 
air/f, pretending to take these 
words as an engagement, "and I 
beg that you will come after Mass 
and dine with me; Germaine will 
have a nice dish of larks, which 
will not be much expense, as in this 
snowy weather they only cost five 
cents a dozen." 

** Monsieur," said Ragaud, who 
felt greatly relieved by this plea- 
sant conversation, which he very 
much needed, " commence by tak- 
ing supper with me this evening; 
it will be a charitable deed to stay 
with people who are so unhappy." 

"Willingly," replied the cur/; 
**but with these closed shutters 
and cold rooms, that make me 
think of a tomb, I will not have 
any appetite. You must change 
all that, and let in some light. 
Come, madame, show us if you 
still can turn a spoon in the sauce- 
pan." 

Pierrette could not repress a 
pleased smile at this apostrophe, 
and all her old occupations and fa- 
vorite habits came back to her at 
the remembrancer, which tickled 
her heart. Just as in nursery-tales 
a wicked fairv enchants a house for 
a ti'uo, and suddenly a good one 
come<, and with a wave of her wand 
chani^os ariairs: at Muiceron, which 
• appeared desolate and dead, the 



words of the cur/ restored the old 
life and animation which were so 
pleasant to behold in the former 
prosperous days. Ragaud made a 
great fire to drive out the close, 
damp smell ; Pierrette threw open 
the shutters with a quick hand, and, 
seeing her garden ruined by the 
poultry, she blushed from shame, 
and grumbled aloud at her neglect. 
That was a true sign that her cour- 
age had returned. During this 
time, Jeannette and Marion got 
out the linen for the table, wiped 
the dishes, gray with dust, and pre« 
pared the frtcass/Cy which consist- 
ed, for this meal, of a ragout of wild 
rabbits that M. le Cur^ looked at 
with a mischievous twinkle in his 
eye, as he knew well this game 
could only be the result of poach- 
ing. 

" There," said he, trying to the 
best of his ability to cheer up his 
poor friends, " is a dish which does 
you honor, Mme. Ragaud, and 
that will be perfectly delicious if 
you will put a glass of white wine 
in the sauce. But if you will let 
me give you a word of advice, don't 
feed those little animals with cab- 
bage." 

"Why not.>" said Pierrette, as- 
tonished, thinking that M. le Cur^ 
mistook the game for a tame rab- 
bit. 

" Oh ! yes," said he, " that ani- 
mal smells of cabbage, unless I 
have lost the sense of smelling ; 
and it spoils the taste ver)- much." 

" But, monsieur," answered Pier- 
rette, half offended, " this is a wild 
rabbit, caught in the wood of La 
Sange." 

" Not possible !" cried M. le Cure, 
feigning great astonishment. " And 
since when has the farm of Mui- 
ceron, which I have always seen 
the best supplied in the country 
with poultry, sheep, pigeons, and 



Thi Farm of Muiceron, 



47 



all other productions, been reduced 

to buy game stolen from its master 

for food?" 

"Marion bought it," said Pier- 
rette ; " the poor girl goes after pro- 
visions, and don't look far; she 
bnngs back what she finds, without 
thinking of evil." 

"^So Marion is mistress of the 
house now ?" said the curd, " My 
dear friends," he added, " this is a 
little incident which carries a great > 
moral with it. I wish no further 
evidence to prove to you how 
much your grief, just at the bot- 
tom, is hurtful and wrong in real- 
ity. When I came in, Pierrette, I 
was pained at the disordered apj)ear- 
ance of everything around. In a 
little while Muiceron will resem- 
ble the estate of an idle, lazy man 
who lets the ground lie fallow. 
What an example for the neighbor- 
hood, who looked upon you as 
models ! Come, come, you must 
change all this, my good children. 
Commence your work; there is 
enough to do. I bet, Ragaud, your 
horses have not been curried for 
two weeks ?" 

** Alas ! monsieur, you are half 
right — not curried as they should 
be," answered Ragaud in a peni- 
tent tone. 

** I must have lost more than six 
dozen eggs," said Pierrette, looking 
down. 

** I know nothing about the eggs," 
resumed M. le Cur^ ; " but as for 
jour chickens, who have not had a 
^rain of food but the gravel they 
have scratched, they are so lean I 
wouldn't eat one of them if you 
gave it to me." 

These reproaches piqued the self- 
respect of our good people more 
than any number of long and learned 
s|>ceches uttered in a severe tone. 
Pierrette was deeply contrite for 
her faults. On setting the table. 



she could not keep from the eyes 
of M. le Cure, who spied everything 
designedly, the six-pound loaf of 
white bread which Marion had 
that very morning brought home 
from the baker's. This loaf, that 
was long and split in the middle, 
was not the least in the world like 
the bread made in the house, and 
proved that Pierrette had not 
kneaded the dough for a long time. 
Our curd would not let the bread 
pass unnoticed any more than the 
rabbit-stew, said it was dry and 
tasteless — which was true — and 
seized this oppK>rtunity also to 
make his friends promise to resume 
their ordinary train of life! 

The supper was not very gay, it 
must be acknowledged, but passed 
off quietly, and thus this visit of the 
curd^ which was followed by many 
others, began to bring back peace 
in those hearts so crushed with sor- 
row. 

The following Sunday, Jeannette, 
according to her promise, went to 
Val-Saint, accompanied by her pa- 
rents. She appeared neither too 
proud nor too subdued, but just 
between the two — that is to say, 
she moved along with a look of 
perfect modesty, which won every 
one's respect, and made all the hats 
come off as she approached the 
church. Unfortunately, it is too 
true that human nature is apt to 
rejoice over the misfortunes of 
others. It is as though each one 
said, at the sight of a thwack receiv- 
ed by his neighbor, " So much the 
more on his back, so much the less 
on mine." And I do not conceal 
from you that the people of Val- 
Saint were not exempt from this 
culpable weakness. On this very 
occasion even they were disposed to 
be severe ; for, in fact, the Ragauds' 
misfortunes were a little their own 
fault ; and each one observed that if 



48 



The Farm of Mutceron. 



the parents had not been too proud 
and ambitious of making their 
daughter a young lady, she would 
not have been exposed to choose 
for husband a scoundrel whom 
they thought a gentleman. How- 
ever, sincere pity replaced every 
other sentiment when they saw 
this afflicted family reappear in 
broad daylight in such an humble 
attitude; and poor Ragaud, who 
had made a violent effort to come, 
gradually recovered his ease at the 
sight of the kind faces that sur- 
rounded him. During the Mass, 
his old heart recovered its balance 
while praying to God. He felt 
that affliction is a good means of 
becoming better, because it draws 
the soul to its Creator, whom we 
are too often tempted to forget in 
the days of uninterrupted happi- 
ness; and when the divine office 
was ended, he could without diffi- 
culty stop in the village square, and 
shake hands with several of his 
friends. 

Then they went to the pastoral 
residence, where the cur/ received 
them joyfully, and they ate with 
relish the dish of larks, which was 
done to a turn. At the dessert, the 
Ragauds looked like people restor- 
ed to life, so much balm had that 
genial morning infused into their 
blood. Jeannette alone did not 
share the general happiness, and 
her bitter sadness, which could not 
be disguised, in spite of the care she 
took to smile and speak at the right 
time, was visible to all. It must be 
said to her praise that her vanity, 
which had been so crushed, was 
the least wound of her heart ; she 
felt there another so much deeper, 
so much more painful, nothing, she 
thought, could ever cure it. 

Where was Jean-Louis ? What 
had become of that brother she 
had driven out so roughly and un- 



justly 1 Her great seclusion since 
the terrible event had prevented 
her hearing a single word about 
him, and she dared not question 
any one. 

As for the Ragauds, father and 
mother, they never mentioned him 
either, but for another reason. Ig- 
norant that Jeannette had turned 
the poor boy out of the house, they 
were still firmly convinced of his 
jealousy ; and as they believed him 
to be employed on some farm in the 
neighborhood, they were very much 
incensed at his prolonged absence, 
which, in view of the present cir- 
cumstances, appeared the act of an 
ungrateful and hard heart. 

M. le Cur^, who knew all, and 
had Solange's letter in his pocket, 
designedly prolonged the grief of 
Jeannette and the mistake of the 
Ragauds, in order that the lesson 
might be duly profitable to all. 

" You see," said he, " everything 
has happened as I foresaw. Fear- 
ing to displease you, I did not in- 
vite any one to our little entertain- 
ment ; but understand well, my chil- 
dren, if I had had fifty vacant 
places at my table, I would have 
had great difficulty in choosing my 
guests ; so many would have desired 
the pleasure of dining with you, I 
would have been afraid of exciting 
jealousy.'* 

"M. le Cur^," said Ragaud, "I 
thank you, and hope that your 
kindness was not mistaken. I 
speak the truth when I say that, 
but for you, I would have died 
rather than ever again have shown 
my face in public." 

" Well, now that it is all over, let 
us talk of our friends," replied the 
f«r/. " Are you not curious to 
hear some news V 

No one replied ; the tender chord 
was again touched. 

** I do not conceal the fact," said 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



49 



Ragaud, " that more than one of 

those so-called /r/W/z/f have pained 

us by their neglect.'* 

"Let us be just," said the cur/ ; 
"do you forget that your house 
was so tightly closed no one dared 
knock at the door? I even hesi- 
tated to visit you, and yet you can- 
not doubt my affection for you. 
Whv, then, should others have been 
bolder?" 

" Oh !" said Ragaud, " any one 
that wished could easily have found 
his way in. You had no difficulty, 
dear monsieur." 

" That I grant, but I was in the 
country. Do you know how many 
of your best friends are here yet ? 
In the first place, the whole of the 
chateau are in Paris." 

"Yes, I know it," said Jeanne. 
"My godmother did not bid me 
good-by." 

" She was very sick, my daugh- 
ter; you must not ill-judge her." 

** And Michou ?" asked Ragaud. 

" Michou was at Mass, directly 
behind you," said the curd ; "and 
if he did not show himself, it was 
from delicacy ; but he is not far off, 
and will come at the first signal." 

"And Solange ?" asked Jeanne, 
in such a low tone she scarcely 
could be heard. That was the 
name the cufufyfdiS waiting for. He 
looked at Jeanne in a serious manner. 

" Solange," said he, " left also on 
that unfortunate day, and knew 
nothing of it. She, Jeanne Ragaud, 
was your most faithful friend, and 
i-j so still. You have calumniated 
her, my daughter. I know it ; but 
I hope you have sincerelyrepented ; 
above all, when you hear that she 
is now at the novitiate of the Sis- 
ters of Charity." 

"Ah ! is it possible ?" cried she, 
clasping her hands. " Dear So- 
Imgc ! how unjust I have been to 
her !" 

VOL. XIX. — ^4 



" Have you not been unjust to 
others also, my child ?" asked the 
curd with gentleness. " Confess it, 
Jeannette ; you should do so from a 
sense of justice." 

Jeannette hid her face in her 
hands, and burst into tears. The 
question had pierced her soul. 

"M. le Cur6," said Pierrette, 
" I know of whom you wish to 
speak ; but he, I believe, has not 
left the country, and his conduct, 
therefore, is scarcely excusable." 

"Ask your daughter," replied the 
curd ; " she, undoubtedly, can answer 
that question." 

And as Jeannette could not 
speak on account of her tears, he 
continued : 

" What could he do, poor boy ! 
but disappear when the only roof 
that could shelter him refused to 
receive him. He is no longer here, 
Mme. Ragaud, that child who loved 
you so dearly, and who had proved 
it so well. An inconsiderate word 
has driven him from your arms, 
and, having no other resource in 
this world, he is going to become a 
soldier, doubtless in the hope of 
dying honorably in fighting for his 
country." 

" Never did I drive off Jean- 
Louis, monsieur," said good Pier- 
rette ; " no, never, I can truly 
swear." 

" Nor I," said Ragaud ; " and at 
this very moment I am ready to 
redeem him from the conscrip- 
tion." 

" However, he is gone," replied 
the curd ; " and he, like Solange, . 
did not know you were in trou- 
ble." 

"Oh!" cried Jeanne, falling on 
her knees, " I did it all. Hea- 
ven has justly punished me. Tell 
me where he is, M. le Cure ; he will 
not refuse to pardon me, I am so. 
unhappy." 



so 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



"What did you do?" asked Pier- 
rette. "Alas! all this worry has 
turned the poor child's head. Of 
what do you wish to accuse your- 
self, my daughter?'* 

Old Ragaud, who was not easily 
moved, approached the little thing 
and placed his hand on her head. 
He was very much affected to see 
her thus, kneeling and weeping, in 
the posture of a guilty person. He 
looked at M. le Cur^, who looked 
at Jeannette, and Pierrette looked 
at all three. 

Then that young girl did some- 
thing very touching and unusual. 
She wiped her eyes, and, without 
rising, commenced in a sweet, low 
voice the true confession of all her 
past conduct, not sparing herself, 
as was right and just, and yet 
neither showing excitement nor 
too great bitterness against herself, 
which was the mark of sincere re- 
pentance. As she spoke, her face 
regained its color, and her eyes 
shone with holy joy ; for the Lord, 
who saw her laudable intention, re- 
warded her with great interior re- 
lief for doing what for many others 
would have been the greatest mor- 
tification. When she had finished, 
she remained with her hands clasp- 
ed, and her head bent low, before 
her parents and M. le Cure ; but no 
person broke the silence. Of the 
three witnesses of this affecting 
scene, two wept behind their hand- 
kerchiefs, and the third, wishing 
to preserve his gravity as pastor, 
was too much moved to articulate 
a word. 

"Father," continued Jeannette 
in the same humble and firm tone, 
" judge me, now that you know how 
guilty I am. It is to you I speak, 
in presence of my mother and M. 
le Curt^, and I am ready to submit 
to whatever punishment you may 
inflict upon me. I have dcDrived 



you of a son who made you happy, 
that you might keep a daughter 
who has only drawn misery and 
sorrow on your house. But that 
daughter is still capable of loving 
you ; let her remain with you, that 
she may make reparation for her 
sins. I know I do not deserve it," 
added she after a moment's silence. 

" My daughter," said M. le Cur^, 
"you have done well. Rise; the 
good God pardons you, and your 
parents also, very certainly." 

" O my poor darling ! most 
surely," said Pierrette, pressing her 
child to her breast. 

" And you, Ragaud, will you not 
embrace your daughter ?" asked M. 
le Curd. 

The good farmer, you may well 
think, had no desire to be severe. 
He kissed Jeannette with great 
tenderness, and made her sit down 
by him. But his heart was much 
troubled; now that he understood 
his injustice towards Jean-Louis, 
and his rash judgment, and re- 
membering how easy it would have 
been for him to have prevented his 
departure by speaking a friendly 
word at the right time, he reproach- 
ed himself as bitterly as Jeannette 
had done ; and if his paternal dig- 
nity had not prevented him from 
humiliating himself before his child, 
he would have been tempted to 
confess in his turn. 

" M. le Cure," said he, " if God 
one day will let us know where 
Jean-Louis is, do you think he 
would consent to return?" 

"Hem!" said the f//r/, "he is 
proud; that remains to be seen. . ." 

" Oh ! 1 would beg him so hard," 
replied Jeanne. 

" In the first place, my child, we 
must put our hands on him ; and 
there is the difiiculty. Jeannet is 
not a boy to change his resolution 
like a weathercock that turns to 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



51 



every wind. And if he has enlist- 
ed, you will have to run after his 
regiment." 

" Poor child !" said Ragaud, " he 
don't know that he has a little for- 
tune stowed away in a safe place, 
and that it increases every year. 
If it should cost three thousand 
francs, I will redeem him, no matter 
where, no matter when." 

"Father," said Jeanne, "before 
leaving M. le Cur^, let me^sk you 
one favor in his presence." 

"Speak, my child, I promise it 
to you in advance," answered the 
good man. 

" That you will never speak to me 
of marriage," replied the little thing 
in a firm voice, " and that you will 
let me assist my mother in all her 
labors in the fields." 

" And when mademoiselle comes 
back ?" asked the r«r/, with a spice 
of mischief. 

" Oh ! I understand too well that 
my place is no longer at the chi- 
teau; all our troubles have come 
from my having lived there too 
long," said she. 

*' Jeanne Ragaud," said M. le 
Cure, "always think so, and con- 
form your conduct to your words ; 
and if you will persevere in your 
resolution, in the name of the 
Lord I promise you that these 
trials will pass, and that you will 
yet have many happy days." 

M. le Cur^ pronounced these 
words in such a serious tone they 
all three felt wonderfully com- 
forted. We can truly say that this 
Sunday was one of the happiest 
days in the life of the Ragauds. 
They went back to Muiceron with 
courage and peace in their souls, 
and on the next day each one set 
to work to repair the damage that 
tvo weeks of discouragement and 
gloom had introduced into that 
poor forlorn house. 



The days passed rapidly be- 
tween work and household duties 
faithfully accomplished. Gradual- 
ly the remembrance of the recent 
misfortunes lost its bitterness, and 
they were even able to speak of 
them sometimes to Jacques Mi- 
chou, who came frequency to visit 
his friends. As the police sought 
in vain for Isidore, people ended 
by letting him drop ; and, as always 
happens, each one having resumed 
his usual course of affairs, they came 
to the conclusion that perhaps he 
was not so guilty as had seemed at 
first sight; so that, but for their 
ignorance as to the fate of Jean- 
Louis, one month after the catas- 
trophe the Ragauds appeared as 
happy and tranquil as before. 

M. le Cur^ was not so ignorant, 
being kept fully informed by Jean- 
Louis, who wrote to him regu- 
larly, but left to his wisdom to 
confide what he chose to the family 
at Muiceron. He preferred to 
keep a strict silence, for the very 
good reason that he wished to 
prove, by a long trial, the sincerity 
of Jeannette's conversion. Thank 
God! on that side there was no- 
thing to apprehend. Solange, with 
her great charity of soul, had not 
been mistaken in thinking Jean- 
nette's head weaker than her heart. 

Misfortune had so purified and 
strengthened the little creature, 
Jean-Louis would have loved her 
more than ever, could he have seen 
her thus changed; for although 
nothing is perfect in this world, I 
can truly say, without exaggeration, 
she was now as near perfection as 
could be expected of anything 
human. 

Pierrette, who at first wished to 
spare her little hands, so unaccus- 
tomed to work, did not wish her to 
undertake any of the heavier labor ; 
but Jeannette was so quick and 



52 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



ready, the hardest and most diffi- 
cult tasks were always accom- 
plished by the time her mother 
came to give directions. She was 
the first at the stables in the morn- 
ing, which she never left until all 
was in order, the fresh milk placed 
aside, and the cream taken off that 
of the evening before ; on churning 
days she prepared the wheels of 
the machine, which would after- 
wards be turned by Marion. It 
was she also who measured the 
ashes for the lye used in the big 
wash the fifteenth of every month ; 
and every week gave out the flour, 
half wheat, half rye, for the family 
bread. So great was her zeal she 
even wished to knead the dough, 
and put the loaves in the oven, 
which is terribly hard work; but 
this time Pierrette showed her au- 
thority, and declared she would 
sooner give up baking at home 
than see her daughter wear herself 
out at the kneading-trough like a 
baker's son-in-law. 

From time to time, M. le Cur6 
visited Muiceron at unusual hours, 
so that his appearance would be 
entirely unexpected, and always 
found Jeannette busy with her 
household labors, or, if it was late 
in the day, seated by the window, 
mending the clothes and linen of 
the family. 

Her dress was always very sim- 
ple, even on Sunday, and you may 
well think that mademoiselle's 
beautiful dresses were left hanging 
in the closet without being even 
looked at occasionally. For an- 
other girl it would have been ad- 
visable economy to make some use 
of them by altering the style, so as 
to fit them for the farm ; but Jean- 
nette was too rich for any one to 
accuse her of extravagance for not 
using them, and it was every way 
better she should not reappear in 



costumes that would recall a time 
which, although passed, still left a 
painful memory. 

She generally wore a serge skirt, 
striped in black and white, with a 
woollen basque which correspond- 
ed ; and her Indian neckerchief from 
Rouen, covered with little bou- 
quets of bright flowers, crossed in 
front, under her apron, was in no 
way more pretentious or coquet- 
tish than that of her mother Pier- 
rette. 

She even wore the cap of our 
country-girls, which consists of a 
head-piece of linen, with long ends 
of lawnj which they cross above the 
head on the days they wish to ap- 
pear very fine. Coquettes know 
how to make themselves very ele- 
gant by adding embroidery and 
lace; but Jeanne Ragaud, who 
could have bought out a mercer's 
shop, thought no longer of beauti- 
fying herself, much less her cap. 
Thus dressed, she looked more like 
a quiet little outdoor sister of 
some convent than the sole heiress 
of a large estate. She was told so 
sometimes, which highly delighted 
her, as she wished to appear in 
everything totally different from 
what she had been. 

It needed a little courage to act 
thus before the eyes of the whole 
commune. Jeannette knew that 
after being called for ten years the 
vainest, silliest little peacock in the 
country, she was now looked upon 
as an exaggerated devotee; and, 
what was worse, some said she had 
thrown herself into the arms of the 
good God because her marriage 
had been broken off. 

"Wait and see," said the busy 
tongues ; " only let her dear Per- 
dreau come back, and all tlie fine 
dresses will be taken from the 
hooks, as before his departure." 

For they were persuaded she 



Thi Farm of Mutceron. 



53 



adored him, and that she still pre- 
served, in the bottom of her heart, 
a tender remembrance, mingled 
with regret, which only waited an 
opportunity to show itself. Now, 
one's nature is not changed, no 
matter how great is the desire to 
correct it, and you know that Jean- 
nette was passionate and excitable. 
She therefore had much to suffer, 
and did suffer in silence, thinking 
that all these mortifications would 
aid her to expiate her sins, and to 
merit from the good God the favor 
of Jean-Louis' return, which now 
was the sole object of all her 
thoughts, desires, and prayers. 

To see again the friend of her 
childhood; to soothe together the 
declining years of her old parents; 
to converse with him as in old 
times ; to resume the gentle friend- 
ship, which now was so ardently 
desired by her poor little heart ; to 
ask his pardon ; and to make him so 
happy that he would forget the past 
— this was what this repentant, lov- 
ing child thought of by day, and 
dreamt of all night, waking or sleep- 
ing. As her conversion had not 
deprived her of penetration, she 
quickly guessed that the good cur^ 
knew every movement of Jean- 
Louis from A to Z ; and it was 
amusing to see the way in which 
•he would turn and turn again her 



questions, in the most innocent 
manner, so as to obtain some en- 
lightenment on the subject. But 
our curi read this young soul like 
an open book, and, although he ad- 
mired all that the Lord was work- 
ing in it for her good, pursued the 
trial, and, under the manner of an 
old grandfather, kind-hearted and 
tender, did not allow her to gain 
from him one foot of ground. 
However, occasionally he pretend- 
ed to be surprised, taken by storm. 
It was when he would see the little 
thing sadder than usual, and ready 
to be discouraged. Then he would 
loose the string two or three inches 
— that is to say, he would say a word 
here and there, to make it appear 
he would speak openly at his next 
visit ; and when that day came, he 
played the part of a person very 
much astonished that anything was 
expected from him. 

However, like everything else, this 
had to come to an end. Half 
through pity, half through wisdom, 
the dear cur^ thought — as he said 
himself — that if the bow was too 
much bent, it would break ; so one 
morning, having finished his Mass 
and eaten his frugal breakfast, he 
went to Muiceron, with the inten- 
tion of conversing seriously with 
the Ragauds, and telling them all 
that he knew of good Jean-Louis. 



TO BB CONTINUBO. 



54 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



HOME RULE FOR IRELAND. 



The term Home Rule as applied 
to British politics, in its local sig- 
nification, has been a very unfa- 
miliar one to American readers un- 
til quite recently, and even yet it 
is not generally recognized as the 
watch-word of a powerful and grow- 
ing political party in and outside of 
the English Parliament, which has its 
headquarters in Ireland, and numer- 
ous ramifications extending through- 
out the principal cities and towns 
of England, Wales, and Scotland. 
In its leading features and designs 
this new organization may be said 
to be in fact the revival by another 
generation of the one formerly 
founded and led by O'Connell, and, 
like its prototype, is established for 
the purpose of effecting by consti- 
tutional means the abrogation of 
the treaty of union between Great 
Britain and Ireland, which was so 
delusively concocted and ratified, 
in the name of those countries, at 
the close of the last century ; and 
the consequent reconstruction of 
the Irish Parliament on a footing 
of equality with that of England. 

It is by no means what might be 
called a revolutionary movement, 
for it seeks neither to pull down 
nor destroy, by force or conspiracy, 
those bulwarks which society has 
raised for its own protection against 
lawless and unscrupulous dema- 
gogues ; its object is simply to re- 
store, as far as desirable and practi- 
cable, the old order of things, and to 
redress, even at this late day, an act 
of flagrant wrong and injustice 
done three-quarters of a century 
ago to a long misgoverned people, 
by restoring to them the right and 



power to regulate their own domes- 
tic affairs, subject, of course, to the 
authority of the common sovereign 
of the United Kingdoms. 

The history of the treaty and 
acts of legislative union between 
Great Britain and Ireland, and of 
the motives which conduced to the 
formation of the conspiracy against 
the independence of an entire na- 
tion ; of the plots formed in the 
fertile brain of Mr. Pitt against the 
civil and religious liberties of the 
sister kingdom, and but too success- 
fully carried out by Castlereagh, 
Cooke, and other officials in Dublin, 
has never been sufficiently studied, 
even in this country, where every 
measure affecting the freedom of 
mankind, in what part of Christen- 
dom soever, i>ossesses peculiar in- 
terest. This defective knowledge 
of a subject comparatively modem 
may be attributed partly to the fact 
that we Americans have been too 
much in the habit of looking at 
foreign politics through English 
spectacles, and in part because 
there seems to be a principle in 
human nature which inclines us to 
ignore, if not despise, the sufferings 
of the needy and unfortunate. 
Vanquished nations are regarded 
generally as are poor relations 
whom no one cares to know or ac- 
knowledge. 

And yet the circumstances which 
eventually led to the destruction of 
the Irish Parliament were -almost 
contemporary with, and to a certain 
degree grew out of, our own Revolu- 
tion. The causes that effected the 
severance of the North American 
colonies from the mother country, 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



55 



and facilitated the consummation of 
our aspirations for independence, 
■ operated, paradoxical as it may 
seem, to bind Ireland firmer in the 
chains of alien thraldom, as well as 
io extinguish the last spark of her 
freedom. 

It is generally conceded that the 
Irish Parliament, from its inception 
in the XlVth century till 1782, was 
not only not the legitimate legisla- 
tive representative of even a moiety 
of the people of that country, but 
was actually a very efficient instru- 
ment in the hands of their enemies. 
At first it was merely an irregular 
gathering of the nobles and chief 
men of the " Pale " — a term applied 
for hundreds of years after the in- 
vasion to four or five counties on 
the eastern and southeastern sea- 
board, over which the Anglo-Nor- 
mans held sway. Whenever a raid 
on the native chieftains was project- 
ed, or a scheme of spoliation to be 
adopted, it had long been the 
custom of the lord deputy, or other 
representative of English authority, 
to summon the heads of Anglo- 
Irish houses and a few of the prin- 
cipal burghers of the larger towns 
and cities within his jurisdiction, 
to meet him at Dublin, Drogheda, 
or Kilkenny, and, having given 
the motley gathering the sonorous 
title of parliament, to demand the 
enactment of new statutes against 
the ** Irish enemy," or to extort 
fresh levies of men and money for 
his incursions into the interior. 

Gradually, however, those erratic 
assemblies began to assume form 
and regularity, and even to display 
a certain independence of action 
distasteful to the governing power. 
As English conquest in Ireland 
gradually widened its sphere, par- 
ticularly in Leinster and Munster, 
the number of members who attend- 
ed those sessions increased; and 



as the descendants of the invaders, 
having lost the attachment of their 
forefathers to England, naturally 
evinced a desire to legislate for 
themselves, it was thought desir- 
able in London to nip in the bud 
a flower which might insensibly 
expand into national independence. 
Accordingly, in the reign of the 
seventh Henry, the Irish Parlia- 
ment being still weak and yielding, 
a bill was passed by it acknowledg- 
ing the dependence of that body 
on the king of England and his 
council. This act, called after its 
originator, Poynings, most effectual- 
ly repressed the aspirations of the 
only representative body in the 
kingdom, and produced the desired 
results. But as if this were not 
enough, we find subsequently, in 
the reign of William and Mary es- 
pecially, instances of the English 
Parliament legislating directly for 
Ireland ; and in the sixth of George 
I. there was passed a declaratory act 
which, if any vestiges of freedom or 
manhood yet remained in the Irish 
Parliament, most effectually de- 
stroyed them. These efforts, thus 
made from time to time to destroy 
the liberty and efficiency of the 
Parliament, naturally disgusted a 
great many of its members who had 
the least spark of self-respect or 
personal honor left, and drove them 
from the nation's councils ; those 
who remained being almost without 
exception government officials or 
newly-arrived and needy adven- 
turers, ignorant of the character, 
wants, and wishes of the people, 
who hoped, by the display of ex- 
traordinary zeal and sycophancy, to 
push their fortunes and find favor 
in the eyes of the Castle authorities. 
It is not surprising, then, that a 
body composed of such elements 
should have unhesitatingly voted 
away the royalty of the ancient 



56 



Home Rule far Ireland. 



kingdom to Henry VI 11^ whose 
predecessors never claimed a high- 
er title than that of lord; that at 
the bidding of the same monster, it 
officially and almost unanimously 
declared for the Reformation, and 
with equal alacrity, in the reign of 
his daughter Mary, explicitly repu- 
diated everything it hifd done a 
few years previously. 

Yet it still bore the semblance of 
a national legislature ; and, gradual- 
ly yielding to the influence of a 
growing public opinion, some good 
men. Catholics as well as Protes- 
tants, were again to be found 
among its members in the subse- 
quent reigns, until that of William 
III., when, by an unconstitutional 
law of the English Parliament, the 
former were for ever excluded, and 
never during its existence was one 
of that proscribed faith allowed to 
sit on its benches. From this reign 
also may be dated the many cruel 
penal enactments, over one hun- 
dred in number, which disgraced 
its statute-books ; though, to do its 
members justice, they never went so 
far in ferocity and ingenuity as did 
their brethren of London at the 
same period and even long pre- 
viously. 

But though four-fifths of the peo- 
ple were disfranchised and their co- 
religionists denied a seat in the Par- 
liament, that body was again gradu- 
ally approaching the assertion of 
its right of self-legislation. A new 
generation had sprung up during 
the later half of the XVIIIth cen- 
tury who knew not William of 
Orange nor the bitter anti-Irish 
prejudices that characterized his 
followers. The bold, incisive, and 
satirical writings of Swift, the 
learned disquisitions of Molyneux, 
and the homely but vigorous ap- 
peals of Lucas, had not been with- 
out their effect on the young stu- 



dents of Trinity and other colleges, 
fresh from the study of the lessons 
of human liberty so frequently 
found in classic lore ; and the con- 
sequence was that when they enter- 
ed the Parliament as members, con- 
fident in their position as gentle- 
men of fortune, and self-reliant, not 
only from their aristocratic connec- 
tions, but from their innate sense 
of mental superiority, language be- 
gan to be heard and applauded 
which, for elegance, grace, and man- 
liness, had never been equalled in 
that hall before. The outbreak of 
our Revolution, the broad principles 
of justice and humanity laid down 
in the speeches and writings of our 
ancestors, and the trumpet-toned 
Declaration of Independence oc- 
curring at the same time, gave an 
impetus and a clarity of ideas on 
questions of government which, up 
to that time, had assumed neither 
form nor consistency. 

The first symptoms of active agi- 
tation for their political rights may 
be said to have sprung up at this 
period among the Irish of all con- 
ditions and creeds, but more espe- 
cially in Ulster and the cities of 
Dublin, Cork, and Limerick — the 
homes of manufactures and the cen- 
tres of produce, exports, etc. Their 
grievances were of two classes : re- 
striction on foreign trade, and par- 
liamentary dependence and corrup- 
tion. Under the first head, it was 
charged, and with great truth, that 
Irish merchants were prohibited by 
English laws from trading with 
France, Spain, Portugal, Holland, 
many of the W^est India Islands, 
and the whole of Asia, for the pur- 
pose of benefiting their rivals in 
England ; thus utterly crippling the 
manufacturing interests of the 
country, and completely stopping 
the exportation to these markets of 
farm products, of which she had 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



57 



cren then a superabundant supply. 
This limitation of commerce had 
long been not only the principal 
cause of the impoverishment of the 
nation, but a fruitful source of cla- 
mor and popular discontent, which 
had invariably been unheeded by 
the dominant power as long as it 
was able to repress them by the 
strong arm. At length, however, a 
change was about to take place. 
Soon after our War of Independence 
broke out and the French alliance 
was cemented, England was obliged 
to withdraw from Ireland nearly 
the whole of her military and naval 
forces, thus leaving the latter un- 
defended by either regulars or mili- 
tia, and at any moment open to at- 
tack from the allies. Indeed, Paul 
Jones several times appeared on 
the coast, and in 1779-80 the Fran- 
co-Spanish fleets were absolute 
masters of the Channel. The peo- 
ple, kept in a constant state of 
alarm, at last determined to arm 
for mutual protection ; and thus was 
originated that short-lived but re- 
markable body of citizen soldiery 
known as the Irish Volunteers, 

The movement began in Belfast 
in August, 1778, and before two years 
elapsed it had spread over the 
whole country, and counted on its 
muster-rolls nearly one hundred 
thousand men, fully armed and 
equipped at their own expense. 
Noblemen, judges, magistrates, and 
prominent members of Parliament 
were proud to serve in the Volun- 
teers as company or field officers ; 
and Lord Charlemont, one of the 
most accomplished and liberal 
members of his order, accepted the 
olfice of commander-in-chief. 

The external security of the is- 
land having thus been amply pro- 
vided for, attention was naturally 
turned to internal evils. Various 
meetings of Volunteers were held 



in the several counties, and strong 
resolutions passed in favor of the 
freedom of foreign trade. The 
Castle authorities were not in a 
position to resist a demand so 
made ; the Irish Parliament, led by 
such men as Gr^ttan, Flood, and 
other nationalists, voted in favor of 
the immediate emancipation of com- 
merce; and the British premier, 
Lord North, in December, 1779, sub- 
mitted three propositions to the 
English Parliament to permit the 
export of glass and woollens from 
Ireland, and permission for her to 
trade with the American colonies, 
Africa, and the West Indies. Dur- 
ing the following February, a bill 
embodying these provisions was 
introduced by the ministry, and 
passed with little opposition. 

This point gained, the Volunteers 
set to work to free the Irish Parlia- 
ment itself from all dependence 
on the London Privy Council and 
the Parliament of the sister king- 
dom. In April, 1780, Grattan moved 
his Declaration of Rights, which 
aVowed, among other truths, " that 
his most excellent majesty, by and 
with the consent of the lords and 
commons of Ireland, are the only 
power competent to enact the laws 
to bind Ireland." This resolution 
was, however, opposed on technical 
grounds, and withdrawn. During 
the following year, Mr. Yelverton 
asked leave to bring in a bill virtu- 
ally repealing Poynings* law, which 
was granted by a vote of 167 against 
37, though later in the session 
Flood's motion of a similar purport 
was defeated by a majority of 72. 
The people, who had anxiously 
watched the action of their repre- 
sentatives, were now in a ferment 
of excitement, and numerous meet- 
ings of civilians and Volunteers were 
held throughout the provinces, the 
most noteworthy of which was the 



58 



Home Rule for Ireland, 



convention of the Ulster Volunteers 
at Dungannon, February 15, 1782. 
This powerful assembly passed a 
scries of manly resolutions in favor 
of the right of the subject to bear 
arms, to express his opinions freely 
on political affairs, and to worship 
God according to the dictates of his 
conscience ; but the one most to 
the point read as follows: "-^^- 
soivedy unanimously, That a claim 
of any body of men other than the 
king, lords, and commons of Ireland 
to make laws to bind this kingdom 
is unconstitutional, illegal, and a 
grievance." This was followed up 
by like meetings in the other sec- 
tions of the country, at which simi- 
lar resolutions were adopted. A 
few days after there was a change 
of ministry in England, and of 
course a change of policy. Mes- 
sages were sent in the name of the 
king to both Parliaments, ordering 
them to take into their most serious 
consideration " the discontents and 
jealousies prevailing among his loyal 
subjects of Ireland, in order to such 
a final adjustment as may give mu- 
tual satisfaction to both kingdoms. " 
The answer of the Irish Parliament 
to this demand met with no oppo- 
sition on the question of its adop- 
tion, though it declared emphati- 
cally " that there is no body of men 
competent to make laws to bind 
this nation except the king, lords, 
and commons of Ireland ; nor any 
other parliament which hath any 
authority or power of any sort 
whatever in this country save only 
the Parliament of Ireland." There 
was no mistaking or avoiding this 
expression of public opinion, en- 
dorsed as it had been by a national 
army able and willing to second 
their demands ; so in May, 1782, the 
act of sixth George I. was repealed 
in the English Parliament, and the 
old objectionable law of Poynings 



simultaneously suffered a similar 
fate in that of Ireland. 

Irish trade was now free, and 
Irish legislation independent at 
least of alien dictation ; but another 
great task lay before the Volunteers, 
which unless accomplished, their 
well-won victories were likely to 
prove barren indeed. This was the 
purification of their own House of 
Commons, and the right of repre- 
sentation for the people at large. 
That the popular branch of the 
legislature wanted reformation bad- 
ly may be judged from the status of 
its members as given by contempo- 
rary writers. Only seventy-two of 
them were returned by vote; one 
hundred and thirty-three sat for 
" nomination " or " close " bor- 
oughs, absolutely controlled by a 
few peers; ninety-five were simi- 
larly sent to the Parliament by 
about fifty commoners; so that, 
out of the three hundred members 
of the house, two hundred and 
twenty-eight were wholly and solely 
dependent for their seats on less 
than half their own number. When 
we consider, also, that of those crea- 
tures at least one-half were officials, 
pensioners, or expectants of pen- 
sions and government favors, we 
can well imagine how little reliance 
could be placed on their integrity 
or honesty in a struggle between a 
hostile, inimical power and the peo- 
ple ; and it must also be remem- 
bered that at that time neither the 
right of representation nor of suf- 
frage was allowed to the Catholics, 
who comprised seventy or eighty 
per cent, of the entire population. 

The Volunteers, therefore, set to 
work to do for their countrymen 
what fifty years afterwards was at 
least partially effected by the Eman- 
cipation and Reform Acts for the 
United Kingdoms. They again held 
meetings, passed resolutions, and 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



50 



even called a national convention 
to meet in Dublin during the Par- 
liamentary session of 1783-4. One 
hundred and sixty delegates ac- 
cordingly met in the Rotunda amid 
the general congratulations of the 
citizens and the high hopes of the 
nation. But, alas! this sanguine 
confidence in the manliness and 
liberality of the delegates soon re- 
ceived a shock so rude that its effects 
were felt in the most remote parts 
of the island, and carried with them 
gloom and dismay to the masses of 
the people. 

The Volunteers were an essen- 
tially, and it might be said an ex- 
clusively, Protestant organization 
from the beginning, but it was ear- 
nestly supported by the Catholics 
from a feeling that unrestricted 
trade and legislative independence 
were national boons of the first im- 
portance, as well as from an ap- 
parently well-founded trust that, 
these being obtained, the abrogation 
of the penal laws and the right of 
representation * would speedily fol- 
low. They could not believe that 
an influential but very small mino- 
rity, seeking liberty for themselves, 
would persistently deny it to the 
large majority of their countrymen. 
They were now about to be unde- 
ceived. One of the very first resolu- 
tions passed at the convention read 
2A follows : ^'^Resolvedy That the Pro» 
Uitant inhabitants of this country 
are required by the statute law to 
carry arms and to learn the use of 
them," etc. ; and, lest any doubt 
should remain of the bigotry and 
narrow-mindedness which pervaded 
the representatives of the Volun- 
teers, the plan of reform, as drawn 
up by Flood and subsequently 
adopted, was made to read thus : 
**That every Protestant freeholder 
or leaseholder, possessing a free- 
hold or leasehold for a certain term 



of years of forty shillings* value, 
resident in any city or borough^ 
should be entitled to vote at the 
election of a member for the same." 

The limitation of the right to 
bear arms and to vote to Protestants 
only was the destruction of the mo- 
ral as well as physical power of the 
Volunteers, and a death-blow to the 
longings and aspirations of the pa- 
triotic Catholics. It was more than 
a blunder, it was a crime — ^a piece 
of rank, selfish hypocrisy, which ill 
became men who had the words of 
freemen on their lips, but, it appears, 
the feelings of tyrants in their hearts. 
In vain did the Irish Catholics pro- 
test in a series of resolutions; in 
vain did the Earl of Bristol, then 
Protestant Bishop of Derry, vehe- 
mently advocate the claims of the 
people to something like religious 
and social equality. The conven- 
tion was deaf to all remonstrance 
and entreaty, and blindly rushed to 
its own destruction. 

It had taken the only step that 
could have gratified its enemies, 
and, by throwing away the friend- 
ship and support of the vast majo- 
rity of the population, it left itself 
exposed and naked to the attacks 
and machinations of the Castle au- 
thorities. Pending the American 
war, England looked with fear and 
anxiety on that large body of armed 
men that could at any time, and 
with little risk, sever the connection 
between the two countries, for she 
was powerless to resist them ; yet, 
when somewhat recovered from her 
humiliating defeats in her quondam 
colonies, she turned all her atten- 
tion and used all her art to destroy 
not only the Volunteers, but the 
Parliament that had recognized and 
fostered them. She was determined, 
if possible, that such a dreaded con- 
tingency should not occur again. 
The convention, as we have seen, 



6o 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



had rejected the moderate demands 
of the Catholics, many of whom, 
despairing of justice in that quarter, 
naturally looked to the government 
for some modification of their dis- 
abilities ; while the Parliament, al- 
ways under official control, took 
advantage of the occasion to sow 
division and discord among its 
members. When Hood, fresh from 
the Rotunda, moved for leave to 
bring in a reform bill embodying 
the plans of the convention, it was 
refused by a majority of eighty in 
a total vote of two hundred and 
thirty-four. 

The history of Ireland from this 
time till the close of the century 
could well be blotted out, for the 
sake of human nature, from the an- 
nals of the race. The Volunteers, 
who ought not only to have been 
the defenders of the country from 
foreign enemies, but the protectors 
of the civil rights of their country- 
men at home, after the scornful re- 
jection of their claims by Parlia- 
ment and the adjournment of their 
convention, ceased to be either 
feared or respected. Many of their 
most prominent officers went over 
to the government, others of more 
advanced views joined the secret 
society known as the United Irish- 
men. The English authorities, hav- 
ing thus succeeded in their first pro- 
ject even beyond their expectations, 
applied themselves with extraordi- 
nary industry to carry out the 
second. Agrarian outrages became 
more frequent ; " Peep-o'-day boys" 
and " Defenders " terrified the 
peaceful farmers of one or other 
side; Orangemen were petted and 
armed, while Catholic bishops and 
priests were deluded with false pro- 
mises ; the royal grant to Maynooth 
College was increased at the same 
time that martial law was proclaimed 
in the most peaceful Catholic dis- 



tricts; and churches were being 
burned to the ground unrestrictedly 
by those who wore the king's livery. 
At the general election, which took 
place in 1790, the most scandalous 
means were adopted to secure a 
thoroughly subservient majority in 
the lower house; and, lest this 
should not be sufficient, new peers 
were created through corrupt influ- 
ence, in order that the lords might 
not offer any opposition to the be- 
hests of the Castle. 

It is difficult to imagine the 
scenes of outrage, rapine, private 
revenge, and general consternation 
which grew out of a persistence in 
so wily and nefarious a policy. Sup- 
ported secretly by the authorities, 
the Orangemen became utterly re- 
gardless of the lives of their Catho- 
lic neighbors; while they, with a 
choice only between the oppression 
of an armed faction of bigots on 
one side, and the tender mercies of 
English law on the other, naturally 
inclined to the latter as the lesser 
of two evils, and began to long for 
imperial protection. There were 
many, however, who joined the 
United Irishmen, and here again 
arose another division. That so- 
ciety was a sworn secret organisa- 
tion, and, as such, the hierarchy and 
the priesthood were bound to con- 
demn it, no matter how much they 
may have sympathized with its aims, 
and to denounce all who were in its 
ranks. 

But notwithstanding the state of 
fear, confusion, and disruption to 
which the country was reduced, the 
English officials still feared to bring 
before the Parliament the question 
of a union. A blow must first be 
struck that would drive terror into 
the hearts of the whole people ; so 
terrible and sanguinary that even 
the greatest lover of his country's 
independence would, it was hoped, 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



6i 



gladJy desire peace and order, even 
at the price of British connection. 
This was done in 1 798. The United 
Irishmen proposed to resort to 
armed insurrection and an appeal 
lor French support, but as yet had 
committed no overt act of treason. 
The government, which had all 
along been cognizant of their 
schemes and movements, resolved 
to anticipate them by driving the 
country into premature rebellion; 
its tactics differing, however, in va- 
rious localities. To Wexford, al- 
ways a very peaceful. Catholic coun- 
ty, where there were very few United 
Irishmen, they sent the infamous 
North Cork militia, whose cruelty 
was only surpassed by their abject 
cowardice. These miscreants were 
to a man Orangemen, and their line 
of march to the town of Wexford, 
for miles on both sides, was marked 
by the ruins of burned chapels and 
the corpses of slaughtered peasant- 
is. It was only then that the peo- 
ple of that country rose up in arms, 
seeking ** the wild justice of re- 
venge," and waged on the mur- 
drous brood a war which, for bra- 
very and decisiveness during the 
time it lasted, has few parallels in 
modern history. In Dublin, the 
chiefs of the intended insurrection 
were suddenly seized, imprisoned, 
and many of them finally executed. 
The Presbyterians of Ulster, the 
originators of the United system, 
were hurried into untimely out- 
breaks by the knowledge of the 
discovery of their designs, and, after 
three or four detached efforts at 
rebellion, were easily put down by 
the militia and regular troops. 
Then came the judicial murders, 
drum-head courts-martial, torture 
and death. No man, no matter 
how innocent, considered himself 
safe, and no woman was free from 
insult and outrage. The spirit of 



the government seemed to be in- 
fused into all its officials from the 
highest judge on the bench to the 
lowest constable, and that spirit was 
one of terrorism and slaughter. 

Ireland was now prostrate, de- 
fenceless, and bleeding from every 
artery and vein, and this was con- 
sidered a fitting time to rob her of 
her Parliament, and snatch from her 
enervated grasp the last remnant of 
her independence. The measure 
was introduced into both Parlia- 
ments almost simultaneously, at first 
with doubtful success, but after- 
wards carried with little difficulty, 
except the expenditure of enormous 
sums by the government in brib- 
ing and pensioning members. The 
most alluring prospects were held 
out to the Catholics to induce them 
to support the measure out of Par- 
liament — they had no voice inside 
of it — ^but, to their credit be it said, 
not even a moiety of them were 
deceived by such treacherous pro- 
posals. They were assured that, 
after the union, English capital 
would flow free as water into the 
country; that protection for their 
persons and property against Orange 
fanatics would be fully guarapteed ; 
and that many of the more oppres- 
sive clauses in the penal code would 
be repealed — all of which, it is un- 
necessary to say, were conveniently 
forgotten by Pitt and his successors 
once the abominable bargain had 
been closed. The act of union 
passed the Irish House of Commons 
June 7, 1800, and the House of 
Lords on the 13th of the same 
month, to take effect on the ist of 
January following. 

The deed was at last accom- 
plished, and Ireland, deceived, be- 
trayed, and dejected, sank down 
into the lethargy of despair till 
once more aroused to action by the 
magnificent genius of the great agi« 



62 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



tator, O'Connell. For a long time 
he dared not hope or ask for a re- 
peal of the union, but confined 
himself to the removal of Catholic 
disabilities, as the operation of the 
nefarious penal laws was elegantly 
called ; though occasionally, in his 
more comprehensive speeches, he 
alluded to the future possibility of 
such a demand. Emancipation 
gained, the Reform Bill carried, and 
the tithe, poor law, and other ques- 
tions of minor importance more 
or less satisfactorily disposed of, 
0*Connell turned his serious atten- 
tion to the restoration of the Irish 
Parliament. 

He initiated the movement in 
1840, but for some time with very 
little appearance of making it in 
any sense a national one. The 
people were supine, and those who 
should have been their leaders 
rested content with comparative 
religious equality and the friend- 
ship of the Whigs, who, when in 
power, were always generous of 
petty offices to the poor relations 
and dependants of those who could 
influence elections in their favor. 
But the great Liberator, though he 
had nearly reached that terra of 
threescore and ten allotted as the 
span of man's life, was still full of 
vigor and determination. He tra- 
velled through every part of Ireland, 
arousing the dormant, reassuring 
the timid, arguing with the disputa- 
tious, and hurling his anathemas 
against those who, from cowardice 
or venality, refused to join in the 
crusade against English influence in 
Ireland. His success was more than 
wonderful. The hierarchy unani- 
mously declared in favor of " re- 
peal," the priesthood almost with- 
out exception became his warmest 
and most efficient supporters, and 
of course the mass of the people, 
always on the right side when pro- 



perly led, greeted him everywhere 
with the wildest applause. Money 
poured in from all sides to help 
the national cause; not Ireland 
and the British Islands alone con- 
tributing their quota, but the con- 
tinent of Europe and the ever-gen- 
erous people of America lavishly 
advanced funds for the purpose of 
aiding the people in obtaining self- 
government. 

Then came the year 1843 — the 
year of the monster meetings at 
central and time-honored localities, 
such as Mallow, Tara, Mullagh- 
mast, and Clontarf, where assembled 
countless thousands of well-dress- 
ed, well-conducted, and unarmed 
peasantry, to listen to the voice of 
their champion and his co-laborers, 
and to demand in peaceful terms 
the restoration of their filched legis- 
lative rights. 

The British government was de- 
cidedly alarmed, and with good 
cause. It tried to stem the torrent of 
popular opinion by the ifiost extra- 
vagant distribution of patronage, by 
landlord intimidation, the denun- 
ciations of a venal press, and even 
by intrigues at the court of Rome; 
but all to no effect. Rendered 
desperate, it even projected a gen- 
eral massacre at Clontarf; but this 
savage project was defeated by the 
judicious conduct of the repeal 
leaders. Next it evoked the ter- 
rors of the law ; for in Ireland, un- 
like most free or partially free 
countries, the law has actual ter- 
rors for the good, but very little for 
the wicked. O'Connell and eight 
of his associates, including his son 
John, three editors, and two Catho- 
lic priests, were arrested, indicted 
for "conspiracy," tried, and all, on 
the 30th of May, 1844, were sentenc- 
ed to imprisonment, with the excep- 
tion of F. Tierney, who had died 
before the trial. The effect on the 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



63 



country was the reverse of what 
was expected. O'ConnelFs popu- 
larity, if possible, increased, the re- 
pealers became more numerous, 
and several Protestant gentlemen 
of fortune and influence, who had 
hitherto held aloof, joined the as- 
sociation. But when three months 
had elapsed, and the decision of 
the packed Dublin jury and the 
nilings of the stipendiary English 
judges were set aside by the 
House of Lords, led by Brougham, 
the entlnisiasm of the people knew 
no bounds. 

These indeed were the halcyon 
days of Ireland. Never were her 
people so numerous, prosperous, 
and contented, so full of thankful- 
ness for the present and hope in 
the future. Of the nine millions 
of her population, at least two- 
thirds were active repealers or in 
sympathy with their cause. No 
nation, in fact, was ever more 
unanimous on any public ques- 
tion than were the Irish of the years 
1844-5, ^^^ never was the country 
so free from crime of every degree. 
Much of this enviable condition 
was to be attributed to the oft- 
repeated admonition of O'Connell, 
that ** he who commits a crime gives 
strength to the enemy " ; more, per- 
haps, to the unceasing admonitions 
and personal presence of the priest- 
hood at the monster gatherings; 
but most, we think, to the workings 
of F. Mathew's beneficent projects. 
It was a fortunate coincidence that 
the Apostle of Temperance and 
the great Liberator were contempor- 
aries. For the one teetotaler the 
first could show, the other could 
point out an ardent repealer. 

But a change was impending that, 
amid the sunshine and gladness of 
the hour, was undreamt of — a change 
that was to spread woe and deso- 
lation over the face of the fair 



island. Famine, gaunt and hideous 
famine, with her attendants, pesti- 
lence and death, was knocking at 
the door, and would not be denied 
admittance. 

The first symptoms of the failure 
of the potato crop, then almost ex- 
clusively the food of five or six 
millions of people, appeared as early 
as 1845, ^^^> though it created much 
alarm and distress in certain neigh- 
borhoods, was not of so widespread 
a nature as to excite general anxiety 
till the close of that year and the 
beginning of the next. O'Connell, 
the mayors and corporations of the 
large cities, and many other promi- 
nent persons, lay and clerical, hav- 
ing exhausted all the resources of 
private charity, strenuously but 
vainly urged on the government 
the necessity of taking some steps 
to save the lives of the people. 
They represented, and truly, that the 
grain crop alone of the country was 
sufficient to feed twice the number 
of inhabitants, and asked that its 
exportation might be prohibited ; 
that a large portion of the imperial 
revenue was raised in Ireland, and 
suggested that a portion of it might 
be expended there on useful public 
works, and thus afford employment 
to the famishing and needy ; that a 
great part of the lands then unpro- 
ductive might be reclaimed with 
benefit to the holders, and propos- 
ed that the government ought to 
loan money to the landlords for 
that purpose, to bear interest, be- 
come a first lien on the land, and 
to be repaid at the expiration of a 
certain number of years. Their 
appeals were answered by coercion 
and arms acts, and by the repeal 
of the Corn Laws, by which the 
Irish producer, who was obliged to 
sell his cereals in English markets 
in order to pay his rent, found him- 
self undersold by iuiportcrs from 



64 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



the great grain-producing countries, 
like Russia and the United States. 
In truth, England did not want to 
stay the famine, for it was her best 
and only ally against the repeal 
movement; and the "providential 
visitation," as it was blasphemously 
called by her politicians and cleri- 
cal demagogues, was allowed to take 
its course. Thus unchecked, the 
dire destroyer swept on from county 
to county during the years 1846-7- 
8-9, till the island, so fair to view 
in 1844, became almost a deserted 
graveyard, and its inhabitants who 
had neither sunk beneath its curse 
nor fled the country became a na- 
tion of paupers. It is now proven 
by trustworthy statistics that dur- 
ing those ^\^ years over one million 
fled for ever from their homes, and 
that at least a million and a third 
perished on their own soil, amid 
plenty, from want of food and the 
ravages of the fatal typhus ! 

No wonder, then, that the great 
repeal organization drooped, quar- 
relled, and finally ended a lingering 
and impotent existence a few years 
after. The bone and sinew of the 
land, who had given vitality and 
strength to its labors, were either 
far across the Atlantic or rotting in 
pauper-graves. No wonder, also, 
that its great founder and chief, 
overburdened with years, but more 
by national misfortunes, should 
havt sickened at the sights around 
him, and, fleeing from the ills he 
could not cure, should have died 
on a foreign soil, far from his be- 
loved fatherland. 

But though the famine had mor- 
tally wounded the repeal movement, 
its demise was hastened by dissen- 
sions among the leaders themselves. 
In 1846, in a discussion on the ex- 
pediency of the use of moral force 
solely as a means of obtaining na- 
tional redress of grievances, hot and 



personal remarks fell from the lips 
of the speakers on both sides ; great 
excitement was created among the 
audience, and finally O'Brien and 
many of the ablest sand most active 
of the repeal writers and speakers 
withdrew, and formed what was 
called the Confederation or " Young 
Ireland " party. Though thoroughly 
honest, high-toned, and brilliant as 
orators and journalists, the Young 
Irelanders could never win any ap- 
preciable amount of popular sup- 
port ; and though up to February, 
1848, when the French Revolution 
threw Europe into a ferment of ex- 
citement, they never contemplated 
armed resistance, the people gene- 
rally looked upon them with suspi- 
cion, and refused their co-operation. 
In the summer of that year, however, 
they did make an attempt at revo- 
lution, and, as might have been ex- 
pected, miserably failed. Thus the 
" Association " and the " Confede- 
ration" disappeared almost at the 
same time ; and now that a quarter 
of a century has passed, and a new 
generation has come to the front, 
we find the principles and aims of 
the original organization revivified 
and incorporated into what is called 
the " Home Rule League." 

In its demands, this association is 
more moderate than was O'Connell. 
He wanted repeal of the treaty and 
act of union, pure and simple, and 
the restoration of the national legis- 
lature as it was in 1782, with the 
emancipation and other kindred 
acts superadded. The Home 
Rulers, if we may judge from the 
resolutions passed at a very large 
conference held lately in Dublin, 
only ask for a parliament to regu- 
late their domestic affairs, leaving 
to the British imperial Parliament 
full power and authority over all 
matters concerning the entire em- 
pire, or, in other words, placing Ire- 



\ 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



6s 



land in the same position with re- 
gard to the law-making power as 
that now held by Canada, except 
the right of Ireland to send a pro- 
portional number of members to 
the imperial assembly. The suc- 
cess of such a scheme in Ireland 
would naturally lead to the restor- 
ation of the old Scotch Parliament, 
and possibly to imperial represen- 
tation for Canada and other trans- 
marine colonies of Great Britain. 
Hence the widespread interest it 
has excited throughout the em- 
pire. 

The objections to the home-rule 
plan, as far as we can gather them 
from the English and Tory Irish 
press — for the politicians have care- 
fully avoided its discussion — are 
principally three : 

I. The confusion and possible 
conflict of authority which might 
arise from having two co-ordinate 
iei;islative assemblies under the 
same government. 

II. That the people of Ireland 
are unable to govern themselves, 
and, as the last Parliament was lost 
by the corruption and venality of 
its members, a restored one would 
be open to the same deleterious in- 
fluences. 

III. That as the Catholics, from 
their numbers, would necessarily 
have a majority in the Commons, 
the rights of property and the 
guaranteed privileges of their Pro- 
testant fellow-subjects would be in 
danger. 

W . That the granting of legisla- 
tive power would be only a step to 
complete independence. 

To these objections it is answer- 
ed, first, that as the advocates of 
home rule merely require power 
to regulate affairs purely domestic, 
and not touch on those within the 
jurisdiction of an imperial Parlia- 
ment, there would be little possibi- 

VOL. XIX.— s 



lity of a collision of the two bodies ; 
secondly, they admit the premises, 
but deny the conclusion regarding 
the probability of bribery and cor- 
ruption, for the conditions are al- 
tered. The rotten and presentation 
boroughs, from whence the tools of 
the Castle sprung, have been swept 
away by the Reform Bill, and land- 
lord influence has received a decid- 
ed check by the adoption of the 
ballot. They further allege that 
the Catholics now, particularly 
since the Encumbered Estates Act 
was passed, are the most numerous 
body of landholders in the king- 
dom, and are consequently conser- 
vative, and would be exceeding 
jealous of any agrarian law that 
might be proposed ; that the late 
Church Disestablishment and Land 
Acts have done away with many of 
the causes of quarrel between Cath- 
olics and Protestants growing out 
of tithes, endowments, etc. ; and tri- 
umphantly point to the numerous 
Protestant gentlemen, many of 
whom are clergymen, who have 
joined their movement. As to the 
idep, of total separation, they very 
properly retort that if Ireland will 
not rest satisfied with the conces- 
sion of her just demands, it is not 
likely that she will be more loyal to 
the crown as long as they are with- 
held. 

This repeal movement, in another 
shape, like its predecessor, had a 
very obscure birth and a small 
christening. About three years ago, 
a few gentlemen met in a private 
room in the city of Dublin to chat 
over political affairs, amongst whom 
was Isaac Butt, a member of Parlia- 
ment, and a lawyer of large expe- 
rience and great eminence in his 
profession, who suggested the out- 
lines of the present plan of opera- 
tion. Like most hardy plants, its 
growth was at first slow, but it has 



66 



Home Rule for Ireland. 



recently sprung up a hale, hearty 
tree, with boughs overshadowing all 
classes and creeds at home, and 
roots extending through the sister 
island and its dependencies. From 
the first the leadership has been ac- 
corded to Butt, who, though by no 
means a man of the gigantic calibre 
of O'Connell, is still a very compe- 
tent political guide and an energet- 
ic organizer. Though a Protestant 
and a great favorite with the more 
liberal sectarians, he seems to enjoy 
the confidence and friendship of 
many of the Catholic bishops and 
a large number of the priesthood, 
particularly those of the venerable 
Archbishop McHale, whose name 
we find appended prominently to 
the call for the late conference in the 
capital. With Butt are such men as 
Sir John Gray, Mr. Mitchell-Henry 
Sullivan, Deasc, Major O'Reilly, 
Digby, Synan, Murphy, Blenncrhas- 
sett, the O'Connor Don, and other 
prominent laymen ; while the Catho- 
lic clergy in great numbers, headed 
by Dean O'Brien, of Limerick, are 
active sympathizers. The Home 
Rulers count in their ranks in Ire- 
land alone about sixty members 
of Parliament, besides nearly half 
that number representing English 
constituencies. Sir Charles Gavan 
Duffy, one of the most profound 
and the best organizing minds that 
Ireland has produced for many gene- 
rations, is, it is said, about to return 
from Australia, and again enter the 
British Parliament as the representa- 
tive of an Irish constituency. Duffy 
is a Catholic, a man of varied and re- 
markable experience in public af- 
fairs, and would be a most valuable 
acquisition to the nationalists in 
council or Parliament. 

Tlie movement, as we have stated, 
is not merely confined to Ireland, 
it is nearly as popular and has al- 
most as many supporters in Eng- 



land and Scotland ; and in every 
liberal newspaper published in those 
countries that reaches us we find 
reports of numerous meetings in 
the principal towns and cities, and 
even villages, of Great Britain. The 
English Catholic press particularly 
favor it, and this adds greatly to its 
strength. A late number of the 
London Tablet says in reference to 
the home-rule conference : " We 
can all know at present what is de- 
manded under the name of home 
rule; and we may frankly say at 
once that we have been agreeably 
impressed by the moderation and 
evident thoughtfulness which have 
presided over the preparation and 
adoption of the various resolutions 
that embody the proposed home-rule 
constitution. It is superfluous to say 
that there is not a trace of revolution 
about them. . . . What, however, 
is not superfluous to say is that the 
new programme of the Home Rulers 
appears to us to have discarded 
with discrimination almost everv- 
thing which could prejudice their 
cause, and to have retained almost 
everything calculated to render 
their project acceptable to the^Bri- 
tish public and imperial Parlia- 
ment." 

The Weekly Register, on the same 
subject, makes the following sensi- 
ble remarks : 

" From Tuesd.iy to Friday, both inclu- 
sive, hundreds of Irishmen from the north 
and from the south, from the cast and 
from the west, Protestants and Catholics, 
alumni of Maynooih and of Trinity Col- 
lege, met in the Rotunda to discuss the 
expediency of demanding of the imperial 
Parliament such a modification of the 
act of legislative union as will allovr 
the people of Ireland to manage their 
purely domestic concerns without in the 
least interfering with matters of an im- 
perial character; and during these me- 
morable four days, as we have already ob- 
served, the most admirable temper was 
manifested and the most perfect order 



Sonnet : Good Friday. 



67 



maintained, or rather observed ; for the 
chairman had throughout only to listen 
like others and put the question. The 
principal, if not the sole, ground of differ- 
ence of opinion was the constitution 
of the domestic Parliament. To some 
members of the conference the House of 
Lords seemed a difficulty. Undoubted- 
ly there cannot be in these realms any 
Parliament without a House of Lords, 
and there ought not to be. Equally cer- 
tain is it that differences — serious differ- 
ences — will sometimes arise between the 
Irish peers and the Irish commons. But 
does nothing of the sort ever occur in the 
impenal Parliament ? Yet, notwithstand- 
ing the dissensions, occasionally of a very 
rolent character, that happen between the 
Houses at Westminster, the constitution 
works and the business of the empire is 
done, not always in the best fashion, we 
admit, bqt still so to keep the vessel of 
naic well afloat." 

Many of the bishops and clergy 
in England, also, are warm sympa- 
thizers, if not active advocates, of 
the proposed repeal, as the follow- 
ing extract from a recent letter of 
the Rt. Rev. Dr. Turner, late Bishop 
of Salford, will in part demonstrate. 
^Vith regard to home rule, writes 
that prelate, " it seems to me that 



some measure of home rule for 
Ireland is certain. It is but a ques- 
tion of time and amount. Parlia- 
ment will, sooner or later, be 
obliged to grant it, if only for the 
despatch of imperial business. A 
strong feeling prevails in favor of 
large powers of local and munici- 
pal self-government even in Eng- 
land, and the extension of this 
principle must inevitably come to 
Ireland." 

We cannot but agree with the 
good bishop in his views of the ne- 
cessity of some change in the par- 
liamentary system of the United 
Kingdoms, at least as far as Ireland 
is concerned, and trust, sincerely 
trust, that his predictions will be 
justified by events, and that very 
quickly. With a home government, 
a denominational plan of education, 
and a fostering public opinion for 
ability and native genius, which 
would surely follow, that long-suf- 
fering but faithful island might in 
the near future equal, or even excel, 
the glories that shone around her in 
her first ages of Christianity. 



SONNET: GOOD FRIDAY. 

Behold the highest Good ! there on the cross 

'Tis pictured on a canvas so sublime 

That God*s own thought, conceivo^before all time, 

Is fitly told ; the universe at loss 

To fathom it, its mighty forces toss 

In darkened struggles that do wildly chime 

In thund'rous mutt'rings with the monstrous crime 

That man conceives ; yet all the varied dross 

Of nature's agitations but compose 

The adjuncts to that central Form, where God, 

Enthroned in pain, all suffering doth enclose 

In one brief day, that never might be trod 

A path more hard than that did interpose 

Twixt Pilate's hall and Calvary's blood-stained sod. 



66 



Grapes and Thorns. 



GRAPES AND THORNS. 



BY THE AUTHOR OP ** THE HOUSE OF YORKE." 



CHAPTER X. 



THE DESCENT OF AVERNUS. 



It was Annette who told Miss 
Pembroke the result of the trial, 
taking it on herself as a sort of mis- 
sion. Without saying a word on 
the subject to each other, perhaps 
without defining it clearly in their 
own minds, they had yet acted on 
an impression that she was to be 
treated with peculiar delicacy and 
tenderness in the matter. 

As young Mrs. Gerald came 
down the street toward her mother- 
in-law's home, she saw Miss Pem- 
broke approaching her slowly from 
the opposite direction, a child at 
either side. She was just coming 
from her school, and these two 
little ones lived in the neighbor- 
hood, and were privileged to walk 
home with their teacher, each hold- 
ing in its little hands, for warmth, a 
fold of her large sable cloak. 

It was a still, frosty day, with a 
sparkling depth of cloudless blue 
overhead, and a spotless carpet of 
newly-fallen snow, white as swan's- 
down, underneath. But the mid- 
air, rosy now with sunset, imparted 
a tinge of violet to the sky and a 
soft blush to the earth. Sleighs, 
with their gay bells, flew to and fro, 
the drivers muffled to the eyes from 
the stinging cold; and the planks 
of the sidewalk crackled under the 
steps that trod them. 

" What a motherly look she has !" 
Annette Gerald said to herself, as 
she stood waiting at the gate, and 
watching her friend. 

Honora had quite a matronly 
appearance, indeed, in the thick furs 



she always wore in winter. She 
was fond of warmth, and scarce- 
ly quick enough in her motions to 
resist the cold of a northern climate 
by means of exercise alone, and the 
cap, muff, boa, and mantle made her 
look like a Juno exiled to the court 
of Odin. The cold melancholy of 
her expression, the face as untouch- 
ed with color as a white camellia, 
was in keeping with the fancy. 

She did not hasten when she saw 
a visitor waiting for her, nor give 
any smile or word of welcome. If 
there was a sign of emotion, it was 
in the slight gesture with which she 
detached herself from her two little 
attendants, who, for the first time, 
missed the leave-taking they prized 
so much. They had been wont to 
be stroked on the cheeks, with a 
gentle " Good-by " ; and, running, 
hand in hand, down the street, to 
turn at the first corner, and see their 
teacher wave her hand to them as 
she stood on the piazza. 

" My dear Annette, why did you 
not go in, instead of freezing here 
in the snow ?" she said, and seemed 
too much occupied in opening the 
gate to be able to look in her friend's 
face, though her disengaged hand 
held that of her visitor closely. 

" Oh ! I never feel the cold in 
this still weather," Annette said 
lightly. " Besides, I do not like to 
enter alone a deserted house. There 
is no one here but the serv^ant. 
Mamma Gerald is with us, and we 
persuaded her to stay to dinner. 
I wish you would go up too." 



Grapes and Thorns. 



69 



They had entered the house. 

Miss Pembroke paused a moment 

at the foot of the stairs, then led 
^t way up to her chamber. Evi- 
dently she knew that there were 
tidings for her, and suspected that 
they were not good. " I shall not 
dine at home to-day," she said, 
catching sight of the servant. 

But she did not, apparently, mean 
\o go out, for she deliberately re- 
moved her wrappings, and put them 
away ; then seated herself beside 
her friend, and looked at her with 
an expression that bade her speak 
out her errand, whatever it might 
be. 

** It has gone as badly as it could," 
Annette said quickly. 

" He is, then, found guilty ?" Miss 
Pembroke asked, without the slight- 
est sign of emotion. 

Annette nodded. " He is con- 
victed on circumstantial evidence. 
It is as plain as such evidence can 
be, but not plain enough to shake 
my hope, at least, of his innocence. 
Lawrence is utterly disgusted and 
indignant with the whole affair. 
He says he would at any time head 
a party to rescue Mr. Schoninger. 
He felt so angry that he wouldn't 
stay at home after coming up to 
tell us, but started off again some- 
where." 

"Is he sentenced?" Miss Pem- 
broke asked, speaking with some 
difficulty. 

"Yes !" And since the eyes fixed 
on her still waited for more, Mrs. 
Gerald added: "There is a year 
solitary." 

Honora's eyes opened a little 
wider. "A year solitary?" she 
repeated. 

"Why, yes, dear. You know it 
is the custom to give a year of soli- 
tary imprisonment before ..." 

Miss Pembroke put her hand up, 
and seemed to clear some mist from 



before her eyes. " Before what ?" 
she asked in a confused way. 

"Dear Honora!" exclaimed her 
friend, "need I say what?" And 
then started up with a little cry; 
for Miss Pembroke, without a word 
or sign of warning, had slipped out 
of her chair, and fallen heavily to 
the floor. 

It is not necessary to make an 
outcry because a lady has fainted, 
unless there is no person of sense 
present. Annette Gerald did what 
was needful without calling for 
help, and her efforts were soon re- 
warded. The cold hand she held 
suddenly became warm and moist 
as the recoiling wave of life rushed 
back, and in a few minutes Miss 
Pembroke was able to rise from the 
floor, and go to the sofa. Annette 
sat by her in silence, now and then 
touching her hand or her hair with 
caressing fingers, and waited for 
her to speak. 

If she had to wait some time, it 
was not because her friend had not 
returned to full consciousness. Miss 
Pembroke was too strong and 
healthy to creep back to life, even 
after so violent and unaccustomed 
an attack. It was, perhaps, the 
first time she had ever fainted, and 
she was left almost ignorant of 
what had happened to her ; but of 
the cause she was not a moment in 
doubt. It came back clearly on 
the first wave of returning con- 
sciousness. She lay with her eyes 
closed, and strove to set her mind 
in order again, and set it so firmly 
that this terrible and entirely unex- 
pected fact should not again de- 
range its action. She had not once 
anticipated such a conclusion. 
Her thoughts had occupied them- 
selves with the horrors of the ac- 
cusation, and the worst result she 
had looked for was that, though the 
prisoner would doubtless be ac- 



70 



Grapes and Thorns. 



quitted, he would not be able to 
shake off the disgrace of having 
been suspected, and would go out 
into life branded with an inefface- 
able mark — a mark which his name 
would bear even in her own mind. 
She had said to herself that, pity 
him as she might, she desired never 
to see him again, not because she 
believed him capable of any great 
crime, but because his image would 
always be associated with painful 
recollections, and because his digni- 
ty had been soiled by such circum- 
stances and associations. Now, 
however, he was presented to her 
mind in quite a new light, more 
pitiful, yet with a pity far more 
shrinking and remote from its ob- 
ject. In this woman, confidence 
in, and obedience to, authority was 
an instinct ; and as she contemplat- 
ed the decision of the law against 
Mr. Schoninger, she began to look 
on him somewhat as a Catholic 
looks upon those whom the anathe- 
ma of the church has separated 
from the fellowship of the faithful, 
*' so that they are not so much as to 
say to them, God speed you." A 
silent and awful distance grew up 
between them. 

After a while, she sat up, and be- 
gan calmly to put her hair and dress 
in order. 

" It is very terrible, Annette, and 
we may as well try to put it quite 
out of our minds," she said. " We 
can do nothing, that I see, but pray 
for his conversion. I thank you 
for coming alone to tell me of this, 
for I would not have had any other 
person see me so much affected by 
the news. People imagine things 
and tell them as facts, and there 
are many who are capable of be- 
lieving that I had loved Mr. Scho- 
ninger. I never did." 

There were times when Honora 
Pembroke's soft eyes could give a 



look that was almost dazzling in 
its firm and open clearness ; and as 
she pronounced these last words, 
she looked into her companion's 
face with such a glance. 

Mrs. Gerald rose and walked 
somewhat impatiently to the win- 
dow. She had hoped and expect- 
ed to startle Honora into some 
generous expression of interest in 
Mr. Schoninger, and to win from 
her some word of pity and kindness 
which, repeated to him, would be 
like a drop of cooling water in his 
fiery trial. 

** I am sure I should never ima- 
gine you capable of having an affec- 
tion for any one whom the whole 
world does not approve," she said 
rather pointedly, having snatched 
the curtain up and looked out, then 
dropped it again. " If you can put 
the subject out of your mind, and 
remember Mr. Schoninger only 
when you are praying for the hea- 
then, so much the better for your 
tranquillity. I am not so happily 
constituted. I cannot dismiss the 
thought of friends because it trou- 
bles me, nor because some person, 
or many persons, may believe some- 
thing against them." 

" What would you have me do V 
Miss Pembroke asked rather loftily, 
yet with signs of trouble in her 
face. 

" Nothing, my dear, except that 
you put on your bonnet and come 
home to dinner with me," Annette 
replied, assuming a careless tone. 

Miss Pembroke hesitated, then 
refused. It would be certainly more 
sensible to go if she could, but she 
felt herself a little weak and trem- 
bling yet, and disinclined to talk. 
The best distraction for her would 
be such as she could find in reading 
or in prayer, if distraction were 
needed. She felt, moreover, the 
coldness that had come over her 



Grapes and Thorns, 



'71 



friend's manner more than Annette 
was aware, and for a moment, per- 
haps, wrung by a cruel distrust of 
herself, envied her that indepen- 
dence of mind and ardor of feeling 
which could at need strengthen her 
10 face any difficulty, and which 
rendered her capable of holding 
firmly her own opinions and belief 
in spite of opposition. Miss Pem- 
broke seemed to herself in that in- 
stant weak and puny, not because 
she did nothing for Mr. Schoninger, 
but because, had she seen the possi- 
bility or propriety of her doing any- 
thing, she would have lacked the 
courage. It was a relief to her, 
therefore, to fmd herself alone, 
though, at the same time, she would 
gladly have had the support and 
strength which her friend's presence 
could so well impart to one in trou- 
ble. 

The door closed, and she looked 
from the window and saw her visitor 
walk briskly away without glancing 
Uick. 

**1 wish I had some one," she 
murmured, dropping the curtain 
from her hand, and looking about 
the room as if to find some sugges- 
tion of help. " I am certainly very 
much alone in the world. Mother 
Chevreuse is gone ; I cannot go to 
F. Chevreuse about this; and the 
others jar a little with me." 

And then, like a ray of soft and 
tender light coming unexpectedly 
to show the path through a dark 
place, came the thought of Sister 
Cecilia and her gentle companions. 
They had asked her to come to 
them, if they could ever be of any 
use to her, and Sister Cecilia parti- 
cularly had spoken to her with an 
affectionate earnestness which was 
now joyfully remembered. " I can- 
not hope to be to you what Mother 
Chevreuse was, but I would be glad 
if I could in a little, even, supply 



her loss to you. Come to me, if you 
ever wish to, quite freely. You 
will never find me wanting in sym- 
pathy or affection." 

And she had scarcely been to 
them at all ! 

She dressed herself hastily, and 
called a carriage. It was too late to 
walk there, for already the sun was 
down ; and it was nearly two miles 
to the convent. 

The sharp air and brisk motion 
were restorative. They brought a 
color to her face, and sent new life 
through her weakened frame. Be- 
sides, when one feels helpless and 
distressed, rapid motion gives a re- 
lieving impression that one is doing 
and accomplishing something, while, 
at the same time, it saves the ne- 
cessity of effort. 

Sister Cecilia was in her own 
room, writing letters, her little desk 
drawn close to the window for the 
light. She looked out when she 
heard the carriage, and beckoned 
Miss Pembroke to come up-stairs 
then hurried to meet her half way. 
She had guessed her visitor's motive 
in coming, and it needed but a 
glance into her face to confirm the 
thought. 

" Come into my chamber, dear," 
she said. " It is the pleasantest 
room in the house at this hour. 
See what a view I have of the city 
and the western sky. I sit here to 
write my letters, and every moment 
have to leave off to admire the 
beautiful world outside. It is a 
sort of dissipation with me, this 
hour of sunset. This arm-chair is 
for you. It is my visitor's chair. 
I should feel quite like a sybarite 
if I were to sit in it." 

She seated Honora by the win- 
dow, drew up her own chair oppo- 
site her, and went on talking cheer- 
fully. 

** I sometimes think that all the 






• ♦ 



72' 



Grapes and Thorns. 



earth needs to make it heaven is 
the visible presence of our Lord and 
his saints. It would require no 
physical change. Of course I in- 
clude the absence of sin. There is 
so much beauty here, so much that 
we never notice, so much that is 
everyday, yet miraculous for all 
that. Look at that sky ! Did you 
ever see such a rich air ? It needs 
the cold purity of the snow to keep 
it from seeming excessive." 

A long, narrow cloud had stretch- 
ed itself across the west, and, draw- 
ing to its bosom the light of the sun, 
now hidden behind the hills, reflect- 
ed it in a crimson flood over the 
earth. Through this warm efl'ul- 
gence fell, delicately penetrating, 
the golden beams of the full moon, 
changing the crimson of the air to a 
deep-opal color, and putting faint 
splashes of gilding here and there 
beside the rosy reflections. 

" How the earth draws it in !** 
said the nun dreamily. " It never 
wastes the beauties of the sky. 
It hoards them up, and gives them 
out long after in marbles and pre- 
cious stones. Did it ever occur to 
you to wonder how those bright 
things could grow in the dark un- 
derground ? I used to think of it 
in Italy, where I first saw what 
marbles can be. I remember my 
eyes and my mind wandering to 
that as I knelt before the Confes- 
sion of S. Matthew the Evangelist, 
in Santa Maria Maggiore, where 
the walls of the atrium glow with 
marbles ; and the lesson I learned 
from it was this : that even though 
pains and sorrows of every kind 
should intervene between us and 
the joy of life as thickly as the clay, 
and rock, and turf had intervened 
between the sunshine of heaven 
and the dark place where those 
marbles took form and color, we 
could yet, if we had real faith, be 



conscious of all the glory and joy 
taking place overhead, and repro- 
duce them for ourselves down in 
the dark, and make that beauty 
more enduring because we were in 
the dark. At the sunny surface, 
the brightness slips off" and shadows 
succeed ; but that solid jewel in the 
depths is indestructible. My dear ** — 
she turned to her companion with 
a soft suddenness which warmed 
but did not startle — "do you re- 
member S. Paul's recommendation, 
* always rejoice'? It is possible. 
And now tell me why you do 
not." 

Her eyes, beaming with religious 
enthusiasm and tenderest human 
affection, searched frankly the pale 
face before her, and her hand was 
laid lightly on Miss Pembroke's 
arm. No reserve nor timidity could 
stand before her. They melted 
like snowflakes beneath the heaven- 
ly summer of her glances. Honora 
told freely and simply what had 
distressed her. 

How sweet is the friendship of 
one true woman for another ! — 
sweeter than love, for it is untrou- 
bled, and has something of the 
calmness of heaven; deeper than 
love, for it is the sympathy of true 
natures which reflect each the en- 
tire being of the other; less selfish 
than love, for it asks no merging of 
another into itself; nobler than 
love, for it allows its object to have 
other sources of happiness than 
those it can furnish; more endur- 
ing than love, for it is a life, and 
not a flame. 

" But can you not see, my dear," 
the nun said presently, " that it 
would have been better if you had 
not had any friendly intercourse 
with him, even though this terrible 
thing had never happened } The 
injunction not to be unequally 
yoked with one another refers, I 



X:i*Ty LIB" 

Grapes and Thorns. 




think, Xo all ties as well as to mar- 
riage. The gulf is too wide be- 
tween the Christian and the Jew to 
be bridged over for familiar friend- 
ship. It is too wide for anything 
but prayers to cross. Once admit 
anv intercourse with unbelievers, 
and you peril your faith ; and, be- 
sides, you cannot set a barrier 
firmly anywhere when the first one 
is down. I have heard it said that 
this Jew loved you, and even fan- 
cied it possible that you would 
marry him." 

"People ought not to say such 
things I" exclaimed Miss Pembroke, 
blushing deeply. 

"People ought not to have the 
chance to say such things, my dear 
girl," replied the nun. " It was of- 
fering you an insult when he of- 
fered you his hand." 

"0 dear Sister! is not that too 
severe V expostulated Honora. 
** Setting aside what has happened 
since, should I not recollect, when 
a man makes me such an offer, 
what his intention is, and how the 
subject looks to him } And cannot 
I refuse him, and see that it is im- 
possible for me to do otherwise, 
yet feel kindly toward him, and 
wish him well, and believe that he 
has meant to show me both affec- 
tion and respect .^" 

"Honora," said the Sister, "if 
iny man had struck your mother, 
then turned to offer you his hand, 
would you not have recoiled from 
him in disgust and indignation V* 

" Surely 1 would!" 

"And is your God and Saviour 
less dear and sacred to you than 
▼our mother.?" the other pursued. 
"^Can you allow your thoughts to 
dwell with kindness and compla- 
cency on one who blasphemes the 
crucitlcd Redeemer, and calls him 
an i;nj)')>t()r .? Because you have 
Dot iKMrd this man talk against 



your faith, you forget what he must 
think of it. I tell you they mock 
at him, these Jews, and they call 
us idolaters. And what could he 
think of you, when, knowing that 
you adore Christ as God, he asked 
you to be the wife of one who 
would laugh, if he did not rave, 
when he saw you making the sign 
of the cross.? He must have 
thought your faith so weak that 
he could in time make you re- 
nounce it. And the reason why he 
thought so was because he saw you 
receiving him in a friendly way, as 
if friendship were possible between 
you. I speak of what he was. 
What he is, we have nothing to do 
with." 

Miss Pembroke's eyes were down- 
cast. " When you place the subject 
in that light, I am forced to think 
myself all in the wrong," she said. 
" But most people do not think in 
that clear, positive way. They act 
on an inherited motive, and their 
beliefs are moss grown, as it were." 

" They have no faith," was the 
quick reply. 

Honora was silent a moment, 
then said, with some hesitation : " I 
am always afraid of being unchari- 
table and illiberal, and perhaps I 
err the other way." 

" My dear, it is easy to* make a 
mistake there, and very dangerous 
too," the Sister replied with deci- 
sion. **What is charity.? You 
must first love God with all your 
heart ; and if you do that, you will 
be very shy of the enemies of God. 
You cannot serve two masters. As 
to liberality, there is no greater 
snare. It is not liberal to squander 
the bounty and honor of God ; it is 
not ours to spend. It is not liberal 
to praise those whom he condemns, 
and bless those whom he curses. 
It is not liberal to love those who 
refuse to acknowledge and obey 



74 



Grapes and Thorns, 



him, and to contradict what he has 
clearly said. Or if these things are 
liberal, then liberality is one of the 
worst of vices, and one of the most 
futile too. Why, if I were to desire 
the reputation of being generous, 
and, having nothing of my own, 
should take what is not mine and 
give it away, I have stolen, it is true, 
and I have obtained a reputation 
that I do not deserve, but, also, I 
have enriched some one ; whereas, 
if I put my hand into the treasury 
of God, and try to bestow on an- 
other what he has denied, the hand 
comes out empty. I have insulted 
the Almighty, and have not benefit- 
ed any one. Do not suffer your- 
self to be deceived by sounding 
phrases. What are these people 
who talk so much of liberality.^ 
Are they liberal of what is theirs to 
give .'* Far from it. Do they give 
away all they have to the poor? 
Do they forgive their enemies.^ 
Do they give up their pride and 
vanity, and spend their lives in la- 
boring for the needy .^ Quite the 
contrary. They are lavish only of 
what is not theirs to give. It has 
been reserved for those whom they 
call bigots to show an ardent and 
unsparing liberality in sacrificing 
their private feelings, their wealth, 
their comfort, their reputation, their 
lives even, for the glory of God and 
the saving of souls. There is the 
true liberality, my dear, and all 
other is a snare." 

" I wish I could shut myself up 
with God, and get into the right 
path again. I am all wrong." 

" Why not come here and make 
a retreat V the Sister asked. 

It was so precisely and unexpect- 
edly what she needed that Honora 
clasped her hands, with an excla- 
mation of delight. " The very 
thing ! Yet I had not thought of 
it. When may I come 1 Very soon } 



It was surely an inspiration, my 
coming here to-night." 

Immediately her troubles began 
to lift themselves away, as fogs be- 
gin to rise from the earth even be- 
fore the sun is above the horizon. 
The certainty of approaching peace 
conferred a peace in the present. 
She was going to place herself in 
the hands of Him who can perform 
the impossible. 

Sister Cecilia had supplied her 
need perfectly. Hers was not one 
of those impassioned natures which 
need to be soothed and caressed 
into quiet. A certain vein of gen- 
tle self-sufficiency, and a habit of 
contentment with life as she found 
it, prevented this. She wanted light 
more than warmth. 

It was already dark when they 
went down-stairs, and since, from 
economy, the nuns did not have 
their entries lighted, the two had to 
go hand-in-hand, groping their way 
carefully, till they came to a turn 
in the lower passage ; and there, 
from the open door of the chapel 
at the further end, a soft ray of light 
shone out from the single lamp that 
burned before the altar. By day- 
light both chapel and altar showed 
poor enough ; but in the evening, 
and seen alone by this small golden 
flame, the imperfections were either 

Transformed or hidden. Dimly seen, 
he long folds of drapery all about 
gave a sense of seclusion and ten- 
derness ; one seemed to be hiding 
under the mantle of the Lord ; and 
the beautiful mystery of the burn- 
ing lamp made wonders seem possi- 
ble. Kneeling there alone, one 
could fancy all the beautiful legends 
being acted over again. 

Sister Cecilia and Honora, still 
hand-in-hand, knelt in the entry 
the moment they saw that light. 

" You remember the chalice of 
the bees.'*" whispered the nun. 



Grapes and T/iorns. 



75 



" I never come here in the evening, 
and see that bright little place in 
the darkness, but I think of that 
sveetest of stories. Arid I would 
not be surprised to hear a buzzing 
of bees all about the sanctuary, and 
see the busy little creatures build- 
ing up a chalice of fine wax, as 
dear as an alabaster vase with a 
light inside." 

They walked slowly and noise- 
\tii\y by the door, and, as they 
passed it, saw beside the altar what 
looked almost like another lamp, or 
like that illuminated vase the Sister 
had fancied. It was the face of 
.\nita, which reflected the light, her 
dark dress rendering her form al- 
most invisible. That face and the 
two folded hands shone softly, with 
a fixed lustre, out of the shadows. 
No breath nor motion seemed to 
stir them. The eyes fixed on the 
tabernacle, the lips slightly parted 
where the last vocal prayer had 
escaped, she knelt there in a trance 
of adoration. But one could see, 
even through that brightening halo 
and sustaining peace, that a great 
change had taken place in the girl 
during the last few weeks. Her face 
was worn quite thin ; and the large 
eyes, that had been like dewy violets 
bending ever toward the earth, 
burned now with a lustre that never 
comes from aught but pain. 

** How the innocent have to suffer 
for the sins of the guilty!" sighed 
the nun, as she led her visitor away. 
**That child has received a blow 
from which I am afraid she will 
never recover. She is like a broken 
flower that lives a little while when 
it is put in water. Her conscience 
is at rest ; she does not say now that 
she is sorry for having had anything 
to do with that trial ; she does not 
conifdain in any way. She seems 
simply broken. And here she 
comes now ! She has heard our 



steps, and is afraid she has stayed 
too long in the chapel." 

The young girl came swiftly 
along the passage, and held out her 
hands to Miss Pembroke. " I knew 
you were here," she said, "and I 
was waiting to hear you come down. 
Mother told me I might come and 
say good-by to you." 

"But you have not yet said a 
word of welcome," Miss Pembroke 
replied, trying to speak cheerfully. 

" Oh ! yes, when I saw you come, 
I welcomed you in my own mind," 
she replied, without smiling. 

Honora waited an instant, but 
Anita seemed to have nothing to 
say except the good-by she had 
come for. "Our whispering did 
not disturb your prayers V* she ask- 
ed, wishing to detain her a little 
longer. 

"Oh! no." She glanced up at 
Sister Cecilia, as a child, when 
doubtful and lost, looks into its 
mother's face, then dropped her 
eyes dreamily. " I do not say any 
prayer but *amen.' Nothing else 
comes. I kneel down, thinking to 
repeat, perhaps, the rosary, and I 
am only silent a while, and then I 
say amen. It is as well, I suppose." 

Honora kissed the child's thin 
cheek tenderly. " Good-by, dear," 
she whispered softly. " Say one 
amen for me to-night." 

She went out into the still and 
sparkling night, and was driven 
rapidly homeward. On her way, 
she passed the prison, and, looking 
up, saw over the high wall a 
light shining redly through the long 
row of grated windows. It was a 
painful sight, but no longer unen- 
durable. " No prayer but amen," 
she repeated. " What does it mat- 
ter by what road we go, so long as 
we reach heaven at last ; whether it 
be in peaceful ways, or through sin 
and suffering.^" 



76 



Grapes and Thorns. 



Another carriage drew up at the 
gate as she reached home, and Mrs. 
Gerald descended from it, having 
just returned from Mrs. Ferrier's. 

" Upon my word, young woman !" 
Annette's voice called out from a 
pile of furs in the carriage. " We 
have been saying our good-nights 
in whispers, and hushing the very 
sleigh-bells, so as not to disturb your 
slumbers; and here you are out 
driving." 

Her bright and cheerful voice 
broke strangely into Honora'smood. 
Was there, then, anything in the 
world to laugh about, anything that 
could possibly excite a jest ? 

*H;ood-night, Mother Gerald!" 
the young woman added. " Don't 
stand there taking cold. And if 
you do not see Honora in the house 
to-night, make up your mind that 
I have carried her off with me, as I 
shall try to. Come here, my dear, 
and give an account of yourself. 
Where have you been.^" 

As Honora reached the carriage 
door, young Mrs. Gerald leaned 
out and caught both her hands. 
" Come with me to find Lawrence," 
she whispered hurriedly. " He has 
not been home yet, but he will go 
for you." 

Though recoiling from the errand, 
Miss Pembroke would not refuse it. 
She stepped into the carriage, and 
suffered herself to be driven away. 
It was the first time such a service 
had ever been demanded of her. 
"Where is he.^ Do you know.'" 
she asked. 

" Oh ! yes. He is only playing 
billiards," the young wife answered, 
and a sharp sigh seemed to cut the 
sentences apart. "It is the first 
time for a long while, and I want 
to break it up in the beginning. 
John went down and told him that 
his mother was dining with us, but 
Lawrence paid no attention." 



She leaned back a little while 
without saying a word as they sped 
over the smooth snow. " It seems 
a shame to drag you into such an 
affair, Honora," she said presently ; 
" and I had not thought of it till I 
saw you, and then it came like a 
flash that you could help me. 
What I want of you is to write on 
a card that you and I are waiting 
for him. John will carry it in to him, 
and he will recognize your writing." 

The horses were drawn up be- 
fore a large marble hotel, lighted 
from basement to attic. The shops 
underneath were all closed ; but 
from three broad lower windows a 
bright light shone around the 
heavy lowered curtains, and in the 
stillness they could hear the faint 
click of billiard-balls. There was 
no sound of voices from inside, 
and it was impossible to know if 
the players were few or many. 

Honora wrote hastily, by the 
moonlight, as she was bid, " An- 
nette and I are waiting for you," and 
John took the card. 

" Why doesn't he go to this 
door?" she asked, seeing the man 
disappear around a corner of the 
house. 

"You child!" said her friend 
compassionately ; " arc you so inno- 
cent as to suppose that any one 
can walk into one of those places 
when he pleases ? These charm- 
ing rditnions are held with locked 
doors, and one has to have the 
password to go in." 

Honora was silent with indigna- 
tion. To her mind, Lawrence 
could not do his wife a greater in- 
jury than in allowing her to be- 
come acquainted with such places, 
and she was half disposed to be 
vexed with Annette for not leaving 
him to himself, and refusing to be 
drawn into any objectionable scenes 
and associations. 



Grapes and Tlwrns. 



77 



Annette divined the last thought, 

and replied to it. 
" It is impossible for a wife to be 

scrupulous as to the means by 

which she shall withdraw her hus- 
band from danger," she said with 
quiet coldness. " They are one. 
If he is soiled, she cannot be quite 
clean, except in intention, unless 
she is very selfish ; and then her 
intention is not good, which is 
worse yet. Of course she should 
be careful not to draw others into 
her affairs." 

** You must know far better than 
I, .\nnette," her friend said quick- 
ly, feeling as though she must have 
spoken her thought. " At all events, 
jrou cannot be called selfish. And, 
indeed, if the atigels of heaven 
were over-scrupulous with regard 
to their associations, we should 
lack their guardianship." 

Here John appeared, walking 
briskly round the corner of the 
hotel, and immediately after Law- 
rence Gerald came to the carriage- 
door. 

**You here, Honora!" he ex- 
claimed. "What could have in- 
duced vou.^" 

" We had better not ask each 
other questions," she replied cold- 
ly. "It is late. Will you come 
home with us V* 

She drew back into a corner, 
and made room for him, with an 
air almost of disgust; for the moon- 
light showed his face flushed with 
drinking, and, as he spoke, a strong 
odor of brandy had been wafted 
into her face. 

He was too much confused for 
anything but simple obedience, and 
in rather a stumbling way took the 
scat assi;^ncd him. 

** Honora has been driving this 
cveninc^, and is sleepy and chilly," 
his wife made haste to say in ex- 
planation, inwardly resenting her 



friend's hauteur^ and regretting 
having brought her. " She is go- 
ing home to stay all night with us. 
I am sure you did not know how 
late it is." 

She furtively picked up his hat, 
that had fallen off, went on talking 
lightly, to cover his silence or pre- 
vent his saying anything senseless, 
and tried in every way to screen him 
from the scorn that she had expos- 
ed him to. He leaned back in 
the carriage, and took no notice of 
her. The presence of Honora 
Pembroke had confounded him, 
and he had just sense enough left 
to know that he could not keep too 
quiet. What had stirred her to 
interfere in his affairs he could not 
guess, for Annette had always so 
screened him that it never occur- 
red to him she could have asked 
her friend to come. Had he 
known, it would have fared hard 
with his wife. He had, however, 
prudence and temper enough to 
keep him from making any disa- 
greeable demonstration. John was 
at hand when they reached home, 
and, as the ladies went hastily up 
the steps and into the house, they 
were not supposed to be aware 
that it was his arm which enabled 
Mr. Gerald to go in without fall- 
ing. Then Mrs. Ferrier stood in 
the open drawing-room door, and, 
under cover of her welcome to 
Honora, he managed to got up 
stairs unnoticed, fortunately for 
all. 

For the truce between Annette's 
husband and her mother was over, 
and their intercourse was assum- 
ing a more unpleasant character 
than ever. Now, it was nearly 
always Lawrence who was the 
aggressor. Even when Mrs. Fer- 
rier showed a disposition to con- 
ciliate, he found something irritat- 
ing in her very good-nature. Par- 



7« 



Grapes and Thorns. 



tial as his mother was, she was 
moved to expostulate with him 
after witnessing two or three of 
these scenes. 

" You ought to recollect her good 
intention, Lawrence, and try to 
overlook her manner," she said. 
" I know well she does not show 
very good taste always ; but you 
cannot criticise a woman in her own 
house.'* 

" I am seldom allowed to forget 
that it is her house,*' returned the 
son rather sulkily. 

" At least, my dear, do not pro- 
voke her into reminding you of 
that," Mrs. Gerald urged. 

Lawrence wished to stand well 
with his mother, and had, indeed, 
improved in his behavior toward 
her in proportion as he had grown 
more impatient with Mrs. Ferrier. 
He seemed now to regret having 
answered her unpleasantly. " If 
you knew, mother, all the little an- 
noyances I have to bear from her, 
you wouldn't blame me so much," 
he said coaxingly. " With other frets, 
she has a habit of asking any of us 
who may be going out where we 
are going, and when we are coming 
back; and Annette has humored 
her in that till she thinks she has a 
right to know. Teddy always tells 
her, too; but then he tells lies. 
That makes no difference, though, 
to her. Well, I have broken her 
of asking me when I am alone ; but 
if Annette is with me, she asks her. 
Can't you imagine, mother, that it 
would get to be irritating after a 
while ? It makes me so nervous 
sometimes that I have really skulk- 
ed out of the house slyly, as if I had 
no right to go. And then, when I 
come in, she will say, * Why, where 
have you been, Lawrence } I didn't 
hear you go out.' If a door opens 
anywhere, she goes to see who is 
about. I believe if I should get 



up in the middle of the night, and 
try to creep out of the house with- 
out being heard, I should see her 
head poked out of the chamber- 
door before I'd got half-way down- 
stairs. Then she peers and finds 
out everything. Annette and I had 
a bottle of champagne the other 
night in our room, and the next 
morning she spied out the bottle, 
and spoke of it. I suppose she 
heard the cork pop when I drew 
it. You never looked after me 
half so closely when I was a little 
boy, always in mischief, as she does 
now I am a man. She knows what 
my clothes cost, every rag of them, 
and how many clean collars and 
handkerchiefs I have in the week." 

• 

" I am sure she need not trouble 
herself about how much your clothes 
cost, since you pay for them your- 
self," Mrs. Gerald said, her face 
very red. "And if she grudges 
you clean collars, send your linen 
home, and I will have it washed 
there." 

" Oh ! she has no such thought," 
Lawrence made haste to say. 
" She doesn't mean to . be cross 
about any of these things, but only 
prying. She wants to overlook 
everybody and everything in the 
house, and it annoys me. I only 
tell you so that you may not won- 
der if I do speak out now and then 
about some small thing. Then 
what do you think she has pro- 
posed about my going into busi- 
ness?" 

" Well .?" Mrs. Gerald said un- 
easily. 

" She has selected a partner for 



me. 



f> 



His mother waited for an expla- 
nation. 

" And who should it be but 
John!" 

" John who .^" asked Mrs. Gerald 
wonderingly, trying to recollect 



Grapes and TJtarns. 



79 



some notable person of that name 

among her youthful acquaintances. 
"Why, I do not know that he 

has any other name. The big En- 
glish fellow who lets you in here, 
and waits at dinner, and opens and 
Sluts the carriage-door." 

" What ! you do not mean the 
footman V Mrs. Gerald cried. 

Her son laughed bitterly. " I asked 
her if he was to open the shop-door, 
and carry parcels, and if he would 
have the same sort of cockade on 
his hat, and she got quite angry 
about it. She says he has saved a 
good deal of money, and means 
to go into business, and she thinks 
1 couldn't have a better partner. 
What do you think of it, mother?'* 

Mrs. Gerald leaned back in her 
chair, and put her hand up to her 
face, half hiding a blush of vexation. 

She was not willing to tell Law- 
rence all she thought of the mat- 
ter. "What does Annette say .^*' she 



as 



kcd. 



" Annette vetoed the proposal 
'!p and down. IVe heard nothing 
of it for a week or more. I only 
told you because you seem to think 
me too difficult." 

Mrs. Gerald sighed. She had 
hoped to see her son busy and con- 
tented after his marriage, and she 
found him only more idle and dis- 
satisfied than before. With the 
partiality of a mother, she tried 
still to find him unfortunate instead 
of blameworthy, and, rather than 
^c any fault in him, looked only 
at his difficulties, refusing to recol- 
lect how easily he could now over- 
come them all. She fancied erro- 
neously that to suggest to him that 
his trials had a good deal of bright- 
ness to relieve them, would be to 
■•how a lack of sympathy and ten- 
derness, and that the best way to 
comfort him ivas to let him see 
that his annoyances showed in her 



eyes as misfortunes. It was a mis- 
take which, in her over-sensitive 
affection, she had always made with 
him. 

His wife acted otherwise. " There 
is no use in anticipating evil, Law- 
rence," she said. " Perhaps that 
may be the means of bringing it 
about. Fortune loves a smiling coun- 
tenance. As to mamma's plans and 
wishes with regard to John, the best 
way for us is to assume that it is 
impossible she should ever regard 
him as anything but a servant. 
And, indeed," she concluded with 
dignity, " I think she never can do 
otherwise." 

But this assumption did not pre- 
vent young Mr. Gerald from going 
privately to F. Chevreuse, and beg- 
ging him to interfere and try to 
bring her mother to reason ; and 
perhaps Mrs. Ferrier was never so 
near being in open revolt against 
her pastor as when he undertook to 
show her that there were certain 
social distinctions which it was her 
duty to recognize and respect. 

" I think, F. Chevreuse," she said 
stiffly, " that a priest might do 
better than encourage pride and 
haughtiness." 

" He could scarcely do worse 
than encourage them," he replied 
calmly ; " and it is precisely against 
these sins that I would put you on 
your guard. Persons are never 
more in danger of falling into them 
than when they are complaining of 
the pride of others, and trying to 
reform what they conceive to be 
the abuses of society and the world. 
The only reformer whom I respect, 
and who is in a thoroughly safe 
way, is that one who strives to reform 
and perfect himself. When he is 
perfect, then he can begin to cor- 
rect the faults of others. More- 
over, the established customs and 
distinctions of society have often a 



8o 



Grapes and T/iorns. 



good foundation, and are not light- 
ly to be set aside. What would you 
say if your chambermaid should in- 
sist on sitting down to dinner with 
you and driving out with you ?" 

Mrs. Ferrier found herself unpre- 
pared to answer. Indeed, no lady 
could be more peremptory and ex- 
acting than she was with all her 
servants except John. She was 
not yet ready to explain that her 
generalities all had reference to one 
exceptional case. 

" But John is not at all a common 
servant," she ventured to say. 
" He never lived out but once be- 
fore, and then it was with a very 
grand family in England; and he 
wouldn't have come here wuth us, 
only that he wanted to look round 
a while before setting up business. 
I had to coax him to come, and 
give him the very highest wages. 
And Annette did all she could to 
persuade him." 

" John is an excellent man, I am 
sure," F. Chevreusc replied. "I 
hope he will succeed in whatever 
good work he attempts. But we 
were speaking of your daughter's 
husband. My advice is that he re- 
turn to the office whete he was be- 
fore, and remain there till something 
better presents itself. I do not ap- 
prove of any large and showy en- 
terprise for him. It would not suit 
him. In that office his salary 
would be enough to render him 
quite independent, and leave him a 
little to lay up." 

" Lay up !" repeated Mrs. Ferrier, 
with an incredulous circumflex. 

" He will put one-half his income 
into his wife's hands, and she can do 
as she will with it," F. Chevreuse 
replied. " Annette has spoken to 
me about it, and it is his own pro- 
posal. She will put the money in 
bank every month. What he keeps 
will be his own alTair, and what she 



takes will be a small fund for the 
future, and will relieve a little that 
painful feeling he must have in liv- 
ing here without paying anything. 
It is decidedly the best that can be 
done at present. Besides," he add- 
ed, seeing objection gathering in 
her face, **it may save you some- 
thing. The young man is not to 
blame that he is not rich, and he is 
quite ready to take his wife home 
to his own mother, and Annette is 
quite willing to go, if necessary. 
They might live there very happily 
and pleasantly ; but as, in that case, 
Lawrence would be the one on 
whom all the expense would fall, I 
presume you would make your 
daughter an allowance which would 
place her on an equality with him." 

Mrs. Ferrier was forced to con- 
sent. Nothing was further from 
her wish than to be separated from 
her daughter, not only because she 
was more than usually solicitous 
for Annette's happiness, and wished 
to assure herself constantly that 
her husband did not neglect her, 
but because she had an almost in- 
sane desire to watch Lawrence in 
every way. Nothing so piques the 
curiosity of a meddlesome person 
as to see any manifestation of a de- 
sire to baffle their searching. The 
annoyance naturally felt and often 
shown by one who finds himself 
suspiciously observed is always 
taken by such persons as a proof 
that there is something wrong 
which he is desirous to conceal. 
Moreover, John had let fall a word 
of advice which she was not dispos- 
ed to disregard. 

She had been complaining of her 
son-in-law. 

" You had better let him pretty 
much alone, ma'am," the man re- 
plied. " You'll never drive him to 
being a sober fellow, nor indus- 
trious. Scolding doesn't mend 



Grapes and Thorns. 



8i 



broken china. I have a plan in my 
mind for them which I will tell you 
after a while, when the right time 
comes. He wouldn't thank me for 
it now; but by-and-by, if he doesn't 
drink himself to death first, he may 
think my advice is worth listen- 
ing to. " 

John had a quiet, laconic way 
which sometime^ impressed others 
besides his mistress, and she did not 
venture to oppose him openly, nor 
even to insist on hearing what his 
mysterious plan might be. 

It was, altogether, a miserable 
state of affairs, one of those situa- 
tions almost more unbearable than 
circumstances of affliction, for the 
cares were mean, the annoyances 
and mortifications petty; and the 
mind, which is ennobled by great 
trials, was cramped and lowered by 
the constant presence of small 
troubles which it would fain disre- 
gard, but could not. For, after all, 
these small troubles were the signs 
of a great one threatening. It was 
plain that Lawrence Gerald, if not 
stopped, was going to kill himself 
with drinking. His frame was too 
delicately organized to bear the 
alternate fierce heats and wretched 
depressions to which he was sub- 
jecting it, and more than one 
sharp attack of illness had given 
warning that he was exhausting his 
vitality. 

F. Chevreuse came upon him 
suddenly one day when he was 
suffering from one of these attacks. 
The priest had called at Mrs. 
Ferrier's, and, learning that Law- 
rence was in his room, too unwell 
to go out, went up-stairs to him 
somewhat against Annette's wish. 

'* I will take the responsibility," 
he said laughingly. "The boy wants 
me to wake him up; you women 
are too gentle. You are petting 
him to death. No, my lady, I do 

VOL. XIX. — 6 



not want your company. I can 
find my own way." 

And accordingly Lawrence open- 
ed his eyes a few minutes later 
to see F. Chevreuse standing by 
the sofa where he lay in all the 
misery of a complete physical and 
mental prostration. 

The priest drew a chair close to 
him, taking no notice of the evident 
disinclination of the young man to 
his society. "Now, my boy," he 
said, laying a hand on the invalid's 
shrinking arm, "are you dosing 
yourself up to go through the same 
bad business again ? What has 
come over you ? Come ! come ! 
Wake up, and be a man. You are 
too good to throw away in this 
fashion." 

The young man turned his face 
away with a faint moan of utter 
discouragement. " I am not worth 
bothering about. I've played my 
stake in life, and lost, and what is 
left is good for nothing. Besides, 
if I tried, I shouldn't succeed. 
Why do you trouble yourself about 
me } I tell you that what there is 
left of me isn't worth saving." 

He spoke with bitter impatience, 
and made a gesture as if he would 
have sent his visitor away. 

F. Chevreuse was not so easily 
to be dismissed. 

"The devil thinks differently," 
he remarked, without stirring. " He 
♦s fighting hard for you. Rouse 
yourself, and join with those who 
are fighting against him! You 
have an idea that, because you have 
made mistakes and committed sins, 
you must lay down your arms. 
Nonsense ! There are all the lives 
of the saints against you. Some 
of them never began to try till they 
found themselves on the brink of 
destruction. You fancy, too, that 
because you and your family have 
had misfortunes, and because you 



82 



Grapes and Thorns^ 



have not been very successful in 
trying to become a rich man, you 
must stand humbly aside for 
cleverer men, and ask no favors. 
You're all wrong. God made you, 
and put you into the world, just as 
he has the rest of us, and you have 
a right to the light and air, and to 
repair your mistakes and repent of 
your sins, without troubling your- 
self too much about what people say 
and think, and to do the best you 
can in worldly affairs without being 
humbled or ashamed if you can't 
fill your pocket with money quite 
as readily as some can. Let the 
money go, but don't let your man- 
liness go, and don't throw away 
your soul. You are talking non-* 
sense when you say that you are 
worthless. Respect yourself, and 
compel others to respect you, Law- 
rence. Nerve yourself, call up 
your good resolutions, and ask 
God to help you. Despair is a 
crime !" 

The young man put his arm up, 
and covered his face with it, as 
though to hide an emotion he was 
ashamed of; or, perhaps, because 
the light hurt his eyes. " If I could 
forget everything, and sleep for a 
month without waking, I don't 
know but I could begin again and 
try to do better," he said faintly. 
" But there is no life in me now for 
anything." 

F. Chevreuse rose immediately. 
" Rest, then, if that is what you 
need," he said kindly. " Rest, and 
forget everything painful. If any 
tormenting thought comes, say a 
little prayer, and tell it to begone. 
Don't drink any liquor to quiet 
your mind. Let Annette get you 
some gentle sedative. I'll tell her 
to keep everybody away from you, 
and let you lie here six months, if 
you want to. But when you are 
better, come to see me." 



He was standing, ready to go, 
but waited for an answer. There 
was none. He spoke more ear- 
nestly. 

" You know well it is for the best, 
Lawrence ; and I want you to pro- 
mise to come to me when you are 
able to go out, before you go to see 
any one else." 

"Well, I will. I promise you." 

But the promise was given, ap- 
parently, only to get rid of the sub- 
ject, and F. Chevreuse went away 
feeling that he had accomplished 
nothing. 

Annette went directly to her hus- 
band, somewhat timid as to the re* 
ception she might meet with ; but if 
he was displeased at having had a 
visitor, he did not seem to hold her 
responsible. He took the glass 
containing the opiate from her 
hand, and set it down beside him. 
"After a while," he said. "And 
now I am going to lock every one 
out of the room, and try to go to 
sleep. If I want anything, I will 
ring." 

She began to make some little 
arrangements for his comfort, but, 
perceiving that they irritated him, 
desisted, and left him to himself. 
As she went along the passage, she 
heard the lock click behind her. 
Oddly enough, this little rudeness 
gave her a feeling of pleasure, for it 
showed that he felt at home there, 
and claimed a right to all that was 
hers. ^ 

"If only he will sleep!" she 
thought. 

He did not sleep. His first act 
was to throw away the opiate she 
had brought. " Some such dose as 
they give to teething babies, I sup- 
pose," he muttered. Then he 
seated himself on the sofa, and, 
clasping his hands over his head, 
as if to still the bursting pain there, 
remained buried in thought. One 



Grapes and Thorns. 



83 



r could sec that he was trying to 
study out some problem in his 
i miod, but that difficulties present- 
I ed themselves. More than once 
his eyes wandered to a little writ- 
ing-desk opposite him, and fixed 
themselves there. "It would re- 
move the only obstacle," he said; 
"and yet how can I ? That would 
be going over it all again. Now I 
am not to blame, but only unfortu- 
nate; but if I do that ..." 

It was pitiable to see a young 
face so distorted by pain of mind 
and body, and to see also that the 
pain was stinging him into still 
more angry revolt. 

He began pacing up and down 
the room, and, in his doubt and dis- 
tress, seized upon one of those 
strange modes of solving the ques- 
tion in his mind which, trivial as 
they are, most persons have at 
some time in their lives had re- 
course to. 

"If there is an odd number of 
squares in the carpet from comer 
to comer of the room, I will do it," 
he said, and began to count them. 
The number was odd. But, appar- 
ently, he wished to make assurance 
doubly sure, for he next counted 
the stucco ornaments on the ceil- 
ing. " Odd again ! Now for the 
third trial." He glanced about in 
search of the object which was to 
decide his fate, and spied a large 
patriarchal fly that had crawled out 
of its winter hiding-place, and was 
clumsily trying its wings. 

" If he can fly over that cord, I 
viil go," he said; and since this 
was the last trial, and the poor in- 
sect seemed to him something like 
himself at that moment, he watched 
vith breathless interest its eflbrts to 
surmount the great obstacle of the 
curtain-cord that lay in its path. 
The little creature attempted to 
crawl over, but, losing its balance, 



tumbled off and lay helplessly on 
its back. The young man set it 
carefully and tenderly on its feet 
once more. " Now do your best," 
he said. " You and I have made a 
failure, but we will try once again." 

Inspired, it would seem, by this 
encouragement, the fly put out its 
wings, gathered all its energies, and 
flew over the cord, tumbling igno- 
miniously on its back again at the 
other side. 

Lawrence Gerald did not give 
himself the trouble to assist again 
his fallen friend, but went promptly 
to pull the bell-tassel. He had 
thrown off* all responsibility, and, 
choosing to see in these trivial 
chances the will and guidance of 
some intelligence wiser than his 
own, resolved instantly on following 
where they pointed. 

" I dare say I shall stumble like 
that clumsy fly, but I shall succeed 
in the end. At all events, I will 
try. I can't and won't stay here 
any longer. It is torment for me, 
and I don't do any one else any 
good." He seemed to be arguing 
with some invisible companion. 
" They will be better without me. 
Besides, it was not I who decided. 
I left it to chance. If it was . . ." 

His wife entering interrupted the 
soliloquy. She found him lying 
down, as she had left him, but with 
a color in his face that would have 
looked like returning health, if it 
had not been a little too deep. 

He stretched his hand out, and 
drew her to the footstool by his 
side. "Now, Ninon," he said 
coaxingly, " I want you to be a good 
girl, and arrange something for me 
so that I shall not be annoyed by 
questions nor opposition. It's no- 
thing but a whim; but no matter 
for that. I want to go to New 
York for a day or two, by myself, 
you know, and I must start to-night. 



84 



Grapes and TJiorns. 



I'm not going to do any harm, I 
promise you. I feel a good deal 
better, and I believe the little 
journey will cure me. The train 
starts at eight o'clock, and it is now 
five. It won't take me half an 
hour to get ready. Will you man- 
age it for me, and keep the others 
off my shoulders V* 

She consented promptly and 
vjuietly, asking no questions. If 
he should choose to tell her any- 
thing, it was well ; if not, it was the 
same. She knew the meaning of 
this coaxing tenderness too well to 
presume upon it. It meant simply 
that she could be useful to him. 

" What is he going to New York 
for?" demanded Mrs. Ferrier, 
when Annette made the announce- 
ment down-stairs. 

'* Mamma, you must not expect 
me to tell all my husband's busi- 
ness," the young woman answered 
rather loftily. 

Poor Annette did not wish to ac- 
knowledge that she knew no more 
of her husband's affairs or motives 
tlian her mother did. 

" Then he will want his dinner 
earlier?" was the next question, 
Mrs. Ferrier having, by an effort, 
restrained her inclination to make 
any further complaints. 

No ; all he wanted was luncheon, 
and his wife had ordered that to be 
carried up-stairs. 

" I suppose I am not allowed to 
ask how long he will be gone ?" re- 
marked the mother. 

" Oh ! certainly, mamma ; but 
that is not quite settled," Annette 
said pleasantly. "It depends on 
circumstances. A few days, proba- 
bly, will be the most." 

When Annette went up-stairs 
again, her husband was dressed for 
his journey. A valise, locked and 
strapped, lay on the sofa at his el- 
bow, and his wrappings were strewn 



about. She observed that the oak 
writing-desk, that had not been 
opened for months, to her know- 
ledge, had been opened now. The 
key was in the lock, and the lid was 
slightly raised. She noticed, too, 
that a little inner cover had been 
torn out, and lay on the carpet, bro- 
ken in two. 

" The carriage will be round in a 
few minutes," she said. " I thought 
you would want plenty of time to 
buy your ticket and get a good 
seat." 

He merely nodded in reply, but 
looked at her wistfully, as if touch- 
ed by her ready compliance with 
his wishes, and desirous to see if 
any pain or displeasure were hidden 
under her quietness. 

But he detected no sign of any 
such feelings. She was merely ex- 
amining his fur gloves, to make sure 
that the buttons were on, looking 
narrowly to the strap of his cloak, 
busying herself in . the most com- 
monplace manner with his prepara- 
tions. 

"Shall I go to the station with 
you ?" she asked carelessly. 

" I wish you would." His tone 
was quite earnest. 

Annette had arranged it so that 
they went down-stairs while her 
mother was at dinner ; and though 
the dining-room door had been left 
ajar, before Mrs. Ferrier had time 
to leave her seat or call out, the 
two had left the house, and were 
driving through the clear starlight. 

" Annette," her husband said 
suddenly, " I've been thinking that 
if I had a boy, I would bring him 
up very strictly. No matter how 
much I might wish to indulge him, 
I would resist the wish. He should 
be taught to control himself from 
fear, if he had no other motive. 
He should be made hardy, and 
healthy, and active. I wouldn't 



Grapes and Thorns. 



85 



allow him mucn time to dream 
and think of himself; he should be 
kept busy ; and I would never let 
him depend on any one, or sit still 
and fancy that some great fortune 
were going to drop into his hands 
without any effort on his part." 

Mrs. Gerald was silent, astonished 
by this unexpected lecture, of which 
she quite well understood the 
meaning. He would have no child 
of his brought up as he had been. 
But why should he speak of it 
now? 

"There's too much liberty and 
recklessness among young men," he 
went on. "They have too much 
their own way. Parents ought to 
see what misery it will lead to. If 
they don't care for what the child 
may make them suffer, they ought 
to recollect what the child has got 
to suffer when at last it wakes up 
to life as it is, and finds itself with 
ruinous tastes and habits, and not 
one right idea of anything. I am 
inclined to believe that it would be 
better for half the children in the 
world if they were brought up and 
trained by the state instead of by 
their own parents." 

They had reached the station, 
and he stepped slowly out of the 
carriage. His wife ventured to ask 
how long he would stay away. 

"Oh ! Tve nothing to do in New 
York," he said carelessly. "I 
ihaJl not stay there more than two 
or three days." 

He leaned into the carriage, and 
took her hands. In the darkness 
she could not see his face, though 
the light from outside shone in her 
own ; but his voice was tender and 
regretful, even solemn. " Good-by, 
dear," he said. " You have been 
only too good to me. May God re- 
ward you!" 

He bent to kiss the hands he 
held, then hurried away before she 



had recovered herself sufficiently to 
speak. 

"What a good-by it was!" she 
thought with a startled heart. 
" One would think he were never 
coming back again." 

He did come back, though, and 
Sooner than he was expected. He 
appeared at the door the next eve- 
ning, nearly falling in, indeed, so 
that John had to steady him. An- 
nette had run out of the drawing- 
room on hearing the servant's ex- 
clamation, but, at sight of her hus- 
band in such a state, was about to 
turn back in disgust. 

" It isn't liquor, ma'am," John 
said. " Something's the matter 
with him. I told you yesterday 
that he wasn't fit to go away. Just 
push that chair this way for him to 
sit down in, and bring him a glass 
of wine." 

" I had to come back," the young 
man said. " I was sicker than I 
thought, and not able to go on. I 
don't know how I reached Crich- 
ton ; and just now, walking up from 
the station, the cold wind on my 
forehead made me dizzy. I thought 
I should feel better to walk. Don't 
be frightened, Annette. I can go 
up-stairs now." 

He had every symptom of fever, 
and before morning had grown so 
much worse that a doctor was sent 
for, though much against his will. 

" I don't believe in doctors," he 
protested. " My mother always 
cured me when I was sick without 
sending for a doctor. It's all guess- 
work. They only know what you 
tell them, and they sit and stare at 
you, and ask you questions when 
you don't want to speak a word. I 
hate to have a doctor look at me." 

Mr. Gerald was indeed a very 
difficult patient for both doctor and 
nurse, irritable beyond expression, 
and nervous to the verge of deli- 



86 



Grapes and Thorns. 



rium. At first no one was allowed 
near him but his mother. Then he 
found her tender sadness depress- 
ing, and insisted on having his wife 
in her place. Finally he begged 
John to take care of him. 

" Keep the women away, if you 
don't want me to lose my senses," 
he said to the man. " They start 
and turn pale or red every time I 
cough or speak in my sleep ; and 
even when they pretend not to 
notice, I know they are watching 
me all the time. I don't dare to 
groan, or sigh, or rave, though it 
would sometimes do me good. I 
want somebody by me who doesn't 
care whether I live or die, but who 
just does what I ask him to. Let 
Louis open the door and sit up in 
the dicky. It's what he was made 
for. He's far more of a footman 
than you." 

"I wouldn't give either of you 
your salt as footman," John retort- 
ed, smiling grimly. But he did not 
refuse to assume the post of nurse, 
and, having undertaken it, rendered 
himself so useful and unobtrusive 
that the others all gave way to him, 
and the sick man had no disposition 
to change again. He seemed a 
rather hard, dry man, but he was 
patient, and showed none of that 
obtrusive attention which is some- 
times more troublesome to an in- 
valid than neglect. If Lawrence 
groaned and tossed about, the at- 
tendant took no notice of him ; if he 
said, " John, don't leave me alone a 
minute," the man would sit by his 
side all night, as untired, apparently, 
as a man of wood. 

So three nights passed, and still 
the invalid grew worse. 

" Wouldn't you like to have me 
read some prayers to you, sir.^" the 
watcher asked one night. "They 
might quiet you." 

Lawrence broke out impatiently : 



" Do you think I am going to die ? 
I am not. That is what the women 
are all crying about. Mrs. Ferrier 
came in to-day, and told me she was 
having Masses said for me, and 
sprinkled mc with holy water till I 
was drenched. And Bettie, when 
she sat here to-day while you were 
away, rattled her beads and cried 
all the time, till I told her to get 
out of the room. That's the way 
with some people. The minute a 
fellow is sick, they try their best to 
scare him to death. Why don't you 
offer to read the paper to me, or 
tell me an amusing story? Give 
me the opiate now." 

" The doctor said you were not 
to take another till twelve o'clock," 
the attendant said. 

" I don't care for the doctor's or- 
ders. Give it to me now. I know 
best what I need." 

"I believe you do," John said 
quietly, and gave him the opiate. 

But in spite of care, and of a de- 
termination to recover, the illness 
grew upon him, till finally the phy- 
sicians intimated that if he had any 
religious preparations to make, they 
had better not be delayed any long- 
er, for his strength was rapidly 
wasting, and they could not pro- 
mise that the result would not be 
fatal. 

Mrs. Ferrier went in great distress 
to F. Chevreuse. 

"What shall we do?" she asked. 
"After having refused to see a 
priest, and flown into a rage when- 
ever we mentioned the subject, at 
last he is willing to have one. But he 
will see no one but F. O'Donovan ; 
and F. O'Donovan is laid up with 
gout, so that he cannot move hand 
or foot. I went out to him to-day, 
and I thought that if he could pos- 
sibly be wrapped up and brought in 
in a carriage, I would ask him ; but, 
father, I couldn't have the face to 



Grapes and Thorns. 



87 



speak of it. The doctor doesn't 
allow him to stir out of his room. 
Even Mrs. Getald sees that it can't 
be done. I've begged Lawrence to 
listen to reason, but he is so set 
that if he had asked to have the 
Pope himself, he'd be mad if we 
didn't send a messenger to Rome. 

I could send to L for a priest, 

but that might be too late. He is 
faDing very much. I do wish you'd 
go once again, father." 

F. Chevreuse had already been 
twice, and had been denied admit- 
tance in terms anything but re- 
spectful. 

"Certainly I will go," he said. 
" I should have come up this eve- 
ning, if I had not been sent for. 
Poor Lawrence! I cannot under- 
ttand why he should have such a 
prejudice against me." 

It was early twilight when they 
reached the house, and, as they en- 
tered, the lamps burned with a faint 
ray, as if they, like all sounds and 
sights in that place, had been muf- 
fled. 

"You go right up and tell him 
there's no one to be got but me," 
F. Chevreuse said. 

But Mrs. Ferrier shrank back. 
"He never will consent if I ask 
him." 

"Annette, then." 

"He won't allow Annette near 
him/* the mother sighed. 

" John," said the priest, ** will you 
go up and tell Mr. Gerald that I 
am here to see him ?" 

"I wouldn't venture to, sir," 
John answered. " I don't believe 
it's of any use; and if you'd take 
my advice, sir . . ." 

Even Mrs. Ferrier was scandal- 
ized by the man's presumption, and 
faltered out an " O John !" 

** I will go myself," F. Chevreuse 
interrupted. " Stay down here, all 
you people, and say the rosary for 



my success. Say it with all your 
hearts. And don't come up-stairs 
till you are called." 

As he went up, a door near the 
landing softly opened, and in it 
stood the young wife with a face so 
woful and deathlike that tears would 
have seemed joyful in comparison. 
She said not a word, but stood and 
looked at the priest in a kind of 
terror. 

"My poor child!" he said pity- 
i^g^y> " why do you stay here alone, 
killing yourself with grief ? Go and 
stay with your mother and Honora 
till I come down." 

She made that painful effort to 
speak which shows that the mouth 
and throat are dry, and, when words 
came, they were but a whisper. 
"O father!" she said, "don't go 
in there if you have any human 
weakness left in you ! You have 
to be an angel and not a man to 
hear my husband's confession. 
Find some one else for him. He 
will not speak to you." 

" Never fear, child !" he answered 
firmly. " I may have human weak- 
ness, but I have the strength of 
God to help me resist it." 

She watched him as he softly 
opened the door of the chamber 
where her husband lay, heard the 
faint cry that greeted him : " Not 
you! not you!" then the door 
closed, and she was alone again. 

The priest approached the bed, 
and spoke with gentleness, yet 
with authority : " F. O'Donovan 
is too sick to come ; and if you 
wait for another to be sent for, it 
will be too late. Think of your 
soul, and let everything else go. 
In a few hours you may be in the 
presence of God, listening to your 
eternal doom. What will you care 
then, my poor boy, who helped you 
to loosen from your conscience the 
sins you have committed in this 



88 



Grapes and Thorns. 



miserable world? Xt cannot be 
because you hate me so much, this 
unwillingness. Is it because your 
hins have been so great ? There is 
no «in that I have T\ot heard con- 
fcHscd, 1 think ; and the greater it 
wa«, the greater -was my comfort 
and thankfulness tHat at last it was 
forgiven. Come, now, I am putting 
on my stole. Ask. the help of God 
and of our Blessed Mother, and 
forget who I am. K^emember only 
what I am — the minister of the mer- 
ciful Ood— and that I have no 
feeling, no thougVit, no wish, but to 

Have you.** 

Tlie bed-curtains made a still 
deeper shade in that shadowed 
room, and out from the dimness 
the fiu e of the sick man gleamed 
white and wild. 

** I cannot l" he said. " You would 
not want to hear me if you knew. 
You would never give me absolu- 
tion. You do not know what my 

binH are.'* 

The priest seated himself by the 
liedhide, and took in his strong, 
magnetic: hand the thm and shak- 
ing hand of the penitent. "No 
matter what you may tell me, you 
cannot Hiirpri»*e me,'* he said. 
"'J'hoiigh you should have com- 
mitted bar rilege and every crime, I 
rannot, if I would, refuse you abso- 
lution. And I would not wish to. I 
hilVd (inly pity *^n^ l^vc for you. 
Tell \\\c all now, as if you were 
telling yuur own soul. Have no 

Icar. 

** No priest ever before heard 
biu h a ronfeHHion !** The words 
rame faiiuly. ** You do not know.*' 

»* ConlViirt, in the name of God!*' 
rei)eatt»l tht^ priejit. "The flames 
i)i he II arc* harder to bear than any 
anger iA mine run be. God has 
bcnl ine hiih«*i'. "»»d I luwo only to 
obey ljin», **»>*^ \\'^W\\ to your con- 
fcb:>ion, wbauvri It may be U is 



not my choice nor yours. We are 
both commanded." 

"Promise me that I shall have 
absolution ! Promise me that you 
will forgive me !*' prayed the young 
man, clinging to the hand that he 
had at first shrunk from. " I didn't 
mean to do what I have done, and 
I have suffered the torments of the 
damned for it." 

" I have no right to refuse abso- 
lution when you are penitent," was 
the answer, "The person who re- 
pents and confesses has a right to 
absolution." 

" You will give it to me, no matter 
what I may tell you .?" 

"No matter what you may tell 
me," repeated the priest. "The 
mercy of God is mighty. Though 
you should hem yourself in with 
sins as with a wall of mountains, 
he can overlook them. Though 
you should sink in the lowest 
depths of sin, his hand can reach 
you. A sinner cannot be moved 
to call on the name of the Lord, 
unless the Lord should move him 
and have the merciful answer ready. ' 
I have blessed you. How long is 
it since your last confession.?" 

The sick man half raised himself, 
and pointed across the room. 

" There is a crucifix on the table," 
he said. "Go and kneel before 
that, and ask God to strengthen 
you for a hard trial. Then, if 
you come back to me, I will con- 
fess." 

F. Chevreuse started up, and 
stood one instant erect and rigid, 
with his face upraised. Then he 
crossed the room, knelt before the 
crucifix, and held it to his breast 
during a moment of wordless pray- 
er. As a sigh reached him through 
the stillness of the chamber, he laid 
the crucifix down, and returned to 
the bedside. 

"In the name of God, confess. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



«9 



tnd have no fear/' he said gently. 
"Have no fear !" 

The penitent lay with his face 
half turned to the pillow, and the 
bed was trembling under him ; but 
he no longer refused to speak. 

To the company down-stairs it 
seemed a very long interview. Mrs. 
Ferrier, Mrs. Gerald, and Miss Pem- 
broke, kneeling together in the lit- 
tle sitting-room near the foot of 
the stairs, with the door open, had 
said the rosary, trying not to let 
their thoughts wander ; then, sitting 
silent, had listened for a descend- 
ing step, breathing each her own 
prayer now and then. Their great- 
est trouble was over. Evidently F. 
Chevreuse had overcome Lawrence 
Gerald's unwillingness to confess to 
him ; and the three women, so dif- 
ferent in all else, united in the one 
ardent belief that the prayer of 
faith would save the sick man, and 
that, when his conscience should be 
quite disburdened, and his soul en- 
lightened by the comforts and ex- 
hortations which such a man as F. 
thevreuse could offer, his body 
would feel the effects of that inward 
healing, and throw off its burden 
too. 

In an adjoining room sat Louis 
Ferrier, biting his nails, having been 
forbidden by his mother to seek 
distraction in more cheerful scenes. 
He watched the women while they 
knelt, and even drew a little nearer 
to listen to their low- voiced pray- 
er, but lacked the piety to join 
them. He was both annoyed and 
frightened by the gloomy circum- 
stances in which he found himself, 
and, like most men of slack religious 
belief and practice, felt more safe 
to have pious women by him in 
times of danger. 

John had taken his place on a 
low stool underneath the stairs, 
and had an almost grotesque ap- 



pearance of being at the same time 
hiding and alert. With his head 
advanced, and his neck twisted, he 
stared steadfastly up the stairway 
at the door within which the priest 
had disappeared. 

For nearly an hour there was no 
sound but the small ticking of a 
clock and the occasional dropping 
of a coal in the grate. Then all 
the waiting ones started and looked 
out eagerly ; for the chamber-door 
opened, and F. Chevreuse came out. 

One only did not lift her face to 
read what tidings might be written 
in the face of him who came forth 
from the sick-chamber. Kneeling, 
almost prostrate on the floor, An- 
nette Gerald still remained where 
F. Chevreuse had left her. She 
did not look up even when he 
paused by her side, and she felt 
that he was blessing her, but only 
bowed still lower before him. 

" Take comfort, my child," he 
said. " You have no reason to de- 
spair." 

She looked up quickly into his 
face, with an almost incredulous 
hope in her eyes. 

He was pale, but some illumina- 
tion not of earth floated about him, 
so that she could easily have believed 
she saw him upborne in air with the 
buoyancy of a spirit. The heaven- 
ly calm of his expression could not 
be described ; yet it was the calm 
of one who, reposing on the bosom 
of God, is yet aware of infinite sin 
and suffering in the world. It was 
such a look as one might imagine 
an angel guardian to wear — heaven- 
ly peace shorn of heavenly delight. 

He motioned her to rise, and she 
obeyed him. She would not then 
have hesitated, whatever he had 
bade her do. His imposing calm 
pressed her fears and doubts to a 
perfect quiet. There was nothing 
possible but obedience. 



90 



Grapes and Thorns. 



" Go to your husband, and see if 
he wants anything," he said. " Let 
him be very quiet, and he may 
sleep. To-morrow morning I shall 
bring him the Viaticum ; but I think 
he will recover." 

She went toward the chamber, 
and he descended the stairs. John, 
bending forward eagerly, caught 
sight of his face, and drew quickly 
back again, blessing himself. " The 
man is a saint !" he muttered, and 
took good care to keep himself out 
of sight. 

F. Chevreuse was met in the sit- 
ting-room door by Mrs. Gerald, 
and the other two pressed close be- 
hind her ; and when they saw him, it 
was as though a soft and gentle light 
had shone into their troubled faces. 

" You are afraid that so long an 
interview has exhausted him," he 
said. "It has not. The body is 
seldom any worse for attending to 
the affairs of the soul, and a tran- 
quil mind is the best rest. Annette 
i I with him now, and, if left undis- 
tuibed, I think he will sleep. Pray 
for him, and do not lose courage. 
God bless you ! Good-night." 

Not one of them uttered a word. 
The questions they would have ask- 
ed, and the invitation they would 
have given the priest to remain with 
them, died on their lips. Evident- 
ly he did not mean to enter the 
room, and they felt that his doing 
so was a favor for him to offer, not 
for them to ask. 

They glanced at each other as he 
went away, and Honx)ra Pembroke 
smiled. "He looks as though he 
were gazing at heaven through the 
gate of martyrdom," she said. 

But the next morning, after see- 
ing Gerald, he stopped a few minutes 
to talk with the family, and still, 
they found that indefinable air of lof- 
tiness lingering about him, imposing 
a certain distance, at the same time 



that it increased their reverence 
and affection for him. The fami- 
liar, frequently jesting, sometimes 
peremptory F. Chevreuse seemed 
to have gone away for ever ; but 
how beautiful was the substitute he 
had left, and how like him in all 
that was loftiest ! 

Lawrence was better that morn- 
ing, and gained steadily day by day. 
Nothing could exceed the care and 
tenderness with which F. Chevreuse 
watched over his recovery. He 
came every morning and evening, 
he treated him with the affection- 
of a father, and seemed to have 
charged himself with the young 
man's future. 

" I think you should let him and 
Annette go to Europe for a year," 
he said to Mrs. Ferrier. " It would 
be better for him to break off en- 
tirely from old associations, and 
have an entire change for a while. 
His health has not been good for 
some time, and his nerves are worn. 
The journey would restore him, 
and afterward we will see what can 
be done. I am not sure that it is 
well for him to live here. When a 
person is going to change his life 
very much, it is often wiser to 
change his place of abode also. 
The obstacles to improvement are 
fewer among strangers." 

The young man received this 
proposal to go abroad rather doubt- 
fully. He would not go away till 
spring, and was not sure that he 
would go then. As he grew better 
in health, indeed, he withdrew him- 
self more and more from the priest, 
and showed an uneasiness in his 
society which not all F. Chevreuse *s 
kindness could overcome. 

" You must not shun me, Law- 
rence," the priest said to him one 
day when they were alone. " You 
have done that too long, and it is 
not well. Try to look on me as 



Grapes and Thorns. 



91 



rery firmly your friend. Let me 
advise you sometimes, and be sure 
that I shall always have your good 
in view." 

Lawrence had been very nervous 
and irritable that day, and was in no 
mood to bear expostulation. " You 
can't be my friend," he replied 
with suppressed vehemence. " You 
can only be my master. You can 
only own me body and soul." 

'That is a mistake," was the 
quiet answer. " I do not own you 
any more than I do others." 

But he patiently forbore to press 
the question then. 

** Encourage him to come to me 
whenever you think I can benefit 
him," he said to Annette. " You 
can tell best. He has not quite re- 
covered his spirits yet, and it will 
do no good for me to urge him. 
Make everything as cheerful as you 
can for him. It sometimes happens 
that people get up from sickness in 
this depressed state of mind." 

"Yes!" she replied, looking 
down. 

She also had grown shy of F. 
Chevreuse, and seemed willing to 
keep out of his sight. 

But to others she was perhaps 
rather more gay than they had 
known her for some time. Her 
mother found her at once kinder 
and more exacting, and complained 
that they seemed now to have be- 
come strangers. * 

"And how nervous you have 
grown, Annette!" she said. "You 
crush everything you take hold 
of." 

" What have I crushed, mamma ?" 
asked the daughter, with a light 
laugh. " Have I made havoc 
among your bonnets or wine- 
glasses?" 

" It isn't that," Mrs. Ferrier said 
fretfully. " You squeeze people's 
liands, instead of touching them. 



Look at that baby's arm I" They 
were entertaining a baby visitor. 

Annette Gerald looked as she 
was bid. and saw the prints of her 
fingers on the soft little arm she 
had held unconsciously, and caught 
an only half-subsided quiver of the 
baby lip as the little one looked at 
her, all ready to cry with pain. 

Every woman knows at once 
how she atoned for her fault, by 
what caresses, and petting, and pro- 
testations of sorrow, and how those 
faint red marks were bemoaned as 
if they had been the stripes of a 
martyr. 

" If you touch any one's arm, you 
pinch it," the elder lady went on. 
" And you take hold of your shawl 
and your gloves and your handker- 
chief as if somebody were going to 
pull them away from you. I've 
seen your nails white when you 
held the evening paper to read, you 
griped it so; and as to taking 
glasses and cups at the table, I 
always expect to see them fly to 
pieces in your hands." 

"Isn't she an awful woman.?" 
says Mrs. Annette to the baby, 
holding it high and looking up 
into its rosy, smiling face. " Isn't 
Annette a frightfully muscular and 
dangerous person, you pink of per- 
fection.? What shall we do with 
her? She pinches little swan's- 
down arms, and makes angelic ba- 
bies pucker up their lips with grief, 
and sets tears swimming in their 
blue violets of eyes. We must do 
something dreadful to her. We must 
forgive her ; and that is very terrible. 
There is nothing so crushing, baby, 
as to be forgiven very much." 

And then, after one more toss, 
the infant was let suddenly and 
softly down, like a lapful of roses, 
over the face of its friend, and for 
an instant Annette Gerald's eyes 
were hidden in its neck. 



gz 



Grapes and Thorns. 



"Come and have a game of chess, 
Annette," her husband called out 
across the room. 

"Yes, dear!" she responded 
brightly; and, setting the child 
down, went to him at once, a red 
color in her cheeks. 

"Why do some people always 
notice such little things," he said 
frowningly, "and, instead of at- 
tending to themselves, watch how 
people take hold of cups and 
saucers, and all that nonsense, and 
fancy that some wonderful chance 
hangs on your eating butter with 
your bread, or preferring cheese?" 

Annette was engaged in placing 
the men, and did not look m her 
husband's face as she answered in 
a gentle, soothing voice : 

" It is rather annoying some- 
times, but I find the best way is to 
treat the whole jestingly. If one 
shows vexation, it looks serious. 
But you can ridicule a person out 
of hanging mountains by threads." 

He was going to answer, when 
something made him notice her 
face. The color was still bright 
there, but the cheeks were hollow, 
and dark circles had sunk beneath 
her eyes. 

" Why, you are not looking well," 
he said, only just aware of the fact. 
"Are you sick.^ Did you get 
worn out taking care of me?" 

She waited an instant till the 
others, who were leaving the room, 
should be out of sight, then leaned 
across the table, careless that her 
sleeve swept away the two armies 
she had just placed, and took her 
husband's hand in hers, and bowed 
her cheek to it with a sob. 

" O Lawrence ! Lawrence !" she 
whispered. 

He made a motion to draw his 
hand away, but let it remain. 
" My God ! what is the matter with 
you?" he exclaimed. 



She leaned back instantly, and 
made an effort to control herself. 
"It must be that I am not well. 
Don't mind me. And now, you 
will have to place your own men, 
and give me the first move." 

He placed the men, and appear- 
ed to be thinking pitifully of his 
wife as he glanced now and then 
into her face. " It seems selfish of 
me not to have taken better care 
of you, Annette," he said. 

" Oh ! you needed care yourself," 
she replied lightly. "Don't ima- 
gine that I am sick, though. It is 
nothing. You didn't marry me to 
take care of me, you know, and I 
am not very exacting." 

She would have caught back the 
last words, if she could, before it 
was too late. They escaped her 
unawares, and were a remembered, 
rather than a present, bitterness. 

He blushed faintly. " Whatever I 
married you for, I have no desire 
to exchange you now for any one 
else," he said, moving a pawn side- 
ways instead of forward. " If you 
were ever so poor, I wouldn't want 
a rich girl in your place. But then, 
you know, I'm not sentimental. I 
never was much so, and it's all 
over now. I'm thirty years old, 
and I feel a hundred. I can't re- 
member being young. I can't re- 
member being twenty years of age. I 
wish to God I could !" he burst forth. 

His wife nuade a careful move, 
and said, " I have a presentiment 
that I shall give you check in three 
moves more. Look out for your 
queen." 

" My only romance," he went on, 
"was about Honora. I thought 
that I could do and be anything, if 
she would only care about me. 
What a stately, floating creature 
she always was ! I used to think 
she looked as if she could walk on 
clouds and not fall through. Yes," 



Grapes and Thorns. 



93 



he signed, " that is where she be- 
longs — ^among the clouds. I never 
blamed her for not having me ; she 
was too good. I never was worthy 
of such a woman." 

Slowly, while he spoke, the bright 
blood had deepened in his wife's 
face, and swept over her forehead. 
Had he been less preoccupied, he 
would have seen the slight, haughty 
movement with which she drew 
herself up. It was only when he 
had waited a moment for her to 
move that he glanced up and met 
her eyes fixed on him with an ex- 
pression very like indignant scorn. 

"By what strange contradiction 
is it, I wonder," she said coldly, 
**that the woman who does most 
for a man, and is most merciful and 
charitable toward him, is never too 
good for him, while the one who 
scorns him, and will not come a step 
off her pedestal to save him, is always 
the ideal woman in his eyes ?" 

Bitter tears of utter grief and 
mortification welled up and wet 
her eyelashes. " In another world," 
she said, " when the faults and mis- 
takes of this are set right, you may 
think yourself worthy of the com- 
panionship of Honora Pembroke, 
and of any union and closeness of 
affection which that life may know. 
And then she may be given to you. 
And, Lawrence, if she would and 
could consent to take you now, I 
would not refuse to give you up. 
At this moment, if, without any 
wrong, I could see her enter the 
room, and hold out her hand to 
you, and tell you that she was 
ready to take what she had refused, 
and be to you all that you could 
wish — if it could be right that it 
should happen so, I would not utter 
one word of objection. I would 
leave you to her without a mo- 
ment's hesitation." 

While she spoke^ his hand had 



played tremblingly with the chess- 
men before him. " So you give me 
up too," he said in a low voice. 

Her proud face softened. She 
looked at him, and recollected her- 
self and him, and pity sprang up 
again and effaced indignation. " I 
do not give you up, Lawrence," she 
said gently. "I cannot and have 
no wish to ; I only spoke of what I 
would do in circumstances which 
cannot take place. You had in- 
sulted me, wiihout intending to, I 
know, and it was but natural that I 
should retort. You know that I 
would not leave you, nor give you 
up on any provocation. If you 
should leave me, I should follow 
you, because I should feel sure that 
you would sooner or later need me. 
We are one. You are mine; and 
I always stand by my own." 

He looked at her with an expres- 
sion at once penetrating and shrink- 
ing. " You would stand by me, 
Annette, whatever should happen ?" 
he asked. 

"Certainly!" she replied, but 
did not meet his eyes. " There is 
no imaginable circumstance which 
could make me desert you. And 
now, what of this game ? To your 
queen!" 

He made a motion to save his 
queen, then pushed the board aside. 
" I cannot play," he said ; " I can- 
not confine my mind to it. Sing 
me something. It is long since 
I have heard you sing." 

He threw himself into a deeply- 
cushioned chair, and leaned his 
head on his hands while she sang 
to him — knowing, how well I that a 
cheerful song would not cheer him 
nor a pious song soothe — of 

" Waters that Bow 

With a lallaby sound. 
From a spring but a very few 

Feet under ground— 
From a spring that is not Tery 

Far under ground.*' 



94 



Grapes and Thorns. 



She was a magical singer, surely ; 
and the still, cold melancholy of 
her tones was the very spirit and 
essence of death ; and, like death, 
it pierced to the heart. She sang : 

" And, oh 1 let it never 

Be foolishly said 
That my room it is gloomy, 

And narrow my bed« 
For man never slept 

In a different bed ; 
And to sleep, you must slumber 

In Just such a bed." 

She turned quickly at a sound 
behind her, and saw that her hus- 
band had buried his face in the 
cushions of the chair, and was 
trembling violently. She went to 
him, but there was no comfort to 
give nor to receive. Death alone 
could bring release for him and for 
her. She could only surround him 
with her arms while he sobbed with 
the terrible hysterical sobbing of a 
man utterly broken down, and let 
him feel that he was not alone and 
unpitied. 

" I don't know what ails me,'* he 
said at length, trying to control 
himself. " Don't mind me, Annette. 
My nerves seem to be all unstrung. 
It must be that fever." 

" Oh ! don't, Lawrence ; please 
don't!" she said faintly. 

He became silent all at once, and 
it seemed as though a chill had pass- 
ed over him. She sighed drearily, 
and smoothed his hair with her hand. 
" Trust your wife," she said. " I 
am by you always." 

" You are not afraid of me V He 
seemed to ask the question with a 
kind of terror. 

" My poor Lawrence ! no. I do 
not fear you as much as you do me. 
Don't have such fancies." 

She did not explain in what con- 
fessional she had learned his secret ; 
in what troubled sleep wherein the 
unwary tongue speaks; in what 
more troubled waking, when the eyes 
and actions speak ; or in what sud- 



den suspicion and enlightenment, 
coming she knew not whence. She 
told nothing, and he asked nothing, 
only leaned on her bosom, and 
wept again as though all his man- 
hood had departed. 

"O Annette!" he said, "I 
dreamed last night that I was a 
little boy, and that I stood by my 
mother while she brushed my hair 
into curls round her finger. I 
thought I had been away a long 
distance, and come back again, and 
I stood quite still, and remembered 
another childhood before I took 
that journey. I was so glad to be 
back — as glad as I should be now if 
I could go back. Some way I could 
see that my hair was golden, and 
that my mother smiled as she brush- 
ed it, though I did not look at her. 
Such dreams are always coming to 
me now. As soon as I go to sleep, 
I am a child that has been away 
and is solemnly glad to be back 
again. And then I wake, and am 
dnhell!" 

She went on smoothing his hair 
steadily. 

" Some time soon the dream will 
come true," she said. "Do the 
best you can. Do justice to the 
wronged. Come away with me, 
and we will hide ourselves some- 
where in the world, and try to find 
peace for the days that are left. 
And by-and-by, Lawrence, will 
come the day when we shall both 
be as little children again, and all 
our terrible burdens will slip off. 
You must do justice to the wrong- 
ed." 

"In some way, yes!" he said. 
" I have tried to think. He must 
be saved. But I cannot go away. 
Do you remember ever having been 
afraid to go up-stairs in the dark, 
of having felt sure that there was 
some one behind just ready to 
grasp you, till you screamed out in 



Grapes and Thorns^ 



9S 



terror? It would be like that with 
me. If once I turn my back on 
this place, my life will become a 
crazy flight." 

"Tht world is wide," she urg- 
ed, "and there are safe places 
enough in it. Besides, money can 
buy anything; and he has forgiven 
you. He will screen you." 

"My mother!" he exclaimed. 
"HTio will screen and save her? 
I will not destroy her, Annette. 
Ko, everybody in the world may 
perish first. I never will destroy 
my mother. I have done harm 
enough." 

"He will die in prison," she 
whispered. '* He has sent to Ger- 
many for help, and it did him no 
good. He has demanded a new 
trial, and there was not enough to 
justify them in granting it. He is 
in a net from which there seems to 
be no escape. They say that he 
will die." 

"You want to make me crazy!" 
her husband cried out, pushing her 
fiercely from him. "Go away! 
Vou are worse than the rest." 

There was no way but to yield to 
him. ** Well, well, Lawrence ! I will 
try to think of some other means." 
The season had reached early 
spring, and one tempestuous eve- 
ning in March, as F. Chevreuse sat 
at home, making up some church 
accounts, feeling quite sure that he 
should not be interrupted, he heard 
the street-door softly open and shut, 
then a tap at the door of the room. 
" Strange that Jane should leave 
that street-door unlocked !" he 
thought, and at the same moinent 
heard the servant coming up-stairs 
from the kitchen. Her quick ear 
had caught the sound, and she, too, 
#as wondering how she could have 
omitted to fasten the house up. 

The door of F. Chevreuse's sit- 
ting-room was quickly opened, and 



shut again in Jane's face, and a 
woman stood inside. It was An- 
nette Gerald, wrapped in a large 
waterproof cape, with the hood over 
her head. 

" Send Jane away !" she said 
hurriedly. " Don't let her in here ! 
Don't let her see me !" 

Here Jane opened the door and 
put her head in, eyeing curiously 
the visitor, whose back was turned 
to her. " I'm sure I shut the door 
and bolted it, father," she began, 
and took a step into the room. 

(( T »» 

JL . . . 

"No matter! I'll see to it," the 
priest said, waving her away. 

" Oh ! well, only I'm sure I lock- 
ed it. And perhaps you'd like to 
have this lamp ..." 

" Jane !" he exclaimed, standing 
up, " when I dismiss you, you are 
to go." 

Jane retired, grumbling. 

" She will listen at the door," his 
visitor said. 

F. Chevreuse flung the door open, 
and discovered his domestic linger- 
ing about the head of the stairs, af- 
fecting to examine an imaginary 
hole in the carpet. 

"Once for all, Jane," he said, 
" if you wish to remain in my house, 
you must not presume, nor show 
any curiosity about my aff*airs, nor 
the affairs of those who come to 
me. Go down into the kitchen, 
and shut the door, and stay there." 

Jane, albeit not very subordinate, 
was completely awed by a display 
of authority such as she had never 
seen before. She did not venture 
to resist nor complain, but returned 
without delay to her own place. 

F. Chevreuse waited till he heard 
the kitchen-door close with some- 
what unnecessary force, then re- 
turned to his visitor. 

" What has brought you out to- 
night?" he asked in a low voice. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



"Let me get my breath!" She 
was almost gasping. "Jane gave 
me such a fright that my heart is in 
my mouth." 

lie set a chair for her, and seated 
himself near, waiting till she should 
be able to speak. " You had better 
shake the snow off your cloak," he 
said. 

She made a gesture of impatient 
refusal. 

The rude mantle had slipped 
aside, and revealed a strangely 
contrasting toilet beneath. There 
was a shining of lustrous pale-green 
silk with delicately-wrought laces, 
a glimmer of emeralds and dia- 
monds, and glimpses of pink roses 
set in bunches of green grass. 

" I ha\'t been to the prison," she 
whispered. 

F. Che V reuse frowned, and drop- 
ped his eyes. 

" The man is a fool !" she exclaim- 
ed. " He will not be saved. I had 
bought one of the guard. It was 
the hour for supper, and the man 
let me in, and promised that for ten 
minutes I might do as I pleased, 
and he would see and know nothing. 
I went into the corridor, and found 
the cell-door unlocked. Every- 
thing was ready, was perfect ; for 
the storm would prevent any loun- 
gers from coming about the prison 
or the guard-room, and would give 
an excuse to any one who wanted 
to muffle up and cover their face. 
I had a large cloak all ready. But 
he would not go. He will not fly 
as though he were guilty, he said." 

" What did you say to him ?" the 
priest inquired, without looking up. 

" I told him that he could save 
himself, and prove his innocence 
afterward. I said that may be the 
real criminal would some day con- 
fess, and then he could come out 
before the world more than justi- 
fied. I said that we loved and 



pitied him, and were unhappy at the 
thought of him there, and would do 
anything for him. He was to be 
secreted in our house till a way 
could be got for him to escape. I 
had left the carriage just round 
the corner, and Jbhn would have 
thought that it was Lawrence who 
got in with me. Mamma and 
Louis have gone to the President's 
dinner, and Gerald was to watch 
and let us in, and afterward come 
out again with me. But, no; the 
stubborn simpleton would not be 
saved. I went on my knees to 
him, and he was like a rock. Then 
the watchman knocked at the door, 
and I had to run. The other guard 
were coming in from their supper, 
and, if I hadn't hid behind a door, 
they would have seen me face to 
face. Oh! why did he not con- 
sent r 

She wrung her hands slowly till 
the jewels on them twinkled in the 
lamp-light. 

F. Chevreuse still sat with his 
eyes downcast. " My poor child!" 
he said, " your pity for this man 
has led you into an almost fatal 
error. Never attempt such a thing 
again. It is not for you to cast 
yourself under the wheels of Jugger- 
naut. I command you to try no 
such experiment again. Pray to 
God. That is all that you can 
do." 

" Yes, I know that now," she 
answered despairingly. " I am 
utterly helpless. It is your turn. 
You must save him." 

"What can I do.?" he asked 
wonderingly. "I have tried all I 
could, but in vain, as you know. 
I have left no stone unturned, and 
the only good result I can see is a 
probability that the sentence will 
not be executed to the utmost, and 
that in time something may happen 
to bring his innocence to light." 



Grapes and Tkorns. 



" In time !" she repeated. " Have 
jrou seen the man ? VVhy, I did 
not know him till he spoke. He 
■ill not live. No, there must be 
no delay. What you must do is 
this: Vou must go to the authori- 
ties, ind say that you know who 
the true criminal is, but cannot tell, 
ax least not now, and that Mr. 
Sdufninger is innocent, " 

The priest looked in her face 
with a gaic of calm surprise. 
'Vod mistake," he said. "I do not 
know who the criminal is. If I did 
know, t should immediately go to 
the authorities, and denounce him." 

She looked him steadfastly in the 
ficc, but his calmness baffled her. 
He showed only a cool and digni- 
fied suiprise. 

"Oh! these men," she mutter- 
ed. "I feel as if I were being 
ground between stones," 

She »tood, and the shining folds 
of her dress, that had been galher- 
rt up in her arras, dropped about 
her, and lay on the floor. 

"Have you been walkingthrough 
the snow in a ball-dress?" the 
priest a»ked. " Have you anything 
111 protect your feet?" 

"Oh! I have fur shoes, and 
niy carriage is near by," she said 
d»cnily, and seemed to be consid- 
ering what to do ncKt. 

"Go home now, my child, and 
try lo put all this wild work out of 
jonr mind," F. Chev reuse said 
with emotion. " Perform your own 
•laly simply and in the fear of God, 
»»d do not try to take the burden 
of othen on those shoulders of 
yours. Go home and warm your- 
■elf well, or you will be sick." 

"Oh! I am not going home," 
" e said, her glance caught by the 
ifMrkling at a bracelet on her arm. 
"To-night is a dinner and ball givL-n 
(o the President, you know; and 

the is going away to-morrow 
VOL. XIX.— 7 



»: 



it couldn't be put off. It must be 
time I was there, and I have to go 
home after Lawrence." 

" What ! you will go to a dinner 
and ball to-night?" exclaimed the 
priest. " Vou feel yourself fit for 
company ?" 

She smiled faintly. " I shall doubt- 
less be the gayest of the gay. 
There is not much danger of my 
feeling sleepy." 

"Well, women are wonderful 
beings," remarked F. Chevreuse to 
himself. 

The young woman drew her 
wrappings about her, and gathered 
up again her flowing skirts, look- 
ing to see that no stain had fallen 
on them ; and, in arranging her 
toilet for a new scene, she appear- 
ed lo arrange her mind also. A 
gentle tranquillity settled upon her 
face, and her head was slightly 
lifted, as though she were already 
the centre of obser\-ation to a bril- 
liant throng. 

" But you are looking very pale," 
the priest objected. 

"That always mends itself," she 
answered carelessly, "When I have 
need of color, it usually comes." 

Some way, in this firm self-con- 
trol, he found her more pitiful than 
in any abandonment of sorrow. 
She accepted the situation uncom- 
plainingly, since she could do no- 
more, and steeled herself to bear 
what she must. 

" God bless you !" he said, when 
she was ready to go. 

Her fate stirred a little at ihe 
words. It seemed that she would 
rather not listen to anything of se- 
rious kindness then. Vet at the- 
doorshehesitated,and turned back. 
For once it was necessary that she 
should speak. 

" I have no difficulty about com- 
pany or anything but silence and 
darkness," she said hurriedly, look- 



i 



>8^ 



Grapes and Thorns. 



n^ dowft. ^\ like a crowd, though 
I am alwavs on the' lookout for 
M>uicchii^ to be said I will not wish 
to hear. When he and I are alone, 
I turi\ cold and creeping, for fear he 
nJ^ouUI speak ; and I keep close and 
cling to him, lest, if I should get a 
little way off, I should grow afraid 
uf him. If we were to be separated 
tor one week, I think we would 
never again dare to approach each 
other. But recollect" — she lifted 
her eyes for one quick glance — " I 
have told you nothing." 

" Certainly not," he replied 
gravely. 

In a moment she had gone out, 
and was running through the flying 
snow to fmd her carriage, left in the 
next street to baflle some possible 
watcher. 

Young Mrs. Gerald was quite 
right in saying that she should pro- 
bably be the gayest of the gay that 
ni^^'ht; and if any other person ap- 
peared to enjoy the scene more than 
herself* it was, perhaps, her hus- 
band. 

** A very happy couple," remark- 
ed a sympathizing friend to Mrs. 
IVrrier. 

*M>h! yes," the mother sighed, 
nodding her head. ** He is always 
gay when he is doing no good, and 
as gUuu as a s^^de when he is be- 
havi!\g himself. 1 was in hopes 
that his sickness would sol>er hira, 
but he is wilder than ever. Vou 
should see him drive my horses!** 

Her sou -in-law, (vas^ing by at 
\\\.\K n\oment, V auvtht the last worvls, 
auvl iuuneduitely jv^ineil the two 
Uulie-i. '* I know that Mrs. Ferrier 
w eomi^lainingi^Ufme," he said gaily. 
" .^he will ueNer for\;ive me for put- 
liuii; her prei ious Iviys out iMi'breath* 
lUit the truth is I am trying to save 
I heir lives; t'v>r they are so fat now 
I hat yv>\i iouKl dnvc them to death 
u >i\ miles an hour." 



"O Lawrence!" Annette said at 
his elbow — she was always hovering 
near when he spoke with her mother 
— " they say that Strauss, the com- 
poser, you know, is really coming 
to America next year, and will lead 
his own waltzes at the concerts." 

" And, by the way, Ninon," said 
her husband, "is that the Strauss 
who always was? I have had a 
waltz-writing, violin-playing Strauss 
in my mind ever since I was born, 
and he had lived ages before, and 
was something like Mephistopheles, 
to my fancy. Perhaps he is the 
Wandering Jew." 

" Speaking of Jews — " began Mrs. 
Ferrier's companion. 

And here Annette drew her hus- 
band away, hanging on his arm, 
smiling and whispering to him, the 
brightest, prettiest woman in the 
room. 

" And yet last night he was off 
somewhere, and she sat up for him 
till a quarter before two o'clock," 
Mrs. Ferrier said, looking after 
them. " I looked to see what time 
it was when I heard him come in. 
It is wearing her out. I shall not, 
allow her to do it again." 

It was easier for Mrs. Ferrier to 
say. what should not be than to find 
herself obeyed, for the next night 
her daughter again kept vigil. ** All 
I ask of you, mamma, is to let me 
attend to my own business," she 
said decidedly. 

m 

So ^' mamma " toiled up-stairs to 
bed, and the daughter lowered the 
lights^ took out her rosar\\ and be- 
gan her nightly task of fi^xhting away 
thought, and trying to hx her mind 
on the future. 

After an hour or two, John, the 
footman, put his head in at the 
door. *' You'd a great deal better 
go to bed, ma'am, and leave me to 
let Mr. Gerald in." he s^iid. " r\e 
son^thing that will keep me up to- 



Grapes and Thorns. 



99 



night, and it's a pity two should lose 
their rest. It is past twelve now." 

She felt faint and weary, and 
sleep was beginning to steal over 
her. " I believe I will go, then," 
she said. "I have not slept for 
three nights." 

She went, with a dragging step, 
o\'er the bright carpet roses. " What 
would become of him if I were 
to break up V* she thought. 

\Vhen she had gone, the man put 
out the hall gas, opened the doors 
of the vestibule, and set himself to 
wait. He meant to have speech 
of Mr. Gerald that night without 
Mr. Gerald's wife for a witness or 
any likelihood of other interruption. 

About one o'clock he heard un- 
steady steps on the sidewalk, and, as 
he went to the door, Lawrence Ge- 
rald came reeling up the steps, and 
almost fell into his arms. 

** Come into the sitting-room, sir, 
and lie down on the sofa. It will 
i>e easier than going up-stairs," he 
said. 

When he had been drinking, the 
young man was easy to lead, and 
he now submitted readily, and was 
in a few minutes in a deep sleep. 

John locked the street-door, shut 
the door of the sitting-room behind 
him, and, seating himself, waited for 
the sleeper to wake. 

A nervous man might have grown 
uneasy during that watch. There 
IS something not always pleasant in 
hearing one's own breathing, and 
ihe faint occasional sounds in floor 
and wall, and at one's elbow, even, 
which, in the stillness of night, seem 
like the movements of unseen be- 
ings drawing near. Besides, there 
is a terror in the thought that we 
are going to terrify another. 

But this man was not nervous. 
He was made of wholesome though 
rough material, and he had a strong 
will. He had been waiting for 



others to act, and had waited in 
vain, and now he had made up his 
mind that it was for him to act. 
Justice was strong in him, where he 
had the ability to perceive what 
was just, and he would no longer 
see the innocent suffer for the guil- 
ty. Besides, he reflected, there was 
no one else who could speak. Self- 
defence, or the defence of one dear- 
ly loved, or a yet more sacred mo- 
tive, sealed the lips of all who knew. 
His lips were not sealed, and jus- 
tice commanded him to speak. 

Three o'clock came and went, 
and still the young man slept. The 
other sat and studied him, noting 
how slight and elegant was his 
form, how flne the hands and feet, 
how daintily he was dressed and 
cared for. 

John was stout and heavy, a man 
of delf, and the size of his boots 
had once provoked from Lawrence 
a very provoking quotation : 

" What dread hand formed thy dread feet ?'* 

and more than once the young man 
had mockingly pushed his two 
white hands into one of John's 
gloves. 

This sleeper's hair was glossy, 
scented, as soft as floss, and curled 
in many a wilful ring ; John's was 
coarse and straight, and he wise- 
ly wore it closely cropped. Law- 
rence Gerald's face was delicately 
smooth ; the lines melted harmoni- 
ously into each other; his brows 
were finely drawn; the teeth, that 
showed through his parted lips, 
were pearly white; and as he lay 
with closed eyes, the lashes made 
two exquisitely curved shadows 
on his cheeks. John's face was 
plain, he had no eyebrows nor eye- 
lashes to speak of, his eyes were 
more for use than ornament, and 
his nose went about its business 
straight from end to end, stopping 



14» 



Grapes and Thorns. 



lathijr bl\uiUy> and utterly ignoring 
that cl<;licate curve which made this 
man's profile so perfect. 

This man? This drunkard, ra- 
ther, John thought; this spend- 
thrift, and gambler, and robber. 
This murderer ! 

The nerves of the serving-man 
stiffened ; and if he had felt any re- 
lenting, it was over. The insolent 
daintiness before him stirred all his 
bitterness. It was for such men as 
this that humbler honest folks were 
to bow and serve, and women's 
hearts to break ! 

It must be nearly four o'clock, 
he thought, and glanced round at 
the clock. Looking back again, he 
met Lawrence Gerald's eyes fixed 
on him steadily, and he returned 
the look with as immovable a 
stare. In that instant the meaning 
of each leaped out of his face as 
clearly as lightning from a cloud. 
Young Gerald's eyes began to 
shrink in their depths, and still the 
other held them ; he drew slowly 
back on the sofa, cowering, but un- 
able to turn away. 

And here John's eyes released 
him, for another object drew them 
up to the mirror that hung over the 
sofa. Reflected there he saw that 
the door was partly open, and An- 
nette Gerald's white face looking 
in. She came swiftly gliding to- 
ward them, silent as a ghost, and 
melted, rather than fell, on to her 
knees before her husband, between 
him and the other. Her arms and 
bosom hid him from that relent- 
less gaze which told that all was 
known, and her own face turned 
and received it instead, firmly and 
almost defiantly. 

" Well, John ?" she said. " Speak 
out what you have to say." 

"This can't go on any longer, 
ma'am," he whispered; "and I 
should think you would have the 



sense to see that. If you're willing 
to let an innocent man sufier for 
him, even that won't serve you 
long, for he will betray himself yet. 
You must go." 

"Yes, yes, we will go!" she re- 
plied hurriedly. "It is the only 
thing to do. We will go right 
away." 

" I will give you three weeks to 
get out of danger," he went on; 
"or, if that isn't enough, a month. 
But you mustn't lose a day. I 
won't see that man down in the 
prison die for nothing. After the 
four weeks from to-morrow morn- 
ing are up, I shall go to F. Chev- 
reuse with a paper that your hus- 
band will write. He may tell his 
own story, and make what excuses 
he can for himself, and it shall be 
for everybody to read. F. Chev- 
reuse will carry the paper to the 
judges, and take that man out of 
prison. That is all I've got to 
say," he concluded. " Four weeks 
from to-morrow morning !" 

Annette made no further reply, 
only watched the man out of the 
room, and locked the door after 
him. Then she returned to her 
husband, and, for the first time 
since she had entered the room, 
looked in his face. He was lying 
back with his eyes closed, as though 
from faintness. She brought him a 
glass of wine, knelt by his side 
while he drank it, then took his 
hand in hers. 

"There is no other way, Law- 
rence," she said. 

He was sitting up now, but kept 
his eyes closed, as if he could not 
meet her glance, or could not en- 
dure to look upon the light. He 
answered her quietly, " Yes, it is the 
only way." 

"And now," she continued, 
" since there is no time to lose, you 
will tell me the whole, and I will 



Grapes and T^cfhs, 



101 



write it down. You can sign it 
afterward." 

He nodded, but did not speak. 
The blow had fallen, and its first 
effect was crushing. 

She brought a writing-table close 
to the sofa, and seated herself be- 
fore it. As she arranged the paper, 
pens, and ink, heavy tears rolled 
down her face, and sigh after sigh 
struggled up from her heart; but 
she did not suffer them to impede 
her work — scarcely seemed, indeed, 
conscious of them. Everything 
was arranged carefully and rapidly. 
"Now, Lawrence!" she said, and 
seemed to catch her breath with 
the words. 

He started, and opened his eyes; 
and when he saw her, with eyes up- 
lifted, making the sign of the cross 
on her forehead and bosom, he 
imelt by her side, and, bowing his 
head, blessed himself also with the 
sacred sign. 

Then he began his confession, 
and she wrote it as it fell from his 
lips. If now and then a tear, not 
quickly enough brushed away, fell 
on the paper, it only left its record 
of a wife's grief and love, but did 
not blot out a word of the clear 
writing. 

When the last word had been 
written, and the name signed, a 
long ray of white morning light had 
pierced through a chink in the 
shatter, and lay across the red 
lamp-light. 



Annette, Gerald took the pen 
from her-\4iusband's hand. "My 
poor Lawj^jice!" she said^ "you 
and I have'gat--to be saints now. 
There is no medioin for us. Plea- 
sure, ease, all hopiof earthly peace 
— they are far beh1iid,«s. We must 
go out into the worlii ^nd do pen- 
ance, and wait for death.!^ 

"Annette," he exclaimod* "let 
me go alone! Give me jtfp'-now, 
and live your own life here.'^I.will 
never come near you again." - ..-.- 

She shook her head. "That/U- 
impossible. The only consolatidr^* 
I can have is to stay with you and 
give you what little help I can. 
You could not live without me, 
Lawrence. Don't speak of it. I 
shall stand by you." 

She opened the shutters and the 
window, and let the fresh morning 
light into the close room and over 
their feverish faces. 

The town was waking up to a 
bright sunshiny day, its many 
smokes curling upward into the 
blue, its beautiful vesture of snow 
still clinging here and there, all its 
busy life beginning to stir joyfully 
again. They stood before the win- 
dow a minute looking out, the same 
thought in both their minds. Then 
the wife leaned forward. "Good- 
by, Crichton!" she said, and took 
her husband's hand. " Come, Law- 
rence! we have no time to lose. 
The sword has been set over the 
gate." 



TO BB CONTINUBD. 



103 



Oi Looker- Back. 






• • 



• - • 



4 
• 






A LOOKER-BACK/ 
••• 

III. 

THE TEMPX^. 

** Those bricky towers. 
The which on Themme^s brode afced back do ride. 
Where now the studious lawyers bare their bowers 
There whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide." 



^ •* 'Perhaps there is no place in 
'. "^bndon that appeals to so many 
* . instincts of the soul as the Temple. 
Religion, valor, romance, and litera- 
ture have all lent enchantment to 
the place. Built and inhabited by 
the Knights Templars, the resort 
of kings and nobles of highest line- 
age, the home of generations of law- 
students and literary men like 
Burke, Johnson, Goldsmith, and 
Lamb, and associated with Shake- 
speare and many a romance, who 
could enter its quiet alleys, and 
ramble about its courts and gardens, 
without being stirred to the depths 
of his soul ? Fact and fiction are 
here so mingled together that one 
is unable to disentangle them, and 
the visitor says, as he roams about : 
Here was the place of Lamb's 
" kindly engendure " ; yonder El- 
don lived; up in that third story 
was Arthur Pendennis' sick-cham- 
ber, where his mother and Laura 
went to nurse him; in that court 
were Goldsmith's chambers, where 
he loved to sit and watch the rooks ; 
and in those gardens walked Sir 
Roger de Coverley, discussing the 
belles, with patches and hoops, 
strolling across the green once used 
by the Red-Cross Knights for mar- 
tial exercises ; and yonder is the an- 
cient church, patterned after that of 
the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. 
The church must be visited first, 



for it is the most beautiful and 
perfect in existence that belonged 
to the Knights Templars, and stood 
next in rank to their temple in the 
Holy City. Within half a century 
it has been restored to something 
of its ancient glory, and is sub- 
stantially the same as when conse- 
crated by Heraclius, Patriarch of 
Jerusalem, in the year 1185. The 
entrance is a beautiful Norman 
arch, deeply recessed, with elab- 
orately wrought mouldings, and 
columns between which are figures 
of saintly forms, some with rolls in 
their hands, and some in the atti- 
tude of prayer. These stone faces at 
the entrance of churches are a won- 
derful check to worldly thoughts. 
They communicate something of 
their own solemnity and ineffable 
calmness. Through this door-way 
used to pass the valiant knights of 
the cross who came here with their 
banner — the glorious Beau-seant — 
to have their swords blessed 
on the altar before departing for 

" Those holy fields 
Over whose acres walked those blessed feet 
Which, fourteen hundred years ago were nairu 
For our advantage on the bitter cross.** 

This is the entrance to the Round 
Church. A circular tower rests on six 
clustered columns of marble, each 
composed of four shafts, which run 
into each other at base and capital 
so as to form but one. And around 



A Looker-Back. 



103 



these is a circular aisle. Six point- 
ed arches spring from these beauti- 
ful pillars, above which is an arcade 
of Norman arches so interlaced as 
to form a combination of round 
and pointed arches — a fine example 
of the transition to the Gothic style 
of architecture. Parker says this 
Round Church is one of the best 
authenticated instances of the 
earliest use of the pointed arch 
in England, though the choir of 
Canterbury Cathedral is usually 
considered so. Over this arcade 
are six clerestory windows, between 
which rise slender shafts that sup- 
I)ort the groined ribs of the roof. 

At the sides of the circular aisle 
are sedilia formed of masonry 
projecting from the wall, with 
slightly arched recesses, in the 
spandrels of which are grotesque 
faces in cUto-relievo^ carven in stone, 
each of which has an extraordi- 
nary character of its own, and is 
well worth studying. Some are 
distorted with pain ; some look up 
appealingly; here the tongue pro- 
trudes and the eyeballs are glar- 
ing ; there is a look of unutterable 
horror ; one sets his teeth hard as 
an unclean animal bites his ear; 
another shows two fang-like teeth, 
while a vicious-looking creature is 
gnawing the corner of his mouth, 
and the furrowed brow expresses 
awful agony ; here is one with his 
long tongue run out sideways; 
there is another bellowing with his 
mouth wide open, the nostrils 
<lilated and the forehead all puck- 
ered up ; some have ultra- Roman 
noses, some sharp, and others fiat 
and broad, as if reflected from a 
ronvcx surface. One grins and 
shows all his teeth broad and uni- 
fonn. The sexton says these faces 
are supposed to depict the tortures 
of the suffering souls in purgatory. 
(Grotesque as most of them are, 



there is a certain awful solemnity, 
even in the most hideous, that is 
impressive. Thank God ! a few are 
calm and serene, with their crown 
of sorrow on their heads. An 
arcade, similarly decorated, has 
been found in the ruined Temple 
Church at Acre, and at the famous 
Castel Pellegrino, erected by the 
early Templars to command the 
shore-road from Acre to Jerusalem. 
The first thing that strikes the 
attention on entering this solemn 
church is the group of old Crusa- 
ders lying on the pavement with 
their legs crossed, in token that they 
had served in the Holy Land. 

" The knights are dust. 
And their good swords are nist« 
Their souls are with the saints, we trust." 

These are not effigies of the 
Knights Templars — for they do not 
wear the mantle of that order — but 
knights associated with them in 
defence of the Holy Land. One 
of them represents William Marshall, 
Earl of Pembroke, and Protector 
of England during the minority of 
Henry HL, one of the greatest war- 
riors and statesmen of the middle 
ages. Matthew Paris describes his 
burial here in 1219. Here he lies, 
carven in stone, clad from head to 
foot in armor of chain-mail, in the 
act of sheathing his sword. His 
legs are crossed, for he had borne 
the cross of Prince Henry, eldest 
son of Henry H., to Jerusalem. 
On his feet are spurs, and at his 
side a shield with the lion ram- 
pant of the Marshalls. This stout- 
hearted supporter of the Planta- 
genets was one of the council ap- 
pointed by Richard Coeur de Lion 
to govern the kingdom during his 
absence. It was he, together with 
Americ, Master of the Temple, who 
at last induced King John to sign 
the Magna Charta, and he accom- 
panied the king to Runnymede. 



104 



A Laoker^Back. 



He it was, too, that, while protector 
in the next reign, offered pardon to 
the disaffected barons, and confirm- 
ed the Magna Charta. He also 
extended its benefits to Ireland, 
and commanded the sheriffs to 
read it publicly at the county 
courts, and enforce its exact ob- 
servance. 

It was this same Earl of Pem- 
broke whom Shakespeare repre- 
sents pleading so eloquently for 
the enfranchisement of the unfortu- 
nate Prince Authur : 

" If what in rest you have, in right you hold, 
Why then your t&u% (which, ta they say, attend 
The steps of wrong), should move you to mew up 
Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days 
With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth 
The rich advantage of good exercise ? 
That the time's enemies may not have this 
To grace occasions, let it be our suit 
Tbat you luive bid us ask his liberty : 
Which for our goods we do no further ask. 
Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, 
Counts it your weal, he have hiis liberty." 

This great statesman was a bene- 
factor to the Templars, and, when 
he died, his body was borne here 
in state and buried with great 
pomp on Ascension Day, 1219. 

Here, too, are the monumental 
effigies of his sons — William Mar- 
shall, the younger, one of the bold 
barons of Runnymede, to whom we 
are indebted for the Magna Charta ; 
and Gilbert Marshall, "the flower 
of the chivalry of that time," who 
married a Scotch princess, and went 
to the defence of the sacred tomb. 

Although the elder Marshall was 
just enough to extend the benefits 
of the Magna Charta to Ireland, 
we are told that, during his cam- 
paign in that country, he seized 
the lands of the Bishop of Femes, 
and kept them, in spite of a sen- 
tence of excommunication. After 
the earl's death, the bishop came 
to London, and laid the case before 
the king, who, alarmed for the 
weal of his old guardian's soul, ac- 
companied the bishop to his tomb* 



Matthew Paris says that, as they 
stood by it, the bishop solemnly 
apostrophized the departed earl: 
" O William ! who lyest here inter- 
red and held fast by the chain of 
excommunication, if those lands 
which thou hast unjustly taken 
from my church be rendered back 
to me by the king, or by your heir, 
or by any of your family, and if 
due satisfaction be made for the 
loss and injury I have sustained, I 
grant you absolution ; but if not, I 
confirm my previous sentence, so 
that, enveloped in your sins, you 
stand for evermore condemned to 
hell!" 

However alarmed the king might 
have appeared about his guardian's 
soul, restitution was not made, and 
the stout old bishop, who seems to 
have. been soundly orthodox as to 
the temporal rights of the church, 
denounced the earl and his race in 
right Scriptural phrase : " His name 
shall be rooted out in one genera- 
tion ; and his sons shall be deprived 
of the blessing. Increase and mui- 
tiply. Some of them shall die a 
miserable death; their inheritance 
shall be scattered; and this thou, 
O king! shalt behold in thy life- 
time ; yea, in the days of thy flour- 
ishing youth." 

This fearful prophecy was fulfill- 
ed in a remarkable manner. The 
five sons of the protector died one 
after another without issue in the 
reign of Henry III., and the family 
became extinct. 

There are eight of these monu- 
mental efligies lying in the centre 
of the Round Church. It is to them 
Butler refers in his Hudibras^ speak- 
ing of the profanation of the place 
by the lawyers of his time and their 
clients — 



** That ply in the Temple under trees, 
Or walk the Round with Icnights of the posts 
About the crosaed-legged knights, their hosts." 



A Looker-Sack. 



105 



v 



|>In the Totind walk of (his church 
e is on one side a coped tomb- 
, in the style of the Xllth 
rjr, of 3 prismatic, cofhn-like 
On the other side 

Lying in jron diB •liia iIdds. 
A wuitDi Hith hii (bitild orprids 



This is Lord Robert de Ros, an- 
oiher of ihe bold barons of Run- 
Dyraede — a knight whose career was 
OK long romance. Beautiful in per- 
no, Uie successful wooer of the 
Princess Isabella of Scotland, and 
'one of those military enthusiasts 
vkose exploiu form the connecting 
link between fact and fiction, be- 
l»ecn history ar>d the fairy tale," 
tnc cannot look at his figure here 
vithout interest and emotion. 

ft J— tfi 1 nadc proud irllk puraaad prinoeir 

In fact, there is a wonderful air 
flf mysicry and romance about the 
•bole of this solemn church. Here 
ihc young aspirant lo knighthood 
used to tome to keep his long vigil 
Urfore the altar, and here gathered 
itic Cruudcrs before setting off for 
!lw lomb of Christ. And chief 
uuing them the valiant Templars, 
•a their long, flowing mantles, 
"whose stainless white their hearts 
bdicd not." with the mystic cross 
Dpoatbcir breasts, which Pupe Eii- 
tcnioK had author! led them lo 
wear. 



Rifta CtlUiful Hue he iriii In ileed ind wnrd 1 
VciBMAuit itt kBilic4il. baivver waiydnul." 

We can never believe that, as a 
body, the early 'icmplars were noi 
worthy of their white gnnnenls. 
\ bishop of Acre, who frequently 



accompanied them on their mili- 
tary expeditions, said of them : 
" Lions they are in war, gentle in 
the convent, fierce soldiers in ihe 
field, hermits and monks in religion ; 
Co the enemies of Christ ferocious 
and inexorable, but to Christians 
kind and gracious. They carry 
before them to battle a banner, 
half black and white, which they 
call Beau-seanl — that is to say, in the 
Gallic tongue, Bien-seant, because 
ihey are fair and favorable to the 
friends of Christ, but black and 
terrible to his enemies." 

While this vision of the past was 
crossing the inward eye, a strain of 
music, as of some holy chant, came 
floating softly out from some inner 
recess, sweetly adding to the en- 
chantment. It was only the choir 
practising in the vestry, but it was 
just far enough away to give a cer- 
tain mystery and softness to their 
psalmody that was delightful at 
that vesper hour. One needs a 
service for such memories, and 
alone in this rotunda of the Tem- 
plars, where 

" WitchlDK and &». and priiyir, md pCDkuce, 

orice heavenward soared, the pil- 
grim knell awhile in the dim round 
aisle to say a RequituanI for those 
that once worshipped here accord- 
ing lo God's appointed ordinances, ] 
and then went his way — in pate. 

The next day brought him back 
to complete his survey. Churches 
like this, in imitation of that of the 
Holy Sepulchre, were frequently 
built in the time of the Crusades. 
The Milanese buill one in their 
city after returning from the holy 
war. Peter Adomes made three 
journeys from Flanders to Jerusa- 
lem to obtain an exact copy of the 
Holy Sepulchre for the church at 
Bruges; and at Abbeville, '" 
beautiful Church of the Holy Se- 



io6 



A 'Looker^Back. 



pulchre was built on the very spot 
where Godfrey of Bouillon and the 
Crusaders assembled before going 
to Palestine. In it was built a 
tomb before which the solemn Of- 
fice of the Holy Sepulchre was 
celebrated annually. Sometimes 
the Crusaders brought back with 
them some of the dust of the Holy 
City. At Pisa, and in Sicily, there 
were cemeteries filled with that sa- 
cred soil. It seemed less repulsive 
to lie for ever down in dust per- 
haps the Saviour's feet had trod. 

The London temple has there- 
fore something of the sacred char- 
acter of the Orient about it; that 
is, the Rotunda. And it was dedi- 
cated to that holy Oriental maiden 
whom all nations unite in calling 
Blessed. The following inscription 
is over the door of entrance : 

" On the loth of February, in the 
year from the Incarnation of our 
Lord 1 185, this church was conse- 
crated in honor of the Blessed 
Mary, by the Lord Heraclius, by 
the grace of God Patriarch of the 
Church of the Resurrection, who 
hath granted an indulgence of fifty 
days to those yearly seeking it." 

Heraclius had come to £uro(>e 
to preach the Third Crusade. In 
Paris he was the first to officiate 
at Notre Dame. His special mis- 
sion to England was to induce 
Henry II. to fulfil his vow of going 
to the succor of the Holy Land by 
way of penance for the murder of 
Thomas i Becket. Finding his ef- 
forts in vain, the patriarch at last 
said to the king : " Hitherto thou 
hast reigned gloriously, but here- 
after thou shalt be forsaken of Him 
whom thou at this time forsakest. 
Think on him, what he hath given 
to thee, and what thou hast vielded 
to him again: how first thou wert 
false to the King of France, and, 
after, slew that holy man, Thomas 



of Canterbury, and, lastly, thou for- 
sakest the protection of Christ's 
faith." The king, vexed at 'such 
frankness, said: "Though all the 
men of my land were one body, and 
spake with one mouth, they durst 
not speak to me such words." 

" No wonder," replied the patri- 
arch, " for they love thine and not 
thee ; that is to mean, they love thy 
goods temporal, and fear thee for 
loSs of promotion, but they love 
not thy soul." And so saying, he 
bowed his head before the king, 
and continued : " Do by me right 
as thou didst by that holy man, 
Thomas of Canterbury; for I had 
rather be slain of thee than of the 
Saracens, for thou art worse than 
any Saracen." 

The king, restraining himself, 
said : " I may not wend out of my 
land, for mine own sons will rise up 
against me when I were absent." 

" No wonder," responded the pa- 
triarch, " for of the devil they come, 
and to the devil they shall go ; " and 
so departed, as Abbot Brompton 
records, "in great ire." 

In the wall of the Round Church 
is a winding staircase of stone lead- 
ing to the triforium. Part way up 
it opens into what is called "the 
penitential cell " — a recess in the 
thick wall four feet and a half 
long, and two and a half wide, with 
two squints to admit air and light, 
and enable the penitent to witness 
the divine ser>'ice. It would seem, 
however much an active knight 
might chafe in such restricted 
quarters, as if he had much to con- 
sole and support him in looking 
down into such a church. In the 
tnforium are gathered together 
monuments that were formerly scat- 
tered about the church. Among 
them is a tablet to Edmundus Gib- 
bon, an ancestor of the historian, 
who died in 1679. 



A Looier-Baci, 



107 



The Round Church opens by 
three lofty arches into the rectangu- 
lar church, consisting of a nave and 
two aisles, formed by clustered pil- 
lars of marble, supporting a groined 
vault covered with rich arabesques. 
This church is a beautiful specimen 
of the early English style. The 
lawyers of Cromwell's time white- 
washed the pillars, and did all they 
could to obscure the beauty of the 
building ; but now it is restored to 
somewhat of its former richness. 
It is paved with tiles bearing the 
amis of the Outer and Inner Temple, 
and on its triple lancet windows are 
emblazoned the arms of the Tem- 
plars — the lamb and flag and the 
ruby cross. That red cross, in the 
very church where it gleamed seven 
hundred years ago, says volumes to 
the heart. Where are the Knights 
Templars now to assume it again, 
and go to the rescue of the Holy 
City, bereft of its sovereign lord ? 
I)o we not need a new S. Bernard 
to preach a new crusade in behalf 
of the captive daughter of Zion, that 
she may be delivered from the un- 
godly oppressor, and her anointed 
one set free ? 

It was an old English prelate — 
S. Anselm — who said : " God loves 
nothing in the world better than 
the liberty of his church. . . , He 
does not wish a servant for his 
spouse.** 

This rectangular church was con- 
secrated in 1240, in presence of the 
king and a vast number of nobles. 
In one comer is a beautiful old 
marble piscina, lately brought to 
light, where the priest, before the 
holy oblation, purified the hands 
that were to touch the Body of the 
Lord. 

On a terrace to the north of the 
church is Goldsmith's grave, mark- 
ed by a coped stone. On one side 
is graven : " Here lies Oliver 



Goldsmith"; and on the other: 
" Bom 10 Nov., 1728. Died 4 April, 
1774." The row of houses close 
by is marked " Goldsmith's Build- 
ings." Perhaps on this very terrace 
he walked up and down in his 
bloom-colored coat, dreading to 
have the bill sent in. There are 
Johnson's buildings also. And in 
Inner Temple Lane, Lamb lived at 
No. 4, which " looks out on Hare 
Court, with three trees and a pump," 
where he used to drink when he was 
" a young Rechabite of six years " 
of age. As he says, "it is worth 
something to have been born in 
such a place." It was here the 
spirit of the past was infused into 
his mind, moulding it in antique 
fashion, and planting the germs of 
the quaint conceits and humorous 
fancies that so delight us all, and 
giving him a love for the old dra- 
matists which we have all learned 
to share in. 

Of course every one goes to drink 
at the fountain which Lamb, when 
a boy, used to make rise and fall, to 
the astonishment of the other ur- 
chins, " who, nothing able to guess 
at its recondite machinery, were al- 
most tempted to hail its wondrous 
work as magic." Miss Landon thus 
celebrates it : 

*^ The fountain's low singing is lieard on the 

wind. 
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind, 
Some to grieve, some to gladden ; around 

them they cast 
The hopes of tbe morrow, the dreams of the 

past. 
Away in the distance is heard the vast sound. 
From the streets of the city that compass it 

round, 
Lilce the echo of fountains, or ocean's deep 

call; 
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over 

all." 

And yonder are the sun-dials, on 
which Lamb so sweetly moralizes 
— the inscriptions no longer half ef- 
faced, but bright with the gilding 
of 1 8 7 2 . " Pereunt et imputantur ' *y 
^^ Discite justitiam moniti"; " Vesti- 



io8 



A Looker*Back. 



gia nulla reirorsum^* ; and "Time 
and tide tarry for no man," are 
some of the mottoes on them. It 
is rather a disappointment to find 
them looking so new and fresh, as 
if no longer " coeval with the time 
they measure." There is something 
wonderfully poetical about a sun- 
dial, which derives its revelations 
of time's flight " immediately from 
heaven, holding correspondence 
with the fountain of light." It has 
a kind of relationship to nature, 
and is, therefore, the very thing to 
have in gardens and groves and 
green fields " for sweet plants and 
flowers to spring up by, for the 
birds to apportion their silver war- 
blings by, for flocks to pasture and 
be led to fold by." It has a " heart- 
language " not heard from a clock, 
with " its solemn dulness of commu- 
nication." When we give up mo- 
dem artificial life, and return to our 
primitive relationship with nature, 
we shall only measure the flight of 
time by a sun-dial, or an hour-glass, 
or the opening and shutting of 
flowers. 

It is delightful wandering around 
the Temple gardens, with their 
shrubbery and flowers and foun- 
tains, and especially along the ter- 
race overlooking the Thames. Here 
one naturally looks around for the 
old benchers of Lamb's time, half 
expecting to be greeted by the pen- 
sive gentility of Samuel Salt, or the 
quadrate person of Thomas Coven- 
try, coming along with "step massy 
and elephantine, his face square as 
the lion's, his gait peremptory and 
path-keeping," the terror of chil- 
dren, who flee before him as from 
an " Elisha bear." One can also 
" fancy good Sir Roger de Cov- 
erley and Mr. Spectator, with his 
short face, pacing up and down the 
road, or dear Oliver Goldsmith in the 
summer-house, perhaps meditating 



about the next Citizen of the Worlds 
or the new suit that Mr. Filby, the 
tailor, is fashioning for him, or the 
dunning letter that Mr. Newbury 
has sent. Treading heavily oa the 
gravel, and rolling majestically 
along in a snuff-colored suit and a 
wig that sadly wants the barber's 
powder and irons, one sees the 
great doctor, with Boswell behind 
him, a little the worse for the port- 
wine they have been taking at the 
Mitre, to ask Goldsmith to come 
home and take a dish of tea with 
Mrs. Williams." 

It is in the Temple gardens that 
Shakespeare makes York and Lan- 
caster pluck the red and white 
roses which became the badges of 
their rival houses. It is here Plan- 
tagenet says : 

** Let him that is a true-born gentlemaD, 
And stands upon the honor of his birth. 
If he suppose that I hare pleaded truth. 
Prom off this brier pluck a white rose with me.^* 

S^mersfi,^** Let him that is no coward, nor no 

flatterer. 
But dare maintain the party of the trutli. 
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me/* 

JVat'wieJkr-'** And here I prophesy— this brawl 

to-day. 
Grown to this faction in the Temple garden. 
Shall send, between the red rose and the white, 
A thousand soute to death and deadly night." 

There are no red or white roses 
blooming here now, but quantities 
of chrysanthemums grow along the 
paths under the elms and lime- 
trees. An enormous basket, over- 
run with ivy, handle and all, stands 
near the old Elizabethan HaU 
where Shakespeare's Twelfth Night 
was performed during the author's 
lifetime, and where the benchers of 
the Middle Temple now dine off 
long oaken tables in the light of 
emblazoned windows, and beneath 
the eyes of kings depicted by Van- 
dyck and other great painters. 

A company of volunteers are 
drilling on the green, perhaps in 
the same place where the Knights 



Was Oriffea a Heretic f 



io>n 



T«i)[>)a[s had their military eser- 
tiics; children are playing in the 
pavclled walks; and groups ofgen- 
[Jcnien and ladies, and here a lone 
tHlgritu, are sauntering about, en- 
Joying ihe ralm bright evening 
ind the view of the Thames, with 
liulc steamers rushing up and 
down among all sorts of craft ; and 
beyuod, Ibe great city with its 
LUUQtkss spires, the bells of which 
M«m to be all ringing. Perhaps 
tlu: cheerful notes of that psalm 



come from S. Clement's in th« 
Strand, which Dr. Johnson used to 
frequent — notes that will sound as i 
cheerfully when we are no more as 
they do now over the tombs o£ , 
past generations who likewise have 
paced up and down this terrace lift- 
tening to them. 

" Tbc bail, md Ihn baige, itnd tbe whtc bST* 



inliesihidaii 






WAS ORIGEN A HERETIC? 



Oriobn has been pronounced by 

tbc verdict of ages a genius of the 

fint order. But on this man there 

has also been pronounced another 

verdict of still greater importance : 

" No one has surpassed him either in 

|00d or in evil " — Ubibene nemo me- 

. Im, mH maie nemo pejus. Terrible 

I Wrds on a man who was the wonder 

ifhis age, and an uncompromising 

of the church! We pro- 

to set forth in this article 

of the reasons tending to 

rvc that this sentence is an un- 

; one, and that Origen was a 

tfaithfHl child of the church— faith- 

'fbJ, loo, at a time when fidelity was 

tried l>) the fire, the sword, or the 

cold, damp dungeon. We bring 

forward the reasons of our opinion, 

sapprcuing none uf the accusations 

I have lieen brought against this 

at man ai sundry times, but refiU- 

\3f% them by arguments which are at 

' U( extremely probable, and have 

nvinced some very eminent scho- 

b Tbe orthodoxy of Origen is pre- 



sumptively established from the 
pure sources from which he re- 
ceived the rudiments of the Chris- 
tian faith, from the soundness of 
the doctrines he is known to have 
taught during his public ministry, 
from his saintly associations, from 
his undoubted works, and from his 
heroic virtues. 

Bom in the bosom of the church, 
of noble and virtuous parents, in the 
year 185, he drank in with the nu- 
triment of his infancy the pure and 
saving doctrines of Christianity. 
As his powers of reason expanded, 
the beauty and splendor of the new: 
but persecuted religion were laid 
open before him by S. Leonides, 
his father, whose celebrity as a phi- 
losopher was only equalled by his 
proficiency in profane and sacred 
sciences. Under such fostering 
care and parental cultivation, Origen 
received the most careful training, 
tiic wisest instructions, and most 
virtuous examples. So deeply did 
this pious and excellently versed 
man plant the germs of Catholic 



no 



Was Origen a Heretic? 



truth in the heart of his eldest son 
that the most flattering promises 
of Roman governors, the most sub- 
tle reasonings of philosophers, were 
alike unable to entice him into the 
paths of error at an age when the 
passions are strongest and the glit- 
tering tinsel of worldly honors ex- 
erts so powerful an influence on 
the mind. S. Leonides, aware of 
the necessity and value of religious 
education in youth, took every pre- 
caution to instil virtue into the 
heart while profane learning en- 
tered into the mind. Each day 
he required Origen to commit to 
memory certain parts of the Old and 
New Testaments, and, after their re- 
cital and an invocation of the Holy 
Ghost, he explained the sense of 
the Scripture. A plant reared in 
such soil, and impregnated with an 
atmosphere so holy, must be beau- 
tiful to the sight in its maturity. 
Advanced in the liberal arts to a 
degree far beyond his years, Origen 
made those studies Only accesso- 
ries to a more complete attainment 
of sacred knowledge. His pro- 
gress in the sciences was only ri- 
valled by his increase in piety. 
What a deep root religion had 
taken in his nature may be known 
from his burning ardor to win the 
glorious crown of martyrdom when 
the bloody persecution of Septi- 
mius Severus raged with unequalled 
fury in his native city, Alexandria. 
Among its victims was his father. 
Deprived of the boon of losing his 
life for Christ in his company, he 
wrote letters of encouragement and 
exhortation that S. Leonides would 
endure his torments heroically, 
looking only to the future life and 
its incorruptible inheritance. It 
was painful for Leonides to leave 
behind him seven orphan children ; 
but, to alleviate his sorrows in this 
direction, Origen, upon whom he 



looked as a living tabernacle of the 
Holy Spirit, sent him words of 
cheer : " Be sure, dear father, that 
on our account you do not alter 
your mind " ; and in another part 
of the same letter we read words 
which appear almost incredible 
coming from one so young : " Have 
confidence, father; leave all for 
Jesus Christ; he will be your re- 
ward." S. Leonides was behead- 
ed, his property confiscated, accord- 
ing to the laws, and Origen, at sev- 
enteen years of age, found himself 
and the rest of his family reduced 
from abundance to poverty for the 
sake of Christ. Next to dying in 
the faith, there is no greater bless- 
ing than to have been born in it. 
From a martyr and a bishop * Ori- 
gen learned the rudiments of the 
faith, and it grew with his growth 
and strengthened with his strength. 
Those who had charge of his edu- 
cation at the most critical juncture 
were still more eminent in letters 
and sanctity than Leonides. 

He was placed under Titus Flavins 
Clemens, generally known as S. Cle- 
ment of Alexandria, whom S. Je- 
rome t considered " the most learn- 
ed of our authors," and who, Theo- 
doret believed, J " surpassed all 
others in the extent of his learn- 
ing." The erudition of Flavins 
Clement found in Origen a worthy 
receptacle, and the Christian mo- 
rality taught in his lectures and 
practised in his life were truly re- 
flected in the rising glory of the 
East. Clement, drinking from the 
crystal fountain of truth that issued 
from the evangelist Mark, who had 
made, by the order of the prince 
of the apostles, Alexandria his 
apostolic seat, imbibed its saving 

♦S. Leonides was also a bishop. See Euseb., 
Hist. 6, c. 12 ; also S. Jerome, Catai.^ c. 54. 
t Catai. ft Ep. ad Magn. 
X Haret. Fab.y 1. i, c. 8 . 



Was Origin a Heretic t 



III 



raters in all their purity. In his 
Stramafa, as well as on the autho- 
rity of Eusebius, we learn that the 
immediate successors of the apos- 
tles, preservers of the true doctrine 
of S. James, S. John, S. Paul, were 
still in existence and teaching the 
Gospel in its entirety. " They 
have lived down to our times," 
says Clement,* " and scattered in 
giir hearts the seed of truth which 
they had received of their prede- 
cessors, the apostles." It was from 
this beautiful and fertile garden 
that Origen culled the flowers of 
Christianity that ornamented his 
soul, that bloom in his luminous 
works, that preserve their fragrance 
and throw around sacred studies an 
imperishable lustre. While Origen 
was pursuing his studies under Cle- 
ment, he did not fail to engraft 
upon himself the holiness and sanc- 
tity of his teacher — the Pedagogue 
of the master was transformed into 
the life of the scholar. The holy 
practices running through the Peda- 
^o^uey its inculcation of austere 
morals and inexhaustible charity, 
became to Origen, through his long 
and arduous career, hand-posts 
pointing to solid grandeur, durable 
happiness, and supreme good. 

On leaving this famous catecheti- 
cal school, he perfected himself un- 
der Animonius Saccas, whose cele- 
brity among pagans for the recon- 
ciliation he effected between jar- 
ring philosophical systems was 
only eclipsed by the esteem in 
which he was held by the infant 
church, to whose cause he brought 
the aid of philosophy and the re- 
•juirements of the times. Among 
all those who attended the lectures 
of Ammonias, the most remarkable 
was young Origen, though he had 
for rivals no less famous persons 

* Stroma/a, i, x. 



than Plotinus, the philosopher and 
teacher of Porphyry, and the critic 
Longinus. All eyes were centred 
on Origen, and his name was in 
every mouth — his mind a prodigy 
of letters, his soul a temple of the 
Holy Ghost. The vast amount of 
erudition now acquired by Origen, 
not only by reason of his extraor- 
dinary abilities, but also on account 
of his eminent preceptors, whose 
sanctity of life imparted to their 
expositions of religion the irresis- 
tible authority of example, attach- 
ed him with unshaken firmness to 
the infallible truths which were seal- 
ed by his father's blood. No other 
belief could satisfy his yearnings, 
no other creed answer to the wide 
comprehensions of his conceptions 
and the loftiness of his aspirations. 

The completion of his studies 
found him versed in astronomy, 
the higher mathematics, thoroughly 
acquainted with the sentiments 
and theories of the different philo- 
sophical schools, and more or less 
familiar with the construction of 
languages and the leading issues of 
the times. Reduced to straiten- 
ed circumstances in consequence 
of the persecution, he opened, on 
his own responsibility, an institu- 
tion for dialectics, music, and pro- 
fane sciences. 

This was a dangerous enterprise 
for one so young, but it was the 
only alternative to avoid a life of 
dependency and association with 
heretics, as well as to assist a 
helpless mother and a large family. 
He felt bound to shun the enemies 
of the church ; he refused to mingle 
in their company, save when the 
necessity of their spiritual welfare 
demanded it, or the exigencies of 
the occaision prevented his escape. 
Scrupulous even to the spirit of 
the apostolic teachings, rather than 
associate with the opponents of 



112 



Was Origen a Heretic? 



Christianity, he preferred to sacri- 
fice the friendships of his youth and 
the liberality of his patroness, at a 
time, too, when he stood most in 
need of assistance. Hb reputation 
attracted large numbers to his 
lectures, and the applayse he re- 
ceived, while it elevated him in 
popularity, was the source of inte- 
rior humiliation, the antidote of 
pride. Demetrius, Bishop of Alex- 
andria, moved by the su|)erior at- 
tainments, the fervent piety and 
unswerving orthodoxy in faith, of 
the young Christian, appointed him 
regent of the famous catechetical 
school, A.D. 203. The course of 
studies taught in this institution 
comprised, aside from secular pur- 
suits, theology and Scriptural expo- 
sitions. Origen* was only eighteen 
years of age when he assumed 
this responsible charge — a charge 
that, in the history of the pro- 
vince, had never been committed 
but to persons of advanced years. 
This appointment, then, was an 
exception, strange in the extreme ; 
but C>rigen was an exceptional 
srhoUvr — so exceptional, indeed, 
that history has failed to record his 
compeer at that time of life in any 
other person. But, as St, Jerome f 
remarks, " From his childhood he 
was a great man.'* And Bossuet, 
admiring the young Alexandrian, 
towering in intellect above those 
of his day, like Saul above his 
brethren, declares: "II sc rendit 
cel^bre par toute TEglise des sa 
premiere jeunesse ct enseigna dc 
graniies v^rit^s,"J The violence of 
the persecution under Septimius 
Scverus ha<l interrupted the Chris- 
tian s( huol of Alexandria, and 
forced its president, Clement^ to fly 
from his murderers. It was during 
his retirement and under the up- 






f/Udem, 



lifted sword that Origen assumed the 
regency — a position as precarious 
and laborious as it was honorable. 
It required varied knowledge, un- 
common prudence, and unswerving 
adhesion to the traditions of Christ's 
ambassadors. 

For more than one hundred 
years Catholic blood, "the secret 
power and seed of Christianity,"* 
had flowed through the Roman 
provinces; Catholic heads been 
decapitated by the sword of the 
executioner. Every method of 
destruction and annihilation that 
human artifice and cruelty could 
devise was brought into play to 
sweep from the world the new 
religion ; but the kingdom of Christ 
emerged from the contest more 
glorious and powerful, and asserted 
in bolder terms the divinity which 
was emblazoned on its standard. 
The saying of Gamaliel was veri- 
fied : Man cannot stop the accom- 
plishment of God's designs. Then 
the pagans felt convinced that 
some other means should be em- 
ployed against the Christians, whom 
the emperors and governors had in 
vain sought to extinguish in blood. 
To this end, they had recourse to 
the schools, to the philosophers, to 
men skilled in the oracles ; the fol- 
lowers of the different systems of 
belief, to preserve the existence of 
their body, girded on their helmets 
of sophistry and raillery ; the pagan 
writers dealt in flings of irony and 
the gall of mockery ; wit and sar- 
casm, powerful weapons, were han- 
dled with remarkable ingenuity. 
The life-blood of mythology, sanc- 
tioned for ages by the devotion of 
its victims, was on the eve of ebb- 
ing from its very arteries ; poly- 
theism, rooted in the manners of 
the multitude, supported by legis- 

• TtrtuUiam, 



IVas Origcn a. Heretic f 



113 



lation, upheld in literature, pro- 
tected by the sympathies of all, 
was losing ground at every step 
that Christianity was making upon 
its domains ; idolatry saw its statues 
Call one by one, its members dis- 
appearing like vapor beneath the 
absorbing rays of light; and all 
these forms of superstition joined 
hands and allied their forces to im- 
pede the onward and irresistible 
march of Catholic truth. Alexan- 
dria, cradle of Eastern genius at 
that time, became the Christian 
Thermopylae, and Origen the Chris- 
tian Leonidas. It was he who 
headed the forces, and, by the 
splendor of his genius, prepared in 
his school illustrious men to lead 
on the van. He vindicated the 
truth from calumny, supported it 
by facts, disengaged it from the 
sophisms in which enemies had ob- 
scured it, and held it up to view in 
all its natural beauty and attrac- 
tion. His learning became telling 
in a short time upon the prejudices 
of the i)eople in regard to his de- 
spised religion, and gradually in- 
spired a kinder feeling towards the 
misrepresented Christians in the 
minds of the cultivated. His fame 
drew to his auditory persons who 
had studied under other masters, 
desirous of listening to his wisdom, 
and of the honor of calling him their 
teacher. Heathens were delight- 
ed with his language, full of unction 
and charm, and the literati of the age, 
who had been lost in the intricacies 
of Aristotle, the obscurities of Plato, 
:md the absurdities of Epicurus, 
wondered at the young Christian 
philosopher. His name was asked 
by authors for dedicatory purposes, 
and works were subject to his judg- 
ment for their circulation. 

To give an insight into the sys- 
tem of education adopted by Origen, 
and which produced so many great 

VOL. XIX. — 8 



men in the IHd century, we will 
quote from the writings of S. Gre- 
gory Thaumaturgus, who was under 
the direction of Origen for five 
years, the method employed by the 
philosopher to win him to Christ. 
The extract will also show the 
clearness of his ideas, the thorough- 
ness and universality of his know- 
ledge. The reader, if he chooses, 
may compare the plan of education 
followed by Origen with that pur- 
sued in our colleges and universi- 
ties in the XlXth century, and 
judge for himself of the progress 
civilization has made in this direc- 
tion. " Like a skilful agriculturist," 
says S. Gregory,* " who examines in 
all its aspects the land which he 
intends to prepare for cultivation, 
Origen sounded and penetrated the 
sentiments of his disciples, mak- 
ing inquiries, and reflecting upon 
their replies. When he had pre- 
pared them to receive the seed of 
truth, he instructed them in various 
branches of philosophy — in logic, 
to form their judgment, by teach- 
ing them to discriminate between 
solid reasonings and the specious 
sophisms of error; in physics, to 
make them admire the wisdom of 
God, by an analytic knowledge of his 
works; in geometry, to habituate 
their minds to rectitude, by the rigor 
of mathematical propositions; in 
astronomy, to elevate and extend 
their thoughts, by giving them im- 
mensity for a horizon ; finally, in 
morals — not those of the philoso- 
phers, whose definitions and sterile 
divisions give birth to no virtue, 
but practical morals, making them 
study in themselves the movements 
of the passions, so that the soul, 
seeing itself as in a mirror, may ex- 
tirpate every vice, even to the roots. 
He then approached theology, or 

• General Hiitoryo/the Catholic Churchy Dar- 
ras. AmericAD tranaUUon, vol. i. p. 218. 



tl4 



Was Origen a Heretic? 



the knowledge of God. He made 
them read on Providence, which 
has created the world and governs 
it, all that has been written by 
the ancients, philosophers or poets, 
( I recks or barbarians, without other- 
wise minding their systems, their 
sects, or their particular opinions. 
In this labyrinth of pagan philoso- 
phy he served as their guide to dis- 
cern whatever might be really true 
and useful, without allowing them 
to be fascinated by the pomp and 
ornaments of language. He laid it 
down as a principle, that, in what- 
c\cr regards Clod, we must trust 
oi\ly Tiod and the prophets inspir- 
Cil bv hiu\. And then he com- 
uicnccil the interpretation of the 
Sv liplurcs, which he knew thorough- 
IVi and which, by the grace of God, 
ho hud penetrated in all their most 
Hccict ilepths.*' 

The n\agnitude of his intellectual 
powci'H excited no less interest than 
hi'* manner of life; and it is not 
without ivaMm that his friends al- 
lege the nanctity of his life as the 
hrni interpreter of the few objec- 
lu»u.il»lc pannages in his gigantic 
NNoiki, and t\o weak argument for 
the \\\\\\\\ i»t'hij4 faith. Surrounded 
bv eminent i^xiwinta^ and in corre- 
Jipoiwleui V' with others in distant 
M»\n\tMcs, he found himself hard 
pi^ r»cd ls» ai I iM\\n\odate the former 
au\l an-^wcr the cvun\nunicatiims of 
the V\\w\. He was obliged to en- 
\\^\\'^' w\k'\a\ Hecrelaries to write out 
\\\\ \\\\\ y\\\\\K^\\\\\ the arts and sei- 
ner. \\\ \ K\\\\\\\\y Www with his ex- 
pUivah«M\i ol rhristianity. Their 
.»i)iii.uv«c alloidcvl hin\ better op- 
pMihimhci ot cniiihing his stock 
Hj Ih^Nhd^c. lie realized what 
Itiilt^mhu,* Abbot of Spanheim, 
«^ |i' iU i| In Imn^ili cNcry day : ** To 
l»»»uu \\ \\\ l»»\r" Mis insatiable 

♦ \h>^^k'\* l\t H V*/, vol ti, p. \y 



thirst for learning left him plod- 
ding among manuscripts through 
the day into the long hours of the 
night ; and when nature, succumbing 
under the severe stress of exhaus- 
tion, would demand rest, he would 
make the bare ground his bed, and 
the books his pillow. Simple in his 
dress, the mortifications he imposed 
upon himself on several occasions 
threatened his life. Temperate in 
all things, he was particularly so in 
drink. Wine he never used. 

While his prodigious talents and 
able discourses brought within the 
true fold large numbers from 
among the most distinguished learn- 
ed men and philosophers, his virtues 
and sublime renunciation of the 
world produced so many holy men 
that his school has been deserv- 
edly termed " iJu school of martyrs.^* 
More than once he accompanied 
his disciples to the place of execu- 
tion, and exhorted them, in the very 
face of the instruments of torture, 
to endure death with fortitude for the 
cause of truth and the eternal inheri- 
tance promised to those who wash 
their robes in the blood of the 
Lamb. He stood by at the mar- 
tyrdom of S. Plutarch, brother of 
S. Heraclas, Bishop of Alexandria, 
both catechumens under himself, ad- 
ministering consolations and pour- 
ing into his soul words of hope and 
encouragement. A martyr's crown 
he courted from infancy, and from 
sickness and infirmities contracted 
in the persecutor's dungeon, it is 
reasonably supposed, his life went 
out. It could only have been di- 
vine interposition that rescued him 
from the numerous assaults made 
upon his life. When permission 
was refused him to visit the Chris- 
tians in chains, he made incredible 
efforts to convey to them words of 
sympathy and articles of comfort. 
His solicitude and bearing on the 



JVas Origcn a Heretic? 



"5 



eve of the martyrdom of his disci- 
ples, SS. Heron, Potamiaena, He- 
rias, Sereni, and Heraclides, is 
conclusive proof of Origan's ar- 
dor to seal with his blood the di- 
vinity of the cause he advocated 
with his eloquence, and evidence 
of the falsity of the notorious slan- 
der which represents him yielding 
to the wishes of the persecutors in 
the midst of his torments, and offer- 
ing sacrifice to the gods. The first 
trace we meet with in history of 
this accusation is in the Treatise 
afrainst Heresies* by S. Epiphanius, 
Bishop of Salamis, and given to the 
world one hundred years after the 
death of Origen. This slander, 
never repeated by the learned — ^if we 
except Petavius, in the XVI Ith cen- 
tury, while employed on the works 
of Epiphanius — has been wiped out 
of ecclesiastical history by the 
weight of such writers as Baronius, 
HaIloix,f Raynaudet, Henry Valois, 
Vincent de la Rue, and Frederic 
Spanheim.t This defamation of 
his character, unfounded as it is, 
though so much like other insinu- 
ations against the noble Alexan- 
drian, was not even alluded to in 
the Justinian age, in which he 
was so violently and bitterly op- 
posed. Had S. Jerome credited 
this monstrous fabrication, had it 
rested upon anything but a sandy 
foundation, the literary war be- 
tween the lifelong friends, Jerome 
and Rufinus, would have termi- 
nated at the first volley from the 
pen of the learned scriptural wri- 
ter. It would have been a crush- 
ing argument against Rufinus, and 
S. Jerome was the person to turn it. 
to advantage. In those times, it 
was a common thing to be re- 
proached if one, arrested for the 

* Httres..^ 64. 

t Orig. De/ens , 1. 4, note p. 35. 

: Preface, Bellamy's Traaslatioa of Origen's 



faith, escaped death. Some of the 
greatest saints, S. Cyprian, S. Gre- 
gory Thaumaturgus, and others, 
suffered not a little frotn calumnies 
of like import. Origen's behavior, 
on the occasion to which the allu- 
sion refers, was honorable, heroic, 
and in entire harmony with his life- 
long fidelity to principle. He was 
seized, and — whether it was the de- 
sign of the magistrates to draw 
many Christians back to the gods 
of the empire by circulating the fall 
of Origen, or their admiration of the 
genius of their noble victim that 
prevented his summary decapita- 
tion — was thrown into a cold cell, 
bound in an iron collar, with heavy 
shackles to his feet, and his legs 
drawn apart to a painful degree. 
• It appears that during the first 
years that Origen filled the regency 
of the Alexandrian theological sem- 
inary, he experienced no small 
amount of inconvenience, in his con- 
troversial discourses with Jews and 
pagans, in consequence of the differ- 
ent versions of the Holy Scriptures. 
In their inspired pages he found 
true wisdom and spiritual life : " Oh ! 
how have I loved thy law, O Lord ! 
It is my meditation all the day."* 
In this sacred department he stands 
without a rival, if we except S. Je- 
rome, " the greatest doctor, divinely 
raised up to interpret the Sacred 
Scriptures, "t Yet to Origen the 
indebtedness of S. Jerome is very 
great. He borrowed X from him, 
studied him, § followed him, || ad- 
mired him,1f and then attacked 
him.** vS. Jerome declares that in 
reading the Twelve Prophets by 
Origen, in the works of S. Pamphi- 
lus, he saw in them the wealth of 



t Preface to Vulgate. 
I Prcf. in Pentattuch, 



• Ps. cxvlil. 
X Pref. adEphtx. 
I Pref. in Job. 

^ In'rod. in Oi«//Va,elc., translated by Jerome 
from OriRen. 
♦• Lib. a adv. Rufinus it passim. 



ii6 



Was Origen a Heretic? 



Croesus ; and, as far as our judg- 
ment goes, we never read a higher 
eulogium than the one S. Jerome 
pays to the genius of Origen on his 
two homelies in Cantica Caniicorum, 

It was Origen 's love of the Scrip- 
tures that gave birth to the grand 
idea of compiling the sacred books 
of the different versions into one 
work — the Octapla^ a legacy to 
posterity more than sufficient to 
support his reputation and endear 
it to all succeeding ages. For this 
purpose, he decided, in 212, to tra- 
vel through different countries, and 
collect the most recognized and 
authentic copies of the Scriptures. 
Those travels opened to his view 
the pages of nature, on which he 
read the customs and habits of men, 
religions and governments, arts and 
sciences. Aside from those motives, 
he had another reason for travelling. 
He longed to see Rome, the chair 
of Peter,* " upon whom, as on a rock, 
Christ built his church *' ; he desired 
to pay his homage in the " princi- 
pal church "f to the successor of S. 
Peter, " against whom the gates of 
hell shall not prevail." J He arriv- 
ed at Rome about the close of 
the pontificate of S. Zephyrinus, to 
whom his presence and devotion 
must have been a source of consola- 
tion, as the saintly pontiff, at that 
time, was pained to the heart by 
the fall of the great Tertullian 
and the deplorable perversions in 
the African Church. 

The travels of Origen are full 
of interest and instruction. Each 
journey was a crusade against 
Iicathenism, and a glorious triumph 
for the Gospel ; like S. Paul, he 
wandered over sea and land to 
make profit for Christ, strengthen- 
ing the weak and marshalling the 
strong; the power of his pen was 

• In c. 6 £•/. ad Rom. t Tract, in Matt. 

X ApuH Euub.^ \. 6, bisU c. 19. 



felt where his voice failed to reach. 
As a comet that illumines its course 
with darting rays of light, and ob- 
scures the flickering stars, such 
were the brilliant tours of Origen, 
leaving the light of faith and the 
fire of charity behind them. Wher- 
ever heresy raised its head in the 
church, there was Origen to batter 
it with reason and tradition ; wher- 
ever the faithful were wavering, 
there was Origen cheering and ral- 
lying the forces ; wherever the ene- 
my made an onslaught on Christian- 
ity, it found Origen in the breach ; 
like an Agamemnon or a Hector, 
wherever battle raged the fiercest, 
Origen took the front. Now he is 
in the presence of the governor of 
Arabia, enlightens him on scientific 
subjects, and gradually raises his 
mind to nature's God ; then he 
traverses through Palestine, ex- 
pounding the Scriptures in the as- 
semblies of the faithful ; at one 
time he is at Antioch before the 
royal family, pleading for the liberty 
and free exercise of Christian wor- 
ship ; at another in Nicomedia, main- 
taining the canonicity of certain 
parts of the inspired writings; now 
he is in Greece, thundering against 
the Montanists ; and again in Ara- 
bia, at Bozra, reclaiming fallen pre- 
lates, and defending the divinity 
and humanity of the second Person 
of the Most Blessed Trinity. 

There is a point in the preced- 
ing sentence worthy of more than 
passing notice — namely, Origen *s 
visit to Mammcea, mother of Empe- 
ror Alexander Severus. This esti- 
mable lady, who afterwards, in all 
probability, embraced the Christian 
religion, desirous of seeing so illus- 
trious a doctor as Origen, sent her 
retinue to escort him to her palace. 
She was pleased with her learned 
guest, and her son, the future ruler 
of the empire, listened with delight 



Was Origen a Heretic? 



117 



to the great prodigy of learning. 
The virtues that characterized the 
reign of Severus, in contradistinc- 
tion to the licentiousness, cruelty, 
and extortion of his predecessors, 
have been, not without justice, at- 
tributed to the influence exerted 
on him by lessons of morality given 
in the discourses of Origen. It is 
not improbable that the law he pre- 
sented, soon after his ascension to 
the throne, to the Roman senate 
for its sanction, whereby the religion 
of Christ would be incorporated 
among the others of the empire, 
had for its source Origen's instruc- 
tions to him about the divinity of the 
Catholic iaith, its purity and sanc- 
tity. Dom Gueranger, in his Li/e of 
^ Cecilia* adduces monuments of 
antiquity going to prove the protec- 
tion and favors extended to the 
infant church by Alexander ; and 
Origen himselfjf in his Apology^ 
chronicles the abatement of the per- 
secution shortly after his return 
from the imperial court. On this 
j)art of his work a writer very felici- 
tously adds : " If he modestly de- 
clines telling us the part he bore 
in it, we owe him so much the 
more honor the less he seems to 
claim." t 

During the comparative peace 
obtained under Alexander, the 
church made incredible efforts to 
fill up her shattered ranks, restore 
order, and produce scholars. She 
succeeded, for never was she more 
fruitful in great men than at this 
epoch. Origen had reconciled her, 
in the opinion of philosophers, to 
genius, adorned her with intellec- 
tual wealth, and introduced her to 
the occupants of the throne she was 
-^ryi^xi to fill with so much glory ; 
ind, what is still more, he had dis- 

• Li/e 0/ S. Cecilia^ pp. 9 and 10. 

to/., I -K. 

X Butler's SninU^ rol. ii. p. 14X. 



ciplined a galaxy of scholars, who 
were about to dazzle the world by 
the grandeur of their minds, and 
beautify the church by the holiness 
of their lives. 

Origen*s brilliant career, like the 
career of all great men, was not 
allowed to end without its trials. 
Aside from the assaults of the pro- 
fessed enemies of the church, he 
met with severe annoyances from 
the jealousy of those whose interests 
he had studied to further. The 
trouble came from a quarter he 
least expected. Demetrius, Bishop 
of Alexandria, during the early part 
of his episcopate entertained for 
Origen the highest esteem; and 
there is no ostensible motive to 
believe that Origenv throughout all 
his relations with the patriarch, gave 
him any cause of offence, or else 
this prelate would not have retained 
him in the presidency of his theo- 
logical school till the year 230 — a 
period of twenty-seven years. The 
humility of the regent and his 
innate respect for authority held 
his tongue in silence, whatever may 
have been his opinion of the con- 
duct of Demetrius as a prelate. 
Still, we may conjecture Demetrius 
was not far from the mind of Ori- 
gen when, in speaking of disorders 
and irregularities in the church, he 
wrote of bishops : " We would 
almost have guards like kings ; we 
make ourselves terrible and difficult 
of access, chiefly to the poor; we 
treat them who speak with us and 
ask for some favor in a manner 
which the most cruel tyrants and 
governors would not assume to- 
wards suppliants." * It is not wrong 
to look upon Demetrius as a man 
who consulted with the general in- 
terests of Christianity his own popu- 
larity, the extension of his diocese, 

^ Leviticus^ horn. 9. 



Ii8 



IVas Origen a Heretic f 



and the increase of his subjects; 
perhaps he was of the opinion that 
the advancement of religion in 
Alexandria and its suffragan depen- 
dencies, his own juridical district, 
was of more importance than its 
dissemination in other places. It 
was interested motives of this sort 
that led him to disapprove of Ori- 
gen *s evangelical missions, by which 
his invaluable services were tem- 
porarily withdrawn from his native 
city. Origen, being a layman, free 
from any obligations to Demetrius, 
except in a spiritual point of view, 
possessed the individual right of 
travelling from country to country, 
and of delivering lectures without 
the permission of any authority. 
If he spoke before the congre- 
gations of the faithful, it was only 
at the urgent solicitation of the 
prelates, whose jurisdiction within 
their respective provinces was re- 
cognized and unquestioned ; cham- 
pion of the faith in the East, he was 
waited upon by delegations from 
pious bishops, entreating him to 
come to their dioceses. Those 
missions Origen, in his love for the 
glory of God, felt conscientiously 
bound to perform. On a journey 
to crush by his eloquence the her- 
esy of the Valentinians, that had 
made lamentable ravages in Greece, 
he paid a visit to S. Alexander 
of Jerusalem and Theoctistus of 
Caesarea, by whom he was ordained 
l)riest. This act, irreprehensible 
in itself, entailed upon Origen 
serious difficulties, and became the 
groundwork upon which his ene- 
mies fabricated the most severe ac- 
cusations. 

Demetrius, taking to heart the 
course of conduct of the great 
philosopher, and assured, by the 
aspect of things, of his speedy 
disconnection with the interests 
of Alexandria, sent letters to the 



bishops, containing bitter recrimina- 
tions for imposing hands on Origen. 
He did not stop at this point. He 
also despatched to the prelates of 
Asia letters full of invectives and 
animosity, requiring them to hold 
no communion with Origen, who 
had violated the disciplinary ca- 
nons. The respite that ensued on 
his return to Alexandria was- of 
short duration. A council was 
" assembled by the care, and under 
the presidency, of Demetrius," for 
the purpose of examining the 
legality and validity of Origen's 
ordination. In this council we can 
only discover two things laid to his 
charge — namely, that he had made 
himself a eunuch, and had been 
ordained without the consent of 
Demetrius, his ordinary. Those 
charges, if we take into considera- 
tion the customs of the times and 
the imperfections of ecclesiastical 
discipline during the persecutions, 
contain in themselves very little 
upon which a grievous censure of 
Origen could be founded. In the 
language of the church, they are 
irregularities ; one ex defcctUy the 
other ex delicto. Let us for a 
moment concede that there were 
such canons in existence at the 
time of Origen's ordination, by the 
violation of which irregularities 
were incurred, what then follows.^ 
In that age of the church, bishops 
enjoyed great privileges, discre- 
tionary powers — far more discretion- 
ary than even the bishops of the 
United States enjoy nowadays in 
this missionary country — and pre- 
eminently so the Patriarch of Alex- 
andria, the Patriarch of Antioch, 
and the Metropolitan of Palestine, 
who was Bishop of Coesarea. These 
prelates could dispense, in nearly 
all emergencies, the violators of the 
ecclesiastical ordinances; other 
prelates in the East were more or 



Was Origen a Heretic f 



119 



less restricted in their functions, 
and in matters of moment could do 
nothing detrimental to those sees. 
UTiat authority, then, prevented 
Theoctistus from pronouncing Ori- 
gen released from the irregularities, 
and canon ically qualified for the 
reception of orders ? Had any 
other ordinary imposed hands on 
him except the Metropolitan of 
Palestine, the objections of the 
Patriarch of Alexandria would 
undoubtedly have carried with 
ihem more weight. But the Metro- 
politan of Caesarea, while respect- 
fully acquiescing in the priority 
of the See of Alexandria, through 
reverence of its princely founder, 
always exercised his own jurisdic- 
tion without the permission or con- 
sultation of Alexandria. Theoctis- 
tus of Caesarea was not even under 
Demetrius, but under the Patriarch 
of Antioch, and these provincial 
and patriarchal boundaries as well 
as episcopal relations were only 
finally authoritatively adjusted by 
the Council of Nice.* In the second 
place, the Metropolitan of Caesarea, 
who always exercised more than 
ordinary episcopal functions, which 
were afterwards approved and 
sanctioned by oecumenical coun- 
rils,f deemed it not a usurpation of 
IK)wer to impose hands on Origen 
without the direct consent of his 
bishop, inasmuch as he was person- 
ally acquainted with the subject of 
the sacrament, morally certain of 
his piety and learning. If we add 
to those reasons the surrounding 
circumstances stated in the reply 
of S. Alexander of Jerusalem to 
Demetrius, it becomes patent that 
neither Origen was to blame in the 
premises nor Theoctistus for the 
exercise of his jurisdiction and 

• See Acts o/the Council 0/ Nice for proof of 
Ibif Hoc of Te:i5or.iofi;—** Apostolic Canons." 
t C*m. d* HicrATchia Ecci**im C0H. MiceMem, 



powers. Demetrius had given On* 
gen commendatory letters on his 
departure for Greece, and, on the 
strength of these commendations, 
Theoctistus and S. Alexander con- 
ferred on him holy orders. His 
services had been valuable as a lay- 
man ; they would become still more 
valuable as a cleric, and, actuated 
by those pure motives, they ordain- 
ed him. 

Now, is it historically true that 
in the year 230, or previous to that 
time, there were any such canons 
framed by the church as exclud- 
ed eunuchs from the reception of 
holy orders? It will be difficult 
to come across statutes of this na- 
ture in canon law or ecclesiastical 
history. We will find such acts of 
discipline framed years after the 
death of Origen, but none previous 
to that epoch. 

The other accusation, that he was 
ordained without the permission 
of his bishop, has a weaker founda- 
tion even than the preceding one. 
According to the practice of the 
church in our day, every candidate 
for the sacred ministry who is not 
a religious must be ordained by 
his own bishop (tiiulo nativiiatiSy 
domicilii^ beneficii^ seu fdmiliariiaiis 
proui acddit)f or possess the written 
consent of his own ordinary, if or- 
dained by another. Origen, viewed 
from a modem stand-point, con- 
tracted an irregularity ex delicto ; but, 
judged in the century in which he 
lived — the only one in which he 
must be judged — was as regular in 
his ordination as the young men 
who are semi-annually ordained in 
our provincial seminaries. Origen 
transgressed no ecclesiastical in- 
junction by receiving orders at the 
hands of a foreign bishop, because 
it was only under S. Anastasius 
that this restriction was placed on 
aspirants to the priesthood. The 



t30 



IVas Origen a Heretic f 



Council of Nice, embodying the 
canons of Aries, Ancyra, and Gan- 
gres, passed laws prohibiting clerics 
from attaching themselves at will 
to different churches and dioceses ; 
this prohibition affected clerics 
alone, and in no way referred to laics, 
who were at perfect liberty to be 
ordained by any prelate upon testi- 
monials of worthiness. It was only 
during S. Ambrose's time that this 
abuse became offensive, and that 
the Roman pontiff deemed it pro- 
per to eradicate it. To this end, in 
the year 400 a canon was enacted 
by the pope, which forbade any 
prelate ordaining the subjects of 
another, unless such subjects had 
permissive letters bearing the sig- 
nature of the bishop who had 
authority over them. From this 
sprang dimissorial letters. Indeed, 
whatever view an impartial and 
competent person takes of the 
whole affair, Origen and the saintly 
bishops who ordained him appear 
innocent, and seem to have acted 
with the best intentions. Never- 
theless, the decision arrived at by 
Demt'trius' council was that Ori- 
gen should be dismissed from the 
theological school, upon which his 
learning had reflected so much 
glory, and that he should also with- 
draw himself from Alexandria, re- 
taining, however, his priesthood. 

Origen, anticipating the result of 
the council " assembled by the care 
of Demetrius," quietly retired to 
Ciesarea. Matters did not end 
here. The immense amount of 
writings that the unwearied indus- 
try of Origen had contributed to 
the literature of the church offered 
a wide field in which his adversa- 
ries might search for something re- 
jirelu'nsible. His works would form 
in themselves a rare library, had 
lljc fall of empires not entombed a 
large portion of them in their ruins. 



No less than six thousand books 
did his indefatigable application 
produce : " Sex millia Origenis to- 
mos non poterant quipiara le- 
gere."* In the copying, revision, 
and compiling of these manuscripts, 
he employed twenty, at other times 
twelve, but always more than eight, 
amanuenses. As this article has 
no reference to his writings, their 
merits, or the influence they ex- 
erted upon church learning, we 
must make this cursory allusion to 
his gigantic labors sufficient for our 
present purpose. It will lay before 
the reader the great mass of matter 
his enemies had at hand to examine, 
the possible mistakes that might 
have crept into his works by the 
carelessness of so many secretaries, 
the possible corruptions they might 
have suffered at the hands of here- 
tics or jealous rivals. Not a finger 
could be raised against his spotless 
and ascetic life in the council ; the 
teacher of martyrs and companion 
of saints, his character was irre- 
proachable. 

Demetrius, not unlikely hearing 
of the warm reception extended to 
Origen in Palestine, convened, after 
a short interval, another council. 
The works of Origen were sub- 
jected to the sharpest examination. 
One instinctively inquires why De- 
metrius, if he were simply actuated 
by zeal for the preservation of ec- 
clesiastical discipline and the purity 
of revealed truth, did not intro- 
duce those serious charges in the 
former council. To resort to the 
non-publication of the Periarchon 
and Dialogues at the time of the 
first convocation of bishops, in order 
to remove the suspicions that point 
to the malice of Demetrius, is an 
ingenious special plea, unsupported 
by facts and testimonies. S. Jerome, 

* A^ud Hieron.^adv. TheofhUus, 



Was Origen a Heretic? 



121 



studying this question learnedly, de- 
fends Origen and censures Den>e- 
trius. Why did the Patriarch of Al- 
exandria, next in hierarchical honor 
to the Bishop of Rome, permit Ori- 
gen for over a quarter of a century to 
expound within his own hearing the 
siibh'me dogmas of Christianity, if 
his conceptions of those dogmas 
were radically false ? Can we sup- 
pose that the few months between 
the assembly of the two councils 
were spent by the bibliophilist in 
composing a work that would give 
the lie to the glorious achievements 
of thirty years ? Or can we allow 
the conviction to ' settle in our 
minds that he, so remarkable in 
rirtue, would deliver in the pulpit 
one doctrine, and write in his books 
another? Will we find fault with 
saints and illustrious doctors of the 
church, who, by the nature of their 
high calling, are bound to avoid false 
teachers, for extending to Origen the 
warmest hospitalities, or acknow- 
L-dge, with Eusebius of Caesarea 
and S. Pamphilus, the severe and 
unjustifiable measures adopted by 
Demetrius ? Whatever secret mo- 
tives guided Demetrius in the pro- 
secution of the inquisition, his 
course, disapproved of by his con- 
temporaries, has never secured a 
sincere advocate of ordinary impor- 
tance. The errors which he imag- 
ined he had detected in the writings 
assumed, in the eyes of Demetrius' 
council, sufficient gravity to cause 
the deposition and excommunica- 
tion of Origen. 

Never did an imperial edict, sud- 
denly proclaimed in the midst of 
[jeace, sanctioning the indiscrimin- 
ate massacre of Christians, produce 
;:reater consternation in the church 
ihan the announcement of Origen's 
Crpo^ition. The report of the fall 
of the great Tertullian had scarce 
died away, when the faithful were 



filled with alarm at the momentary 
expectation of its echoes being tak- 
en up by the fall of Origen, and re- 
sounding throughout Christendom. 
But there was a vast difference be- 
tween these two great men. Qirin- 
tius Tertullianus, while the superior 
of Origen in eloquence, style, and 
strength of language, was at the 
same time his inferior in the sacred 
sciences and in humility, the safe- 
guard of Origen *s genius. The one 
blended with Christianity the ele- 
gance and wisdom of the pagans, 
the other the beauty and inspira- 
tion of the prophets. Both the 
brightest ornaments of the church 
in their day, they no less adorned 
her sanctity by their lives than en- 
riched her treasures by their genius. 
Tertullian, a pagan by the prejudi- 
ces of birth and education, unac- 
customed to religious authority, 
could not endure the correction of 
superiors ; and wounded pride, in- 
flamed by impatience and an ambi- 
tious nature, gave way to impious 
belief, and Tertullian, the fallen 
genius, dwindles into a fanatical 
heretic. It was not so with Origen. 
Having received information of the 
action of the council, with real hu- 
mility equalled only by that of the 
meek Fdnelon, Origen wrote * to 
Alexandria that he had never taught 
such doctrine as was imputed to 
him, and, if contained in his works, 
it was through the machinations of 
heretics. Then follows, in the same 
document, a clear and orthodox ex- 
position of his belief upon the con- 
tested points — an exposition that 
will satisfy a modern theologian, 
with all his precise distinctions and 
scholastic definitions. As long as 
this monument of antiquity, this 
spontaneous proof of his adhesion 
to apostolic truth, this undeniable 

*Apud H/eron., 2 lib. "adv. Rufinus." et 
opera S. Gregory Nyssen. 



122 



Was Origen a Heretic t 



evidence of the absence of all per- 
tinacity, exists, so long will those 
to whom his memory is dear love 
to look upon him as sincere in his 
protestations and sincere in his 
faith. Here was the rule of his be- 
lief, and according to this rule his 
works should be interpreted : " That 
alone must we believe to be the truth 
which differs in nothing from the 
ecclesiastical and apostolical tradi- 
tion."* A noble rule of faith, truly 
Catholic and orthodox ! Words ap- 
propriate for an Origen, who caught 
up, as it were, the traditions of the 
apostles, and echoed them into 
Nicene times. What cause have 
we of refusing credence to Origen 
when he tells us that the errors at- 
tributed to him were the interpola- 
tions of heretics ? Every intelligent 
reader of history knows that his 
works were corruptee!, shamefully 
corrupted, at the close of the IVth 
century. In substantiation of this, 
we have only to refer to the learn- 
ed Rufinus and S. Jerome. Each 
of these translated into Latin the 
Periarchon of Origen and many 
other works of the same author ; 
and what do we find } Why, S. Je- 
rome accuses Rufinus of altering, 
inverting, suppressing the sense of 
the original ; and, in turn, Rufinus 
charges. Jerome with malicious per- 
version of the meaning of the learn- 
ed Alexandrian, wilful corruption 
i)f the text, and personal jealousy 
of the fame of Origen. S. Augus- 
tine, an intin>ate friend of S. Jerome, 
used his intluenee to reconcile those 
two great personages disputing 
about Origen; and from his letter 
to S. jerouie. it appears to us that 
his sympathies were with Rufinus. 
huleoil, in the first ages of the 
rhurrh, it was no uncommon thing 
for great nun to have not only their 

♦ /V /V/v»;>m» lib. i. 4. 



' works interpolated, but entire books 
circulated under their name. S. 
Cyprian* complained that works 
that he had never seen were issued 
in his name. S. Jerome f testifies 
that the letters of S. Clement, Pope, 
were interpolated, as well as the wri- 
tings of S. Dionysius and Clement 
of Alexandria; the same trust- 
worthy author was very much annoy- 
ed that the people of Africa in his 
day were reading a supposititious 
volume bearing his name. We see 
no reason, then, why heretics would 
not tamper with Origen's produc- 
tions, when they had the audacity 
to corrupt such public and sacred 
documents as those we have men- 
tioned, some of which were read in 
the religious assemblies of the peo- 
ple. It is the misfortune of exalted 
persons to be cited as authorities 
for opinions they never maintained. 
Indeed, when we perceive how the 
teachings of men amongst us are 
misrepresented, notwithstanding the 
assistance of the press, the tele- 
graph, and other modern detec- 
tives, we can understand with what 
facility opinions could have been 
accredited to Origen which were 
not his. Well might S. Jerome with 
the works of Origen scattered 
around his room, perhaps under 
his very elbows, write : " O labores 
hominum ! semper incerti ; O morta- 
lium studia! contrarios interdum 
fines habentia." % 

The acts of Demetrius* council, 
we are informed, were forwarded to 
S. Pontianus, whose short pontificate 
of a few years spent in exile, as well 
as the still shorter reign of his suc- 
cessor, S. Anterus, which lasted 
only a month, was absorbed in the 
discharge of duties more vital to 
the church than the Alexandrian 

♦ Sec Life in Rutler, note vol. Hi. 

t I ib. a. aJv. KuAMi:tt. 

X A/m^i iit-'r.^ lib 3. aUv. Rmf. p. 217. 



Was Origen a Heretic? 



123 



inquisition. Ere Rome took any 
steps in this matter, or sanctioned 
the proceedings by her silence, the 
discussion ended by the death of 
Demetrius, 231. 

It is probable that Origen in- 
dulged in conceptions or hypothe- 
ses not altogether in accordance 
with Catholic doctrine; but we 
must keep before our minds the 
circumstances in which he was situ- 
ated, the persons with whom he 
disputed, and the noble aim he had 
in view. The philosophy of Aris- 
totle, whom Tertullian calls the 
"patriarch of heretics," was very 
unpopular in Alexandria at the 
opening of the II Id century. The 
Deo-Platonic system was the pre- 
valent philosophy of the day at 
Alexandria. The issue of the day 
was, Is the religion of Christ philo- 
sophical.^ Can it with safety be 
subjected to logical rules ? Does it 
not contradict the reasonings of 
Plato .^ To meet this issue, so im- 
portant to the spread of the Gospel 
among the enlightened class, Ori- 
gen had recourse as much as was 
possible to the tenets of the Pla- 
tonic school for arguments. With 
Platonic philosophers he had his 
controversies; and his language, the 
more Platonic it was, the more 
power it exerted ; the more he re- 
conciled revelation with reason, in 
their estimation, the more entered 
within the pale of the church. 
Just as in our times able writers 
use the popular issues, because the 
most intelligible and taking, to dis- 
sipate the clouds of ignorance that 
billot ry has thrown around the pub- 
lic nund in regard to Catholicity, 
to shosv the natural compatibility 
of the ( hurch witii all legal forms 
of g<»vernnient, her inexhaustible 
rcNourrcs for meeting the require- 
ments of society, and her sacred 
and impartial maintenance of true 



liberty ; so, too, did Origen turn to 
advantage the doctrines of the 
schools in demonstrating the love 
of the church for sound philosophy, 
ker adaptability to the sciences, and 
her divine mission as regenerator 
of the world. This tincture of 
Platonism pervading his early pro- 
ductions, combined with the mys- 
terious figures under which Eas- 
tern nations convey sacred truths, 
the allegorical style, and the Disci^ 
pline of the Secret^ which was in 
active force, rendered Origen ob- 
scure, and his works susceptible of 
doubtful interpretation. 

Though his admirers go so far as 
to exculpate him from every error, 
we are not prepared to accompany 
them to that distance. We are 
willing to concede that Origen may 
have advanced some erroneous 
opinions, but error without contu- 
macy does not entail the sin of 
heresy, which is a wilful rejection 
of any revealed truth authoritatively 
proposed. " I may fall into a mis- 
take," says the learned S. Augus- 
tine, "but I will not be a heretic." 
The fathers of the church were 
only men, subject to human weak- 
ness, liable to err. The doubtful 
and obscure speculative hypotheses 
of the Alexandrian's fertile imagi- 
nation, then, should in no way 
darken the splendor of his genius 
or belittle his devotion to Catholic 
truth. F. Petau, his declared ene- 
my, followed by Huet, who gave 
his learning to this controversy, re- 
fuses to believe Origen obstinate. 
Halloix, Charles Vincent de la 
Rue, Tillemont, Witasse, Ceillier, 
and other erudite scholars, who 
studied with care and impartiality 
this whole matter, unite in the 
emphatic declaration that Origen 
** died in the bosom of the Catholic 
Church." 

This is the verdict of great men 



124 



Was Origen a Heretic t 



in modern times. It was also the 
verdict of the century in which he 
lived — the Illd — as may be seen in 
the apology of S. Pamphilus, com- 
posed in defence of Origen 's ortho- 
doxy, and extant in the works of 
S. Gregory Nyssen ; also in that 
beautiful monument of antiquity, 
the panegyric over Origen by S. 
Gregory Thaumaturgus, given in 
full in the works of Gerard Vossius. 
This verdict was confirmed in the 
IVth century by the catalogue 
of orthodox ecclesiastical writers, 
published by S. Gelasius, pope, 
among which is the name of Ori- 
gen ; and in the following century, 
in a profession of faith drawn up 
by Pope S. Hormisdas, and sent 
by Gerraanus, Bishop of Capua, to 
be signed by the Patriarch of Con- 
stantinople, the heretics condemn- 
ed by the church are enumerated, 
but in this enumeration we can 
discover no allusion to the great 
Scripturist. 

Indeed, it has always been a 
source of surprise to us how Origen, 
a fallible creature, a man like other 
men, unaided by any divine assis- 
tance, could have written in several 
thousand volumes so much truth, 
and so little error. There were 
but few Encyclical Letters, no 
Index, no decisions of Sacred Con- 
gregations, no Syllabus^ in the days 
of Origen ; and yet his enemies 
will measure the length of his defi- 
nitions with theirs, compare his 
expressions with the theological 
niceties of the present, and, should 
a word be wanting or a synonymous 



one substituted, exclaim: "There 
is an error; Origen is a heretic!" 
The body of infallible definitions 
from popes and councils which we 
now possess did not exist at this 
early epoch ; to write then ortho- 
doxically, to justify the Christian 
belief in the Trinity, to explain the 
hypostatic union, the generation of 
the Son, and the procession of the 
Holy Ghost, to expound the Scrip- 
ture and the other sublime mys- 
teries of religion, and escape with 
one or two mistakes, was simply 
marvellous. Thus Origen, born in 
the true faith, reared in a religious 
atmosphere, educated under pious 
men, the intrepid defender of truth 
and meek retractor of error, the 
teacher and companion of saints, 
the prisoner for Christ, has impress- 
ed on his life, in golden letters, the 
best defence of his orthodoxy. 
And if the saintly Origen be dis- 
tinguished from the abominable 
Origenians ; if the allowances due 
to the age in which he lived be 
accorded him, an injustice to the 
works of Origen — a valuable legacy 
to posterity — will be removed, and 
the injury done to a reputation 
obscured by the malice of some 
and the misapprehension of many 
others will in part be repaired.* 

• The question of Orinfen's orthodoxy turns 
principally on the Periarchon. The violently 
heretical character of that book, as it now stands, 
contradicting ths m )st fundamsntil doctrines of 
Christianity, is the best defence of Orijjen. It 
is altogether contrary to the teachini^ of his un- 
doubted works, and, if it had been acknowledged 
and defended by him, there wouli never ha\« 
been any controversy at all about his orthodoxy. 
He would have been at once and universally 
condemned as the grossest of heretics.— 
Ed. C. W. 



Social Shams. 



125 



SOCIAL SHAMS 



There is no axiom more fraught 
with meaning than the old Scrip- 
ture promise, " The truth shall make 
you free." But there is also no 
fact better authenticated in the 
civilized world of to-day than the 
|>ractical nullification of this very 
promise. We speak as regards 
things human ; for in spiritual 
matters, the home of truth is, to our 
belief, a fixed one, and the road to 
it staked out by a divine leader, 
that has power to find an unerring 
path in what otherwise seems but 
an ocean of shifting sand. We 
propose to apply this axiom to 
social life, and it is our complaint 
that it is not free. The pivot on 
which " society," properly so called, 
turns is conventionality — a polite 
term for untruth. 

The original Christian ideal of 
society was of course based on 
charity. It has been truly said 
that a perfect Christian is instinc- 
tively a finished gentleman. Cour- 
tesy is but an adaptation of char- 
ily ; and the height of good-breed- 
ing (recognized as being the faculty 
of setting every one at his ease, 
and of saying the right thing at the 
right time to the right person) 
must answer to the Christian prin- 
ciple that to wilfully wound your 
neighbor in the slightest degree is 
a sin. But all this, call it tact or 
charity, as you will, is not in itself in- 
consistent with tnith. The French 
have a proverb that Toitie vt^riid 
nest pas bonne i dire — " Every un- 
tnith is not necessarily expedient to 
all men ;" but even that is not a decla- 
ration of war against the principle 



of truth in the main. Yet what is 
the reality, the thing constantly 
before our eyes, the fact of which 
no one can doubt who has ever 
lived beyond the strictest limits of 
home — nay, beyond the limits of 
his own mind ? One in a thousand 
fulfils the ideal of Christian cour- 
tesy, while the other nine hundred 
and ninety-nine wear the regula- 
tion-mask prescribed by fashion. 
Some wear it of iron, so that, in the 
intercourse of a lifetime, you would 
never feel that you knew them any 
better than on the first day of ac- 
quaintance ; some only of wire, so 
that the natural personality be- 
hind it is but partially hidden even 
from perfect strangers; some of 
silk, so cunningly painted that it 
betrays you into thinking it nature, 
until, by repeated experience, you 
discover the imposture. Again, 
some wear it as the women of Con- 
stantinople wear the yaslunaky so 
filmy as only to veil, not to con- 
ceal, the features. Lord Lytton, in 
his romance, A Strange Story ^ speaks 
of the " three women " which exist 
in the single personality of every 
woman ; this applies to men almost 
equally. There is, he says, the 
woman as she really is, the woman 
as she thinks herself to be, and the 
woman as she appears to the world — 
the conventional woman. This is 
by far the most curious product of 
natural history, or, more appro- 
priately, of the history of mechan- 
ics. The human being under social 
manipulation is a study for phi- 
losophers. Conventional standards 
of human beauty, such as the com- 



126 



Social Shams, 



pressed foot of the Chinese lady, 
or the artificially stimulated ro- 
tundity of form among the women 
of some of the Central African 
tribes, the staining of the finger- 
nails with henna among the Per- 
sians, etc., are as nothing and in- 
volve no deformation or suffering 
compared with that among the 
wholesale machine-products of civ- 
ilized society. 

Spiritual systems of penance have 
sometimes been impugned for aim- 
ing at subduing nature : taming the 
passions, restraining the expression 
of strong emotion, weaning the 
body from innocent indulgences, 
and so forth. But is there any 
more barefaced destroyer of na- 
ture than " society '* as at present 
constituted? Are there any pen- 
ances harder, any restraints stricter, 
than those imposed by our conven- 
tional code.? The spiritual strug- 
gle with nature is voluntary, and 
aims at subduing our lower nature, 
only the more to honor the intel- 
lectual principle, and render its 
exercise free;: from clogging and 
degrading influences. The con- 
ventional struggle with nature, on 
the contrary, is a compulsory one, 
into which you are thrust by 
others in early and unconscious 
childhood ; it is, moreover, a decep- 
tive one, as it tends to produce 
mere appearances — not to tame 
passion, but restrain its outward 
expression ; not to elevate the mind, 
but to give it the semblance of 
those gifts most profitable in the 
social estimation of the day. It 
does not tend to make man super- 
natural, but ////natural. It takes 
from him even the freedom of the 
savage, without giving him in ex- 
change the freedom of the Chris- 
tian. It aims not at virtue, but at 
decorum. Its morality skips the 
whole of the Ten Commandments, 



but insists upon what facetious En- 
glishmen sometimes call the elev- 
enth — i.e.^ " Thou shalt not be found 
out." It has rites and ceremonials 
of its own, more arbitrary than the 
law of the land, and, in the same 
breath, more lax ; it has beliefs and 
formulas more binding outwardly 
than those of any religion ; it has its 
own oracles, its own language, its 
own tribunals. It is a state with- 
in a state, condoning many moral 
delinquencies, exalting some into 
meritorious deeds, smoothing others 
over as pardonable follies. Where 
it is not wicked, it is inane or 
spiteful. Slander and gossip are 
its breath of life, except in the few 
instances where intrigue sweeps 
away such second-rate passc-Umps. 
Yet its wickedness is a subject 
that touches us less than its stu- 
pidity ; for it is less of a daily expe- 
rience, and has more denouncers to 
lash it. We also know less of its 
brilliancy than of its meanness; for 
the latter is visible in the smallest 
gathering and in the most insigni- 
ficant place, while the former exists 
but in half a dozen great capitals, 
and even there only among one or 
two circles or strata of society. 
Paris and Vienna have their dull 
and respectable society, as well as 
other places, and they are by far 
the most numerous, and, we will 
venture to say it, the meanest. 
Downright license seems, strangely 
enough, to carry with it a certain 
reckless bonhomie which, while it is 
far from Christian charity, yet has 
many outward signs of it. The most 
abandoned are often found to be the 
most generous, or even philanthro- 
pic, while the pharisaical little- 
mindednessof many eminently "re- 
spectable " members of society is a 
constant reproach to the faith on 
which they pride themselves. The 
** milk of human kindness " is often 



Social Skams. 



127 



scarce amid "saints" of a certain 
school. Noli me tangcre is their 
motto, and an appropriate one, in- 
deed ; for you might tap their hearts 
till doomsday, and never draw from 
them one drop of the generous wine 
of sympathy. 

Not that all persons whose path 
of life crosses your own by the 
chances bred of social convention- 
alities are of this type; many are 
generous, kind-hearted, impulsive; 
but it is part of the indictment we 
bring against "society" that its 
niles so smother this amiable indi- 
viduality as seldom to allow it to 
be revealed to you save by some 
chance occurrence. You may have 
a "calling acquaintance" with a 
woman apparently frivolous (though 
obviously good-natured), and whose 
mind you judge to be probably as 
shallow as her conversation. Some 
sudden misfortune comes upon you, 
and, of all your acquaintances, this 
'\% perhaps, the only one who will 
blossom into a friend. In emer- 
gencies, her native good sense and 
affectionate heart burst their arti- 
ficial bonds, resume their proper 
place, and flow out in deeds of 
refined and considerate kindness. 
She will prove to have presence of 
mind, delicacy of heart, an active 
power of sympathy. This is the 
sort of woman you would choose 
to have by your dying-bed, or to 
vhom you would consign the care 
of your children under unhappy 
circumstances, whether of poverty 
or absence — the woman whose nerve 
would not fail her in a hospital, and 
who would march boldly into a pri- 
son with bright looks and cheerful 
words, ever thinking of others before 
herself. But had it not been for an 
untoward accident, you might never 
have distinguished her from the herd 
of ordinary morning-callers. She 
goes through her part in society as 



glibly and cheerfully as your gray 
parrot, who is ever ready to repeat 
his lesson when the proper cue is 
given him, or as readily as your pet 
lap-dog, which has no objection to 
stand on its hind legs in a corner, 
and beg as long as you choose to 
hold the titbit up before it. What 
chance have you of recognizing a 
soul behind all that mass of conven- 
tionality.^ About as much as you 
would have of seeing the "angel 
imprisoned in the marble " in a 
sculptor's studio, or as much as 
Dante had of knowing the tor- 
mented souls hidden in the trunk 
of those grisly bleeding trees of the 
Inferno, 

The more frequently and fami- 
liarly you mix with the world, the 
more your path is strewn with shat- 
tered ideals ; for it is almost impos- 
sible to retain an ideal of anything 
which you see daily as a misshapen 
and blurred reality. Practical ex- 
perience seems to coarsen and 
cheapen everything, and there 
never was yet a more melancholy 
truth than that of the old adage, 
"Familiarity breeds contempt." 
Professional life as well as domes- 
tic furnishes lamentable instances 
of this. In commerce, where it is 
very difficult for poetry and ideals 
to find room, the reality is hard- 
ly obnoxious to the thoughtful 
looker-on; for what refining influ- 
ence could be expected from the 
perpetual jar and clash of engines, 
the constant chaffering, the fever- 
ish life, of the exchange } It is the 
realm of purely earthly, material in- 
fluences, and naturally dwarfs the 
sympathies, while it concentrates 
the thoughts on one narrow point 
of selfish interest, if pursued for its 
own sake. But in the learned pro- 
fessions, whose aims are intellect- 
ually superior, and whose special 
province it is to elevate the human 



128 



Social Shams. 



mind above selfish and individual 
interests, leading it, on the contrary, 
to the contemplation of abstract 
principles, and to the furtherance 
of the public weal, the ideal should 
be more apparent. And yet, in 
most cases, it is not so. There is 
no reverence left for a pursuit the 
trivial details of which are grown 
too familiar; petty jealousies take 
the place of scientific or philo- 
sophic emulation ; man's innate 
vanity soon narrows the circle of 
interest round the ego^ and subordi- 
nates the progress of the world to 
personal advancement. There is 
scarcely anything less venerable in 
a man's eyes than the particular 
branch of knowledge in which he is 
most proficient ; and if it be with 
him a hobby, the love he bears to 
it is rather a shadow of the good 
opinion he holds of himself than a 
genuine devotion to science in the 
abstract. Of course, there are ex- 
ceptions, numerous and honorable, 
but such are the plain facts in the 
ordinary, every-day experience of 
which life is in the main composed. 
"No one is a hero to his valet.'* 
Home life is another ideal de- 
stroyed by society, with its arbi- 
trary rules and its hard, practical 
axioms. The peace and holiness 
of home are rudely jarred by the 
demands which fashion makes on 
the time of its members. We have 
sometimes been tempted to think 
that this would be a very pleasant 
world to any one who could go 
throu^^h it as a spectator only. To 
act a part in it yourself means to 
subject yourself to one disenchant- 
ment after another. You see a 
family group at a distance — say 
through a street-window in a large 
city, or on the porch of a country 
villa. Old and young are mingled 
together; there may be beauty 
among the girls, there is refinement 



in their surroundings ; they seem as 
thrifty as they are comfortable, for 
some are reading and some sewing : 
perhaps the tea-table is spread and 
housewifely treasures displayed ; as 
a picture^ it is perfect. But as a 
drama 1 Are you quite sure that 
you would like to see the real state 
of mind of each person there ? If 
so, prepare yourself for almost in- 
evitable disappointment. It will 
not be a safe investigation, and the 
ideal you may have formed will 
probably come out of the trial as 
an angel might if he trusted him- 
self to the rough handling of com- 
mon men. 

No real happiness can exist in a 
life of perpetual excitement ; and 
this a fashionable life can hardly 
fail to be. There is an intoxication 
of the mind as well as of the senses. 
The whirl of so-called pleasure 
never satisfies, but stimulates. 
More is required, and yet more, till, 
like the drunkard, you are a living 
paradox, never at peace unless in 
an atmosphere of excitement, just 
as he may be said to be never so- 
ber — or at least capable — unless 
when drunk. In the whirl of soci- 
ety, the mind withers ; there is no 
time for thought, for study, for ap- 
plication. How many young girls 
there are who tell you candidly, 
" Oh ! I have no time to practise my 
music. I used to do so four hours 
a day; but since I am in society, I 
can never find an hour to myself." 
Then you inquire into this mul- 
tiplicity of engagements, and you 
find — perhaps some religious occu- 
pation, some charitable work } Oh ! 
no ; only a call to be returned, cards 
to be left, a new toilet to be tried 
on, a little shopping, and a drive in 
the park. Pressing business, truly I 

In great cities, during the season 
of balls and parties, a girl's life is 
one un roken round of dissipation 



Social Shams. 



129 



tiro-thirds of the day, and recuper- 
ation for coming " pleasure " during 
the remaining third. At the end 
of four or five months of this life, 
vitality is half extinct, the cheeks 
are pale, the mouth drawn, the eyes 
violet-circled ; and against all this 
what prize is there to set? A 
bubble burst, a shadow vanished! 
These continual festivities, begin- 
ning late, ending in the early dawn, 
when the poor are just waking to 
their toil, and servants of God are 
rising to praise him — these repeated 
gatherings called " society " entirely 
upset the routine of domestic life. 
Instead of the blithe, healthy face 
sparkling at the head of the break- 
fast-table, there is a jaded, weary 
countenance, pale with a floiiry 
paleness, or flushed by late and dis- 
turbed slumbers; instead of the 
brisk tread and ringing voice that 
cheer the home, there is the listless 
step of the worn-out dancer, the 
peevish tone that tells plainly of 
bodily fatigue. In the evening 
there is no time for a cosy gath- 
ering round the hearth, a quiet 
game or chat, the reading aloud of 
some interesting book, or the sim- 
ple delights of old-fashioned nation- 
al airs. The dressing-room absorbs 
all that time — the choice of flowers 
or jewels takes long ; the last finish- 
ing touches to the toilet must not 
be given in a hurry. The event of 
the day is about to begin ; and so 
it will be to-morrow and the day 
after, and for an interminable tread- 
mill of days. If there is innate 
talent, there is no time to develop 
it ; or, if it is cultivated at all, that, 
too, is distorted into a mere social 
** accomplishment," the sole object 
of which is to add to the value of 
the possessor in the social market. 
The champion piece of embroidery 
is framed and pointed out as the 
work of the daughter of the house ; 

VOL. XIX. — 9 



the solitary basket of wax flowers is 
displayed in a conspicuous manner 
on an elaborate itaglrc ; the water- 
colors are studiously hung in the 
best-lighted part of the drawing- 
room; the overture of William 
Tell is invariably called for on 
the slightest provocation, and play- 
ed off indiscriminately before the 
least appreciative as well as the most 
artistic of the family's visiting list. 
And, by the way, what more egre- 
gious sham can there be than the 
conventional interest in music so 
universally professed .? It is a mat- 
ter of course to exclaim," Oh ! I dote 
on music " ; and, on the basis of this 
broad assertion, what ludicrous ex- 
emplifications one is condemned to 
listen to ! One will add, " Oh ! yes, 
and I do so love Strauss' valses " ; 
another will tell you there is no 
music like the bagpipes, and no 
dance like an Irish jig or an old- 
time Virginia reel. One gushing 
young lady will call the " Maud 
Valse " and the " Guards' Polka " 
" perfectly divine," while her senti- 
mental friend will murmur that 
" Home, Sweet Home " is her favor- 
ite. With many people, a collection 
of ballads is identical with the whole 
science of music ; their sympathies 
and comprehension can go no fur- 
ther. 

To many, again, music stands for 
comic songs and Christy's Minstrels. 
If an instrumental piece takes more 
than five minutes to get through, 
people begin to shift their feet and 
whisper to their neighbors ; of course, 
when it is over, they will turn round 
and sweetly simper : " Oh ! do play 
us something more ; that last was S9 
lovely." In ninety-nine out of a 
hundred houses where you are 
doomed for your sins to hear 
music, you hear trash. It is hard- 
ly worth criticising, either in the 
choice or in the execution, and, one 



130 



Social SJiams. 



would therefore think, hardly worth 
telling a lie for. And yet this con- 
ventional admiration, what is it but 
a lie pnre and simple ? 

To return to our belles and their 
murdered home-life. Not only is 
their time so mortgaged that they 
have none left for the joys of the 
family hearth, but they have none 
to spare for self-culture. A wo- 
man's education does not close 
on the threshold of the school-room. 
Every advance made later by vol- 
untary application to study is a 
greater stride than all the com- 
pulsory teaching she receives in her 
school-life. If society materially 
interferes with this self-develop- 
ment, it has a heavy responsibility 
to bear. Each mind thus stunted, 
crude, and unevenly balanced re- 
duces the sum total of usefulness 
in this world, and adds to the dead- 
weight of shiftless beings whose 
room would be decidedly better 
than their company in the scheme 
of human advancement. A frivo- 
lous, fashionable man or woman is 
a monster upon earth, a being 
whom nature certainly does not 
recognize, and whom religion 
reprobates. 

The most satisfactory reflection 
whereby to dispel the effect of this 
dismal picture is this : the thing 
carries its antidote with it to all 
but hopelessly narrow minds. The 
pleasures of dancing within an area 
of a yard square, and of listening 
night after night to the same in- 
sipid gallantries and insincere con- 
gratulations, cannot fail to pall after 
a time. A French author says 
that after the age of thirty, a 
woman of any account does not 
dance ; she leaves this pleasure to 
those who have no other.* As 
with all pleasures which address 

* Christ tM, Par Louis Bnault. 



the senses rather than the intellect, 
a surfeit often proves a cure. You 
have tasted all the delights to be 
got from certain things, and the 
sameness at last begins to pall. 
There could be no more effectual 
check on the levelling spirit of the 
age than a voluntary renunciation 
for a time on the part of the pos- 
sessors of wealth and power, and 
a temporary enjoyment of these 
honors on the part of those who 
envy them. How soon should we 
see the harassed artisan flv from the 
post he once coveted, the working- 
girl tear off the finery she envied, 
the millionaire pro Um, entreat his 
coachman to change places with 
him ! Those who, in the midst of 
their grinding toil, envy the man 
in broadcloth, the woman in her 
barouche, whom they pass and re- 
pass day by day, quite leave out 
of the scales the w^eight of inner 
anxiety, grief, or often only ennuiy 
which burdens the rich and fash- 
ionable. If they could tell how 
this one's heart is devoured by 
jealousy, how that one's home is 
rendered gloomy by his too plod- 
ding ambition, or unhappy by his 
wife's irritable temper ! If they 
could guess how that sickly, white 
child, seated among its furs in that 
dark, handsome clarence, causes 
sleepless nights and heavy fears to 
that anxious mother in velvet robe 
and seal-skin cloak ! If they only 
knew the secret remorse for ever 
gnawing at the heart of this ex- 
quisite of the clubs, whispering the 
name of a girl once happy and 
innocent — a name now to him the 
synonym of a crime; or if they 
could tell the thoughts of the sub- 
stantial merchant, as he turns away 
with heavy steps from a counting- 
house which, the more astounding 
is its financial success, the more it 
resembles, in all but in name^ a 



Social S/iafns. 



131 



gambling-den ! And, above all, did 
they but know how toften the sad 
votary of fashion, in some moment 
of long-repressed but untamable 
natural emotion, cries out for the 
freedom of the poor and their 
robust health ! That is the saddest 
part of this grim masque — no one is 
contented, no one believes in him- 
self or in his fellow-man ; it is a 
drama in which the actors know 
full well that when the foot-lights 
are put out and the curtain of 
night falls, they will no longer be 
what they seem. So the gigantic 
sham grows day by day, stifling 
nature, burying the intellect, blur- 
ring the moral sense, fossilizing the 
whole being. Outward shapes of 
humanity remain, but, by some fell 
enchantment, the spiritual essence 
is sucked away, and an automaton, 
skilfully contrived, represents what 
once was a man. 

Even pleasure no longer lurks in 
its outward forms when " society *' 
has thus worked its will on men. 
The real enjoyment is gone, but its 
dismal appearance must be assum- 
ed. Not to shock the world — your 
world — the flavorless fruit must be 
eaten with a good grace, the grace- 
ful draperies of social decorum 
must be hung on the skeleton. 
The wheel goes round, and it is so 
long since you have trusted to 
your own feet for guidance that 
you must needs keep hold of the 
conventional support. It is very 
difficult to win back your indepen- 
dence once it has been surrendered. 
The world — your world — is a piti- 
less task-master, and does not pen- 
sion off its former servants. If you 
leave it, you do so at your own 
risk; and if you can conquer no 
position which merit and your own 
individuality are enough to gain, you 
may resign yourself to the r^/e of a 
dummy. We are not sure that 



some of the happiest people on 
earth are not, socially speaking, 
dummies. But when you come to 
think of it, what a strange, magnetic 
power has the little circle that forms 
your world ! When a lady has 
crowded from five to six hundred 
guests in her narrow drawing-rooms, 
she sees before her all the persons 
who, to her, constitute society. Of 
these, perhaps one-third are of 
hazy position; they are but out- 
siders, candidates for the social 
honors which will only be bestowed 
fully and ungrudgingly on their 
grandchildren. Their opinion is 
not of much value. When you 
dissect the remaining thirds, you 
mentally check off many a respect- 
able and amiable person as incapable 
of forming any independent opin- 
ion ; others you secretly stigmatize 
as gossips, shallow-minded, or spite- 
ful; and the circle of responsible 
people becomes gradually narrower 
and narrower. Hardly a score do 
you credit with sound judgment 
and discriminating sense. But 
these are precisely the judges you 
do not fear, unless your conscience 
pricks you. They are generous 
and large-minded ; they stand apart 
from the crowd, with wider sympa- 
thies and larger appreciation ; they 
see beyond the present, and uncon- 
sciously you find yourself classing 
them as exceptions to the rule. 
They do not form the impalpable 
social tribunal, then.^ It must be, 
therefore, the mediocre company 
of gossips. Search a little into 
your consciousness or your memory, 
and you will doubtless find it is so. 
A recent novelist gives an apt illus- 
tration of the relative proportion, in 
the eyes of an old English country 
gentleman, between his county, 
England, and the world. A dia- 
gram contains, first, a large, irregu- 
lar outline representing the county; 



«2 



Social Skams. 



a round ball ten times smaller 
typifies England, and an infinitesi- 
mal point in space denotes the 
whole civilized world. This is the 
way we all look at things. No 
doubt it is instinctive. To us, " the 
world'* consists of a hundred old 
women, eminently respectable and 
unctuously compassionate, who gos- 
sip about our private affairs over 
their tea and hot rolls. This is the 
core of that dread tribunal which 
we tremble to off'end. It is indeed 
a hard tyrant, if it can succeed in 
chaining us to its car, after the 
pleasures which it dispenses have 
lost their flavor for us. But, unfor- 
tunately, half mankind acknowledge 
this species of bondage, and we 
must presume voluntarily, or at 
least passively. 

Were it not that this thraldom is 
so unspeakably sad, it would seem 
such a farce, if looked upon dis- 
passionately from without! One 
might almost liken a ball or great 
official reception in one of the capi- 
tals of fashion to the mediaeval 
Dance of Death. The scene is bril- 
liant with deceptive gaiety; the 
whole surface of society ripples 
with smiles; the maskers all wear 
their brightest garments and their 
stereotyped badges of mirth. 
There, in the doorway, stands a 
lovely woman, in rose-color from 
head to foot — a cherub's face en- 
shrined in a sunset cloud, so per- 
haps an artist would fancy. She 
smiles bewitchingly, and coquets 
with her fan, while talking to a 
gray-bearded hero from India. But 
she has made up her mind to sac- 
rifice her honor to her love; to- 
morrow, at dawn, she will leave her 
husband's home and her baby's cra- 
dle ; and, poor victim ! she is panting 
under the weight of this wretched 
secret even while she listens to old- 
world gallantry from her fatherly 



admirer. Not far from her stands 
another fair form, not more pure 
in outward semblance, hardly less 
beautiful — a gifted woman, a true 
wife, smiling and conversing as 
calmly as any one in the room ; but 
she knows that she has a fatal in- 
ternal disease, and that at any mo- 
ment death might suddenly over- 
take her. Not to alarm her hus- 
band, she joins in every festivity, 
carrying her secret with her as the 
Spartan did the fox who was 
gnawing at his bosom. Amid the 
whirl of the dance, you perhaps 
single out that young girl, fair, 
fresh, seventeen. She is not as 
happy as she seems ; her eyes roam 
shyly around; there is one whom 
she both longs and dreads to sec, 
for she is not sure whether she will 
not find him by the side of her 
school friend, now her rival. And 
among the men, how many, beneath 
their masks, bear sorrowing or anx- 
ious hearts ! That elderly man, so 
calmly listening to a fluent diplo- 
mate, knows that to-morrow it will 
be noised abroad that he is bank- 
rupt — utterly ruined. When he 
leaves this gay scene to -night, it 
will be for the railway, which will 
bear him out of the country in a 
few hours. Yonder pale man, who 
wears his regulation smile so list- 
lessly that you cannot help likening 
it to a garment loosely hung, is 
here in the interest of a friend, and 
is waiting an opportunity to speak 
a word of cordial recommendation 
to a ministerial acquaintance, for- 
merly a college friend, now a power 
in the cabinet. His heart is heavy 
with a private grief; his child lies 
dangerously ill at home, and his 
poor distracted wife needs his com- 
fort and support ; but, true to his 
word, he forgets himself for an 
hour or two, that he may not miss 
the golden opportunity on which 



Social Skams. 



133 



bang the hopes of his friend's 
▼hole future. In the centre of the 
dance, the tall form of a Life- 
^ardsman is prominent; to-mor- 
row he will have disappeared from 
the world, and only his intimates 
rill know that he had long deter- 
mined to enter a Catholic seminary, 
and study for the priesthood. He 
did not want his decision discuss- 
ed beforehand, and took the best 
means of silencing curiosity by 
appearing the gayest of the gay. 
Ever)' one here to-night has a long 
record oppressing his heart — some- 
thing that makes the present scene 
quite secondary in his thoughts, 
and that causes in his breast a bit- 
ter feeling of reaction against the 
mockery of which he forms a part. 
And this is the thing called plea- 
sure! How little we know of the 
people with whom we spend our 
lives — those that touch our hands 
daily, and speak to us common- 
place words of courtesy ! Surely 
the bees in their hive, the ants on 
vhcir hill, the beavers and prai- 
rie-dogs of a " village," know each 
other better than we do our next- 
door neighbors ! We cut the thread 
of a guilty reverie by some obser- 
vation about the weather, or we 
laugh the unmeaning laugh that 
iupplies the place of an answer, 
perhaps inconvenient to ourselves, 
and this laugh jars on the tender- 
est memories of a sorrowful past 
uppermost just then in our neigh- 
bors mind. There is something 
appalling in all this — the tragedy 
lies so near the surface, and we 
tread upon it so often ! 

The trivial aspect of society is 
oftener still before us — the inanity 
of morning calls, the gossip of a 
provincial town, the petty local in- 
terests that absorb three^rfourths of 
mankind. Why, we wonder, should 
general conversation invariably 



breed gossip, while a Ute-h-tite 
sometimes elicits real information 
and rational interchange of ideas ? 
The same person who in a com- 
pany of five or six has nothing but 
commonplace remarks to offer, often 
opens out in private though yet only 
ceremonial conversation, and star- 
tles you by original opinions and 
valuable suggestions. The French 
are perhaps the only people who 
shine in mixed conversation ; they 
have the talent of causerie — a thing 
that with us hardly exists ; the very 
word is untranslatable. A French- 
woman can be sparkling where we 
can only be dull ; she can dance 
on a cobweb, while we should break 
down on a cart-rope. Gallic vi- 
vacity can make even the details 
of the kitchen amusing, while we 
should be insufferably prosy on the 
same subject. 

How well we remember the pon- 
derous magnates of our neighbor- 
hood in the county ! The stately 
morning calls, the inevitable topics 
of local interest, the solemnity of 
that " quarter of an hour '* which 
we were fain to liken to that ren- 
dered famous by an old author. 
Unfailing resources, O Court Jour- 
nal! the royal visit to such and 
such a place, the marriage of so- 
and-so, etc., etc. Then the flower- 
garden and the poultry-yard (he- 
reditary hobbies with English la- 
dies), the agricultural show, the 
coming election. And then the 
formidable ordeal comes to an end, 
probably to the great relief of both 
parties. Neither of the two cared 
for the subjects discussed or for the 
interlocutor discussing them; but 
etiquette demanded the waste of fif- 
teen minutes, and the laws of so- 
ciety are as those of the Medes and 
Persians. In a lower rank of life, 
the proprieties are perhaps still 
more rigidly enforced, and the only 



134 



Social S/iams. 



difference would be in the choice 
of topics. George Eliot's inimita- 
ble gossip in The Mill on the Floss 
describes that to a nicety, and in- 
deed, although written in England, 
might do duty almost as well any- 
where else. The quality of the 
house linen, the antiquity of the 
^silver spoons, the solemn conclave 
over a new bonnet, and the delin- 
quencies of the maid-servant — such 
would be the staple. In every case 
you see the mask is on, it fits close, 
and no form of " society '* is disre- 
garded ! 

Staying for a few days at a 
friend's house is a terrible trial in 
polite society. You are never a 
moment off duty; you have to 
change costumes as often as an ac- 
tress in a play where the " unities " 
are " nowhere " ; and, above all, if 
you are a woman, you have the dis- 
mal prospect of three hours* morn- 
ing talk with a bevy of your own 
sex, your hands meanwhile engaged 
in some useless piece of fancy-work. 
The topics of conversation may be 
guessed, their range not being very 
extensive; of course, somebody's 
marriage or probable engagement 
is discussed, silks and laces are 
made up into imaginary toilets 
with surprising rapidity, the history 
of some refractory scholar and the 
details of the clothing club are next 
drawn upon, and it is very seldom 
that the talk glides into any in- 
teresting or rational channel. It 
really is a pity that people will per- 
sist in talking of each other and not 
of things. So much might be alter- 
ed for the better in society, if con- 
versation were not so exclusively 
personal. Mutual improvement is 
a thing altogether overlooked in the 
civilized world. Even men suc- 
cumb to gossip ; for what is the sta- 
ple of club-talk.^ So-and-so has 
** sold out," and gone into a less 



expensive regiment ; such an one 
seems very attentive to Miss So- 
and-so; such another was deeply 
offended because he was not asked 
to Lady Sp-and-so's party ; the 

shooting in Lord C *s preserves 

is confoundedly bad this year; 

Mr. A thinks of contesting 

the next election at B . In- 
terminable waves of gossip flood 
the world from the club as from 
the boudoir^ though the latter cer- 
tainly does by far the most mis- 
chief. 

We are told that "no man can 
serve two masters." In all rela- 
tions in life this is eminently true. 
Intellect and Mammon scarcely 
agree better than God and Mam- 
mon. The proper atmosphere of 
intellectual life is peace, and a stu- 
dent's career should be blameless 
in morals as well as tranquil in ex- 
perience. Fashion and society for- 
bid this; they necessitate loss of 
time, and unsettle the even balance 
of the mind. For one who values 
his calmness of spirit and his health 
of body there is a golden rule, which, 
if he weigh all external pleasures by 
it, will infallibly .secure him the 
peace he needs : No pleasure is 
safe but that which leaves no regret 
behind it on the morrow. Who 
has not felt the wretched sensation 
left by pleasures not fulfilling this 
condition ? Who does not remem- 
ber the feverish pulse, the troubled 
dreams, the vague uneasiness, the 
sickly apathy that follow on a night 
spent in violent and unnatural 
amusement ? One wiser than our 
generation has said : 

" The desires of sensuality draw 
thee abroad ; but, when the hour is 
past, what dost thou bring home but 
a weight upon thy conscience and 
a dissipation of heart.? A joyful 
going abroad often brings forth a 
sorrowful coming home, and a 



Social Shams. 



135 



merry evening makes a sad morn- 
ing."* 

These words, written centuries 
igo, contain volumes, and are not 
less applicable now than in the 
middle ages. 

We often hear it said that man 
is a gregarious animal. He needs 
companionship, and clings to his 
kind. This it is that induces that 
more stirring life which distinguish- 
es the city from the province ; which 
quickens the perceptions and en- 
larges the sympathies. But the per- 
fection of the intellectual life is not 
found in cities. The world-wide 
influences that stir great centres 
have locomotive powers that are 
superior to the channels of human 
contrivance. It needs not the fric- 
tion of mind with mind to originate 
great ideas or engender great deeds. 
The companionship needful for men 
of talent lies not in the social circle, 
but in the library. As Ruskin has 
said in one of his lectures, we 
should each of us be proud of being 
admitted to the friendship of some 
great poet, artist, or philosopher; 
and yet we neglect that inner com- 
munion which is open to us at any 
moment with the spirits of all the 
departed heroes of the mind, whose 
choicest thoughts are stored on the 
shelves of our libraries. It is true 
that the straitened circumstances 
of many a scholar keep him chain- 
bound within the limits of great, 
black, smoky cities; for, since he 
cannot possess individually the lite- 
rary treasures that are the necessary 
food of his intellectual life, he is 
obliged to slake his thirst at the 
common fountain of the public 
libraries and lecture-rooms. But 
we were speaking rather of the 
ideal, the perfect scholarly life, 
which implies a combination of 

• FolUwiHg of Christ, b. I. c. xix. T. 7. 



pursuits. The mind which looks 
to the highest products of ancient 
and modern thought for its legiti- 
mate pabulum can never be but 
half satisfied with anything less 
than perfection in its accessory sur- 
roundings. Such a mind is natu- 
rally allied to a sensitive and imagi- 
native organization, and the coarse 
contrasts between the peaceful study 
and the common street-sights of 
every large city must necessarily 
be painful to it. Even so the petty 
gossip and " storms in a tea-cup" of 
a rural centre ; for all that is mean 
and small is foreign to that calm 
atmosphere in which sages and 
poets live. Those sages, those 
poets, in their day, may have lived, 
it is true, among the turmoil and 
strife of small interests ; but death 
and the lapse of time seem to have 
bereft them, in our eyes, of any 
such disenchantments ; we see them 
transformed and idealized, and we 
gladly aim at reproducing, not their 
commonplace lives, but their spi- 
ritual existence. This existence 
still survives, and it is to this that 
we wish to ally our own. For this 
perfection of lofty companionship, 
the solitude of a country life is 
most conducive, but it must be a 
solitude of leisure, of freedom from 
conventionalities, and, unluckily, of 
at least some degree of wealth. 
This latter condition is fulfilled in 
so few cases that our ideal remains 
but too often unrealized in this 
work-a-day world, yet none the less 
is it the true and only dignified 
ideal of the intellectual life. The 
instinct of those born with a spark 
of genius will bear us out in this 
assertion ; no miser longs for wealth 
more thirstingly than a book-worm. 
There is an innate sympathy with 
the outward beauties of nature 
which distinguishes the scholar 
even more than it does the gipsy. 



136 



To S. Joseph. 



But, as a crowning condition to the 
enjoyment of these beauties, he 
must be free from the common 
cares and interests of men ; he must 
walk in a higher sphere than those 
whose sympathies cannot mingle 
with his; he must walk alone in 
spirit, even though his body may 
jostle the unthinking crowd. Have 
we made our scholar a misanthrope ? 
Yes, if thereby is meant a hater of 
society, with its shams and its stage- 



like scenery ; no, if you understand 
thereby a hater of humankind. 
But be sure of one thing: a man 
learns to love men more the less he 
sees of them, and the more, by their 
absence, they leave him his chari- 
table estimate of their probable 
good qualities. No doubt the earth 
itself looks fairer from the stand- 
point of a fixed star than it does 
to-day to any toiling wayfarer on 
its rough pathway. 



TO S. JOSEPH: 

ON THE DAY OF MY FIRST MASS. 

Type of the Priesthood with its Virgin Spouse, 
The Immaculate Church, our Mother ever fair ! 

Since even to me God's wondrous grace allows 
An office more than seraphim may share, 
I kneel to thee, most gentle Saint, and dare 

To choose thee patron of the trust. Oh ! make 
My evermore fidelity thy care. 

And keep me Mary's, for her own sweet sake ! 
Her knight before, and poet, now her priest 
(Nor less her slave — a thousandfold the more), 

I glory in a bondage but increased. 

And kiss the chain her dear De Montfort wore, 
With " Omnia per Mariam " mottoed o'er : 

Which seals me her apostle, though the least. 



Fbast op the Skvbn Dolom, Mftrch 31, iSjx, 



Odd Stories. 



m 



ODD STORIES, 



VI. — KING RULI. 



Once upon a time there was, on 
this side of the Hartz Mountains, a 
secret place, where, touching a hidden 
spring, you found yourself in a trice 
iJrtwecn immense walls of rock, 
whence a mysterious person, dressed 
in red from top to toe, took you into 
a great cavern, the first of a series 
of vast caves filled with hogsheads 
and tuns of wine and beer, and light- 
ed up in such a manner that the 
brilliant stalactites with which it was 
hung sparkled and flashed like the 
most precious gems in a jeweller's 
dream. The awe inspired by this 
scene hardly left you a moment to 
observe that the nose of your guide 
was even redder than his body, when 
you were ushered through another 
scCTct door into the domain of a 
grand old castle, the battlements of 
which, covered with moss, overlooked 
a pastoral valley and its white flocks, 
and seemed to rule the landscape, 
notwithstanding the presence of 
many other castles, as if it were the 
house of a monarch. And so it was. 
Here dwelt King Ruli, the patron of 
minnesingers and jolly cavaliers — that 
stalwart king whose brow, and beard, 
and port were the very signs of ge- 
nial majesty. Pleasure ruled the 
board where he sat; and when the 
juice of the Weinberg warmed up in 
the blood of the lords and minstrels 
in Weinbergland, the ten noble com- 
panions of King Ruli swept the 
mystic chords of the harp, and with 
voices free sang in echoing strain 
their merry roundelay : 

We're roTen til, we're singers 6Te 
And rhymers five; come round, come 
round ; 

Yc fire shall give us honest rhyme, 
ADd we shall gire you souod. 



Let laurels crown his great gray head, 
A big arm-chair his ihrone be made. 
Then sing : 
Ruli, King Ruli ! And he shall be our king. 

To sounds of cheerful thoughts like 
these each royal night wore on, while 
the castled lords of hill and valley 
feasted at the king*s table, and made 
merry over jest and story, to the 
clinking of many glasses and in the 
pleasant uproar of many voices. Seat- 
ed in his chair at the head of the 
table, he drank from a great flagon 
of crystal, or smoked from a pipe as 
long as his body, the bowl of which 
required a page-in-waiting to support 
it, lest, in a drowsy moment, it should 
drop from the mouth of the king. 
Below him were ranged the ten min- 
nesingers, who smoked from one 
immense bowl of tobacco, having 
long stems that led to all their mouths, 
whence issued a volume of smoke, 
which, as it rose around the great 
burning bowl, was like the fume of a 
conflagration ; and thus betimes the 
merry minnesingers sang : 

Ah ! never once so jolly face 

In green old Arcady appeared ; 
And as he drinks, the drink Hows down 

His flowing, streaming beard. 
He's six feet high, his beard is long. 
And broad his body is and strong. 
Then sinjf : 
King Kuli, King Ruli ! He shall be our king. 

No king could resist such flattery 
as this, and it was with truth that his 
minstrels pictured him standing, and, 
in a tone of majestic joviality, wish- 
ing the health of the whole com- 
pany : 

" True liegemen all, I give ye joy. 
For I am host and landlord here ; 
Ho ! varlets, bring me Rhenish wine, 

And flagons fill of bt-er !" 
Right red Rhine wine ! right red Rhine wine I 
Was ever gl «ss so clear and fine ? 
So sing : 
Ruli, King Ruli 1 And he shall be our king ! 



138 



Odd Stories. 



Late in the night the sound of 
song and story made for the gentle 
monarch a lullaby, and his head rest- 
ed on his bosom in slumber, as he 
laid down his flagon. Had his chief 
minstrel then tickled his great ear, it 
would not have waked him up ; and 
so, seeing that the king had filled 
himself with slumber as with the 
drugs of Morpheus, his lieges* sang : 

But, hold ! the montrch*s sleepy s^rowa ; 

His pipe hasdropt, he's drowsed and sped. 
Hark ! how he snores ! Wide open doors ; 

We'll bury him in bed. 
Then, while our loyal shoulders bear 
His burden, thus our burden hear : 

King Ruli ! 
The ktnjjf is dead ; long live the king I 

And live again, King Ruli ! 

But as night after night of song 
and wine went by, the king grew 
older and older in his cups. Little 
he saw or cared that new revellers, 
new minstrels, new lords, had one 
by one taken the places of old ones, 
and that the speech of the new-comers 
was loud and hoarse, and their song 
ribald and discordant. Those who 
remained with him of his old friends 
and retainers had gradually imbibed 
the character of the latest revel- 
lers, and their potations were deeper 
and their jests broader than ever. 
Once in a while the king groaned 
and complained that his beer was 
too bitter; but they so flattered his 
jokes, and praised his beard, and 
spoke of his noble brow, and his 
royal blood, and his glorious voice, 
that he sang and roared as of old, 
and swallowed his beer without further 
complaint. On such an occasion as 
this it required the cynical courage 
of the minstrel Knipfenbausenstein 
to sing, as he did, from the end of 
the hall, which he had just entered 
after a long absence : 

There were ten vintners old and sick, 
And all their wine had fjone to lees ; 
Of cmptr c.isks Ihey made them cells : 
Oh ! very bitler folks were these. 
Missives me now, pood friends, to think 
A king should be a king of drink. 

But sing : 
Ruli, King Ruli ! this night shaU be our king I 



The minstrel doubtless had in 
mind the ten companions of the king, 
who, being no longer able to keep 
up with the stalwart Ruli in the vigor 
of his potations, had cried out as 
with one voice against their sove- 
reign, declaring that his beer was 
bitter beyond endurance, and his 
pleasures a gilded despotism. For 
this offence the king, swearing round- 
ly that they were traitor knights, who 
knew not how to be moderate drink- 
ers or loyal feasters, consigned them 
to his darkest wine caverns, where 
they were doomed to dwell in emp- 
ty hogsheads for many a year. 

Now, after a life of good living, 
the rare old king sat in his great vel- 
vet-cushioned chair, warming his 
legs, which were rather swollen, 
and his feet, which were encased in 
large slippers, before a fire sufficient 
to cook an ox. Glided to his side 
his eldest child, the queenly Herraen- 
gilde, and said softly: "Alas! sire, 
and hast thou not heard that my 
first-born has killed young Siegbert 
of Bierhalle, in a drunken brawl, and 
wilt thou persist in these foolish 
feasts ?" 

" Tut, tut, silly girl ! This feasting 
hurts not thy fasting. 'Twere better 
to kill his man in drink than sober; 
and, tut, tut ! we must not grieve for 
ever, child. Wine is for the drinking, 
and life for the living. Heaven send 
thee luck !" With this the jovial king 
took a draught from his flagon. 

Ere he had smoked his pipe, the 
fair Joanna, second princess of the 
blood, whose wont it was to fill the 
king's pipe with affectionate care, 
said to him musingly : " Methinks it 
is the night when our brother Max 
fell over into the chasm and was 
killed. Ill befits that its peace be 
marred by roysterers whom, say 
they, he had most to blame for his 
death." 

" What ! and have ye turned dames 



Epigram. 



X39 



of the cloister, that ye seek to make 
crows' nests of my beard and gray 
hairs ? Umph ! my lady counsellors ; 
and ye would have no more wine 
drank because rocks are steep ! Did 
not sober Hans fall into the well, 
and ere thou wast born ? Ay, but a 
brave lad was Max, and a merry one. 
A glass to his memory !" 

The king was unaware, as he thus 
spoke, of the near presence of a re- 
verend and noble matron, whose face 
bore marks of care and grief. It was 
the queen Roxalana. A child of 
tender years ran from her side to 
climb her grandsire's knee, but, see- 
ing that the royal flagon stood in the 
way, exclaimed : " O grandfather ! 
that horrid drink !" The king, with 
a majestic motion, waved the child 
away, and she returned in tears to 
the side of the mute queen. 

"So, my lady, queen of woebe- 
gones and nurse of whimperings, 
thou art here to tease thy lord and 
trouble his gout. *Tis well. Train 
the brats of the land to do imps* 
work to their fathers, and make your 
daughters have long faces; but have 
a care, goodwife, lest an old man's 



patience be too weak for this old 
maid's gossip. Pray, what new worm 
is in thy brain, that thou tellest we 
must not drink the cup of our fa- 
thers ?" 

Not long after this scene, a loud 
clash of arms was heard in the court, 
and the debauched minnesinger, Wit- 
tekind, staggered into the hall, his face 
stained with blood as with wine. The 
king's guests had just drunk their tenth 
glass, when a crowd of rioters, armed 
to the teeth, rushed in upon them, 
and, breaking glasses right and left, 
proclaimed the downfall of King RulL 
With a bitter and heavy heart, the 
king recognized among the crowds 
who now drank to his perdition many 
of his old revellers ; and, seizing a 
favorable moment, fled totteringly in- 
to the wine mountain. There, to his 
great surprise, he found that all the 
tuns and hogsheads of wine and beer 
which had been stored away were 
quite empty. Once more he joined 
his ten companions locked up in the 
wine caves, lamenting bitterly that 
the wine of his life had gone to lees, 
and much tormented by the man in 
red, whose nose was like fire. 



EPIGRAM. 



THE WIDOW S MITES. 



Two mites, two drops — yet all her house and land — 
Falle from a steady heart thougli trembling hand. 
The others* wanton wealth foams high and brave. 
The others cast away ; she only gave. 

— Crashaw. 



I4d 



Old versus New. 



OLD VERSUS NEW. 



One pleasant afternoon, in the 
autumn just passed, I lay stretched 
out lazily on a mow of new-mown 
hay, in a large, old-fashioned coun- 
try- barn. 

It was still redolent with that 
odor peculiar to hay newly cut, 
having been placed in the barn but 
a few hours before. 

In the work of cutting, raking, 
and storing, patent machines of 
every description had assisted ; and, 
lying there cosily enjoying the effect, 
I had plenty of leisure to think 
upon the cause. 

With my mind full of reflections 
on the wonderful improvements of 
the age, and vague thoughts of 
labor-saving machines, it was not 
long until I was off in a sound 
slumber, to which a hearty dinner 
had by no means indisposed me. I 
was soon in the theatre of dreams, 
and the first actor whose voice I 
heard was an old scythe. Appar- 
ently, the peg on which he hung 
was rotten, and, giving way, let the 
old fellow fall with a shock that 
seemed to stir up what little life yet 
remained in him; for I soon heard, 
in a queer, cracked voice, the follow- 
ing complaint : 

" Well, here I am at last ! Hung 
up on the wall years ago, like an 
old coat that's put aside for a rainy 
day, my master couldn't even see 
to it that I had a safe peg; but, 
hanging me on that old rotten 
thing, I've got a fall that my poor 
bones won't be the better of for a 
month to come." 

With that, one of the patent 
mowers, showing his polished teeth, 



gruffly asked : " What are you 
growling about } What's that you're 
saying about the master.?" 

" It ill suits you," said the scythe, 
"to put on airs, though you arc 
rubbed and polished, and, drawn 
by a dashing team, ride about on 
wheels. Upstarts always assume 
great importance, and the latest 
converts are the most zealous parti- 
sans; when you have served the 
master as long and as faithfully as 
I have, you may have some right to 
maintain his cause." 

" Why," said the mower, " you're 
quite a preacher, to be sure ; pray 
tell us what cause you have for 
grievance } Is it, forsooth, because 
your peg gave way you are so 
highly incensed } Even if you did 
get a fall, I think you ought to br 
grateful that you are housed high 
and dry, and not left out in the 
rain to rust." 

" My fall is a small matter in- 
deed," said the scythe, "compar- 
.ed with my other wrongs. When 
I see you, with your gay paint and 
glittering teeth, eating up the food 
that I enjoyed for years ; when I 
see fair meadows of clover, and 
valleys filled with golden grain, all 
given over to your rapacious maw, 
and I, I who once received all 
this as my just right, allowed but 
the little scraps that grow around 
a stump — when I see all this, my 
temper is tried to the utmost at the 
injustice that is done me." 

" Yes, " chimed in an old and 
well-nigh toothless rake, " you 
may well complain of the scanty 
share that is doled out to you ; I 



Old versus New, 



141 



too, hang here neglected, and, when 
I am taken down, get equally tough 
morsels for my poor teeth." 

Whereupon several hoes, filled 
with deadly hate against their 
enemies of the plough family, now 
took courage, as they heard the 
boldly uttered words of their com- 
panions, and, speaking up with one 
voice, said : " We likewise have 
reason to complain of our master. 
There was a time when we were 
thought fit for any labor ; we turn- 
ed up the earth to support the po- 
tato-vines ; we loosed the earth 
around the com ; and that splendid 
vegetable, the cabbage, was tended 
by our trusty blades ; now we are 
deemed fit for scarce anything but 
to clean out manure, to scrape offal 
from the yard, and, in fact, do all 
the dirty work of the place." It 
seemed as if the spirit of rebellion 
was abroad; for at this, the flail 
that hung idly on a spike followed 
with a long speech. 

**You have all," said the flail, 
"good reasons for being indignant 
with the master of this farm ; my 
friend, the scythe, may justly com- 
plain of the rich harvests given over 
to his rival, the patent mower; our 
old companion, the rake — an excep- 
tional rake, by the way — may con- 
sistently inveigh against the master 
for giving him in his old age naught 
but the hardest morsels of food; 
and our worthy associates, the hoes, 
may well be indignant, and look 
with contempt and scorn on the 
foul legacy bequeathed to them — a 
legacy which hoes of their stamp 
should disdain to embrace. But 
he has treated none of you so cruel- 
ly as he has treated me ; forced into 
a disagreeable union with what he 
calls my handle, battered almost to 
pieces in battering out his grain, I 
yet respected him for the care he 
took of me in the months when I 



was useless to him. But now he 
has new-fangled machines to do his 
work, and, uncared for and unno- 
ticed, dust covers me so complete- 
ly that I can scarce open eyes or 
mouth. Base ingratitude has been 
my portion, and I certainly may be 
excused if I feel displeased, ay, en- 
raged. I may be pardoned if I seek 
not simply redress, but revenge." 
As the flail ended, a deep murmur 
of assent filled the whole place; 
and the patent mower, who had 
kept strict silence since his last 
question to the scythe, now spoke 
up. 

" My worthy friends," said he, I 
am indeed very sorry to be, with 
my companions, the innocent cause 
of all your troubles. I have listen- 
ed to your complaints, and cannot 
deny that they are, in the main, 
just. But you should know that 
the master seeks only his own com- 
fort, and, whatever care he takes 
of us, it is only to relieve himself 
from labor. As I reflect upon 
your present position, I see myself 
similarly situated ; for the time 
will come when I and my associ- 
ates will have to stand aside for 
newer and more vigorous servants 
of toil. 

" The master, too, will one day 
find himself in the same condition. 
He also will become old, and will 
look around on younger and hear- 
tier hands doing his work ; and, as 
he grows still older, he must suffer 
many a slight, for the world wants 
nothing it cannot use. 

" Now that the period of your 
usefulness has gone by, strive to 
become reconciled to your fate; 
murmur no more, accept your lot 
with resignation, be satisfied with 
the work you have done, and pa- 
tiently wait for the end." 

Curious to hear how the malcon- 
tents would take this bit of philo- 



142 



New Publications, 



sophy, I leaned over to catch the 
first word; but, leaning too far, I 
slid off the mow, and falling, not on 
the floor, fortunately, but on some 
bundles of straw, was rudely awak- 
ened to find that I had been 
asleep some hours ; for evening had 
come on, and it was now so dark 
in the bam that I could see no- 



thing of the bold disputants of my 
dream. 

Hastening to the house, I amused 
the family by the recital of this 
contest of the old against the new ; 
and, profiting by my dream, I have 
since resolved to accept the mower's 
advice, and be always reconciled to 
time's changes. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



The Life of the Blessed Peter Favre, 
S.J., First Companion of S. Ignatius. 
(Vol. VIII. of F. Coleridge's Quarterly 
Series.) London : Burns & Gates. (New 
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society.) 

The history of the Society of Jesus is 
rich in abundant materials of untiring in- 
terest. The Blessed Peter Favre's apos- 
tolic career was short, having been but 
of seven years* duration, yet crowded with 
astonishing results. * The particular fact 
most strikingly brought into view in this 
Life is the one which of all others is the 
most shameful for the Reformation — viz., 
that it had no intellectual or moral origin 
or character, but sprang merely from the 
sins and vices which had so frightfully 
corrupted a vast number of all classes of 
Christians in the miserable XVIth cen- 
tury. F. Favre saw this clearly, and oft- 
en said that if Luther himself could have 
been brought to sincere contrition and 
repentance for his sins, his errors in doc- 
trine would have disappeared without 
any argumentation. Accordingly, he set 
himself to preach lite a missionary, to 
exhort and win persons to a reformation 
of life, and to labor with wonderful suc- 
cess to convert sinners to God, as the 
shortest and surest way to check the pro- 
gress of heresy. 

The present volume is, like all those 
which have preceded it, carefully and 
neatly prepared as a book of choice read- 
ing for persons of cultivated spiritual 
and literary tastes. 



The PRmE of Lexington; A Tale of 
the American Revolution. By Wil- 
liam Seton, author of Romance of tJu 
Charter Oak^ The Pioneers^ etc., etc.. 
New York : P. O'Shea. 1874. 
Mr. Seton is a nephew of the cele- 
brated foundress of the American branch 
of the institute of the Daughters of Cha- 
rity, and a brother of the Rt. Rev. Mon- 
signor Seton. He served with honor as 
an officer of one of our New York regi- 
ments during the late war, and since that 
time has especially devoted himself to 
the study of early New England histor}*, 
which he has illustrated by his historical 
novels. Our first impression respecting 
the merits of a previous novel by Mr. Se- 
ton, in which he took great pains to de- 
pict the manners and customs of the early 
Puritan inhabitants of Connecticut and 
Massachusetts (the Romance of the Char- 
ter Oak), was not very favorable. We 
have since been disposed to think that 
we did not duly appreciate the skill and 
talent of the author, and have found other 
persons, well qualified to judge of such 
matters, who have considered the Char- 
ter Oak as a remarkably successful cflforl 
of its kind. Both that novel and the 
present one are characterized by a marked 
realism, like that of a certain Dutch and 
Flemish school of painting. Probably 
they do present a more correct and faith- 
ful picture of those old limes than that 
given by writers who have more idealism 
and romance in their delineation, like 
James F. Cooper. We confess to a taste, 



New Publications. 



^43 



nererthelcss, for these more romantic au- 
thors. And, speaking in cool criticism, 
ve think a novelist, in following the 
iiighest principles and ends of his art, 
ought to idealize more than Mr. Seton is 
disposed to do. He has a broad sense 
of the humorous and ridiculous in com- 
monplace characters and actions. The 
absurdities and trivialities of common 
life are too faithfully represented in his 
pages, and there is frequently a degree 
of coarseness in the description of vulgar 
persons which is disagreeable. Yankee 
diildren, however, devour Mr. Seton's 
stories with avidity, which is a good 
proof of iheir naturalness. And, putting 
aside the peculiarity which we have no- 
ticed, the story lately published, The 
Tridi of Lexington ^ is, even more than the 
first one, a composition of real originality 
and power, establishing fully the author's 
ability as a historical novelist. The bat- 
tles of Lexington and Bunker Hill are 
well described ; the heroes, and especially 
the heroine, of the story, with the plot of 
private incidents and events that make 
the filling up of the historical scenes, are 
ioteresting ; there is much genuine comic 
humor in the by-play, especially in the 
episode of Biliy Smith and the black 
coon, called " the parson," and we are 
quite sure that the genuine, unsophisti- 
cated children of the by-gone generation 
of New England forefathers, if they get 
hold of The Pride of Lexington^ will pay 
the author the tribute of an oft-repeated 
and delighted perusal. 

CONFERENCPIS ON THE SPIRITUAL LiFE. 

By the Rev. Father de Ravignan, S.J. 
Translated from the French by Mrs. 
.'\bcl Ram. London : R. Washbourne. 
1S73. (New York : Sold by The Ca- 
tholic Publication Society.) 
F. de Ravignan was undoubtedly an 
orator. Tlic impression which he made 
upon his hearers is enough to justify us 
in making this assertion. The orator 
must be heard ; when his words are writ- 
ten, their fire is gone, and they no longer 
burn. In the case of F. de Ravignan es- 
pecially, there must have been much in 
the maj^nctism of the man, in his earnest- 
ness, in his deep religious feeling, in the 
firm conviction and strong love, shown 
in iho manner in which he spoke ; for in 
his printed conferences and sermons we 
do not find great eloquence or beauty of 
diction or depth of thought. There are 
none of those bursts of passion, of those 



profound thoughts and comprehensive 
views, in which a whole subject is con- 
densed into a single phrase, as strong as 
it is striking, which we so often meet 
with in the conferences of Lacordaire. 
Nor yet is there that stately flow of lan- 
guage, at once simple and majestic, that 
evenness of style and unbroken sequence 
of thought, which characterize the dis- 
courses of F. Felix. And yet neither La- 
cordaire nor Felix excited greater enthu- 
siasm or made a profounder impression 
in the pulpit of Notre Dame than De 
Ravignan. 

If he had not the depth and compre- 
hensiveness of thought of the one, or the 
sonorous diction and lofty manner of the 
other, he must have been, in some re- 
spects at least, a greater orator than 
either. The conferences contained in 
the volume now before us were preached 
to the " Enfants de Marie," in the Con- 
vent of the Sacred Heart, in Paris, dur- 
ing the years 1855, 1856, and 1857. They 
were not written out by F. de Ravignan, 
but were compiled by one of his hearers 
from notes taken at the time of their de- 
livery, and are, we think, equally as 
good as the conferences preached in No- 
tre Dame from 1837 to 1846, which were 
published in four volumes shortly after 
his death. They arc simply familiar dis- 
courses to ladies in the world on the 
most important subjects connected with 
their duties as Christians ; in which we 
find all the best qualities that distin- 
guished F. Ravignan as a preacher — sin- 
cere piety and much earnestness, united 
with delicacy and refinement both of 
thought and language. He docs not in- 
veigh against the vices of society, but 
rather seeks to describe the beauties of 
the Christian life; to sliow its dignity 
and responsibilities, its perfect harmony 
with the highest aspirations of the soul 
and the soundest dictates of reason. 

The name of F. de Ravignan will of 
itself be sufficient to obtain a wide circu- 
lation for this Knglish version of his con- 
ferences. 

Ecclesiastical Antiquitiks of London. 
By Alex. Wood, M.A. Oxon. London : 
Burns & Gates. 1874. (New York : 
Sold by The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety.) 

This book is quite a storehouse of cu- 
rious and valuable information — just the 
kind of matter that would be overlooked 
by the civil historian, and wliicli the reve- 



14+ 



New Publications. 



rent chronicler (alas ! an almost extinct 
species, now) alone would be apt to take 
cognizance of. 

It doubtless surprised many intelligent 
readers to find what interesting facts even 
a cursory investigation would bring to 
light, while reading what our " Looker- 
Back" saw while in London. This work 
is a treat of a similar character. It is 
constructed on the plan of an itinerary, 
and divided into nine " walks," in which 
the most notable localities are looked at 
from an archaeological point of- view, re- 
peopled by the actors on the stage at the 
respective dates, and reanimated by the 
deeds then being performed. 

Notes op the Wandering Jew ; or. The 
Jesuits and their Opponents. Edited 
by John Fairplay, Esq. Dublin : Mc- 
Glashan & Gill. 1873. (New York : 
Sold by The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety.) 

We are doubtless indebted to the fa- 
mous romance of Eugene Sue for these 
notes of the Wandering Jew, in which 
this extraordinary personage, after his 
ceaseless journeyings for more than eigh- 
teen hundred years, finally turns up as 
an author, and, surprising as it may seem, 
a defender of the Jesuits. 

The first part of the little volume is 
devoted to S. Ignatius. The Wandering 
Jew had seen him on two occasions — first 
in Spain, in his hot youth, with his light, 
graceful form clad in a page's rich at- 
tire, with the plumed cap and velvet 
mantle, the hawk upon his wrist, the 
hounds following at his heels, whilst his 
foot seemed hardly to touch the ground 
as he walked ; and again, at Rome, he 
saw him in his old age, arrayed in the 
flowing gown of the priest, with the calm 
of deliberate wisdom on his high fore- 
head, advancing with a sweet and awful 
majesty to the altar. 

" I loved and revered him then," says 
the Jew, "albeit a stranger to his com- 
munion ; and I cannot recall the mpmory 
of that marked and expressive counte- 
nance, whether in the gallant boy or the 



venerable and saintly old man, withottt 
feeling some interest in the fate of that 
illustrious order which he alone created, 
and which still bears the impress of his 
character and genius." 

The remaining chapters are devoted to 
The Spiritual Exercises, " The Constitu- 
tions of the Order," " The Missions and 
Schools of the Jesuits," and, finally, to an- 
swering some of the charges which Pro- 
testants and infidels have brought against 
the Society. There is a very good chap- 
ter on the Provincial Letters^ in which Pas- 
cal, with a wit and power of sarcasm sur- 
passed only by the artful unfairness with 
which he treats the subject, has sought to 
make the whole order responsible for the 
extravagant opinions of some few Spanish 
and Flemish Jesuits. 

The author, who is evidently not a 
Catholic, has written with great fairness 
and good sense, and we most willingly 
recommend his book to our readers. 

The Red Flag, and Other Poems. By 

the Hon. Roden Noel. London : Stra- 

han & Co. 1S72. 

We have been asked to notice this 
book. But how are Catholics to regard 
it with favor, when, before they have read 
far in the poem of *• The Red Flag," they 
come upon a passage containing an in- 
sult too gross and slanderous, we should 
have thought, for even Exeter Hall? Wc 
forbear to quote the words. Suffice it to 
say that the author, ignoring the mar- 
tyred archbishop and priests, represents 
the church as gloating over the execu- 
tion of the communists in Paris. 

Affectation, verboseness. and sensuous 
description characterize these poems as 
works of art ; while the metre of " The 
Red Flag" is in the worst taste, and the 
lyrics are spoilt by all sorts of quirks 
and the clumsiest divisions of stanzas. 

The Catholic Publication Society has 
in press, and will soon publish. The Life 
of St, John of the Cross ^ I vol. i2mo, and 
The Farm of Muiccron and Madame 
Agnes t in i vol. 8vo. 



VKOP£^ 



OF TH 



> 

THE l<ii.^F.W-YORK A. 



V, 



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CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XIX., No. no.— MAY, 1874. 



THE COMING TRANSIT OF VENUS. 



This year, 1874, bids fair to be 
memorable in the annals of astron- 
omy. A subject which has long 
occupied our students of that ven- 
erable and now gigantic science' is 
gradually passing from their closets 
and their scientific discussions into 
reviews and newspapers, and is forc- 
ing itself on the attention of the 
world at large. At first sight the 
matter seems a very trivial one. 
On the 8th of next December, keen 
eyes in certain parts of the world 
may, if the sky be clear, and if they 
look closely, notice that a small, dark 
spot, a mere speck, will flit across 
the face of the sun. Examined 
through a telescope, it is seen to have 
an appreciable diameter — about i'. 
It is not half as interesting to 
look at as ordinary solar spots, with 
their jagged edges, their umbra and 
fHjnumbra, their changing forms, and 
their whirling faculse. It has not, as 
they seem to have, some vague con- 
nection with the magnetic disturban- 
cs, the auroral lights, or any other 
atmospheric changes of this sub- 
lunary world of ours. It simply 



t 



passes across the sun in something 
less than six hours, leaving no trace 
behind, and producing, so far as 
would appear, no appreciable effect 
of any kind. It occurs but rarely — 
twice in a century ; in some centu- 
ries, not at all. Small as it is, it 
can be foretold and calculated be- 
forehand. Except as a verification 
of such calculations, ordinary minds 
might think it singularly unimpor- 
tant — scarcely more important than 
the gleam in the heavens at night 
of an occasional and isolated fall- 
ing star, which glides along its shin- 
ing path for an instant, and then 
disappears never more to be seen. 

Yet for the last ten — we might, 
with more truth, say for fifty — years 
back, the best astronomers have 
been preparing to observe, with un- 
equalled care, the passage of that 
little black spot. Some have again 
and again gone over the records of 
the observations made in 1761 and 
1769, when it was last seen, criti- 
cising what was then done, distin- 
guishing what was well done from 
what they judge to have been faulty, 



Batcrcd tcoordiaf to Act of ConirreBS, in the year 1874, by Rev. I. T. Hbckkk, in the Offiof of 

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



146 



The coming Transit of Venus, 



and tracing these faults back to 
their sources — either to the imper- 
fection of the instruments used, to 
personal errors, 'or to mistakes or 
omissions of the observers thepi- 
selves. In the observations now to 
be made, all these sources of error 
will, as far as possible, be excluded. 
Others have spent years in patient- 
ly going over the long calculations 
connected with those observations, 
detecting and eliminating any errors 
they find, and introducing such 
corrections as the subsequent ad- 
vance of astronomical science de- 
mands. The amended results thus 
obtained are ready for comparison, 
at their proper value, with the addi- 
tional and, it is hoped, better re- 
sults to be obtained from the observa- 
tions of next December. Still others 
have used, and are now using, their 
utmost skill in constructing instru- 
ments of hitherto unequalled ex- 
cellence for the great occasion. 
Besides great improvements in the 
instruments known in 1769, they 
have devised others, perhaps more 
valuable, and of a character then 
not dreamed of. Others, again, 
have devoted months to the nicest 
and most intricate calculations of 
the movements of the earth and the 
planets, in order to know in full 
time beforehand what special sta- 
tions on the surface of the earth 
will, that day and at the required 
hours, afford the most eligible posi- 
tions from which to make the de- 
sired observations. 

Finally, governments have been 
appealed to, to aid in preparing the 
means and in bearing the expense ; 
and they have responded. Every 
civilized nation is acting in the mat- 
ter. Russia leads off with, as we 
are assured, twenty-seven stations, 
mostly on her own territory, all 
duly provided with instruments 
and observers. France, England, 



and Germany will have ten or a 
dozen each. Austria will have her 
quota. Belgium, Holland, Den- 
mark, and Italy will establish sta- 
tions and send observers and in- 
struments. Even distracted Spain 
is at least talking of it. From the 
Western World, the United States 
will send eight corps. Nor will 
Brazil, Peru, and Chili prove lag- 
gard. The whole civilized world 
seems to move in this undertaking 
with a singular unanimity, doing 
what only governments can do. 
Many of the stations must be in 
bleak and inhospitable lands be- 
yond the confines of civilization. 
They will be furnished with all that 
is needful, and thousands of miles 
of telegraphic wires will be stretch- 
ed to put them in connection with 
the observatories of Europe. Other 
stations will be on distant islands 
in mid-ocean. Thither national 
vessels will bear the observers 
and their instruments. It were 
well for the world if governments 
would manifest such generous rival- 
ry in doing good when other and 
more important interests than those 
of astronomy are in question. 

What, then, is that little black 
spot which they are so anxious to 
examine as it passes across the 
sun next December.? How comes 
it to be of such importance that all 
these mighty efforts are made to 
have it fully and correctly observ- 
ed } To what great results, scien- 
tific or other, will a correct know- 
ledge of everything about it lead 
the world t 

That little black spot is the planet 
Venus, then passing directly be- 
tween the earth and the sun, and 
producing an homceopathic solar 
eclipse, just as, under similar cir- 
cumstances, the moon might pro- 
duce an annular or a total solar 
eclipse. As ordinarily seen in her 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



^M 



character of morning or evening 
star, Venus shines more brightly 
and joyously in the heavens than 
any other star. But on this occa- 
sion the whole of her illuminated 
half is turned towards the sun. 
Towards the earth she shows only 
her dark, unillumined half, which 
even looks darker by contrast with 
the bright face of the sun, on which 
it is projected. This passage across 
the sun is called the transit of Ve- 
nus. If the observations are suc- 
cessfully made, they will give us 
the means of ascertaining with suffi- 
cient precision what as yet is n'ot 
$0 known — the actual distance of 
the earth from the sun. 

This knowledge is all-important 
in a scientific point of view. From 
it we can deduce the distance of 
every other planet of the solar 
system. With it we can carry our 
survey beyond that system into the 
stellar world. The distance of our 
earth from the sun — the orbital 
radius of the earth, is, for the as- 
tronomer, his unit of measure — his 
yard-stick, as it has been termed — 
when he would estimate or measure 
stellar distances or velocities. Any 
error in it is multiplied millions of 
limes in such surveys. Any uncer- 
tainty or reasonable apprehension 
of error about it casts a cloud of 
embarrassment over almost every 
portion of the newly acquired do- 
main of astronomy. No wonder, 
then, that no effort is spared to se- 
cure as soon as possible, and in the 
easiest and most certain way we 
know of, an accurate solution of 
the question. This, more than 
anything else, is the spring of the 
whole movement. 

The earth, as all know, revolves, 
as do the other planets, round the 
sun, not precisely in a circle, but 
in an oval or ellipse not differing 
much from a circle. The length 



of our year, or time of one complete 
revolution of the earth around the 
sun, is 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, 
49.657 seconds. 

Inside the earth, and next to us, 
among the planets, comes Venus, 
revolving around the sun in her 
elliptical orbit in 224 days, 16 
hours, 48 minutes, and 42 seconds. 

Were both orbits on the same 
level, in the same plane, Venus and 
the earth would come to be in the 
same direction or line from the sun 
as often as Venus, moving on her 
inner and shorter course, and more 
rapidly, would overtake the more 
sluggish earth. Such conjunctions 
would happen once in every 584 
days nearly; and every such con- 
junction would show a transit, and 
Venus could be seen between the 
earth and the sun. But the orbits, 
though both around the same sun, 
are not on the same level. That 
of Venus is somewhat tilted up or 
inclined, so that one-half of it lies 
above the level of the earth's orbit, 
and the other half sinks correspond- 
ingly below. The line where the 
orbits cross or intersect each other 
is the nodal diameter, the only one 
common to both orbits. Venus 
overtakes the earth regularly, but 
ordinarily elsewhere than on or in 
the immediate vicinity of this 
nodal line. The planet then, in 
her apparent journeying from one 
side of the sun to the other, gene- 
rally seems to pass near that lumi- 
nary, either to the north or the south 
of it. But whenever, as sometimes 
happens, Venus overtakes the 
planet on the line of the nodes, 
either as she is descending on her 
orbit on one side, or ascending on 
the other, then the planet is seen to 
pass across the sun, and there is a 
transit. It is not necessary that 
Venus should be precisely on the 
line uniting the earth's centre to 



148 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



the sun's centre. The apparent 
size of the sun, 32' in diameter, and 
the size of the earth, and the small- 
ness of the angle of inclination 
between the orbits, all combine to 
give a little latitude in the matter. 
The earth arrives punctually every 
> oar at one end of this line in June, 
and at the other in December. 
The astronomical question is, When 
will Venus be there also at the 
same time ? To answer requires a 
calculation which appalls. First, 
there is the planetary velocity pro- 
per of Venus, varying according as 
in the various parts of her ellipti- 
cal orbit she is nearer to or further 
from the sun. Then there are the 
influences of planetary attraction — 
the earth and the other planets 
acting on Venus, accelerating or 
retarding her movements, and tend- 
ing sometimes to draw her to one 
side of her orbit. Then there is or 
may be question of that nodal 
diameter shifting its position, and 
trying, as it were, to swing round 
the circle of the earth's orbit. 
When all these calculations have 
been made, the diurnal movement 
of the earth must be taken into 
account, and the geography of her 
surface must be duly studied, to 
determine finally when the transit 
will take place, across what portion 
of the sun's face the planet will be 
seen to travel, and from what por- 
tion of the earth's surface that 
transit can be seen, and where in 
that portion stations for observing 
it can be placed with the greatest 
probability of success. 

It is a fearful sight even to look 
over a seemingly endless series of 
pages all bristling with serried 
columns of figures, broken every 
now and then by mysterious for- 
mulas of higher calculus, like a 
group of officers commanding a 
brigade. Mathematicians and as- 



tronomers may delight in them; 
we shall be satisfied to take the re- 
sults. 

The transits of Venus go in 
pairs eight years apart. There 
can be only one pair to a century ; 
some centuries will have none. 
The pairs occur alternately in June, 
as Venus descends from the upper 
to the lower half of her orbit, and 
in December, as she ascends again 
from it. Thus there were transits 
in December, 163 1, and December, 
1639. A second pair occurred in 
June, 1761, and June, 1769. A 
third pair is near at hand, in De- 
cember, 1874, and December, 1882. 
The next century will have none. 
The fourth pair will appear in June, 
2004, and June, 2012. 

So much on the character of that 
dark little round spot, the passage 
of which across the sun hundreds 
of astronomers, with all manner of 
telescopes, spectroscopes, and pho- 
tographic instruments, will watch, 
examine, measure, and record, as 
they see it sweeping on in its course 
on the 8th of next December. 
What will* be the special purpose 
animating observers as they view 
the transits of 2004 and 2012 — ^if, 
despite the prophetic and apocalyp- 
tic Dr. Gumming, the world lasts 
till then — no one can now tell. 
Astronomy by that time may be 
advanced as far beyond the present 
state of the science as the present 
state surpasses the state of two 
centuries ago. It is probable that 
new and, to that generation, most 
interesting questions may have then 
arisen, which they will strive to 
solve by their observations of the 
transits — questions now perhaps 
undreamed of. But at present our 
astronomical world is deeply im- 
pressed with the advantage and 
necessity of definitely ascertaining 
the distance of the earth from the 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



149 



sun. This is the paramount, 
though by no means the only, pur- 
pose of all this expenditure of time 
and skill and money in preparing 
for, in making the observations, and 
afterwards in laboriously working 
out the results. 

How, by merely looking never so 
attentively at an object whose dis- 
tance you do not know, as it stands 
in a line with, and perhaps far in 
front of, another, likewise of un- 
known distance, you can tell how 
far off that second object is, may 
seem as difficult as the king's re- 
quirement of the prophet first to 
tell him the dream he had forgotten, 
and then to explain its meaning. 
It might seem almost an impossi- 
bility; but a few words will ex- 
plain how the difficulty is turned 
by availing ourselves of other data. 
When two planets, as is the case 
with the earth and Venus, both 
revolve in elliptical orbits around 
the sun, in virtue of the law of 
.^vitation, then their respective 
times of orbital revolution are to 
each other as the cubes of their 
respective mean distances from the 
san; 

This is one of the laws of Kepler. 
It was announced by him as the 
wonderful result of seventeen long 
rears of calculations. He took 
the data given by the observations 
of Tycho Brahe and of others, and 
those made by himself. He tried, 
by every imaginable form of arith- 
metical supposition, to combine 
them together somehow, and under 
the form of some mathematical law. 
This was his last result, perhaps 
the most surprising result of 
hard plodding, long-continued 
bbor in the field of science. 
AH honor to his memory. There are 
fc^' discoveries in the mathematics 
of astronomy to be compared to 
this and the other laws of Kepler. 



He established them as experimen- 
tal facts. The mathematical reason 
of them he did not learn. 

Since his day, gravity has been 
discovered to be the bond which 
binds the solar system together, 
and its laws have been studied out. 
The differential and integral cal- 
culus, also discovered and perfect- 
ed since his day, has enabled the 
scholar to grapple with intricate 
questions of higher mathematics, 
which, without its aid, would have 
remained insoluble. Availing 
themselves of the laws of gravity 
and of the aid of the calculus, as- 
tronomers have been able to give 
us a mathematical demonstration 
of Kepler's laws, which, from bemg 
mere isolated facts or numerical 
coincidences, have passed into the 
realm of scientific truths. 

Now, we know the length of our 
own year — 365.2422414 days ; we 
know also the length of the year 
of Venus — 224.70048625 days. If 
we divide the former by the latter, 
square the quotient, and then ex- 
tract the cube root of this quotient, 
we shall obtain the number which 
indicates the proportion between 
the two mean distances. Apply- 
ing this, we learn that if the dis- 
tance of the earth from the sun 
be taken as 100,000,000 miles, the 
mean distance of Venus will be 
72,333,240 miles. And consequent- 
ly, when they are in the same direc- 
tion from the sun, and supposing 
both to be at their mean distances 
from that luminary, the distance 
between them must be, according 
to the same proportion, 27,666,760 
miles. It is obviously enough to 
know the actual value of either of 
those three distances to learn very 
easily the other two. The obser- 
vations of the transit are intended 
to ascertain the last and smaller 
one. How this is done, and what 



150 



The coming Transit of Venut. 



difficulties are to be surmounted 
in doing it, we shall see further on. 
Just now we will remark that sup- 
posing the observer to have ascer- 
tained to the very furlong this dis- 
tance, during the transit, between 
the planets, he must still do much 
before he can apply his proportion. 
That holds good only for the mean 
distances. There are only two 
points in the orbit or ellipse of 
each planet around the sun which 
are at the mean distance from that 
focus. Were those points for both 
planets to be found on the lines of 
the nodes, the matter would be 
easy. But it is not so. In June, 
the earth is approaching her great- 
est* distance ; in December, she is 
nearing her smallest distance from 
the sun. A similar embarrassment 
exists for the orbit of Venus. But 
the astronomer can bravely grapple 
with this double difficulty. He 
has learned the eccentricity and 
consequent shape of each ellipse, 
and he can calculate how far, pro- 
portionately, the actual distance 
of either planet, at any given point 
of its orbit, exceeds or falls short 
of the true mean distance. Such cal- 
culations have to be made for the 
earth and for Venus as they will 
stand on the 8th of next Decem- 
ber. When, this is done, the as- 
tronomer is at liberty to make use 
of the actual distance learned by 
observation, and to apply the Kep- 
lerian formula. 

But perhaps the question sug- 
gests itself, why take all this trou- 
ble of a circuitous route ? Why not 
measure the distance of the sun di- 
rectly, if such things can be done at 
all ? If it is possible to measure the 
distance of Venus by observations, 
surely the sun, which has an appa- 
rent diameter thirty times as great, 
and which can be seen every day, 
and from any accessible point of the 



earth's surface, gives a far aroplei 
field for such observations. If we 
have instruments so delicate as to 
disclose to us the presence in the 
sun of iron, copper, zinc, alumin- 
ium, sodium, manganese, magne- 
sium, calcium, hydrogen, and other 
substances, surely it will be possi- 
ble to determine that comparative- 
ly gross fact — its distance from the 
earth. And, in truth, what becomes 
of the lesson we learned in our 
school-days, that the sun was just 
ninety-five millions of miles away 
from us } 

And yet, strange as it may seem 
to those unacquainted with the 
subject, it has been found impossi- 
ble to decide, by direct observa- 
tions, the actual distance ; and the 
distance usually accepted was not 
derived from such observations. 
As for our lately acquired know- 
ledge of some of the constituent 
substances of the sun, that is de- 
rived from the spectroscope, which 
as yet throws no light on the ques- 
tion of distance. 

How do we ascertain the dis- 
tance of bodies from us.? Practice 
enables us to judge, and judge cor- 
rectly, of the distance and size of 
things immediately around us al- 
most without any consciousness of 
how we do it. But if we analyze 
the process, it will be found that 
we do it chiefly by using both eyes 
at the same time. They are sepa- 
rated by an interval of two and a 
half to three inches. As we look 
at an object near to us, the rays 
from each visible point of it must 
separate, in order to enter both 
eyes. The images thus formed on 
the retina of each eye differ sen- 
sibly, and we instinctively take cog- 
nizance of that difference. Speak- 
ing mathematically, the interval is 
a base line, at each end of which 
a delicate organism takes the angle 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



151 



of the object viewed, and our con- 
clusion is based on our perception 
of the difference between them. 
Ordinarily, we estimate distances 
by the cross-sight thus obtained. 
When, however, the body is so far 
off that the lines of light from it to 
the eyes become so nearly parallel 
tha the eyes fail to perceive the 
minute difference between the re- 
presentations formed on the retina, 
then we must recur to the results 
of past experience, and judge, as 
best we may, of the distance from 
other data than that given us at the 
moment by our eyesight. Thus a 
sailor at sea judges of the distance 
of a vessel on the horizon from 
the faintness with which he sees 
her; for he knows that the inter- 
vening atmosphere absorbs some 
of the light, so that distant objects 
ire dim. He judges from the fact 
that a vessel of the form and rig 
of the one he is looking at is usual- 
ly of a given size, and a certain dis- 
tance is required to cause the entire 
vessel to look so small, and certain 
[wrtions, the size of which he is 
familiar with, to become indistin- 
guishable. He is guided, also, by the 
amount to which, on account of 
the earth's curvatures, the vessel 
!>eems to be sunk below the hori- 
zon. These are data from ex- 
perience. It is wonderful with 
what accuracy they enable him to 
judge. A landsman by the sea- 
man's side, and without such aid, 
could give only the most random 
guesses as to the distance of the 
vessel. 

That we really do make this use 
of both eyes in judging of the dis- 
tance of bodies near us will be evi- 
dent if we bandage one eye and try 
to determine their distances, only 
using the other. It will require 
caution to avoid mistakes. We 
knew an aged painter, who had lost 



the sight of one eye, but still con- 
tinued to play, at least, with his 
brush. He had to use the finger of 
his left hand to ascertain by touch 
whether the tip of his brush, loaded 
with the proper color, was sufficient- 
ly near the canvas or not. If he 
relied on his eye alone, it often 
happened that when he thought it 
near, not the eighth of an inch 
away, it failed in reality by an 
inch and a half to reach the canvas. 
He would ply the brush, and, no- 
ticing that the color was not de- 
livered, would smile sadly at what 
he called his effort to paint the air. 
So long as he had retained the use 
of both eyes, this mishap, of course, 
had never occurred to him. 

When a surveyor desires to ascer- 
tain the distance of a visible object 
which he cannot approach, he must 
avail himself of the same principle 
of nature. He measures off on the 
ground where he is a suitable base- 
line, and takes the angle of the ob- 
ject from each end of it, not vague- 
ly by his unaided eyesight alone, 
but with a well-graduated instru- 
ment. It is, as it were, putting his 
eyes that far apart, and taking the 
angles accurately. From the length 
of the measured base-line and the 
size of the two angles he can easily 
calculate the distance of the object. 
In taking such measurements, the 
surveyor must make his base suffi- 
ciently large in proportion to the 
distance sought. If the base be 
disproportionately small, the angles 
at the extremities will not serve. 
Their sum will be so near 180** 
that the possible errors which are 
ever present in observations will 
more than swallow up the difference 
left for the third angle, and the dis- 
tance is not obtained. In our ex- 
cellent Coast Survey, which, in exact- 
ness of working, is not surpassed 
anywhere in the world, the bases 



152 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



<;arefully measured may be five or 
Kcven miles long, and angles under 
30** are avoided when. possible. 

From such measuring of distant 
objects on the surface of the earth, 
the passage was easy to an attempt 
to measure the distance of heavenly 
bodies. How far is the moon from 
us ? It was soon found that a base 
•of ten miles or of a hundred miles 
was entirely too short to give satis- 
factory angles. The moon was too 
<Jistant. A far larger base was re- 
(juirod. Suppose two places to be 
f*cU*rtcd on the same meridian of 
longitude, and therefore agreeing in 
timci and situated sixty degrees of 
latitude apart. The distance be- 
I worn thorn will be equal to a radius 
t»l t|u* oarth. At caoh station, and at 
tho Hanu* hours» the angles are taken 
whioh tho moon makes with the 
^onith, or, hotter still, with some 
Ntar noar it,ronung to the meridian 
at tho same time. In such a case, 
tho angles are satisfactory. The 
bano is large enough. The result 
of Huoh observations, and of others 
whioh we need not dwell on, is 
that, whon nearest to us, the centre 
of tho mocm is distant from the 
oentro «>f the earth 222,430 miles; 
whon at her greatest distance, 252,- 
^V)o nulos. *!'hese numbers are 
i)asod on tho faot that the equato- 
rial ratlins or semi-diameter of the 
o.nth is ^V)Oj.57 miles. This value, 
lu>\vo\or» may in reality be a quar- 
\\\ of a luilo tiH> short. The mean 
ih^tam o \\\ thr moon is roughly 
Mt.Hrd at (K> MMui-diameters of the 
I tilth. 

W h. n obMMAors essayed to apply 
III \\\\ ^\\\\ \\w samo prooedurc which 
li.iil pmvoil ho Miooossful in regard 
hi I hi hiniin, tl\<*v on<ountered dis- 
.i.iiiMi. i.Hlnii s, p.ntiv because the 
h.i.i. ^\^\\ \\w l.iio.t^st practicable 
• nil . v^ .. • (.»«ii\il \\\ bo « oinparatively 
\\\\ i«iii.illt paitly because, when 



the sun shines, no star is visible 
near by from which to measure an 
angle; and also because the at- 
mosphere is so disturbed by the 
rays of solar heat that, when seen 
through a large telescope, the sun*s 
edge is quite tremulous. Hence a 
very large element of uncertainty is 
introd\iced when angles are taken 
with the zenith. No astronomer 
would look with confidence on the 
result obtained under such circum- 
stances. Two hundred years ago, 
their instruments were much less 
perfect than those we now have; 
yet, even with our best instruments, 
to-day, too much uncertainty re- 
mains. That mode of ascertaining 
the sun's distance has been aban- 
doned. 

Ancient astronomers, long before 
the invention of telescopes, and be- 
fore the discovery of the Copemican 
system, devised an ingenious me- 
thod of getting some light on the 
distance of the sun. It is attributed 
to Aristarchus of Samos. They re- 
flected that, when the moon ap 
peared precisely half full, this arose 
from the fact that the sun and the 
earth were at right angles to her; 
the sun illumining the half turned 
to him, and the plane of division 
between the illumined and unillu- 
mined portions extended stretching 
directly to the earth. They con- 
ceived the three bodies to stand at 
the angles of a right-angled triangle, 
of which the distance of the moon 
from the earth was the base, and 
the distance of the sun was the hy- 
pothenuse. Hence they had only 
to measure the angle at the earth, 
which they could do, and then take 
into account their estimate of the 
moon's distance, to arrive at the 
result sought. The plan is ingeni- 
ous, and taught them that the sun 
was at least twenty times further off 
than the moon. But their estimate 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



153 



of the moon's distance was alto- 
gether wide of the mark. They 
had no means of correctly estimat- 
ing it Moreover, even keen eye- 
sight is a bad judge of whether the 
moon is precisely half full or not. 
The error of half a dozen hours 
would give a large mistake. Even 
with instruments such as we have, 
it cannot be precisely determined 
by direct observations; for the 
surface of the moon, as developed 
in a powerful telescope, is so un- 
even, jagged, and volcanic that the 
division between light and shade is 
a line too uneven and broken to be 
deteraiined except by guessing at 
its mean course. 

Another method has been also 
used in these later centuries. Kep- 
ler's law applies to all the planets. 
The planet next outside the earth 
is Mars, whose mean distance from 
the sun is about one-third greater 
than that of the earth. It periodically 
happens that Mars is in opposition 
—that is, is precisely on the other 
side of the earth from the sun. In 
that case, he makes his nearest ap- 
proach to our planet. Cannot his 
distance from the earth be then ob- 
served and determined, so that he 
will give us the means of calculat- 
ing by Kepler's formula the distance 
of the sun ? It was tried, and with 
some success. The base-line was 
found large enough; the observa- 
tions were made at night, when the 
atmosphere is comparatively quies- 
cent, and when fixed stars may be 
seen in the vicinity of the planet, to 
aid in taking the requisite angles. 
Yet, as in the case of Venus, there 
are, as we have stated, subsidiary 
calculations to be made on account 
of the eccentricity of his orbit and 
his varying velocity. In the case 
of Mars, these variations were too 
full of anomalies to allow confidence 
in the calculations. When after- 



wards these anomalies were under- 
stood to proceed from interplane- 
tary attraction, they were so com- 
plicated that their numerical value 
almost escaped calculation. The 
whole subject has been gone over 
in our own day under the light of 
more perfect observations, and with 
the aid of the highest calculus. We 
doubt, however, if even now the 
results are sufficiently established 
to warrant a calculation as to the 
sun's distance to which reasonable 
exception may not be taken. 

Anyhow, this method cannot com- 
pare, either in facility of calculation 
or in accuracy of result, with the 
method of determining the solar 
distance by observations for the 
transit of Venus. 

Of the theory and mode of ^uch 
observations we will now say a few 
words. 

In 1677, while Halley, the great 
English astronomer, was at St. He- 
lena, for the purpose of observing 
and cataloguing stars south of the 
equator, he observed a transit of 
Mercury across the face of the sun, 
and, from his efforts to measure its 
positions and movements, was led 
to believe that a transit of Venus 
could be so accurately observed 
and measured as to yield a precise 
and definite determination of the 
sun's distance. From the know- 
ledge he had of the movements of 
Venus, he knew that there had been 
a transit of Venus in 163 1, as Kep- 
ler had predicted, although no eye 
in Europe had seen it ; and another 
in 1639, which had been observed, 
but, of course, not for this purpose, 
which in 1639 was yet unthought 
of. The next transit would be in 
1761. He could not hope to live 
to see it. But he did the next best 
thing. He studied out all the con- 
ditions of the question, published 
his plans, and made all the prelimi- 



154 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



nary calculations required, so as to 
aid in securing, as far as possible, 
good observations and good results 
when the time came. 

As the year 1761 was approach- 
ing, the scientific world was astir, 
pretty much as it is now. Halley*s 
computations were again gone over, 
and such corrections and improve- 
ments were introduced as the ad- 
vance of astronomy since his day 
warranted and required. Govern- 
ments gave their aid and supplied 
means liberally. One hundred and 
twenty positions had been carefully 
chosen, and the best results were 
confidently expected. The grand 
problem was about to receive a 
final and definite solution. The 
error in the ultimate result would 
certainly not exceed one-fifth of one 
per cent. 

The astronomers were doomed to 
a sad disappointment. Wars then 
waging prevented some of the most 
important positions from being oc- 
cupied by the observers. It was 
bitter for a well-appointed party to 
sail for months and months over 
two oceans, only to see a hostile 
flag floating over the port they were 
about to enter. Sadly they sailed 
away, and could only see the transit 
from the rolling deck of their ship. 
Cloudy weather rendered other po- 
sitions valueless. And even where 
everything seemed to promise suc- 
cess, an unforeseen phenomenon in- 
terfered to mar their work. The 
astronomer might have his best 
telescope duly mounted, and di- 
rected to the proper point of the 
heavens, and carefully adjusted; 
his eye might be glued to the instru- 
ment, as he watched on one side of 
his field of vision a portion of the 
circular edge of the sun*s disk, and 
on the other the round, black spot 
gradually approaching. As they 
drew near, his hand was raised to 



give the signal ; his assistant stood 
ready to mark the very second when 
the two edges, coming nearer and 
nearer, would at last just touch. 
They hoped to seize the time of 
that first contact so accurately as to 
escape even the one second of error 
or doubt which Halley thought 
unavoidable. Vain hope ! Before 
the contact, while Venus was still 
distant about two-thirds of her own 
diameter from the edge of the sun, 
a dark streak or band seemed to 
interpose between them like a black 
cushion or wedge. As they pressed 
against it, the curved outlines of 
their edges seemed to be pressed 
back or flattened, as if by the resist- 
ance of the cushion, and to lose their 
normal shape. There was a pause 
in the onward movement, a quiver- 
ing, a struggle, and then, by an ir- 
regular, convulsive jump, like that 
of two drops of water coalescing 
into one, Venus was seen to have 
already entered some way on the 
disk of the sun. The discomfited 
and astonished observer was forced 
to record that his uncertainty as to 
the precise time of the contact was 
not of one second only, but of at 
least twelve or fifteen seconds. 
Was it the defect of the instrument, 
or the fault of his own eye, over- 
strained by long use, by the brilliant 
light, or by his intense anxiety ? Or 
was there some unknown atmosphe- 
ric cause at work producing this 
band ? Anyhow, he might hope that 
other observers would be more for- 
tunate than he had been. Again 
he was in error. Everywhere the 
same unexpected and puzzling phe- 
nomenon appeared. There was 
trouble in the astronomical world. 
The fault was generally thrown on 
the instruments. But whatever the 
cause of the mishap, there was some 
room for consolation. They would 
soon have another opportunity, and 



Thi coming Transit of Venus, 



155 



might make another trial. In 1769, 
unly eight years off, there would be 
another transit, and by that time 
some means would certainly be de- 
vised for escaping the evil. 

In T769, the stations were as nu- 
merous, the governmental aid fully 
as great, the instruments, they said, 
more perfect, and the observers, we 
may be sure, as earnest and as care- 
ful as before. Perhaps they were 
more skilful because of their pre- 
vious experience. But again all in 
vain. The same evil reappeared. 
The resulting uncertainty was even 
greater. It was held to reach fully 
twenty seconds. When they under- 
took to calculate, from such obser- 
vations, the distance of the sun, 
some made it not more than 87,- 
890,780 miles, while, according to 
others, it reached 108,984,560 miles, 
the majority finding intermediate 
values. On the whole, it did not 
appear that there was much im- 
provement on the estimate made by 
Cassini a century and a half before, 
that it was not less than 85,000,000 
miles. Again and again were the 
records of the observations studied, 
scrutinized, and weighed, and the 
calculations based on them repeated 
and criticised. Finally, in 1824, 
Encke, after several years of special 
study of them, summed all up, and 
gave, as the best result attainable, 
95,274,000 miles. The scientific 
world, hopeless of anything better, 
seemed for a time to acquiesce. 
Some even upheld the estimate of 
Encke as **so successfully deter- 
mined as to leave no sensible doubt 
of its accuracy." 

But, despite this, its accuracy has 
since been impugned, and on very 
strong grounds. It was known that 
light travels from the sun to the 
earth in about 8 minutes 13 seconds. 
Experiments carefully and ingeni- 
ously made by Arago, Foucault, 



and Fizeau show that light travels 
with a velocity of nearly 186,000 
miles a second. This would give 
the distance of about 91,400,000 
miles. 

The irregularities of the moon 
and of Mars have been studied out 
and calculated on the theory of 
interplanetary attraction modifying 
the attraction of the sun. Though 
the results vary somewhat, yet they 
all tend in the same direction. Le- 
verrier found 91,759,000 miles; 
Hansen, the Dane, found 91,659,- 
000 miles ; Airey, the Astronomer- 
Royal of England, whose earlier 
opinion of Encke's estimate we 
quoted above, has changed his opin- 
ion, and now proposes 91,400,000 
miles. 

A fact in practical optics, calcu- 
lated to affect some observations 
rather seriously, has been discover- 
ed within the last few years. It is 
this : When a white body is view- 
ed on a dark ground, its size is ex- 
aggerated by some, illusion of our 
vision ; and, on the contrary, a dark 
body seen on a bright ground ap- 
pears smaller than it would were 
the ground of a dark color, differ- 
ing from that of the body only as 
much as is required to render them 
distinguishable. Now, in the tran- 
sit, a dark body is seen on an in- 
tensely bright ground. It becomes 
necessary, therefore, to bring in a 
correction which will compensate 
for the error arising from this opti- 
cal illusion. This has been done 
by Stone, who studied out the 
whole matter, arrived at certain 
modes of correction, applied them 
to Encke's calculation, and main- 
tains that the true result of the 
observations of 1761 and 1769 
should be 91,730,000 miles. 

Thus all seem to agree that the 
sun's distance must be less than 
92,000,000 miles, and that Encke's 



156 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



estimate was too great by 3 or 4 per 
cent. 

This is the stage at which our 
astronomers now take up the ques- 
tion, and aim to obtain a yet more 
definite and precise result. Will 
they succeed ? They are full of 
confidence now ; what they will 
say after their observations we 
may know a year hence. 

Some of our readers may like to 
know what is the course followed 
in making the observations and in 
calculating the results. We will 
give a slight account of the chief 
points, sufficiently detailed to en- 
able one with an ordinary know- 
ledge of trigonometry to understand 
how the conclusion is reached. 

The astronomers will follow two 
methods, known as those of Halley 
and of Delisle. They each require 
two suitable stations, so far apaft 
on the surface of the earth as to 
give a satisfactory base-line. In 
fact, the further apart, the better, 
all things else being equal. For 
Halley 's method, the two stations 
lie as nearly north and south as 
may be. For Delisle's, they lie 
cast and west. 

Let us suppose two such stations 
to be chosen on or nearly on the 
same meridian of longitude, and 
6,000 miles apart. From each of 
these stations the planet is seen to 
traverse the disk of the sun, like a 
dark spot moving steadily across 
an illuminated circular dial-plate. 
The lines as seen from stations so 
far apart are sensibly different. 
What the observers first seek to 
know is the apparent distance be- 
tween these lines, the angle they 
form, when seen from the earth. 
Were both visible at once from the 
same station, through the same 
telescope, it would not be difficult 
for a skilful observer to measure 
the angle directly. But at each 



station only one line is seen, if, 
indeed, we may properly give that 
name to the course of the dark 
spot that passes on and leaves no 
trace behind. Each observer must 
determine correctly the position of 
his line on the face of the sun, in 
order that it may be afterwards 
compared with the other line simi- 
larly determined at the other, and 
the apparent distance between 
them is then determined by calcu- 
lation. 

How to determine the true posi- 
tion of such a line is the delicate 
and difficult task. One mode is to 
take the measurements in two di- 
rections on the face of the sun, 
northward and eastward, from the 
position of the planet to the edge 
of the solar disk. This must be 
done for a number of positions 
which the planet occupies succes- 
sively as it moves onward. But 
such measurements are very hard 
to be obtained with the desired 
precision. The edge of the sun, 
viewed in a large telescope, appears 
always tremulous, on account of 
the action of solar heat on our own 
terrestrial atmosphere. The better 
and larger the telescope, and the 
brighter the day, the greater and 
the more embarrassing does this 
tremulousness appear. Such mea- 
surements are difficult, and are open 
to too much uncertainty. 

There is another mode, which, if 
successfully used, is far more ac- 
curate. The lines or paths which 
the planet, viewed from the observa- 
tories, is seen to follow are chords 
across a circle — largest when they 
pass through the sun's centre and 
become diameters, smaller as their 
course is more distant from the 
sun's centre. Being both due to 
the motion of the same body mov- 
ing at what we m:iy hold to be a 
uniform velocity, their lengths must 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



>57 



be proportional to the times requir- 
ed for tracing them. Being chords, 
aknowledge of their relative lengths 
determines with accuracy their posi- 
tian on the circulardisk of the sun, 
3od consequently their dist.ince 
i^rt. Hence the importance of 
ritching, with the utmost exactness, 
the beginning and the ending uf 
the transit. The first exterior con- 
tact is noted when the circular 
tdgc of Venus just touches the tir- 
rular edge of the sun; then the 
firrt interior contact when the en- 
tire little, dark circle of Venus Is 
jiiit fully on the sun. Midway 
between the two, the centre of Ve- 
nus was just on the edge uf the sun. 
^Similarly, the second interior con- 
tact and the second exterior con- 
tart, if accurately and successfully 
observed, will show the instant of 
tunc when the centre of Venus 
puwd off from the sun's surface. 
It was, £s wc saw, in making these 
ilrlicBtc observations, that the ob- 
«rrcr» of 1761 and 1769 failed, to a 
jfreat cxicnl, on account of the 
^r^tcrious appearance uf the black 
I'lnd, of which we gave an account. 
M'iJi this embarrassing phenomenon 
i^iin make its appearance next 
Itecember ? If it be due, as some 
ilunk.to an aberration of sphericity 
m the Icn.ies of the instruments, it 
^,i» Qoi be seen. For our tele- 
-opa arc far more perfect than 
' owe of 1769. If it is due, as 
i)iera maintain, to an interference 
'. ligbl in the observation, a more 
uiicatc manipulation of the instru- 
ment majr. it is hopk.-d, avoid it. If 
If due to some optical illusion in 
ir own eye, it will, of course, ap- 
'jr again, and must be grappled 
■ ;^h. The olwervers now bein^r 
jined at Greenwich, in prepara- 
<ii for ilie grand day, have a fac- 
L^mdc of the sun and Venus, which 
*tr made to taovc in such manner 



as to give as exact a representatioo 
of the transit as is possible; and 
they practise observations on this 
artificial tran.sit. It is said that 
even in this fac-simile the black 
band has shown itself, and that onf 
important lesson now being learn- 
ed is how to judge of the instant 
0/ contact, despite of this obstacle. 
There is, however, a still better 
safeguard — the use of photography. 
The transit witi record itstlf more 
minutely and mori^ accurately than 
any ordinary obsL-rvitions for mea- 
surement could do. Various plan* 
will be used. One proposed is to 
have one hundred and eighty pre- 
pared and highly sensitive plates 
along the circumference of a suita^ 
ble wheel made to revolve regularly 
by clock-work. During three min- 
ntes, these plates come, one every 
second, successively into position 
to receive and record the images 
of the transit, ,ts the planet for those 
three minutes is entering on the 
sun. Other plates, at staled and ac- 
curately measured intervals of time, 
will similarly record its regular pro- 
gress across the sun; and another 
wheel, with one hundred and eighty 
other pl.ites, will record the succes- 
sive changes each second for the 
three minutes occupied by its exit 
over the sun's border. These are 
all, of course, negatives on glass. 
From them any number of impres- 
sions can be taken, in the usual 
way, for general distribution among' 
the scientists. In order that such 
impressions may still serve for the 
finest measurements, despite of any 
variations of expansion, contraction^ 
or warping which the atmospheric 
changes may produce, a system of 
fine, spider-web lines is placed in- 
side the telescope, producing on 
the photograph itself a network of 
fine lines, some nmning north and 
south, others crossing ihcm east 



\ 



158 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



and west. These lines are at equal 
distances apart, and serve admira- 
bly for measuring the position of 
the planet on the solar face. If 
the photographic sheet should be- 
come quite distorted, these lines 
would show it ; for they would of 
course follow the distortion, and 
yet, after that distortion, they would 
still guide us to accurate measure- 
ments. It is hopfed that this means 
and the many other photographic 
devices to be used will secure a de- 
gree of accuracy far beyond what 
Halley anticipated and would have 
been satisfied with. 

The spectroscope comes in also 
to aid in determining the contacts 
with the utmost precision. The 
light of the solar photosphere, or 
body of the sun, when made to pass 
through the prisms of a spectro- 
scope, spreads into a continuous 
band of various colors, and crossed 
by many faint, dark lines. Other 
bodies, raised to a certain heat, and 
emitting light, give a spectrum of a 
totally different character. We see 
only bright upright lines. There is 
no continuous band or spectrum of 
prismatic colors. Now, just outside 
the solar photosphere, and between 
it and the chromosphere, is a layer 
of solar atmosphere which gives just 
such upright, bright lines. This 
was first discovered not many years 
ago during a total solar eclipse, when 
the direct light of the photosphere 
was cut off by the interposing moon. 
Knowing what to look for, the as- 
tronomers have since been able so 
to manipulate their telescopes as to 
catch these bright lines, even when 
there is no eclipse. They find 
them, of course, as they examine, a 
narrow ring apparently encircling 
the sun, and immediately around 
his circumference. Now, when the 
moment of the beginning of the 
transit is at hand, the spectroscope 



is turned to the precise point where 
Venus will touch the sun's rim, and 
these lines are clearly brought into 
vision. So long as they shine, the 
way is open for the light of that 
narrow layer or belt to reach the 
earth. The instatit their bright 
flash disappears, the observer knows 
that the planet has so moved as to 
intercept the rays of light, and is 
just in contact. Their reappear- 
ance, at the proper time, on the 
other side of the sun, will indicate 
the instant when Venus will have 
quitted the disk and the transit is 
over. 

It is confidently expected that by 
some one or by all of these methods 
the uncertainties of 1761 and 1769 
will be avoided, and that the in- 
stants of the commencement and 
the conclusion of each line of the 
transit may be so accurately deter- 
mined that for neither of them will 
the error as to their duration ex- 
ceed one second. Did the time 
occupied by Venus in making the 
transit, as seen from one station, 
differ from the time as seen at the 
other by only one minute, the un- 
certainty of one second would be 
less than two per cent. But, in 
fact, the times will differ by fifteen 
minutes, and, by skilfully choosing 
the places, a difference of twenty 
minutes may be obtained. In that 
case, the error or uncertainty would 
be less than one-tenth of one per 
cent. For the present, the scientific 
world will be satisfied with that de- 
gree of exactness. 

Let us return to our supposition 
of two stations north and south, 
6,000 miles apart. The two lines 
of transit, as seen from them, are 
separated about 35 of an arc. This 
is as the lines are seen from the 
earth. If we recur to Kepler*s pro- 
portion, as stated before — that the 
distance of the earth from the sun 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



rS9 



is to the distance of Venus from the 
sun as 10,000,000 is to 7,233,324 — 
we can make use of a trigonometri- 
cal calculation, and easily ascertain 
that those same lines on the sun, 
seen by an observer on Venus, would 
appear about 48^' apart. More- 
over, the lines from the sun to Ve- 
nus, forming this angle, cross each 
other at the planet, and, if pro- 
longed, will reach the two stations 
on the earth. Hence, since oppo- 
site interior angles are equal, this 
(4^') must be the angle at which 
the same observer on Venus, turn- 
ing towards the earth, would see the 
two stations. We arrive thus at a 
triangle, in which the base is known 
—6,000 miles ; the angle at the vertex 
on Venus is also known — 48^' ; and 
the angles at the base are easily as- 
certainable. A simple calculation 
leads to the distance of Venus from 
the earth — about 25,300,000 miles. 
Again, applying Kepler's formula to 
this number, we obtain as the result, 
for the earth's distance from the sun, 
about 91,450,000 miles. If we give 
here only rough approximations, we 
are, after all, as near the truth as the 
astronomers of to-day can boast of 
being. In a minute calculation, 
subsidiary but important points are 
to be brought in, complicating the 
calculation and influencing the re- 
sult. 

After this statement of the gene- 
ral character of Halley's method, 
we may be brief in our notice of the 
yet more beautiful mode of Delisle. 
He proposed it before the transits 
of the last century. But its effi- 
ciency so entirely depends on an ac- 
curate knowledge of the longitudes 
of the stations, and the longitudes 
of distant stations were then so un- 
certain, that it couM not then be 
used with success. 

In this mode, two stations are 
necessary, east and west, or, rather, 



along that line on the earth's sur- 
face from all points of which the 
transit will show the same line on 
the solar disk. The further apart 
the stations are, the better ; for the 
base between them will be larger. 
To know the distance between 
them, we must know their longitudes 
as accurately as their latitudes. 
From the longitudes we ascertain 
with precision the difference of time 
between them. At one of those 
stations, the first exterior contact is 
seen, and the exact time is noted. 
As Venus moves on, the shadow of 
this first contact flies along that line 
of the earth's surface like the sha- 
dow of a cloud in spring traversing 
the fields. It is only after the lapse 
of a certain length of time that the 
contact is seen and timed at the 
other station. This certain length 
of time is the key to the solution. 
It may be determined by observa- 
tions on any one or on all the con- 
tacts, or by the observation of any 
other points of the transit examined 
and timed at both stations. It is 
obvious that the contacts, being the 
most unmistakable in their charac- 
ter, will be all used to check and 
control each other; the more so, as 
they serve also, as we saw, for Hal- 
ley's method. The most careful 
use of the telescope will be supple- 
mented by the photograph and the 
spectroscope. 

Let two such stations be chosen 
which, by their longitudes and lati- 
tudes, we know to be 5,000 miles 
apart. It will be found that the 
transit, or any special point of it, 
will be seen at the second station 
about three minutes of time later 
than at the first. This means that 
the shadow of Venus travels 5,000 
miles in three minutes on the 
earth's surface or at the earth's 
distance from the sun. Applying 
Kepler's formula, we find that, to 



i6o 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



proiluoo this effect, Venus herself 
must h»ue travelled about 3,860 
miles iu those three minutes. There- 
tv^re lu ^^4 7 days — her solar year — 
^hc ^fcv'^v.ld travel arou! 410 millions 
, » : : V 'v^ ^ > .: V vo sir..; : '".a :. d u rlr. c the 
... X... >. ^ ^ .■_> .»„^ • .. i^ ^, ..?. „;e.tn 

"iT v«:~v:;-^ ,*: b?r orbit 
^ -•,* .: - .: : '^ * >: • "t- v "csi r^ a:>.* r. > >. a ve 

:: .:>i.-v--~: : r •* r^: rcr :3is;jL:i d:s- 
. rx.^.; vrr . ?v: Sii? -^ r j.^ >*. 1: is 
; •vu Jvvr>v.cvx* ir..t:<. yr.-'tu :h:s* 
Tv i^.". ".*?« - 't cj:«.'s -s :.> the 
■■*-». . ^ : ^ V ■•.**?: :""^c sur: — ci.- 
»v.\.N>." t. .->» *-^ ,■ :rtv:rv'!\ :av:L- 
■tv vi.c •- 'o. r:s. A :-."^e yro- 
. >.>^ !% 1... j% .: '^.. :r:ixarv nu'.U- 
.»». t; •^•. .; v.'^. v*;^x >ow :.ir :he 



\ , 



'. ^ 



•>. 



»v 



^\< 



. « .■ cv! ^:! l^cr orbit 

xvx^'ixi x:.i. *.»:» vl:::*.!^;; :i^e 
i.v. '.» .iv\o. V. 01 ;.^^' o:'.:r- 



V \- 



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.' :: ■,• V . V \v\sV :^ 



'I 



«t . 



I i 

y . \ » \ - >» .V \ % " ^ *..v» 

, \ .1. ix •■\'.XX. .*.0 

. . \k •■ ^ ■> ■i'* !'v*x- 



«x 



in the last century, Halley 
was almost exclusively 
But now we can use botl 
have better instruments a 
star catalogues, and can c 
longitudes by astronomic 
vations much more accura 
could ordinarily be don< 
tury ago. In addition, 
now almost faultless chroi 
Besides all these means, 
and will use to a great e> 
grand American inventio 
lennining the longitude 
electric telegraph with an 
which leaves nothing to be 

While each method re< 
leas: two stations, a great 
ber would support and 
each other, and allow us 
the average result of a grea 
ber of observations. Foui 
at the comers of a lar^ 
rangle on the surface of 
might give two sets of sta 
each method. But this 
stations mav be nearer a h' 

Careful preliminary stud 
already determineii on wha 
of tlie earth the transit wil 
Me. The most availabk 
\iiil be turned to account 
lions. We say available : 
fortunately, much of that 
occupied by oceans, whil 
roiuical stations must per 
s;:v.atevi on firm land. Son 
Iv^t points, too, seem aluK 
cessiMe. Still, there is a ^ 
ot posts determined on 
no: I iKTn hemisphere, and 
Muinl)v'r, to correspond wil 
\\\ tlie southern. Heiiinnin 
^•x.iuvlria, in Kj^ypt, the line ? 
i»v"t!«x\.r.vl and e:ist\vard 
V.il.,xt;iu'. iieorL;ia, Tanary, 
\x: I. ar>d Nonkern China K 
•.:» Ia;\'.n, perhaps 10 Hon 
I'.U' S.;:ui\\iih Islands. 
^icai part of this line, the 



The coming Transit of Venus. 



l6i 



telegraphic wires will give exact 
longitudes, thus aflfording a fine 
field for the use of Delisle's method. 
In the southern hemisphere, the line 
may be set down as commencing 
near the Cape of Good Hope, bend- 
ing southeast wardly to the lately dis- 
covered Antarctic lands, passing 
south of Australia, then turning up- 
wards towards the equator, and ter- 
minating at Nukahiva, in the Sand- 
wich Islands, in the South Pacific 
Ocean. Along this line, at Crozet 
Island, at St. Paul's, at Reunion, 
at Kerguelen Land — further south, 
if the southern summer will have 
sufficiently melted the snows and 
driven back the ice-barrier to al- 
low the observers to land and work 
—at Campbell Land, in New Cale- 
donia, and in other places, stations 
will be established, between which 
and corresponding stations in the 
northern line Halley's method may 
be used. 

Time, learning, skill, energy, 
money, everything that man can 
give, will be devoted to ensure suc- 
cess in the astronomical work to 
be done on the 8th of December 
next. Such earnestness commands 
respect, and wins our sympathy and 
best wishes. 

May the day itself — the festival 
of the Immaculate Virgin Mother — 
ht an augury of success ! Astrono- 
mers, as a body, are less infected 
wiih the virus of modern scepticism 
and materialism than any other 
class of our scientists of to-day. 
On the contrary, not a few, standing 
in the front rank among them, are 
devout children of the church. 
Some of their chiefs are even num- 
bered among her clergy. They 
will not omit on that day to invoke 



the blessing of heaven and the in- 
tercession of their Holy Mother. 
May their fervent prayers be heard, 
and may He who " has ordered all 
things in measure and number and 
weight "* bless and give success to 
their labors ! 

Yet they can only look for an 
approximation to the truth, not 
the truth itself. They will see 
more clearly than before how the 
heavens declare the glory of God. 
But there will remain obscurity and 
uncertainty enough to teach them 
humility in his presence. For 
" God hath made all things good ia 
their time, and hath delivered the 
world to the consideration of the 
sons of men, so that man cannot 
find out the work which God hath 
made, from the beginning to the 
end." This was true when the in- 
spired Ecclesiastes wrote, and is 
still, and must ever be, true. The 
history of the progress of physical 
sciences is practical, tangible evi- 
dence of it. Each generation has 
to correct the mistakes and discard 
the errors of a preceding genera- 
tion, and must acknowledge the 
uncertainty of much that it contin- 
ues to hold or boasts of having 
discovered. 

No greater absurdity is conceiv- 
able than that of a man puffed up 
with pride because of the little 
knowledge he has gained — little in- 
deed, though he may think it a 
great deal — who sets his intellect 
against the infinite wisdom and the 
revelation of God. The more man 
really knows, the more conscious 
he becomes of his own failures in 
many things, and of the vast extent 
of his ignorance. 

* Wisdom xi. ax. 



VOL. XIX. — II 



1 62 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



THE VEIL WITHDRAWN. 



TRANSLATED, BY PERMISSION, FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF "a SISTER's STOKY,' 

" flburangb," etc. 



tt 



The one thing worth showing to mankind is a human %o^J^.^^—BrovaniHg 



I. 



September i, 1871. 

It was at Messina, July 15, 18 — . 
1 have never forgotten the date. 
It was just after my fifteenth birth- 
day. The balcony of the room 
where I was sitting overlooked the 
sea. From time to time, but more 
and more faintly, could be heard 
the noise of the waves breaking 
against the shore. It was the hour 
called in Italy the contr era — the 
hour when, in summer, the whole 
horizon is aflame with the scorching 
rays of the already declining sun, 
which are no longer tempered by 
the gentle wind from the sea that 
every morning refreshes the shore. 
The windows, that had been open 
during the earlier part of the day, 
were now shut, the blinds lowered, 
and the shutters half closed. Pro- 
found silence reigned within doors 
and without. For many, this is the 
hour of a siesta ; and for all, a time 
of inaction and repose. 

I was holding a book in my hand, 
not from inclination or pleasure, 
but simply through obedience, be- 
cause I had a lesson to learn. But 
that was no task. I took tio plea- 
sure in studying, nor was it repug- 
nant to me, for I learned without 
any difficulty. The chief benefit 
of study was therefore lost on me. 
It required no effort. 

I had not yet even taken the 
trouble to o[)en my book, for I saw 
by the clock I had ample time. 



At six I always went into the gar- 
den, which I was not allowed to 
enter during the heat of the day. 
There was still an hour before me, 
and I knew that a quarter of that 
time would be sufficient to accom- 
plish my task. I therefore remain- 
ed indolently seated on a low chair 
against the wall, near the half-open 
shutter, motionless and dreaming, 
my eyes wandering vaguely through 
the obscurity that surrounded me. 

The room I occupied was a large 
salon, Th^ ceiling covered with 
frescos, and the stuccoed walls 
brilliantly ornamented with flowers 
and arabesques, prevented this vast 
apartment from seeming gloomy or 
ill-furnished. And yet, according 
to the .tastes I have since acquired, 
it was absolutely wanting in every- 
thing signified by the word " com- 
fort," which, though now fully un- 
derstood in our country, has never- 
theless no corresponding term in 
our language. A clumsy gilt con- 
sole^ on which stood a ponderous 
clock, with an immense looking- 
glass above, occupied the further 
end of the room ; and in the middle 
stood a large, round, scagliola table 
under a magnificent chandelier of 
Venetian glass. This chandelier, 
as well as the mirrors that hung 
around, not for use, but to orna- 
ment the walls with their handsome 
gilt frames and the figures painted 
on their surface, were the richest 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



163 



and most admired objects in the 
room. A few arm-chairs system- 
atically arranged, a long sofa that 
entirely filled one of the recesses, 
and here and there some light 
chairs, were usually the only furni- 
ture of this vast apartment ; but that 
day a small couch stood near the 
window, and on it reclined my mo- 
ther — my charming '^oung mother ! 
—her head resting on a pillow, and 
her eyes closed. On her knee lay 
a small book, open at a scarcely 
touched page, which, with the ink- 
stand on a little table before her, 
and the pen fallen at her feet, show- 
ed she had been overpowered by 
sleep or fatigue while she was writ- 
ing. 

My mother at that time was bare- 
ly thirty-two years of age. People 
said we looked like sisters, and 
there was no exaggeration in this. 
I was already taller than she, and 
those who saw me for the first time 
thought me two years older than I 
really was ; whereas my mother, 
owing to the delicacy of her fea- 
tures and the transparency of her 
complexion, retained all the fresh- 
ness of twenty years of age. I 
looked at her. Her beautiful hair, 
parted on her pale brow, fell on the 
pillow like a frame around her face, 
which looked more lovely than 
c^•er to me. There was a deeper 
flush than usual on her cheeks, and 
her half-open lips were as red as 
coral. ... I smilingly gazed at her 
with admiration and love ! Alas ! 
I was too much of a child to realize 
that this beauty was ominous, and 
that I had much more reason to 
weep ! . . . 

My mother was left an orphan 
at fifteen years of age without any 
protector, and poverty would have 
been added to her other privations 
had not Fabrizio dci Monti, a 
friend of her father's, and a cele- 



brated lawyer, succeeded in snatch- 
ing the young heiress' property 
from the hands of a grasping rela- 
tive who had been contending for 
it. This law-suit had been going 
on several years, and the result 
was still doubtful when Count 
Morani, Bianca's father, died. 

He who rendered the young 
orphan so signal a service was 
then about thirty-five years old. 
He was a widower, and the father 
of two children, to whom he devot- 
ed all the time left him by his 
numerous clients, whom his repu- 
tation for ability brought from 
all parts of Sicily^ — famed, as eveiy 
one knQws, for the most compli- 
cated and interminable law-suits. 
Fabrizio, after his wife's death, 
had given up all intercourse with 
society, except what was imposed 
on him by the obligations of his 
profession. With this exception, 
his life was spent in absolute re- 
tirement with an austerity as rare 
among his fellow-citizens as his 
long fidelity to the memory of the 
wife he had lost. 

But when, after advocating Bi- 
anca's cause, he found himself to 
be her only protector, he at once 
felt the difficulty and danger of 
such a situation, and resolved to 
place her, without any delay, un- 
der the guardianship of a husband 
of her own choice. He therefore 
ran over the names of the many 
aspirants to the hand of the young 
heiress, and gave her a list of those 
he thought the most worthy of 
her. 

" You have forgotten one," said 
Bianca in a low tone, after glanc- 
ing over it. 

"Whom.^". . . inquired Fabrizio 
in an agitated tone, not daring to 
interpret the glance that accom- 
panied her words. 

Bianca still retained all the sim- 



i64 



The Veil WiihdrawM. 



plicity of a child, and the timidity 
of womanhood had not yet come 
over her. Accordingly, she said, 
as she looked directly towards 
him, that she should never feel 
for any one else the affection she 
had for him ; and if he would not 
liave her, she would go into a con- 
vent, and never be married. 

It was thus my mother became 
Fabrizio dei Monti's wife, and, in 
spite of the difference of their ages, 
there never was a nobler, sweeter 
union. A happier couple could 
not have been found in the world 
during the fourteen years that fol- 
lowed my birth. ' But for several 
months past, my father had appear- 
ed depressed and anxious. Some- 
times I could see his eyes blinded 
by tears as he looked at my moth- 
er, but the cause I did not under- 
stand. It is true, she often com- 
plained of fatigue, and remained 
in bed for hours, which became 
more and more prolonged. And 
now and then she passed the 
whole day there. But when she 
was up, as she had been that day, 
she did not look ill. On the con- 
trary, I never saw her look more 
beautiful than while I was thus 
gazing at her with admiration and 
a love amounting to idolatry. . . . 

After remaining for some time 
in the same attitude, I at length 
took my book, and endeavored to 
give my whole attention to my les- 
son. But the heat was stifling, 
and, after a few moments, I was, in 
my turn, overpowered by an irre- 
sistible drowsiness, to which I in- 
sensibly yielded without changing 
my position, and soon sank into a 
profound slumber. 

I had been asleep some time, 
when I was suddenly awakened 
by a remote, indistinct sound that 
seemed like the continuation of 
the dream it had interrupted. This 



sound was the footsteps of a 
horse. . . . 

I sprang up without taking time 
for a moment's reflection. I rais* 
ed the blinds, hurriedly opened the 
shutters and the window, and 
sprang out on the balcony. . . . The 
room was at once flooded with 
light and filled with the evening 
air. The sun had just disappear- 
ed, and a fresh, breeze fanned my 
cheeks. ... I heard my mother 
cough feebly, but did not turn back. 
I was overpowered by one thought, 
which made me forget everything 
else — everything! — even her! . . . 
I leaned forward to see if I 
was mistaken. No, it was really 
he! , , , \ saw him appear at the 
end of the road that connected our 
house with the shore. He rode 
slowly along on his beautiful horse, 
which he managed with incompar- 
able grace. As he came nearer, 
he slackened his pace still more, 
and, when beneath the balcony, 
stopped, and, taking off his hat, ' 
bowed profoundly, the wind mean- 
while blowing about the curls of 
his jet-black hair. Then he raised 
his eyes, of the color and tempered 
clearness of agate, and with a be- 
seeching, passionate look seemed 
to implore me for some favor. ... I 
knew what he meant. . . . Foolish 
child that I was ! I snatched from 
my hair the carnation I had placed 
there an hour before, and threw it 
towards him ! . . . 

At that instant I heard a pierc- 
ing cry — a cry that still rings in 
my heart, and the memory of 
which will never be effaced — 
" Ginevra!". . . Hurrying in, I found 
my mother standing in the floor, 
pak and gasping for breath, with 
her arms extended towards me. . . . 
I instantly realized I had been 
guilty of an indiscretion which had 
afflicted and displeased her. I 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



.651 



\ 



iras at once filled with sorrow, and 
on the point of throwing myself at 
her feet to beg her forgiveness ; 
but before I had time to speak, 
or even reach her, she fell back 
on her couch in a semi-uncon- 
icious state that I should have 
ihnught a swoon, had not a spastno- 
dic groan from time to time escap- 
ed from her breast, and when I 
did prostrate myself, had slie not 
seized one of nty hands, which she 
continued to hold with a strong 
pasp in hers. . . . 

remained thus for some min- 
utes without tny being able to 
.ve her to call for assistance, 
™ough the frightful change in her 
' ;e filled me with inexpressible 
or as well as the keenest an- 
, I withdrew my h.md at last, 
threw my arms around her 
:k, exclaiming repeatedly amid 
>abs : " Forgive me ! Answer 
Oh ! tcU me that you forgive 
. . ." She made no reply, how- 
, but by degrees she returned 
herself and grew calm. Then, 
ing me in her arms, she held me 
long time closely embraced, as if 
felt there was no safety for me 
here else, and longed in some 
way for the power of taking me 
once more into her malemat breast, 
IW I might live with her life, or die 
if the died ! . . . 

Almighty God! the prayer that 

then rose from her heart in behalf 

of her poor child thou alone didst 

But when I recall all the 

ir* of my past life and thy won- 

I mercy towards me, I feel it 

in answer to that prayer thou 

bestowed on me so many bene- 

I know that at that instant a 

source of grace was opened to 

never to be exhausted — a look 

mcTtjr vouchsafed that nothing 

ever extinguished ! . . . 

^y mother still remained speech- 



less, but her respiration became 
more and more regular, though, 
alas ! still too rapid, and her fea- 
tures resumed their usual appear- 
ance. But her bright color had 
given place to a deadly paleness, 
and a large dark ring encircled her 
sweet, expressive eyes, now fastened 
on me with a look I had never 
read there before. She bent down | 
and kissed me, and I felt two great 
tears fall on my forehead, as her 
pale lips murmured these words: 

" O my God! since it is thy will 
I should die and leave her behind 
me, 1 commit her to thy care, 
Walch over her, I pray thee, better 
than 1 have done." 

'* Die!" . . . my mother die! 1 
. . . 1 sprang up with a sudden, 
violent bound, as if smitten to the 
heart, and stood motionless like 
one petrified, A frightful vision 
appeared before me I ... a vision I 
had not been prepared for by the 
slightest apprehension, or anxiety, 
or suspicion. Notwithstanding the 
too precocious development of my 
sensibilities, there was something . 
chUd-like in my peculiar temperai- J 
ment that had blinded my eyes, nov I 
so suddenly opened ! I tried to re- j 
call the words I had just heard, but 
my mind grew confused, and was 
conscious of nothing but a sharp 
pang I had never yet experienced, 
but the cause of which had faded 1 
from my remembrance. I turned 
away, perhaps with the vague 
thought of calling assistance, per- 
haps to close the window, but stag- 
gered, as if dizzy, and fell to the 
ground behind the curtain of the 

At that instant the door opened. 
I heard the mingled voices of my 
father and several other persons- 
Some one sprang forward, exclaim- 
ing: "The window open at this 
late hour ! . . . Who could have 



i66 



Tlie Veil Withdrawn. 



been so imprudent?" Then I was 
conscious that they were gathering 
around my mother. My father 
took her up in his arms, and carried 
her out of the room. . . . No one 
had perceived me in the increasing 
obscurity, as I lay on the floor, half 



concealed by tne curtain. I had 
not fainted, but I was in a partially 
insensible state, incapable of any 
clear notions except the wish to 
lose all consciousness of suffering 
in a sleep from which I should 
never awake ! . . . 



II. 



I know not how long I remained 
in this condition. When I opened 
my eyes, the moon was shining so 
brightly that the room was as light 
as day. I rose up, and threw a ter- 
rified glance around. Everything 
in the moonlight wore an ominous 
aspect, and I shuddered as my eyes 
fell on the couch and the white pil- 
low on which I had seen my mo- 
ther's face resting. What had hap- 
pened .^ . . . A long time seemed to 
have elapsed, and I felt as if on the 
edge of an abyss — an abyss of sor- 
row into which I was about to be 
precipitated. O my God! was it 
a mere dream, or was it a frightful 
reality } I could not tell. I soon 
became conscious of an excruciating 
pain in my head, and my teeth began 
to chatter with a violent chill. I rose 
up to go out, but it was only with 
the greatest difficulty that I reached 
my mother's couch, on which I 
threw myself in despair, burying 
my face in the pillow where she 
had reposed her dear head. I 
burst into sobs, and this explosion 
of grief afforded me momentary 
relief. 

I then attempted to leave the 
room, and was proceeding towards 
the door, when my attention was at- 
tracted to something that had fallen 
on the floor. It was my mother's 
little book, the silver clasp of 
which glittered in the light of the 
moon. I picked it up, and had just 
concealed it, when the door opened, 
and my sister Livia (my father's 



oldest daughter) appeared with a 
light in her hand. 

"Gina!" she exclaimed, "how 
you frightened me ! What are you 
doing here, child, at this late hour ? 
I thought you were in the garden. 
How long have you been here.^" 

I made no reply. I felt as if I 
should die of mortification, should 
any one learn what had taken place 
before my mother's ill turn ; but 
Livia did not repeat her question. 
She was pale and preoccupied, and 
her eyes were red with weeping. 

What could have happened } My 
heart throbbed with suspense, but I 
had not courage enough to ask a 
single question. She had come for 
the pillow left on the couch, and 
seemed to be hunting for something 
she could not find. Perhaps it was 
my mother's note-book, which at 
night she always laid on a table 
beside her bed. But I did not give 
it to her. I wished to restore it 
myself, and, though generally frank 
with Livia, said nothing about find- 
ing it. Agitated as I was, I felt 
that this little book was a treasure 
that belonged solely to me — a trea- 
sure of which I must never allow 
any one to deprive me. She made 
me hold a light to aid her in her 
vain search, but, not finding it, she 
took the rest of the things Dn the 
stand, and left the room. I follow- 
ed her, and we walked along to- 
gether through the gallery that led 
to my mother's chamber, which was 
at the end. 



Tlie Veil WiUidrawn. 



167 



This gallery, or, rather, open 
loggia^ looked down on the inner 
court of the old palace we lived in, 
and extended entirely around it. 
The landing of the principal stair- 
case to the first story connected 
with the gallery, was precisely op- 
posite the place where we were, 
when, all at once, we heard in that 
direction a sound — confused at first, 
and then more distinct — of chant- 
ing and the measured steps of sev- 
eral people, mingled with the con- 
stant ringing of a bell. Presently 
a bright light shone through all that 
side of the gallery, and through the 
arches wo|Saw a long procession 
appear, and proceed around towards 
thedoordirectly before us, . . .the 
door of my mother's chamber. . . . 
Livia knelt down, and made a sign 
forme to do the same, but I remain- 
ed standing, my eyes staring wide 
open before me in a kind of stupor. 
I saw the long file of white peni- 
tents as they came with lighted 
torches in their hands; then ap- 
peared the canopy under which 
walked Don Placido, my mother's 
aged confessor, carrying the Divine 
Host in a silver Ciborium. ... I 
could see his long, white beard, his 
bowed head, his sad, recollected 
look, and that was all. In an in- 
stant the truth flashed across my 
mind ; then everything vanished. 

This new shock followed the other 
so quickly that it caused a deei)er 
and more dangerous swoon ; and 
when I was taken up senseless, and 
carried to my chamber, it was with 
the fear that this fatal night would 
be the last for the daughter as well 
as the mother. . . . 

I have no recollection of what 
took place for a long while after. I 
only remember that, opening my 
eyes one day, I saw Ottavia (my 
mother's nurse, who had brought 
mc up) beside my bed. I recog- 



nized her, and stammered a few 
words. . . . She murmured : "Bless- 
ed be God!" but did not add an- 
other word. A thousand thoughts 
rushed across my mind, but I could 
not analyze them, and the one which 
might seem of the least importance 
was that which I gave utterance to 
first. 

" My mother's book," ... I said 
repeatedly. 

Ottavia, without speaking, at 
once raised the lid of a large ebony 
coffer that stood on the table 
not far from my bed, and took out 
the little book with the silver clasp. 
» She held it up, and then replaced 
it in the box, which she locked. 
Turning to me, she put her finger 
on her lips. I obeyed the sign, and 
remained silent, but I slept no more 
till evening. By degrees my mind 
grew clear, and my confused recol- 
lections distinct. The fever that 
had brought me so near to death's 
door now abated, and from that 
day ray convalescence was rapid. 
But the chief thing that renewed 
life and strength restored, was the 
faculty of suffering, and compre- 
hending in all its fulness the reality 
of my misfortune. 

My mother was no more. She 
did not live to see the morrow of 
the day when she embraced me for 
the last time. My father's agitated ' 
face revealed this terrible fact more 
clearly even than the mourning he 
wore. . . . But I did not learn the 
details of her last hours till a long 
time after the day when, for the 
second time, he lost the light of 
his fireside. Knowing the keen im- 
petuosity of my disposition, a vio- 
lent explosion of grief had been 
anticipated. But it was not so. 
On the contrary, I fell into a state 
of gloomy silence that gave rise to 
fresh anxiety to those who had sg 
long trembled for my life. 



i68 



Th$ VeU Withdrawn. 



The physician, however, advised 
my father, my sister Livia, and 
Ottavia, who took turns at my 
bedside, to leave everything to time 
without attempting to oppose me. 
I therefore passed day after day 
without appearing to notice their 
presence. But on other days, I si- 
lently made some sign of gratitude, 
which would bring a smile to my 
father's pale face. Then Livia 
would embrace me, saying : " Cou- 
rage, bambina!* Try to love God's 
holy will." Or Ottavia, as she 
used to do when I was only four 
years old, would hold up the silver 
cross on her cornelian rosary, which • 
I always looked at with pleasure. 
And when they saw me kiss it for 
the first time, they began to hope, 
in spite of my silence, for the return 
of my reason. But my eyes would 
become fixed again, and I would 
cease to recognize any one. And 
when my pillow was found wet with 
my tears, as was often the case, the 
physician would say: "That is a 
good sign; let her weep. It is a 
relief she needs." But days passed, 
and my mental condition remained 
the same. 

My strength nevertheless return- 
ed. I was able to get up, and seve- 
ral times I walked a few steps on 
the terrace leading from my cham- 
ber without any injury. But no- 
thing could break the unnatural 
silence that transformed into an in- 
animate statue the girl whose ex- 
cessive vivacity and unrestrained 
liveliness had sometimes disturbed, 
sometimes enlivened, the whole 
house, filling it throughout with 
the sense of her presence. 

One day I was sittiijg on my ter- 
race, looking off over the gulf, when 
Ottavia approached, and, as usual, 
began to talk with the vain hope of 

« UtUe Kill. 



drawing forth some reply. I gen- 
erally listened in silence, but that 
day a new train of thought came 
into my mind, which I felt the 
power of pursuing clearly, calmly, 
and with a certain persistence that 
proved my physical strength was 
at last beginning to triumph over 
the kind of mental paralysis which 
made my convalescence seem like a 
new phase of my disease. 

Ottavia had placed a number of 
books on a small table beside me. 
She knew nothing of them but the 
covers, but she offered them to me 
one by one, hoping to induce me to 
read — a diversion it w^ desirable 
I should take to. At last I shook 
my head, and for the first time 
pushed away the book she offered 
me. Then I spoke, and the sound 
of my voice was a joyful surprise to 
my faithful attendant : 

"No, Ottavia, not that one. I 
want another book, and that alone 
— the one you put away there," 
with a gesture and glance towards 
the further end of my chamber. 

Ottavia understood me, but hesi- 
tated between the joyful hope of 
my cure awakened by my reply, 
and the fear of causing fresh ex- 
citement which might bring on an- 
other relapse. But after all the 
means that had been used to rouse 
me from the state of apathy into 
which I had fallen, it did not seem 
prudent to oppose that which I 
had chosen myself. She therefore 
obeyed my request, and, without 
any reply, opened the ebony coffer 
where she had put my mother's 
book, as if it were a relic, and plac- 
ed it in my hands. 

"Thank you, Ottavia," I said. 
And putting my arms around her 
neck, I kissed her, causing big tears 
of joy to roll down her cheeks. 
** And now leave me, I beg of you ; 
leave me alone for an hour." 



Till Viil Withdravm. 



165 



She heMratcd a moment, and I then kissed the cover of llie 

wLcd at tnc uneasily, but then book I held in my hand, and 

f implied as before with my wish, opened it with awe. It seemed 

Jiiid, after seeing that I was shelter- to me 1 was about to hear my 

d from the sun and wind, noiselessly mother's voice from the depths of 

left ihe balcony through my room. the tomb ! 



May 13, 18— 

Ginevra ! It is to her I con- 

^v^^a^c these pages — the child that 
ji once fills my heart with inex- 
."-csiiblc anxiety and the tendcrest 
Jilcction — the child whom I love so 
licsriy, but whom my hands perhaps 
irt too feeble to guide. And yet I 
sWdder at the thought of leavingher 
litiiind me. My strength, however, 
urapidly failing,and I feel that my 
irnor child will soon be left alone. 

.Monc ! This word may seem 
ti.irshio you, Fabri/iomio, and, lest 
ttiis should meet your eye, I will 
ftplain my meaning. 

1 know you have as tender a 

kort u mine, and your prudence 

n&t greater; but, to tell you the 

Intth, yuu likewise are too fond of 

fcr! You know how many times 

lfc«vc taken her from your arms to 

f Hake room for poor Livi.i, so often 

:fic»cd by your involuntary forgct- 

incs», but not offended with her 

I tit sister, because she too, like 

: LTT one else, felt that Ginevra 

in her infancy had the power 

< rhartning every eye and heart 

ii.und her! . . . 

Itut though to Livia you were 
' retimes indifferent, you were 
ler severe, whereas, thoujjh gen- 
enlly too indu Igent to Ginevra, 
when you detected some fault in 
ber, I have often seen you inclined 
to |[o from one extreme to another, 
md been obliged to beg you to 
IcflVC the correction to time or to 
Wr molhcT. 
^■Ehc hits grown up, as she is, in 



our midst, like one of the flowers 
of our clime which put forth their 
be-auty almost without cultivation, 
rejoicing our hearts and our eyes, 
and intoxicating us all with the per- 
fume of her grace and caressing 
affection. 

O yes! it is nothing but intoxi- 
cation, and I have perhaps yielded 
to it with too much delight; but I 
repeat it, it is I alone, among all 
who have loved her, whose delight 
has been unmingled with blindness. 

Perhaps this was because (par- 
don me, Fabrizio) I loved her 
more than any one else, and be- 
cause the affection of a mother has 
something divine in its clearness of 
vision. 1 see this charming child, 
to whom I have given birth, as she 
is. I understand her real nature. 
I look into her pure soul as into 
the limpid waters of some beautiful 
lake. But clouds are now passing 
over its surface. Others are rising 
and gathering, and I tremble to 
think a storm may some day rise 
ui> to overwhelm and crush her ! 

JUNEf. 

This is Ginevra's fifteenth birth- 
day. I will describe her, not only 
as she appears to me, but to every 

She is slender and graceful in 
form, and an inch or two latler 
than 1. There is an habitual 
sweetness and languor in her large. 
brown eyes; but when they are 
suddenly lit up with surprise, won- 
der, or any other unexpected emo- 
tion, they glow with wonderfid ex- 



.»J 



C70 



The VeU Withdrawn. 



pression and brilliancy. Her hair, 
of a golden hue which is as beauti- 
ful as it is rare in our country, 
parts on a pure white brow which 
forms almost a continued ^straight 
line with a nose of perfect regular- 
ity, so that her profile would be 
quite faultless were not her mouth 
larger than is consistent with the 
standard of classical beauty. But 
this blemish is redeemed by the 
expression of her mouth, sometimes 
grave and thoughtful enough to 
excite anxiety, sometimes half open 
with a child-like smile, and often 
extended with hearty laughter, like 
that of a peasant, displaying two 
beautiful rows of small, white 
teeth. 

And now, O my child ! I would 
with the same sincerity describe 
the lineaments of your soul, which 
is far dearer to me than your 
face — yes, dearer to me than my 
own life, or even than yours ! 

In the inner recesses of this 
soul — and I thank God for it ! — is 
hidden, even from her, a jewel of 
purity and truth which it would 
be far easier to crush than deface. 
Then, like a strong wind that can- 
not shake this foundation, but 
seeks entrance through every pore, 
beats a loving nature that cannot 
be denied its food, which is the 
predominant trait in her character. 
Passing over her other good quali- 
ties and her defects, and speaking 
merely of her outward appearance, 
it must be confessed that she mani- 
fests the excessive vanity of a child, 
and a want of reflection that would 
be surprising in a girl of ten years 
old, mingled with a passionate ar- 
dor that would excite anxiety in 
one of twenty ! 

Such is my poor child — such 
are the attractive but alarming 
traits that constitute the peculiar 
nature she has inherited. 



O Almighty God ! . . . two more 
years of life, . . . that I may 
watch over her till the day I 
am able to entrust her to the care 
of some one she can regard with 
the true devotion of a wife ! 

Alas ! this desire is consuming 
my life. It is shortening my days. 
It is hastening my end, which I 
regard with calmness when I mere- 
ly consider myself, but which fills 
me with terror when I think only 
of her. 

June 15. 

It was your wish, Fabrizio, and 
I yielded to it. But it was not 
without repugnance I saw her go 
to this ball. You say your sister 
will watch over her ; but I know 
Donna Clelia better than you. 
She has no eyes but for her own 
daughters, and will think she has 
done her duty to Ginevra by see- 
ing, when she arrives, that her dress 
has not been crumpled on the way, 
and, at her return, that she has lost 
none of her ribbons. She will sep- 
arate her from her own daughters, 
you may be sure, lest she eclipse 
them, and leave her alone — alone 
in the gay world where she ap- 
pears for the first time. . . . You 
smiled when you saw her ready to 
start. You whispered with pride 
that a lovelier creature never was 
seen. . . . Ah ! Fabrizio, at that mo- 
ment how I wished she were less 
charming, or, at least, that her 
beauty could be hidden from every 

Do you remember the assertion 
of a queen of France about which 
we were conversing only a few 
days since.? You thought it too 
severe, but to me it only seems 
reasonable ; for it gives expression 
to the most earnest wish of my 
heart. O yes ! like her, I would 
rather see the child I love so 
passionately — a thousand times 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



x/i 



rather — see her die than contract 
the slightest stain ! . . . 

The hours are passing away, and 
I must seek calmness in prayer. I 
feel as if in this way I shall still be 
able to protect her. . . . 

Clelia promised to bring her 
home at eleven. The clock has 
just struck twelve, and she has not 
yel arrived. . . . 

June 25. 
I have been ill for a few days 
past, and unable to write. To-day 
1 feel somewhat better, and, though 
my mind has been greatly disturb- 
ed, will try to collect my thoughts. 
I was not deceived in my presenti- 
ment. I thought the day of the 
ball would be a fatal one, and I was 
not mistaken. As I said, at mid- 
night she had not returned. I 
awaited her arrival with increased 
anxiety of mind, lying awake a 
whole hour after that, listening to 
every sound, and repeatedly mis- 
taking the noise of the sea for that 
of the carriage bringing her home. 
... At last, about half-past one, I 
heard the rumbling of the wheels, and 
presently recognized her light step 
in the gallery. She passed my door 
without stopping, and had arrived 
at her own chamber, when Ottavia, 
who had been sitting up with me, 
went after her to say I was not yet 
asleep, if she wished to come and 
bid me good-night. As she enter- 
ed the door, the light in Ottavia's 
hand shone across her face. It 
was by no means the same as at 
her departure. The excitement of 
dancing, and the fatigue of remain- 
ing up to so unusual an hour, were 
doubtless sufficient to account for 
her disordered hair, her pale face, 
and the striking brilliancy of her 
c)'es; but her troubled look, her 
trembling lips, and the care she 
took to avoid looking me in the face 
when she fell on my neck, showed 



there was something more which I 
must wait till another day to ques- 
tion her about. . . . 

July i. 

To continue the account inter- 
rupted the other day : 

I know everything now, for she 
never deceives me. She is always 
as sincere as she is affectionate. 
Yes, she had scarcely entered the 
ball-room before she was, as I fore- 
told, separated from her cousins, 
and left in a group of young ladies, 
who, treating her as a mere child, 
immediately proposed she should 
take a seat at a table where there 
were sweetmeats and games. Just 
then the orchestra began a dance, 
and the two oldest of the ^ group 
stationed themselves in front to at- 
tract the attention of those in search 
of partners, while a third kept 
Ginevra in her seat by showing her 
pictures, and patronizingly promis- 
ing in a whisper to dance with her 
presently. But at the sound of the 
music, Ginevra could not be re- 
strained from springing up and ad- 
vancing to look at the preparations 
for the dance. This change of 
position attracted the observation 
of a young gentleman who was 
slowly entering the room with an 
absent air without appearing to wish 
to take any part in the dance. 

"There is Flavio Aldini," said 
one of the young ladies ; '' he will 
not condescend to come this way. 
He looks upon us as mere school- 
girls, and only dances with those 
ladies whose eleiijance has already 
made them the fashion." 

" I never saw him before, but he 
looks very much as I supposed from 
the description I had of him. Is 
he not said to be engaged to a rich 
heiress?" 

" He ? No ; he does not dream of 
marrying, I assure you. I tell you 
he never looks at us young ladies." 



173 



Thi Veil Wiiidrawn. 



^ And yet, my dear, he seems to 
be looking rather earnestly in this 
direction now." 

She was right. At that very 
moment, the person of whom they 
were speaking eagerly approached 
the place where Ginevrawas stand- 
ing, and, without glancing at her 
companions, accosted her, begging 
she would give him the pleasure of 
being her partner in the quadrille 
about to begin. 

This was a triumph for my poor 
Ginevra, and all the greater after 
the vexation caused by her com- 
panions' patronizing airs. She went 
away radiants-intoxicated. . . . 
Hitherto she had been petted as a 
child; now she suddenly realized 
how much admiration a woman can 
inspire, and this knowledge, like a 
mischievous spark, fell from the 
look and smile of Flavio Aldini in- 
to her very heart ! 

Flavio Aldini ! You will under- 
stand, Fabrizio, the terror I felt at 
the mere name of this presuming 
fellow ; so well calculated, alas ! to 
please young eyes like hers, and 
capable of taking advantage of the 
impression he could not help see- 
ing he had made on her inexpe- 



• a • 



nence. 

How agitated the poor child 
was in repeating all his dangerous 
compliments! And how flattering 
to her pride a success that attract- 
ed the attention of every one in 
the room, and made her an object 
of envy to those who had just 
humiliated her by their condescen- 
sion! ... I allowed her to go 
on. ... I was glad, at all events, to 
see she did not manifest the least 
shade of deception — the usual con- 
sequence of vanity — ^but I trembled 
as I listened ! 

He begged for the little bunch 
of flowers she wore in her bosom. 
She was strongly tempted to grant 



his request, and was only pn 
ed from doing so by the fe^ 
being observed. 

Jul 
I have not been able to 
tinue. I have been growing \ 
er and weaker, and can only 
a few lines at a time without fa 
Since the isth of June, I have 
constantly worried and anxioi 
cannot bear for her to lea\ 
now for a single instant. I 
to keep her constantly undc 
eyes and near my heart. Y 
day I saw her start at the i 
of a horse passing under the 
cony. To-day she was sta 
there with her eyes dreamily 
ed towards the road that con 
our house with the shore. . 
called her, and she listened 
talked kindly to her, hopii 
give a new turn to her thoi 
instead of trying to check th< 
remonstrances. She is easil; 
fluenced and guided by kin< 
but it is difficult to make her 
to authority. Oh ! there neve 
a child who needed more tha 
the tender guidance of a i 
er! . . . 

But let thy will, O Goc 
done. Help me to say this 
out a murmur. Let me not i 
that my love for her is noth 
nothing at all — in comparison 
that. 

JUL\ 

It is only with great effort 
write to-day. I do not knc 
I shall be able to write more 
a itw lines. But I wish to re 
you once more, Fabrizio, of th( 
versation we had yesterday 
ning. Who knows but it ws 
last we shall ever have in 
world ! My time here is ; 
Do not forget my request, 
no time in uniting her to som 
she can love and will conse 



The Principles of Real Being. 



173 



be goided by. Though still young, 
he should be several years older 
than she, in order to inspire her 
irith respect, which is so sweet 
when mingled with affection, as 
no one knows better than I, Fabri- 
zio. Has not the mingled respect 
and love with which you have fill- 
ed my heart constituted the hap- 
piness of my life? I would bless 
you once more for this, as I close. 
I have not strength enough to con- 
tinue. ... I must stop. . . . And 
yet I would ^peak once more of 
her — of my Ginevra — my darling 
child. I would implore you to be 
liways mild and patient with her, 
and if ever. . . 

• ••••• 

Here the journal ended! . . . 
Oh ! what a torrent of recollections 
rushed across my mind at the sight 
of this unfinished page ! This little 
book falling from her hand, . . . 



her slumbers, . . . her terrible 
awakening, . . . her incoherent 
words, her last embrace, my despair ! 
All this I recalled with poignant 
grief as I pressed my lips to the 
lines written by her dying hand. 
I shed a torrent of tears, but this 
time they were salutary tears. I 
had already , severely expiated my 
error, for it was only my deep sor- 
row for having embittered the last 
hours of my mother*^ life, and per- 
haps, O fearful thought ! of hasten- 
ing her end, that had given so dark 
a shade to my grief, and filled me 
with a despair akin to madness. I 
was now stronger, calmer, and 
wiser, and felt I could yet repair 
my fault by fulfilling my mother's 
wishes, and this thought brought 
the first ray of comfort that pene- 
trated my heart. I made many new 
resolutions in my mind, and felt I 
had firmness enough to keep them. 



TO BB CONTINUBD. 



THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING 



V. 



n»rrRiNsic principles of complex beings. 



The primitive beings of which 
»e have treated in a preceding arti- 
cle imply nothing in their constitu- 
tion but what is strictly necessary in 
order to exist in nature ; and there- 
fore they are physically simple — 
that is, not made up of other physi- 
cal beings, though they are meta- 
physically compounded, because 
their intrinsic principles are so 
many metaphysical components. 
Those beings, on the contrary, the 
entity of which is not strictly one, 
besides the three principles common 



to all primitive beings, involve in 
their constitution other components, 
eithet physical or metaphysical. 
Such complex beings are either sub- 
stantial or accidental compounds. 
We propose to investigate in the 
present article the general consti- 
tution of substantial compounds, 
then of accidental compounds ; and 
lastly we shall inquire into the prin- 
ciples of the attributes and proper- 
ties of complex, as well as primitive, 
beings. 
Principles of substantial compounds. 



174 



The Principles of Real Being. 



By substantial compound we mean 
a compound of which the components 
arc distinct substances uniting in one 
essence or nature. Such a compound 
is a physical one, inasmuch as it is 
made up of physical components; 
for substances are complete beings, 
and each of them has its own dis- 
liiut and individual existence in 
tlic j)hysical order of things. 

Til is definition of substantial 
compound is very different from 
that which the scholastics drew 
from their theory of substantial 
jTcnerations. But since chemistry 
has shown, and philosophical rea- 
soning based on facts confirms, that 
what in such a theory is called the 
** generated substance ** is only a 
compound of substances, it must be 
evident that our substantial com- 
pound, as above defined, does not, 
in fact, diiTer from theirs, but is the 
same thing viewed under a different 
licrht. Perhaps, if the schoolmen 
had thought that bodies were pos- 
sibly but the result of the composi- 
tion of many permanent substances, 
they would not have called them 
substantial^ but only natural^ com- 
pounds ; yet, since the epithet '' sub- 
stantial " has been originally adopt- 
ed, and is still commonly applied to 
compounds which we know actual- 
Iv to contain many distinct substan- 
ces, we cannot keep the word *' sub- 
stantial" without giving it such a 
meaning as will ans.ver to the real 
nature of the things it qualifies. 
Nevertheless, should the reader 
prefer to apply the epithet "sub- 
stantial" to that compound only 
which consists of matter and sub- 
stantial form interpreted in accord- 
ance with the Peripatetic system, 
then the compounds of which we 
treat might be called natural^ or es- 
sential^ compounds, or compound na- 
tures. So long, however, as such 
compounds are called " substances," 



we think we have the right to apply 
to them the epithet " substantial." 

The immediate principles of sub- 
stantial compound are three, as in 
the primitive being : to wit, act^ 
term, and complement ; but they are 
of a different nature, as we are go- 
ing to explain. Two cases are to be 
examined. For the physical parts, 
which unite to make one compound 
nature, sometimes rank all alike as 
material constituents- of the com- 
pound, as in water, iron, silver, and 
other natural bodies!; but at other 
times one of the constituent sub- 
stances stands forth in the charac- 
ter of a form, as the human soul in 
the body, all the parts of the body 
remaining under it, and making up 
the complete material constituent 
of the compound nature. 

In the first case, the physical 
components taken together consti- 
tute the adequate potential term or 
the compound nature ; because, as 
they are all alike material constitu- 
ents, they are all alike potential re- 
specting their composition ; and 
thus they are all equally liable to 
be tied together by physical action. 
The specific composition will be 
the act of the compound essence; 
for it is such a composition that 
formally binds together those physi- 
cal components into one specific 
compound. Finally, the actual 
bond of the components, brought 
about by their composition, will be 
the actuality of the compound na- 
ture — that is, its formal complement. 

That these three constituents 
differ very materially from those of 
a primitive being is evident : for. 
in a primitive being, the term is a 
pure potency that receives its first 
actuation ; whilst in the compound 
nature it consists of a number of 
actual beings which are no longer 
potential respecting their first ac- 
tuation, but only with regard to 



The Principles of Real Being, 



I7S 



their composition, which gives 
them a second and relative actua- 
tion in the compound. Again, the 
a£tj in the primitive being, is a pro- 
duct of creation, calculated to give 
the first existence to its term ; whilst 
in the compound nature it is the 
product of actions interchanged be- 
tween the components, and gives 
them, not to exist, but to be united 
so as to form a new specific essence. 
Lastly, t/t£ compUmenty in a primi- 
tive being, is the existence of a 
thing absolutely one^ whilst in the 
compound nature it is the exist- 
ence of a thing whose oneness is 
iltogether relative. 

In all compounds of this kind — 
riz., whose form is their composi- 
tion — the components are, of course, 
physical beings, as we have stated ; 
but their composition is only a 
metaphysical entity. Indeed, we are 
wont to call it " physical composi- 
tion " ; but we do not mean that it 
is a physical being ; we only mean 
that it is the composition " of phy- 
sical beings." We know that for- 
mal composition is that by which 
the components are formally bound 
with one another ; and we know al- 
so that the components are thus 
bound in consequence of their mu- 
tual actions, and that such actions 
cannot be conceived to be complete 
in nature, except inasmuch as they 
tre received in their proper sub- 
jects — viz., in the components them- 
sdves. And therefore the compo- 
iJtion which is styled " physical " is, 
of its own nature, only an incom- 
plete and metaphysical entity; and, 
in a like manner, the actuality of the 
physical compound is not a physical 
being, as it cannot be found outside 
of that of which it is the result. 

But a compound of the kind just 
mentioned is sometimes intended 
for an end which cannot be attain- 
ed without the concurrence of a 



higher principle. Then, by the in- 
troduction of this new principle, a 
second kind of substantial com- 
pound arises, in which one of the 
components (the higher principle) 
ranks as the formal, and the others 
as the material, constituent of the 
compound nature. Such is the 
case with our own bodies; which, 
to fulfil the ends for which they are 
organized by nature, besides their 
bodily constitution and organism, 
require the infusion of a distinct 
principle of life. Hence the formal 
constituent of man, and of all ani- 
mals too, is the principle of life, or 
the soul ; whilst his material con- 
stituent is the body, with its organic 
constitution. 

That the body is a physical be- 
ing and a substance there is no 
doubt ; and that the soul also is a 
physical being and a substance dis- 
tinct from the body is conclusively 
shown in all good treatises of anthro- 
pology. The soul and the body are 
therefore two physical components, 
and make up a physical compound. 
The animal life, however, which is 
the result of the animation of the 
body by the soul — and is, therefore, 
the complement of the compound — 
is not a third physical component, 
but a metaphysical entity; and 
thus of the three principles which 
constitute the animal, the first and 
the second only are to be reckoned 
as physical parts. 

And now, since we have stated 
that the constituents of compound 
natures may have either a physical 
or only a metaphysical entity, we 
must further inform our readers that 
a great number of authors are wont 
to consider all the real constituents 
of physical beings as so x^diXiy physi- 
cal entities. But we would say that 
in this they are mistaken; for al- 
though it is evidently true that the 
constituent principles of a physical 



176 



The Principles of Real Being. 



being hare a physical existence in 
the being to which they belong, 
it cannot be inferred that there- 
fore all such principles must be 
called physical beings; as some 
of them can neither have an inde- 
pendent existence nor be even con- 
ceived without referring to their 
correlative principles. Thus the 
act and the term of a primitive 
being are both entitatively less than 
physical beings; for the first being 
we find in the physical order is that 
which arises out of them. It is not, 
therefore, the same thing to say 
that a being is physically real, and 
to say that it is made up of physi- 
cal realities. The first assertion 
may be true, and the second false ; 
because a thing which is one has 
only one existence, and never- 
theless implies three principles; 
whence it appears that it is im- 
possible to conceive each of the 
three principles as having a distinct 
existence. Apd since that which 
has no distinct existence in nature 
is not a physical being, accordingly 
the principles of primitive physical 
beings are not physical, but only 
metaphysical, realities. 

We have further to remark that 
the act and the term, even when 
they are complete physical entities, 
in their manner of principiating the 
compound nature always behave 
towards one another as incomplete 
entities, inasmuch as their prin- 
cipiation is always of a metaphysi- 
cal, and never of a physical, charac- 
ter. To speak first of those com- 
pound essences whose form is compo- 
sition^ we observe that the physical 
components of such essences are 
indeed in acty absolutely speaking, 
but, with regard to the composi- 
tion, they are simply in potency : 
and since it is in this last capacity 
that they enter into the constitu- 
tion of the compound nature, it is 



evident that they contribute to its 
constitution only inasmuch as they 
have a claim to further actua- 
tion. For to be potential respect- 
ing any kind of composition means 
not only that the parts might be 
duly disposed to undergo such a 
composition, but moreover that 
they are already disposed and re- 
lated to each other in that man- 
ner which imperatively calls for 
such a composition. Consequent- 
ly, the components, when thus 
disposed, constitute a potency 
which needs actuation, and stands, 
with respect to the form of compo- 
sition, in the same relation in 
which any term stands with respect 
to its essential act. It is, therefore, 
manifest that the said components, 
though they are physical entities, 
behave as metaphysical principles 
in their material principiation of a 
compound essence. As for the 
composition itself, we have already 
seen that it is always a metaphysi- 
cal constituent. 

In the same manner, the soul 
and the body are indeed physical 
beings, absolutely speaking, and, 
therefore, independent of one an- 
other so far as their existence is 
concerned; but the body is in- 
formed and vivified, not inasmuch 
as it exists in its absolute actuality, 
but inasmuch as it is potential re- 
specting animal life — that is, inas- 
much as its organic compK>sitioD 
imperatively claims a soul. And 
similarly the soul is a vivifying 
form, not inasmuch as it is some- 
thing absolute in nature, but inas- 
much as it naturally requires com- 
pletion in the body for which it is 
created and to which it is actually 
terminated. It therefore appcan 
that the soul and the body, in their 
principiation of the animal, behave 
towards one another as metaphysi- 
cal principles. 



Tkt Principles of Real Being 



Hence all comiiositionof act and 
potency is, properly speaking, a 
Ktafhysuai composition; though, 
when the compound is resolvable 
bio physical pans, the same com- 
position may also, from the physi- 
cd nature of the components, be 
rightly styled physkaL The differ- 
ence between a metaphysical and a 
physical compound does not, there- 
fore, consist in the character of the 
composition itself, which is always 
metaphysical, but in this: that the 
Ijtier can be resolved into phy- 
sical parts which may and will ex- 
iit after their separation, whereas 
the former can be resolved only into 
mclaphysica! constituents which are 
ulleily incapable of separate exis- 
tence. 

ftTiat precedes refers to the im- 
tnedidte constituents of compound 
essences. Itisevidentlhateveryim- 
mcdiate principle, which is a com- 
plete being, involves other princi- 
l'Ic4. Hence all compound cs- 
- ncti imply some principles which 
i:e froximate, and others which are 
'imait. The remote are those by 
■ Uch every primitive component 
it itself constituted in its individual 
reality, and from which the compo- 
nents derive their real aptitude to 
lifcomc the material, the formal, or 
the crtii'icnt principle of the com- 
Tuund eisence. 

PrindpiesKif aediUnlal compounds. 
'Vc have hitherto shown that all 
: ^.ysical beings whether physically 
.::nple Or physically complex, in- 
' j|-.e in their constitution an act, a 
rm, antl a formal complement. 
Vi'ihiiig more is required to con- 
■[ijdc that no physical being can 
: ronccivcd of 39 an act without 
u term, or a. term without its act, 
or a fcirmal actuality not resulting 
the concurrence of an act and 
sntiahle term. From this it ini- 
.tely appears that accidents 




177 

and accidental modes are not phy- 
sical beings, and that their exis- 
tence is necessarily dependent on 
the existence of some other thing 
of which they are the appurte- 
nances, 

An accident, properly so called, 
is an act hax'ing no term of its trjt'fi, 
and, therefore, having no metaphy- 
sical essence and no possibility of 
a separate existence. Accordingly, 
the term of which it is in need 
must be supplied by a distinct be- 
ing already existing in nature; and 
this is called lAe subject of the acci- 
dental act. Hence no accidental 
act can be conceived to be without 
a subject. 

And here we must reflect that, as 
the first actuation of an essential 
term by its essential act has for its 
result the actual existence of the in- 
dividual being, so also any seconii, 
or accidental, actuation of the term 
by an accidental act has for its re- 
sult an actual mode of existing of 
the same individual being. From 
this plain truth we infer that a dis- 
tinction is to be made between ac- 
eiriental acts, which are properly ac- 
cidents, and accidental modes, which 
are only accidentalities. An acci- 
dent, properly speaking, is that 
which causes the subject to acquire 
an accidental actuality, and is al- 
wa)-s an act ; whilst the accidental 
mode is not an act, but an acciden- 
tal actuality which results in the 
subject from the reception of the 
accidental act. 

These general notions being ad- 
mitted, let Its inquire into the prin- 
ciples of accidental compounds. 
An accidental compound is either a 
compound of substance and acci- 
dent or a compound of real es- 
sence with something superadded. 
In the first case, " accidental " 
means the opposite of " substan- 
tial"; in the second case, "acci- 



178 



The Principles of Real Being. 



dental '* means the opposite of " es- 
sential." Thus a falling body is an 
accidental compound of substance 
and its momentum, the momen- 
tum being a real accident ; whereas 
a man clothed is an accidental com- 
pound of individual human nature 
and dress ; the dress being consid- 
ered as something accidental as 
compared with the essence of man, 
though it is a real substance. And 
in the same manner a mass of gold 
is an accidental compound of gold- 
en molecules, because each mole- 
cule fully possesses the essence of 
gold independently of any other 
molecule; whence it follows that 
the addition of other molecules is 
accidental as compared with the 
essence of gold, and only increases 
the quantity without altering the 
specific nature of gold. Of course, 
these other molecules are sub- 
stances, and it is only their concur- 
rence into one mass that is acci- 
dental. 

It is plain that the constituent 
principles of an accidental com- 
pound are three — viz., the accidental 
act which entails a modification of 
the subject; tJie subject which re- 
ceives the modifying act; and the 
accidental mode of being, or the 
modification, which results from 
the reception of the act in the sub- 
ject. 

The subject is always a complete 
physical being, and, therefore, has 
its own essential act, term, and 
complement, independently of all 
things accidental. It becomes the 
subject of an accidental act by ac- 
tually receiving it. 

The accidental act which is re- 
ceived in the subject must proceed 
immediately from the action of some 
natural or supernatural agent. This 
is evident; for real receptivity is 
real passivity, and therefore recep- 
tion is passion. Now, no passion 



can be admitted without a corre- 
sponding action. Hence all acci- 
dental act that is properly and 
truly received in a subject is the 
immediate product of action, and 
its production exactly coincides 
and coextends with its reception. 

Lastly, the mode of being which 
results from the accidental actua- 
tion of the subject is only an acciden- 
tality, or an accidental actuality, as 
we have already remarked, and is 
predicated of the subject, not as 
something received in it, but as' 
something following from the actual 
reception of the accidental act. 
Hence the substance, or the nature, 
which is the subject of such acci- 
dental modes lies under them, not 
on account of its receptivity, but 
on account of the resulting poten- 
tiality, which is a proper appurte- 
nance, not of the material term, but 
of the formal complement of the 
substance. And, in fact, the com- 
plement of all created essence al- 
ways arises from the actuation of a 
potential term, and therefore is it- 
self necessarily potential — that is, 
liable to such accidental changes as 
may result from any new actuation 
of the essential term. This result- 
ing potentiality is commonly styled 
mobility^ changeableness^ or affectibili- 
ty^ and may be called modal poten- 
tiality in opposition to the passive 
potentiality which is the character- 
istic of the essential term. 

Hence a subject is said to receive 
the accidental act, but not the ac- 
cidental mode; and, on the contra- 
ry, is said to be affected by the acci- 
dental mode, but not by the acci- 
dental act. We may say, however, 
that a subject is modified as well by 
the act as by the mode, because 
this expression applies equally to 
the making of the change {mutatio 
in fieri) and to the state that follows 
{mutatio in facto esse). 



Tlu Principles of Real Being. 



A subject has, therefore, two dis- 
■Jnct manners of undertying : the 
')nc OQ account of its receptivity, 
[he other on account of its afTccti- 
liiiiiy; the one by reason of the 
fasiht poteolialily of its term, the 
Liiicr by reason of the modal poten- 
iialiiy of its complement. Thus a 
Liod^, according to its passive po- 
ii;Diijiliiy, underlies the ait produced 
;n it by a motive power, because it 
|ia&iiv^y receives the motive deter- 
mination, and, according to its niod- 
il potentiality, it underlies local 

Itmrnenl, this movement being the 
itDiucdiate result of the determina- 
tion received. And in a similar 
laanocr our soul, inasmuch as it is 
receptive or passive, underlies the 
ici produced or the impression 
rude in it by a cognizable object; 
ind inasmuch as it is affectible, it 
underlies the feeling or affective 
movement, which immediately re- 
sults from the cognition of the ob- 

]CCL 

We have said that every accident 
fhich is received in asubject and in- 
t;cfcB in it must be produced by the 
'I'tion of some agent ; and this being 
bd ta-se, it follows that the quantity 
■I'themassof abody, and thequan- 
ityof its volume, which are not the 
roduct of action, cannot be ranked 
imong the accidents received and 
I'.heting in the body ; and generally 
'I I ihc accidental modes which arise 

I the subject, in consequence of 
ht icccption of accidental acts, are 

^Itinsic modes indeed, but are not 
-<-ci*cd, and do not properly in- 
jrt in ihcir subject ; Ihcy only re- 
i// in tl>e subject. Moreover, as 

II Kuch intrinsic modes immcdialc- 
. arise from the intrinsic reception 

^^' accidental acts, it follows that 
^Btase accidental modes which do 
^^M arite in this manner must be 
^ftrWf,- and therefore such modes, 
^^ntgh they arc predicated of their 



179 

subject, do not inhere in the sub- 
ject, but only in a certain manner 
adhere to it. All accidental conno- 
tations and relativities belong to 
this last class. 

Hence we gather that predica- 
mental accidents are of different 
species, and accordingly demand 
distinct detinitions. The acciden- 
tal act, or accident strictly, is an 
act received in the subject and in- 
hering in it; the intrinsic mode is 
an accidental actuality or modifi- 
cation resulting in the subject; the 
etttnnsic mode is a simple conno- 
tation or respect arising between 
the subject and some correlative'' 
term. Accordingly, accidental be- 
ing in general cannot be defined a»- 
" that which inheres in asubject" — 
quod inlmret alteri tamquam siib- 
j'ec/o — for this definition does not 
embrace all accidentalities, but 
should be defined as " that which 
clings to a subject " — ijuod innilttur 
alleri lamquam subjecto, the phrase 
"to cling to" being understood iO"- 
a most general sense- This last 
definition covers all the ground of 
predicamental accidentalities ; for 
it is, in fact, applicable to all acci- 
dental acts, intrinsic modes of be- 
ing, and extrinsic connotations. 

For the same reason, the subject 
is not to be defined as "that which 
receives within itself an accidental 
entity," but as "that to which an*' 
accidental entity belongs." and, 
taking the word "subject" in its 
most general sense, we may alsO' 
define it, as Aristotle did, to be" that- 
of which anything is predicated. "l" 
It is only by this last definition that 
we can explain the general practice 
of predicating of cvcpthing, not 
only its accidentalities, but also its 
attributes and essential properties.- 
Such predications would be impos- 
sible, if the notion of subject were 
restricted to that wh 



1 



i8o 



The Principles of Real Being. 



itself accidental entities; for attri- 
butes are not accidents, and are 
not received in their subject, but 
spring forth from its very essence, 
as we are going presently to show. 

When the thing predicated of any 
subject is an accidental act, then its 
subject is a subject of inhesion. 
When the thing predicated is an 
intrinsic mode, no matter whether 
essential, substantial, or accidental, 
then its subject is a subject of attri- 
bution. And when the thing predi- 
cated is only a connotation or a re- 
spect {modus se habendi ad aliud), 
then its subject is a subject of mere 
predication. 

As we have stated that natural 
accidents cannot exist without a 
subject, the reader may desire to 
know how we can account for the 
accidents which, in the Holy Eu- 
charist, exist without their sub- 
stances. As a lengthy discussion 
of this philosophico-theological 
(juestion would be here quite out 
of place, we will content ourselves 
\vith remarking that the Eucharis- 
tic species of bread, as described 
by S. Thomas and by the ancient 
scholastics, is not a natural and 
predicamental accident; and that, 
therefore, many things may be pos- 
sible with the Eucharistic species 
which are not possible with natural 
accidents. It is not true, in fact, 
what some have maintained, that in 
the Holy Eucharist each of the ac- 
cidents of bread exists without any 
subject. Theologians acknowledge 
that the quantity of the bread fulfils 
the duty of subject with regard to 
all the other accidents, and conse- 
quently that all the other accidents, 
after the consecration as before, 
cling to quantity. There is no 
need, therefore, of assuming color 
without a subject, or figure without 
a subject, or weight without a sub- 
ject. This would simply mean 



color of nothing, figure of nothing, 
weight of nothing ; which is not a 
miracle, but an absurdity. To ac- 
count for the sacramental species, 
theologians need only to show that 
the quantity of the bread can exist 
miraculously without the substance 
of the bread. This is the only ac- 
cident which remains without any 
subject whatever; for the Sacred 
Body, which admodum substantice — 
that is, substantively, replaces the 
substance of the bread — ^is indeed 
under that quantity, but it is not 
affected nor modified by it, and 
therefore cannot be called its sub- 
ject in the ordinary sense of the 
word, though some writers have 
called it a sacramental subject. 

To show that quantity without 
the substance of which it is the 
quantity is not an impossibility, we 
must leave aside the idea that such 
a quantity is a form inherent in the 
substance. For the quantity of the 
mass which alone is destined to be- 
come the first subject of all the 
other accidents is made up of a 
number of material parts, and 
therefore is not a form, but a cer- 
tain amount of actual matter, and 
fulfils the office of matter^ as S. Tho- 
mas recognizes, and not that of 
form, as Suarez and others after 
him have erroneously assumed. 
Now, it is evident that as no num- 
ber can be conceived without units, 
so neither can a quantity of mass 
be conceived without its parts ; and 
that, if such parts or units are sub- 
stances, the quantity of the mass 
will be nothing less than a number 
of substances. So long, then, as 
such a quantity remains, it cannot 
cease to be a number of substances, 
unless, indeed, each of the units of 
which it is made up, and which 
must always remain^ be supematu- 
rally deprived of that which placet 
them formally in the rank of sub* 



The Principles of Real Being. 



stances. This is, therefore, what 
must be done, and what is really 
doBt by transiibstantiation. When, 
[n fad, the words of the consecra- 
tion are pronounced, and the Sacred 
Body of our Lord is constituted 
under the sensible symbol adiagdum 
mktantia (that is, not only substan- 
tijlly, but substantively), then the 
ralstantiality of every particle of 
the bread is superseded, and, so to 
ijy, supplanted by the new sub- 
ibBce which lies under each of 
them, but which leaves intact the 
constituenis of concrete quantity; 
for "the act and the power of sub- 
stance," and "whatever belongs to 
mailer," remains in each of them, as 
^8. Thomas leaches, in accordance 
I the common doctrine of the 
Bcient scholastics and of the fathers 
(fihc church. 

the quantity of the bread 
(mains the same as before, and 
I J ill formal ami material con- 
lilution, notwithstanding the sub- 
ituitial conversion of the bread 
into the Sacred Body of our Lord. 
Had the modem scholastics paid 
iBiirc attention to this last point, 
they would have seen that the 
ipeeie* of bread is none of those 
natural accidents, whether forms 
or formalities, which found a place 
IB Ariilotlc's categories, but is a 
ni()cmxiur.d accident as perfectly 
cDBStiluied, in its own way, as sub- 
UiiKC ilBcif, and therefore capable 
of being kept in existence by God 
wHhout the help of n natural sub- 
iilI. The reader may infer from 
::.rsc remarks that tlic philo- 
w]>hical questions about natural or 
predicamcntal accidents are alto- 
gahet distinct from, nnd indepen- 
dent of, those concerning the sac- 
ramental species; and that there- 
fore nothing that philosophers may 
say about natura! accidents can 
hivc any direct bearing on the 



explanation of the Eucharistic mys- 
tery. 

One thing remains to be said 
regarding the distinction between 
accidental and substantial com- 
pounds. We have defined the first 
to be a compound " of substance 
and accident," or a compound "of 
essence and something acciden- 
tally superadded to it." The se- 
cond we defined to be a com- 
pound "of substances uniting in 
one essence or nature." But, as 
we noticed, the authors pledged to 
the theory of substantial genera- 
tions admitted of no "substantial" 
compound but that which was be- 
lieved to consist of matter and 
substantial form; and accordingly 
all compounds the form of which 
was an accidental entity, say com- 
posltioti, were considered by them 
as accidental. We observe that 
composition, though an accidental 
entity, is nevertheless the "essen- 
tial" form of the compound, and 
gives it its "first" actuality. If, 
then, the compound is a distinct 
essence, and has a distinct name, 
and is called a distinct "sub- 
stance," as water, iron, gold, etc., 
its form, though an accident, 
essential constituent of the specific 
substance. 

We cannot at present discuss 
the question of substantial genera- 
tions; we only remark that, to 
avoid all useless disputes about 
words, a jtbysical compound, when I 

it contains nothing but what is 
needed for the constitution of its 
specific nature, may be called 
X/num per se naluraU — i.e., a being 
csscnli.iUy one ; and when it has 
something accidentally superadd, 
ed, it may be called Unum per tie- 
cidens — i.e., a being accidentallj 
one. This distinction of names, 
which is familiar to all philoso- 
phers, expresses the distinction 



I 



1 82 



The Principles of Real Being. 



of the things without having re- 
course to the terms of " substantial 
compound " and " accidental com- 
pound," taken in the Peripatetic 
sense of the words. Thus, whilst 
the Peripatetics based their dis- 
tinction between these compounds 
on a presumed difference between 
their forms, we draw our own from 
the presence or absence of any- 
thing not belonging to the specific 
nature of the compound. This we 
do in accordance with the true 
spirit of scholastic philosophy, not 
to say compelled by a philosophi- 
cal necessity; for we know that 
the constituent form of a purely 
material compound, though essen- 
tial with respect to the compound 
itself, is only an accident received 
in the substance of the compo- 
nents, as we may hereafter have an 
occasion to show. And now let us 
come to the attributes of complete 
beings. 

Principles of attributes and proper- 
ties. All complete beings possess 
attributes and properties called es^ 
sential — that is, invariably follow- 
ing the essence to which they belong. 
It is therefore necessary for us to 
inquire whether, to account for 
them, any special principles must 
be admitted. We can easily show 
that no new real principle is re- 
quired besides the principles of the 
essence, as all the essential attri- 
butes and properties * of a com- 
])lete being are fully contained in 
the real essence of the same as 
in their fountain-head, inasmuch 
as they are nothing else than 
the actuality of the essence consid- 
ered under different aspects or 
connotations. It is known, in 
fact, that the essential attributes of 

* Aitri^uif ftnd ^r^^rty meftn the Mm* in 
r«ftlUy } but w« uiu«Uy otU thorn mitri^mtti 
wiih roapeot to th« thing ftbuolutely coQ«l(ler«(i 
M « bolQff« «n4 ^r^^rti*t with r*tp«ct to the 
thing ooa«ldtr«U m a prluol^Uo of op«ntioii. 



things are said by all philoj 
to emanate from fhe essence, 
from the essencfe, to follo^ 
the essence, without any 
thing being ever mentio: 
their principle; which sho' 
universality of the doctrir 
the essence alone is the ad 
source of all its attributes. 

And here let us observe tl 
words principle and source i 
synonymous; for a princi 
not suflScient, of itself^ to pi 
ate anything without the c 
rence of other principles, 
does not perfectly contain ii 
the whole reality of which 
principle. The source, on tl 
trary, contains totally and ade 
ly within itself whatever era 
from it ; so that any such < 
tion, taken separately, is o 
imperfect exhibition of the 
from which it emanates, as 
sents it only under one out 
many different points of view 
which it may be regardec 
say, then, that the essence 
thing is the source of all iti 
butes is to say that the c 
itself alone sufficiently accou 
their origin, their necessit 
their distinction. 

That such is the case w 
easily understand by reflectii 
all the essential attribute 
properties of a thing expn 
being or actuality of the thi: 
der some special aspect; a 
active, to be passive, to be on( 
simple, etc. Now, to bc^ or 
ity, immediately results fro 
principles of the essence ak 
we have proved in our last ; 
Consequently, the essential 
butes and properties of ar 
immediately result from the 
tial principles of the thing — 
from its real essence. Thus 
ing is active inasmuch as t 



The Principles of Peal Being. 



183] 



bj which it is can be further ter- 
'Biiaaled; and therefore to be active 
k nothing more than to have in 
itself an act further terminable; 
ind activity, or artive power in the 
flbitntct, is nothing more than the 
fcrthcT letm inability of the same 
In like manner, a being is 
passive inasmuch as its intrinsic 
Krm is still capable of further 
Kiualion ; and therefore to be pas- 
me is nothing more than to have 
in itself a term which can be fur- 
ther actuated ; and passivity, or 
passive potentiality in the abstract, 
is nothing more than the further 
•ciuability of the same term. The 
'TSkt may be said of every other 
■atrilmte. Meanwhile, if we in- 
^ire what does ttmiinability, or 
muabitHy, add to the ihing, we 
soon see that it adds nothing 
ileal, but only exhibits the reality 
f the thing under a special form- 
lity as connoting something either 
intrinsic or extrinsic to it. Thus 
ie terminability of the act simply 
snnoles some term capable of 
nuation, and the actuability of 
le term simply connotes an act 
f which it can be actuated. 
FroiD this it follows that the 
Esential attributes of being are 
Dtbing but distinct afntrad ratios 
iving their foundation in the 
tinciples of the complete being, 
id printing its actuality under 
ililemit aspects. In fact, it is be- 
tOM such a being contains the 
undation of all those ratios that 
M intcUcct, by looking upon it, 
enabled to discover them, and 
I trace, them distinctly to their 
stinct principles. It thus ap- 
ihai the true reason why no 
IT real principles arc needed to 
:oiint for the essential attributes 
things consists in this, that the 
lole reality of the attributes al- 
idy pre-exists in the thing, and 



that nothing further is necessary, I 
that they may be distinctly 1 
ceived, but intellectual considem-^ 
tion. 

What we have said of the attri- J 
butes that have their foundatio 
the essential principles of being ap-^ 
plies equally to qualities whicR are 1 
the immediate result of accidental 
actuation- Thus, if a material point 
be acted on, the result of the deter- 
riiination it receives will be velocity. 
Of course, velocity is an acciden- 
tal attribute, since it follows from 
the termination of an accidental . 
act; yet it results as perfectly from J 
that termination as the essentia,li| 
attributes result from the termina- ^ 
tion of the essential act. 

In general, all the objective 
ratios which immediately follow the 
constitution of a concrete being 
need no additional principles, be- 
cause they are already contained in 
the entity of the concrete being, 
in which the intellect finds its 
ground for their distinct concep- 
tion. And here let us add two re- 
marks. The first is that all such 
intelligible ratios identify them- J 
selves really, though inadequately, I 
'with the concrete entity of which ' 
they are predicated; so that be- 
tween the attribute and its con- 
crete subject there can be but 
the slightest of metaphysical dis- 
tinctions. The second is that the 
essential attributes of a simple being 
are never really distinct from one 
another. The reason of this is 
evident ; for such attributes are the 
simple actuality of a simple being, 
which does not cease to be identical 
with itself when it is viewed from . 
different points of view. They ad- 1 
niit, however, of a distinction of 
reason ; for when the same thing is 
considered under differenl aspects, 
the distinct concepts that are then 
formed by the mind evidently ex- 



i84 



The Principles of Real Being. 



hibit distinct objective ratios, every 
one of which corresponds to one of 
those aspects without formally im- 
plying the others. 

Though we have hitherto spoken 
of the essential attributes and pro- 
perties of primitive beings, the 
doctrine we have expounded is also 
applicable to those of all substan- 
tial compounds. Thus the attri- 
butes and properties of a molecule 
of hydrogen, oxygen, or any other 
specific compound have the reason 
of their being in the essential prin- 
ciples of their respective compound, 
, and nothing else is required to ac- 
count for them, as is evident from 
the preceding explanations. It is 
to be observed, however, that in 
such compounds as owe their being 
to material composition only, as it 
is the case with all the molecules 
of natural bodies, the composition 
which is the essential form of the 
compound is not a substantial, but 
an accidental, determination of the 
components; and hence it is that 
each such molecule involves in its 
essential constitution both substance 
and accident^ and therefore is not 
exactly a substance, but a natural 
compound essence. The consd*- 
quence is that its essential attri- 
butes, too, owe their being not only 
to the component substances, but 
also to such accidents as are essen- 
tially implied in the constitution of 
the compound. Thus,/^r^f//y, com^ 
pressibility^ bulky etc., which are 
essential attributes of each molecule 
as such, have the reason of their 
being partly in the elements of 
which they are made up, and partly 
in the specific form of their compo- 
sition. Now, this specific form 
may undergo accidental changes 
without trespassing the bounds of its 
species J and those essential attri- 
butes which depend on the specific 
composition may consequently un- 



dergo a change in their degree; 
and since none of those changeable 
degrees are determinately required 
by the essence of the molecular 
compound, it follows that the es- 
sential attributes and properties of 
each molecule, in so far as their 
actual degree is concerned, are 
accidental ; and accordingly such 
attributes and properties by their 
degree belong to the predicament 
of accidental qucUity, Such is the 
case with the attributes of every 
single molecule of a natural sub- 
stance. 

As for bodies made up of a num- 
ber of molecules of the same kind, 
it is evident that all such bodies 
are accidental compounds, and 
none of tbem can have any other 
essential attributes besides those 
which are common to their mole- 
cules. For the union of equal 
molecules is the union of integrant 
parts, and gives rise to no new 
species, but only to accidental re- 
lations, quantity of mass, and 
quantity of volume ; and conse- 
quently all the attributes and pro- 
perties originating in the agglomera- 
tion of such integrant parts are 
simply accidental qualities. Thus 
liquidity is an accidental quality of 
water, because it exhibits only the 
mutual behavior of distinct mole- 
cules which, of themselves, and 
apart from one another, are not 
liquid, though they have all that is 
needed to unite in the liquid state. 
And indeed, if each molecule con- 
tarns the true essence of water, and 
yet is not actually liquid, actual 
liquidity has nothing to do with 
the essence of water, and therefore 
is not an essential attribute of 
water, but an accidental mode re- 
sulting from mutual accidental ac- 
tion between neighboring mole- 
cules. 

There are two cases, however, in 



The Principles of Real Being. 



T«5 



which new essential attributes may 

be found in a body without being 

found in the component molecules. 

The first is when the component 

moletules undergo chemical com- 

binacion ; for in this case such 

molecules arc not merely integrant 

but consHtufHt, and by their cora- 

binitton a new essence is formed. 

Now, a new essence gives rise to 

ne* essential attributes. Thus 

I lalphtiric acid, for instance, has 

Lillnbmes which do not belong lo 

K^ components. 

The second case is when the 
lole body is only a part of the 
ind essence — that is, when 
lbe«pccitic form of that essence is 
t diiiinct substance, as in man and 
ill aaiinaU, whose bodies are in- 
''.inned by a soul. In this case, 
ilic whole body and all that belongs 
id lis organic constitution is involv- 
■A in the essence of the perfect 
'impound of which it is a part ; 
and therefore some among the 
Eitcntial ati ributes of the compound 
lOMt depend on the very constitu- 
iwn of the body. Thus stature 
follows from the essential constitu- 
lioQ of man, which includes a body 
luving dimensions. But here, again, 
■c mast observe thai, although (o 
liJFc some stature is an essential 
Jiiribnic of man, to have this stat- 
.'ic rather than that is an accidcn- 
■ii ijualily; it luring evident that 
mman nature can exist without Mm 
<!<.-! vnninaic stature. 

By the preceding remarks we are 

led to conrlude, i«t, that all essential 

nirihiiTrs firij^inatc in the essential 

,iu of the nature of which 

!ljc attributes; ad, that 

iridcntal attribules or 

, iiri;;inatc in thcaccidental 

JcU; mill ai ions of the nature of 

•bidi ihty arc the accidental 

fOAiitics ; 3d, that, in material 

K>un(U, those essential atlri- 



Cur 
I 



buies which depend on the com- 
position admit of different acciden- 
tal degrees. 

We have only to add that the 
abstract ratios, through which the 
attributes and properties of things 
are conceived, are very frequently 
sty\Qd. formalities. Formalities are, 
generally speaking, either real or 
logical. A real formality is that 
which has its being in the reality 
of things; a logical formality, on 
the contrary, is that which has no 
being in real things, but only in our 
conception. 

Real formalities are also call- 
ed metaphysical degrees. Thus, in 
Socrates, animality, rationality, in- 
dividuality, personality, etc., are so 
many metaphysical degrees. All 
such degrees express the being of 
the thing under some particular 
aspect; as to be animated, to be 
rational, to be an individual, etc., 
as we have above remarked. 

Real formalities are either abso- 
lute or respective. The absolute 
are those which belong to the thing 
considered in itself absolutely ; as 
substantiality, oneness, singularity. 
The respective are those which 
imply a connotation of something 
else; as terminability, passivity, 
cognoscibility. The absolute for- 
malities correspond to the absolute 
attributes of beings; the respective 
correspond to the relative attributes 
— that is, to the properties and 
qualities of beings. 

Real formalities are either posi- 
livi, negative, or privative. The 
positive are directly founded on 
the ad, term, and complement of the 
being; as activity, passivity, and 
inertia. The negative are real ne- 
gations aR'ccting the thing; as the 
mode of substance, which is a ne- 
g.ttion of sustcntfltion. The priva- 
tive are real privations, as blindness 
in man. 



i86 



The Butterfly. 



We may observe, by the way, 
that the logical formalities are like- 
wise either positive, negative, or 
privative. The positive exhibit 
the thing as a positive element of 
logical thought ; as when man is 
said to be the subject of a proposi- 
tion. The negative exhibit the 
thing as affected by a negation 
which is not in the thing, but only 
in our conception of it; as when 
we say that God's immensity and 
eternity are distinct; for distinc- 
tion is a negation of identity, but 
the distinction in this case is only 
mental, because those two attributes 
are the same thing in reality. The 
privative exhibit the thing as men- 



tally stripped of that which is due 
to it ; as when we consider color, 
figure, velocity, etc., as formally 
universal, and therefore as depriv- 
ed of a subject ; for they cannot be 
deprived of a subject except in our 
conception. 

This is what we had to say about 
attributes and properties. As we 
have here and there mentioned 
inadequate identity, metaphysical 
distinction, distinction of reason, 
etc., we will take care to have the 
meaning of these words accurately 
explained in our next article, in 
which we hope to end this our 
cursory survey of the principles of 
real being. 



TO BB COKTINUBO. 



THE BUTTERFLY. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF MARIE JENNA. 

Why silently draw near 

And menace my joyous flight } 
What is there in my gay career 

That can offend your sight ? 

I am only a vivid beam, 
Flitting now here, now there, 

A winged gem, a fairy dream, 
A flower that the breeze may bear. 

The brother of the rose, 

In her breast I shun the storm ; 
On her soft bosom I repose. 

And drink her perfume warm. 

My life is a transient thing. 

Why mar its glad estate 1 
Answer me, O creation's king ! 

Art envious of my fate } 

Nay, hear me while I pray : , 
Elsewhere thy footsteps bend; 

Let me live at least one happy day. 
Thou that shalt never end ! 



The Farm o/.Muiceron. 



THE FARM OF MUICERON. 



That day was February 25, 
If you remember, there 

i never been seen, at that season, 
ith mild weather and such bril- 
tiant sunshine. But that the trees 
were without leaves, it seemed like 
May; and in the orchards exposed 
ID (he south, the alniond-trees were 
even covered with big buds ready 
to flower. 

This beautiful, early spring re- 
joiced all on the earth, both men 
md beasts; the peasants were 
ht.itd singing in the fields, the 
hones neighing at the plough, the 
lias clucking, the sparrows chirp- 
ing (he lambs bleating; and down 
to the bubbling brooks, that flowed 
snd leaped over the stones with 
i:iDrc than ordinary rapidity, each 

■ ;'^3iure, in its own way, appeared 
'ippy and glad. 

The eurd walked along slowly, a 

■ file faiigued by the heat, to which 
' '■ was not yet accustomed. He 
liiwd his Breviary, and thought 
'1 ihc dear family he was about to 
T'^joicc with his good news, and 
doubtless, also, of the exile, who 
Tjly waited for one word to return 

; >'nis beloved home. 
^'iTien he reached the right of the 
Mm» at Muiccron, he paused a 
ijmcnt behind the cottage to take 
'f»lh and wipe his forehead, 
i wm th.1t spot he could see into 
Ihc courtyard without being seen; 
ind what he saw, although very 
limplc, moved him to the bottom 
of lus souL 



Jeanne Ragaud was drawing wa- 
ter from the well ; but, instead of 
carrying off the buckets already 
filled, she deposited them on the 
ground, and, resting her eibows on 
the curbstone of the well, covered 
her face with her hands in the 
attitude of a person completely 



He knew she was weeping, and 
certainly her poor heart must have 
been full of sorrow that she should 
give way to such silent grief. The 
good fMrif' could no longer restrain 
himself; he advanced gently behind 
her, and, when quite near, touched 
her on the shoulder, just as he had 
done in former days, when he wish- 
ed to surprise her in some school- 
girl's trick. 

Jeanne turnedaround, and he saw 
her pretty face bathed in tears. 

"Oh! oh!" said the kind pastor, 
smiling, "what are you doing, my 
daughter? I wager you are the 
only one who is not rejoicing to- 
day in the bright sunshine that 
the good God gives us," 

" Father," said the little thing, 
who always thus addressed our cur/ 
when they were alone, " it is perhaps 
very wrong, but it is precisely all 
this joy I see around me that breaks 
my heart. When I reached the well, 
I thought how often Jean-Louis had 
come to this very place to draw 
water for us, and how displeased 
he was when my mother wished to 
do it herself. Poor Jeannct ! he 
was so gentle and kind ! Oh ! I am 
sure he is unhappy away from home.'' 



i 



i88 



The Farm 0/ Muiceron. 



" That is not doubtful," replied 
the cur^ J "but perhaps one day we 
will see him again." 

" I begin to despair of it," said 
she. "He left heart-broken, and 
perhaps now he detests me." 

" Perhaps ? Perhaps, my daugh- 
ter, can mean yes as well as no; 
why should it not be no ?" 

" Ah ! if I only knew!" said she. 

" Well, what would you do ?" 

"I would write to him that I 
love him," she cried, clasping her 
hands ; " and I would beg him to 
come and tell me that he pardons 
me, and take his place again at 
home ; for the house will always be 
his, whether I live or die ; and al- 
though I have done very wrong, 
he would listen to me, don't you 
think so, father ?" 

" Yes," said the curi^ much touch- 
ed; "he is a person who never 
cherished rancor against any one. 
Write to him, my child, and tell 
him all you wish; your letter will 
reach him." 

" Ah ! you know where he is 1 I 
thought so," said she joyfully. 

" Yes, indeed ! I know where he 
is, and I will now tell you, my dear 
daughter. He is in Paris, where 
he wants for nothing ; and if you 
are good, if you will stop crying, I 
will read you some of his letters, 
which will make you happy." 

" Oh ! I promise you that I will 
be good. I will not cry any more — 
never again," cried the poor little 
creature, 'who instantly began to 
sob, by way of keeping her pro- 
mise. 

But they were tears of joy this 
time, and the cur^ let them flow 
without reproof. They entered 
Muiceron together, and Jeannette, 
without any preambulation, threw 
herself on her mother's breast, cry- 
ing out that Jeannet was coming 
back. Pierrette, who desired it as 



ardently as she, asked to be excus- 
ed for one moment, that she might 
run off and tell Ragaud, who was 
sowing clover near the house. It 
was right that they should be all 
together to hear such welcome 
news; but scarcely had the good 
woman reached the door, than she 
knocked against Jacques Michou, 
who had just crossed the threshold. 

" Jean-Louis ! Jean- Louis is com- 
ing back!" said Pierrette, as she 
passed him. "Come in, Jacques 
Michou; I .will be back in a 
second." 

Michou entered in his usual tran- 
quil manner. He saluted the curi 
and Jeanne without showing the 
least excitement. 

" Who says that Jeannet is coming 
back ?" he asked. 

"We don't say he is coming 
back," replied the cur^^ " but that 
he will return home." 

"All very well," answered Mi- 
chou ; " but, for the present, that is 
not to be thought of." 

" My God !" cried Jeanne, " what 
has happened ?" 

"The revolution in Paris," said 
Michou ; " and this time it is real. 
Here is a letter from M. le Marquis, 
who tells me that in three days from 
now all will be fire and blood. He 
orders me to join him — Jeannet is 
with him — and I will take guns for 
everybody." 

Jeannette fell fainting in a chair. 
M. le Curd conversed with Michou ; 
and, meanwhile, Ragaud and Pier- 
rette entered, and learned, in their 
turn, the event, which was very true, 
as we all know. I leave you to 
think W there were ahs ! and ohs ! 
and exclamations of all kinds. For 
a full hour there were so many con- 
tradictory statements you would 
have thought the revolution at 
Paris transported to Muiceron. Se- 
veral peasants, returning from the 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



189 



city, stopped at the fann, and re- 
ported there was agitation every- 
where; that a great number of 
workmen in the factories had de- 
camped ; and, as under similar cir- 
cumstances all sorts of stories are 
told and believed, it was added that 
half the capital was already burnt, 
and that smoke was seen in all the 
other parts of the city. At that, 
Michou shrugged his shoulders ; but 
he was anxious about his master, 
whom he knew to be the man to do 
a thousand imprudent things, so he 
took a hasty farewell of his friends, 
and that very evening passed Mui- 
ceron in full rig, armed and equip- 
ped, ready for his post. 

So once again everybody at Mui- 
ceron became gloomy and miserable, 
as each day brought its fresh con- 
tingent of sad news. For if, in the 
city and among learned men, where 
' there is every chance of correct in- 
formation, every one appears half 
crazy in time of public calamity, 
and in a fever to talk all kinds of 
nonsense, you can imagine what it 
is in a village, where one is obliged 
to listen to the neighbors and gos- 
sips, who always improve on the 
most absurd reports. It is true, 
ilso, that they never see a paper, 
and it is lucky if they preserve a 
few gleams of good sense; but what 
each one draws from his own pri- 
vate source amply suffices to bewil- 
der everybody. 

I, who speak to you, and who was 
very young at the time of this revo- 
lution, remember well to have heard 
it positively affirmed that the king, 
Louis Philippe, and his family had 
been crucified in front of their chi- 
[ teau, then cut in little pieces, boil- 
ed, and eaten by the people ! And 
when, in addition, it was said that 
the waters of the Seine had formed a 
BUgnificent cascade from the heap- 
cd-up corpses, and were red with 



blood as far as the bridge at Rouen, 
I did not think the thing incredible, 
and, with great simplicity, I always 
awaited still more extraordinary 
news. 

I remember, also, that a band of 
our most respectable young men 
took turns every night in mounting 
guard around the chateau of Val- 
Saint, because it was known, from 
a trustworthy source, that the cel- 
lars contained more than a hundred 
barrels of powder, ready to blow up 
at the shortest notice. Now, to ask 
how so many barrels, the least of 
which weighed as much as a tun of 
wine, could have been placed there 
without being ifeen, is what no per- 
son thought of; and the reflection, 
what man, sufficiently desirous of 
putting an end to his days by bring- 
ing that enormous building down 
upon him (a thing which could 
profit no one), would be capable of 
setting fire to the powder, still less 
entered their heads ; and yet terror 
was at its height at the mere thought 
of an explosion so tremendous that 
it would have broken all windows 
for two leagues round. And thus 
it is that good people, without wish- 
ing it, lend their hands to the revo- 
lution. 

It was not that all this was be- 
lieved at M nicer on as readily as I 
swallowed it, but, in reality, they 
were very anxious, and ardently de- 
sirous of hearing news. A long week 
passed. M. Michou wrote a short 
letter, in which he said everybody 
was well, that M. le Marquis and 
Jean-Louis were always together, 
and cried out, " Long live the king !" 
in the streets while carrying a white 
flag, which made the boys of the 
street laugh, but at which no one 
took any exception. He added that 
King Louis Philippe was driven out, 
and that for the present the republic 
was much spoken of. Thereupou 



190 



Th£ Farm of Muiceron. 



Ragaud declared that all was lost ; 
for he, like all those of his age, 
only understood the republic as ac- 
companied by scaffolds, drownings, 
and robberies, as in that of 1793, 
which he well remembered. 

Jeannette, then, with the consent 
of M. le Cur^, wrote a long and 
touching letter, which she addressed 
to Solange, in which she poured 
forth all the warmth and fire of her 
little heart. The poor child dared 
not write directly to Jeannet, in 
the fear that new events might pre- 
vent his receiving the missive ; but 
she did not doubt that Solange 
would find means to read it to him 
who would receive so much conso- 
lation from its contents. The mis- 
fortune was that, in the midst of 
the fray, that good girl could hear 
nothing about her old friend ; and, 
between ourselves, it was, I believe, 
because she had no permission to 
mix herself up in the affair, as she 
lived retired and absorbed in prayer 
with the other young sisters of the 
novitiate. It therefore followed 
that when Jeannet, in his turn, 
wrote to M. le Cur6, it seemed, from 
the quiet, sad, and cold tone of 
his letter, that he knew nothing of 
this step of Jeannette's, or, if he 
knew it, he attached no importance 
to it, and wished them to under- 
stand it was too late to repair mat- 
ters. 

It was this last idea which fastened 
itself in the child's head as firmly 
as a nail in the wood. She became 
profoundly sad, which, according 
to her habit, she concealed as much 
as possible ; and thus passed weeks 
and months without anything fur- 
ther being said of the return of the 
dear boy, so fondly desired by all at 
Muiceron. 

So far affairs in Paris went on 
quietly, and the people who believ- 
ed in scaffolds began to think 



they might sign the lease between 
their shoulders and heads. For 
now that all this fine story is over, 
it must be avowed the first part of 
the revolution was more laugh- 
able than terrible. I had it from 
Michou, who was present and wit- 
nessed many things in detail, which 
were served up for our amusement 
during many of the following win- 
ters. The good man never wearied 
of relating how the great city of Pa- 
ris, that had driven off a king from a 
desire of giving herself a hundred 
thousand in his place, played at 
comedy for three months, for the 
sole purpose, I suppose, of afford- 
ing other countries a perpetual di- 
version. Once, for example, in re- 
membrance of spring-time, a crowd 
of little trees were planted at all 
the corners, as signs of liberty ; and 
as, for this amusement, each roan 
became a gardener on his own hook, 
without ever having learned the 
trade, you can imagine what chance 
these precious emblems of freedom 
had of flourishing. It is not neces- 
sary to say that they fell down 
and were trodden under foot in a 
very short time, so that the beauti- 
ful green ornaments were renounc- 
ed at the end of a few days ! 

Another time, the street-boys 
assembled and formed the brilliant 
resolution that they would have a 
general illumination. And then— 
I really would not have believed it, 
if Jacques Michou had not vouched 
for the truth — these ragamuffins 
ran in troops through the streets, 
hand-in-hand, shouting out a song 
which had but two words, always 
sung to the same tune. 

"Light up! light up!" they 
cried at the top of their voices; 
upon which, all classes, rich and 
poor, high and low, obediently 
placed candles in the windows, 
Without daring to utter a word 



Tfie Farm of Muiceron. 



191 



against the decree; and this lasted 
more than a fortnight. 

I will only ask, if the king or 
our holy father, the Pope, had ex- 
acted such a thing even once, what 
would have been said? There 
was also the farce of the laborers, 
rho were out of w^ork, taking the 
air, and marching by thousands 
along the quays to the great 
chateau, where five or six fine men 
who were called the government re- 
sided, and who were very brave in 
words, but became half crazy when 
it was time to act ; which must not 
be wondered at, as their task was 
none of the easiest. The men ar- 
rived, they would send one of 
iheir number to ask some little 
favor, which was sure to be promis- 
ed for next day. Then they re- 
turned the same as they came, 
and so much the worse for those 
who were found in their way that 
day ; for not a cat could have come 
out alive among so many legs. 
This amusement was called "a 
manifestation." But to say what 
was ever manifested except want 
and misery in every house — for 
when such promenades are made, 
no work is done — is what you may 
learn, perhaps, sooner than I, if the 
day of discovery will ever come. 

During this time, they pretend- 
ed to make laws for the country, 
in a large building where a great 
number of men from the provinces 
talked themselves hoarse every 
day, insulting each other, and even, 
1 have been told, flung >vhatever 
they happened to have near at 
hand at one another's heads ; so 
that he who appeared the master 
of all, and was called president, 
was forced to speak with a great 
bell, as he could no longer make 
his voice heard. For those who 
liked noise all this row was very 
amusing; but quiet people were 



obliged to shut their eyes and stop 
up their ears. In my opinion, in- 
stead of being contented with that, 
they should have descended into 
the streets, and enforced order 
with heavy blows of the cudgel ; 
but, if they thought of that later, 
for the time being good people 
seemed asleep, which emboldened 
the rabble to such a degree they 
thought themselves masters of the 
situation. 

You doubtless think our dear 
good master, M. le Marquis, was 
discouraged at seeing the republic 
established in place of his cherish- 
ed hopes. Not at all. On the con- 
trary, he was as ardent and fiery as 
ever, assured that it was " a ne- 
cessary transition " — a phrase which 
I repeat as I heard it, without pre- 
tending to explain it, and which, 
probably, was profoundly wise. 
He was very busy coming and go- 
ing with his friends, and arranging 
all, in words, for the approaching 
arrival of the young legitimate 
prince, who remained near the 
frontier with a large army, invis- 
ible for the time, but ready to 
march at a moment's notice. 

Jean-Louis and Michou allowed 
themselves in secret to be rather 
doubtful of these fine assertions, 
but, respectful and devoted as they 
were to that excellent gentleman, 
they made the agreement to follow 
him about like his shadow, and to 
shield him whenever he might 
incur any risk. Thus, whenever 
M. le Marquis was seen, near him 
was always the handsome, brave 
Jeannet, with his pale, serious face, 
or the old game-keeper, looking 
very jaunty, but with such fierce 
eyes and strong arms a man would 
think twice before attacking him. 
Dear mademoiselle, who was half 
dead with fear for her father's life, 
confided him entirely to his viU 



192 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



Jage friends, and begged them every 
morning to be faithful to their 
trust. Besides, this good ^ soul, 
formerly so desirous of seeing and 
living in Paris, yawned there almost 
as much as at Val-Saint. 

There was not much amusement 
going on in society. Rich people 
stayed at home, and guarded their 
money, which was carefully con- 
cealed in some secure place, ready 
to fly in case of necessity; as for 
out-door amusements, none were 
thought of. M. le Marquis had 
something else to do than drive 
out with his daughter; and to cir- 
culate around among the manifes- 
tations was not the most pleasant 
performance — far from it. Poor 
mademoiselle seemed doomed to 
the miserable fate of always run- 
ning after some distraction, fetes^ 
and other disturbances of that 
kind, without ever finding them. 
Add to all this, she was in a con- 
stant state of fear, as she was little 
accustomed to the cries, songs, 
patrols, and threats which filled the 
capital. Her only consolation was 
to hope that there would soon be 
an end of all this ; and Dame Ber- 
the encouraged her to be patient, 
showing herself all the while full 
of the idea of the near triumph of 
the causey as she said. And mean- 
time, while waiting for it, she em- 
broidered little strips of white 
satin by the dozen, to decorate the 
belts of the king's officers when 
the triumphal entry would be made 
into Paris. 

Their happiest moment was in 
the evening, when these five per- 
sons, drawn together through 
friendship and devotion, were re- 
united to talk over the events of 
the day, and to plan for the next. 
M. le Marquis ordered the servants 
off to bed — for they were not sure 
but there might be spies among 



them — and, keeping Jeannet and 
Michou, he joyfully laid before 
them all his plans and hopes. 
Jean-Louis listened with one ear; 
and fortunate was it that respect 
prevented him from joining in the 
conversation, as his remarks might 
have been very malapropos. Can 
you guess why? He thought of 
other things ; and while his master 
soared away in imagination to the 
frontier, where the invisible army 
of the king manoeuvred, in heart 
and soul he was in the beloved spot, 
where he lived over again the happy 
days of his childhood. 

And thus they advanced, without 
knowing it, to the terrible days 
which gave the death-blow to the 
republic, in the midst of the blood 
of so many honest men, which flow- 
ed and mingled with that of the 
rabble, for love of good order, 
which could easily have been estab- 
lished without so much suffering. 
Alas ! it was not the first time in our 
gay, beautiful France that things 
have begun with songs and pleasant 
jokes, and ended amid the noise of 
cannon and the cries and lamenta- 
tions of the wounded. 

Before relating this last part of 
my story, I must tell you that our 
cur^y always in correspondence 
with Jean-Louis, was much aston- 
ished at the uniform coolness of his 
letters. At last he thought best 
to ask an explanation during the 
month of May, advising him to go 
and see Solange, who for a long 
time had had good news for him. 
Do you think it was long before 
Jeannet ran quickly to the convent } 
When he read that Jeannette loved 
him and desired his return, he 
nearly became wild with joy. So- 
lange let him have the precious 
letter, which he read and re-read 
all one night, so as to be better 
able to reply to it. It was time for 



Tlie Farm of MuiceroH. 



193 



things to change, as Jeannette de- 
tliocd visibly from ihc pain she 
iufTcred in believing herself dis- 
dained. 

It is always so with women (I 
mast make the remark) ; tliey tor- 
lure without mercy, or at least with 
very little thought, the poor hearts 
iriich become attached to them ; 
Md then iho day they feel pain in 
Chdr turn all must end in the 
quickest manner, otherwise they 
will die : and then, again, they will 
have all the pity and sympathy on 
their side. So our two dear chil- 
dren made tip and became friends 
lith a few words written on paper ; 
and enchanted were they both, I 
can assure you. Now it was easy 
to wait, Jean-Louis, in his answer, 
ihowed the same heart, the same 
Icodemcss, as formerly. He wished 
DO excuses from his sister, saying 
that all the fault was on his side — 
«hich was a big story, as every one 
rould sec but himself, and made 
ihctn both laugh and weep at Mui- 
leron. As for his return, it was 
Dot necessary to promise anything. 
They knew well that the day duty 
would no longer detain him he 
rould take the first train and our 
good friends, the Ragauds, while 
not wishing him to leave M, le Mar- 
quis, commenced to prepare for the 
hippy moment, so ardently desired 
ttr ail. 

Ragaud told the women it was 

not the time for economy, and the 

following week he called in the 

ptinters and the masons to replas- 

ICTallthe house, and to give it an air 

of (mhncss inside, whii:h, 1 must 

If knowledge, was very much need- 

:ii Jeannctie directed the changes 

n Jcan-I^uis' room, and I can as- 

>ure you she spared nothing, and 

•pent at least fifty francs of her fa- 

^ iker's crowni in a splendid paper 

^JW the walls, which was yellow, 

K TOL. XIX. — 13 



covered with large bouquets of 
bright flowers that had the most 
beautiful effect. The month of 
June found them busily occupied; 
and then they began to count, not 
the days, but the hours, that would! 
separate Jean-Louis from the dear 
home that had adopted hira. 

His last letter announced his 
speedy departure. The joy at 
Muiceron, and its holiday look, was 
touching to see. Jeannette, pink 
and while, like an eglantine rose, 
had never looked prettier. 

Suddenly, one morning, M. le 
Cur^ entered the farm, and, in the 
midst of all this happiness, pro- 
nounced these terrible words : 

" My children, they are fighting 
in Paris, and we must pray to God, 
for the danger has never been 
greater; happy those who will 
come safe out of it!" 

XXT. 

I shudder when I speak of that 
horrible time, Alas ! we all know 
about the fearful struggle of blood 
and tears called "The days of 
June, 18 48." 

Never did the lowering storm- 
clouds more quickly burst, and 
never did a great city, in all the pride 
of her beauty and wealth, come 
nearer complete ruin. Each quar- 
ter, each place, each cross-way, 
were battle-fieids. Houses were 
demolished, that barricades might 
be erected across the streets ; and 
this time, if extravagant acconnta 
went abroad, not one appeared 
exaggerated in face of the real 
truth. 

For three long, weary days — why, 
00 one ever knew — the army kept 
hidden; then the sovereign people 
were masters of ihe situation, and 
acted as best pleased their capri- 
cious will; and I rather think no- 
body but a fool could have helped 



^94 



The Farm of Muiceran, 



being disgusted with serving such 
kings. 

At the end of these three days, at 
last the cry was heard from all the 
barracks, "Forward!" And as in 
the time of the great Napoleon, 
generals in fine uniforms and wav- 
ing plumes dashed about on horse- 
back, and there was a terrific noise 
of cannon and musketry. How 
terrible was the anger of the Lord ! 
For these enemies, who grappled in 
the fierce death-struggle, were chil- 
dren of the same mother, and yet 
forgot it in the midst of their sense- 
less fury and thirst for vengeance, 
when, in truth, they had nothing 
to avenge. 

What more shall I tell you? 
You know it all better than I ; per- 
haps you were there ; and, besides, 
it is not so long ago that you can- 
not remember it ; and when you re- 
call it, pray fervently to the good 
God such a time may never again 
be ours. 

When the battalions moved, 
every honest citizen left his bed, 
and armed, to be ready to assist the 
army. M. le Marquis was one of 
the first on the scene, accompanied 
by his two body-guards. Made- 
moiselle, when she saw them leave, 
wept, and threw herself on her knees 
in her room, unwilling to listen to 
Dame Berthe, who still could have 
the heart to speak of " the triumph 
of the right," so rooted in her head 
was this fixed idea. Leave these 
poor women, more to be pitied than 
blamed, lamenting and praying to 
God, while listening, with hearts 
half dead with agony, to the noise 
of the battle, and we will see what 
became of the combatants. 

When they left the house, there 
was no appearance of extraordinary 
excitement, and even the quarter 
where M. le Marquis lived, very 
quiet at all times, seemed calmer 



even than usual, for the very good 
reason that, of all who occupied it, 
those that were brave ran elsewhere, 
and the cowards buried themselves, 
like moles, in the cellars. Our 
friends first went down one long 
street, crossed a second, a third, 
and only then, when coming up to 
a great bridge with a Prussian 
name very difficult to spell — and 
therefore I cannot write it — began 
to see and hear the horrors of the 
deadly combat. 

M. le Marquis stopped. 

" Friends," stiid he, " let us make 
the sign of the cross ; perhaps one 
of us will not return to sleep in his 
bed, but may be killed, wounded, or 
made prisoner. It is well to pro- 
vide ourselves with a passport for 
the other world, and one more bless- 
ing for this one." 

And this excellent gentleman 
instantly put in practice what he 
preached, pronouncing aloud the 
name of the Father, and of the Son, 
and of the Holy Ghost. 

" Come," said he joyously, " I 
feel younger by ten years. Ah! 
while I think of it, have you white 
cockades in your pockets .5*" 

" Faith ! no," said Michou ; " I 
confess to M. le Marquis I did not 
dream of taking that precaution. 
But we need not worry about that ; 
if we want them, I will tear off an 
end of my shirt." 

Jean-Louis had been equally 
forgetful of the white cockades ; 
M. le Marquis told them their heads 
were turned, but forgot to add he 
was in the same fix ; for they had 
rushed to arms in such a hurry, 
each one had only taken time to 
dress quickly and seize his gun, so 
ardently desirous were they to see 
the end of the masters of Paris. 

Soon they were in the midst of 
the troops and a crowd of volun- 
teers like themselves. 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



195 



The Gght was hot. The height 

and solidity of ihe barricades, for 

the inost part cemented with stone 

and mortar like ramparts, forced 

1 lo establish a siege; and the 

kk walls ih&t sheltered the rioters 

e only destroyed with the aid of 

ind after many deaths, I 

Ist be frank, and say it was not a 

t veo' much to the taste of our 

Ldicrs, who like to see the faces 

f the enemies at whom they aim ; 

IS a first effort, was it very 

IBusing for our friend Jeannet.who 

■cr before seen any fire 

nt thai in ihe chimney at Muice- 

So when he found himself in 

pikc midst of the scufllc, surrounded 

with dead and wounded, smoke in 

his eyes loud oaths and curses in 

bis ears, without counting the 

ihiilling of the balls, which I have 

b«B told produces a very droll 

effect when not accustomed to it, 

I he stopped short, and looked so 

^^iBpcfied Michou laughed at him. 

^H^t old soldier bad been present 

^^hthc battle of Wagram, and, being 

^^TWy young at the time, was at first 

hilfetaiy with fear, which did not 

prevent him from showing great 

bravery when he recovered his 

senses. He therefore understood 

from experience precisely how 

Jcannct fell, and, giving him a hard 

tilo* on his shoulder, shook the 

irmng fellow's gim, which he was 

tirelessly pointing at random. 

"Arc you going to let yourself 
be killed like a chicken ?" he cried 
lo him, swearing tremendously; 
"be quick, ray boy; you can sleep 
t»-rootrow," 

Jcan-I.ouis jumped ; he drew 
himself up to his full height, and 
^\ai handsome face reddened with 
jc. although he had done no- 
bg dishonorable. 
P" Jarqoes," said he, " I am afraid 
I km acowftrd." 



"Big 



' gaily cried the 
game-keeper; "on the contrary, by* 
and-by you are going to see how 
we will amuse ourselves." 

They were at the time before a 
barricade, which was most obsti- 
nately defended. The conversation 
could not last long, but Jacques 
Michou did not lose sight of the 
boy. He saw that he soon recover- 
ed himself, and kept out of the way 
of the balls as well as he could — 
something which required as much 
skill as coolness — and handled his 
gun with as firm a hand as though 
he were hunting, 

Fighting went on there for a 
good hour. The soldiers began 
to be furious, and, notwithstand- 
ing the number of killed on both 
sides, no advantage was gained. 
Cannon were brought up; at (he 
first fire, a large breach was effected, 
and it was seen that the insurgents 
were reduced lo a small number, 
who attempted to escape. 

At that sight, the soldiers and 
volunteers could not be restrained, 

"No prisoners!" cried a hun- 
dred voices, hoarse with rage. 

That meant death to every one, 
O ur officers were no longer m.istera ; 
the tide, once let loose, soon over- 
flowed, and a horrible mixture of 
shots, cries, and oaths, frightful to 
hear, pierced the air. 

Jeannet became as cra/y as the 
rest. He fired so often, his gun was 
burning in his hands; his dishevel- 
led hair, and his face, blackened 
with powder, changed his appear- 
ance so completely no one would 
have recognized him. He loaded 
and reloaded, fired at hazard, and 
no longer heard Michou, who, 
always at his side, cried, '" Look 
out !" every moment. Suddenly 
the game-keeper gave a yell that 
resembled the howl of a wolf. A 
man, covered with blood, had just 



< 
t 



4 



The Farm cf Muiceron. 



leaped upon the niins of ihe bairi- 
cade, and aimed at Jean-Louis, who 
was not three steps from his gun. 

It is not easy to make you under- 
stand the rapidity with which old 
Michou threw himself before Jean- 
net lo preserve his life. It was 
like a flash of lightning, but that 
flash sufficed; he had time to fire 
before the rioter, who rolled lifeless 
on the heaped-up pavement. 

All was ended. Five niiniit es 
afterwards, at least in that comer, 
it only remained to remove the 
dead, and carry the wounded into 
the neighboring houses, where the 
women were ready to dress the 
wounds. There was time to 
breathe, 

Alas! the poor, blinded people 
paid dearly in that quarter for their 
folly and madness. All the unfor- 
tunate wretches who had raised 
that barricade were dead or dying. 

Jacques looked around for his 
master and his friend. M. Ic Mar- 
quis, with his arm all bleeding, was 
seated leaning against a post, very 
weak and faint from his wound ; but 
his eyes sparkled, and a smile was 
upon his lips. The game-keeper 
rushed to him. 

"It is nothing, old fellow," said 
our master, "only a scratch on the 
wrist; lend meyour handkerchief." 

By the mercy of God, it was 
really not much ; and our dear lord 
quietly wrapped up his hand, while 
he asked about Jeannct. 

" Heaven has worked miracles 
for that child," said Michou proud- 
ly. " Ah ! he is a brave boy, I tell 
you. He fought both like a fox 
and a lion!" 

"I wish to see him," said M. le 
Marquis, " Go bring him to me, " 

Jacques willingly obeyed. It 
was some lime before he found his 
pupil — for such he could be called. 
He was in the midst of a crowd 



that surrounded him and loaded 
him with congratulations and com- 
pliments on his bravery. His con- 
duct had been noted, and the com- 
manding officer was then asking 
him his name and residence, that 
he might inscribe them in his re- 
port, Jeannet, who shrank from 
observation, looked like a citminal 
before his judges. Michou, seeing 
him so timid and confused, told 
him he was a fool, and came very 
near being angry himself. 

" Just see how frightened you are 
now!" said he to him, in such a 
cross tone the officer smiled. " Ex- 
cuse him, colonel, he always looks 
sheepish when before people he 
don't know. His name is Jean- 
Louis Ragaud, and he comes from 
the commune of Val-Saint-sui- 
Range, near Issoudun." 

"All right," said the officer; 
"that is enough, my brave fellow, 
Jean Ragaud, Gen. Cavaignac will 
hear of you, . . . and, if it depends 
on me, you will hear from him." 

Jeannet bowed as awkwardly as 
possible, which made the game- 
keeper grumble again. 

" Again 1 beg of you," said he, " lo 
keep that bewildered stare. You 
look like the head of S, John the 
Baptist, cut off and laid on a dish, 
that is painted in our church. 1 
suppose it is because you are so un- 
happy ! The gener.al will no doubt 
send after you to have you hanged — 
unless he sends you the Cross of 
the Legion of Honor, . , ." 

"The cross!" cried Jeannet, 
seizing the game-keeper by the 

" Yes indeed, idiot ! I know how 
soldiers talk ; would the colonel 
have said as much unless he was 
sure of the fact?" 

"The cross!" repeated Jean- 
Louis, with tears in his eyes, " O 
Jacques Michou! if it were true!" 



Fragment cf Earfy English Poetry. 



J9J» 



** That would make you bold, eh ? 
And it would be a fine present to 
take back to Muiceron.'* 

" Hush !" said Jeannet : " the bare 
thought makes me crazy." 

^I hope not," replied Michou; 
''but I would be half wild myself 
Come, now, let U9 be off; we have 
earned our dinner. M. le Ma;rqui& 
is asking for you." 

"Wait a moment, good, kiad 
Jacques," said Jean-Xouis^ *' I have 
Bot yet thanked you; and yet I 
know you saved my life." 

'^ What nonsense !" said Michou,^ 
1^0 in his turn looked embarrass- 
ed. '* In such a battle, do you think 
a fellow looks after any one's skin 
but his own ?" 

** (Ml ! I saw you," replied Jean- 
net ** You sprang before ine, or I 
would have been killed." 



" Listen," said Michou in a sol- 
emn tone, " before God, who hears 
me, and conducts all by his divine 
hand, it was not so much your life 
that I wished to save, ... it was 
another's that I wished to take." 

" How ?" 

"We should not love revenge," 
replied the game^keeper ; " but the 
temptation was too strong; faith! 
I am ready to confess it, if it was a 
sin — of which I am not sure. Jean- 
net, he who aimed at you from the 
barricade^<}idn*t you recognize 
him ?" 

" No»" said Jeannet, " I saw no 



one. 



>t 



" It was Isidore Perdreau. God 
have mercy on his souU" said 
the game-keepei, blessing himself. 
" My poor Barbette in heaven will 
ask for my pardon. ..." 



TO BB OONTINUBO. 



FRAGMENT OF EARLY ENGLISH POETRY. 



TO THOSE WHO GET THEUt LYVYNE BY THE ONEST CRAFT OP 

MASONRY. 

Knelb ye both ynge and olde, 

And both yer hondes fayr upholder 

And say thenne yn thys manere, • 

Fayre and softe withouten here ; 

Jhesu, Lord, welcome Thou be 

Yn fonne of bred as y The se ; 

Now Jhesu for Thyn holy name, 

Schielde Thou me from synne and schame, 

Schryfif and hosel, grant me bo, 

Ere that y schall hennus go. 

— Christian Schoob and Scholars. 



i88 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



" That is not doubtful," replied 
the curi ; " but perhaps one day we 
will see him again.** 

" I begin to despair of it," said 
she. "He left heart-broken, and 
perhaps now he detests me." 

" Perhaps 1 Perhaps, my daugh- 
ter, can mean yes as well as no; 
why should it not be no V* 

" Ah ! if I only knew !" said she. 

" Well, what would you do.>" 

" I would write to him that I 
love him," she cried, clasping her 
hands ; " and I would beg him to 
come and tell me that he pardons 
me, and take his place again at 
home ; for the house will always be 
his, whether I live or die ; and al- 
though I have done very wrong, 
he would listen to me, don't you 
think so, father .?" 

" Yes," said the curi^ much touch- 
ed ; " he is a person who never 
cherished rancor against any one. 
Write to him, my child, and tell 
him all you wish; your letter will 
reach him." 

" Ah ! you know where he is } I 
thought so," said she joyfully. 

" Yes, indeed ! I know where he 
is, and I will now tell you, my dear 
daughter. He is in Paris, where 
he wants for nothing; and if you 
are good, if you will stop crying, I 
will read you some of his letters, 
which will make you happy." 

" Oh ! I promise you that I will 
be good. I will not cry any more — 
never again," cried the poor little 
creature, 'who instantly began to 
sob, by way of keeping her pro- 
mise. 

But they were tears of joy this 
time, and the curd let them flow 
without reproof. They entered 
Muiceron together, and Jeannette, 
without any preambulation, threw 
herself on her mother's breast, cry- 
ing out that Jeannet was coming 
back. Pierrette, who desired it as 



ardently as she, asked to be excus- 
ed for one moment, that she might 
run off and tell Ragaud, who was 
sowing clover near the house. It 
was right that they should be all 
together to hear such welcome 
news; but scarcely had the good 
woman reached the door, than she 
knocked against Jacques Michou, 
who had just crossed the threshold. 

" Jean-Louis ! Jean-Louis is com- 
ing back!" said Pierrette, as she 
passed him. "Come in, Jacques 
Michou; I ,will be back in a 
second." 

Michou entered in his usual tran- 
quil manner. He saluted the curi 
and Jeanne without showing the 
least excitement. 

" Who says that Jeannet is coming 
back?" he asked. 

" We don't say he is coming 
back," replied the cur^^ " but that 
he will return home." 

" All very well," answered Mi- 
chou ; " but, for the present, that is 
not to be thought of." 

" My God !" cried Jeanne, " what 
has happened V 

"The revolution in Paris," said 
Michou ; " and this time it is real. 
Here is a letter from M. le Marquis, 
who tells me that in three days from 
now all will be fire and blood. He 
orders me to join him — Jeannet is 
with him — and I will take guns for 
everybody." 

Jeannette fell fainting in a chair. 
M. le Cur^ conversed with Michou ; 
and, meanwhile, Ragaud and Pier- 
rette entered, and learned, in their 
turn, the event, which was very true, 
as we all know. I leave you to 
think W there were ahs ! and ohs ! 
and exclamations of all kinds. For 
a full hour there were so many con- 
tradictory statements you would 
have thought the revolution at 
Paris transported to Muiceron. Se- 
veral peasants, returning from the 



The Farm of Mitic 



189 



ci:y, slopped at ihe firm, and re- 
ported there was agitatioa every- 
where; that a great number of 
workmen in the factories had de- 
< imped: and, as under similar cir- 
. imslances all sorts of stories are 

I'l and believed, it was added that 
..itr the capital was already burnt, 
ifld that smoke was seen in all the 
other pans of the city. At that, 
M ic ho ush nigged his shoulders; but 
he was anxious about his master, 
whom he knew to be the man to do 
i thousand imprudent things, so he 
took a hasty farewell of his friends, 
and that very evening passed Mui- 
ceton in full rig, armed and equip- 
ped, ready for his post. 

So once again everybody at Mui- 
ceron became gloomy and miserable, 
U each day brought its fresh con- 
tingent of sad news. For if, in the 
dty and among learned men, where 
there is every chance of correct in- 
formation, every one appears half 
Ctuy in time uf public calamity, 
md in a fever to talk all kinds of 
nonsense, you can imagine what it 
(' in a village, where one b obliged 
' listen lu the neighbors and gos- 
-ipi, who always improve on the 
niii absurd reports. It is true, 
iIm, that Ihcy never sec a paper, 
nd it is lucky if ihey preserve a 
fern gleams of good sense ; but what 
och one draws from his own pri- 
tate wurce amply suRices to bewil- 
itt everybody. 

f, who sjieak to you, and who was 
, »wy young at the time of this revo- 
htioa, remember well to have heard 
it positively affirmed that the king, 
Loois Philippe, and his family had 
bem crucified in front of their ch3- 
leau, then cut in little pieces, boil- 
td. and eaten by the people ! And 
• hen, in addition. It was said that 

c waters of the Seine had formed a 
-i){nificcnt cascade from the heap- 
J-up corpses, and were red with 



blood as far as the bridge at Rouen, 
I did not think the thing incredible, 
and, with great simplicity, I always 
awaited still more extraordinary 

I remember, also, that a band of 
our most respectable young men 
took turns every night in mounting 
guard around the chateau of Val- 
Saint, because it was known, from 
a trustworthy source, that the cel- 
lars contained more than a hundred 
barrels of powder, ready to blow 
at the shortest notice. Now, to 
how so many barrels, the least of 
which weighed as much as a tun of 
wine, could have been placed there 
without being sten, is what no per- 
son thought of; and the reflection, 
what man, sufficiently desirous of 
putting an end to his days by bring- 
ing that enormous building down 
upon him (a thing which co 
profit no one), would be capable of 
setting fire to the powder, still less 
entered their heads; and yet terror 
was at its height at the mere thought 
of an explosion so tremendous that 
it would have broken all windows, 
for two leagues round. And thus 
it is that good people, without wi 
ing it, lend their hands to the revo- 
lution. 

It was not that all this was be- 
lieved at Muiceron as readily as I 
swallowed it, but, in reality, they 
were very anxious, and ardently de- 
sirous of hearing news, Alongwi 
passed. M. Michou wrote a short 
letter, in which he said everybody 
was well, that M. le Marquis f 
Jean-Louis were always together, 
.ind cried out, " Long live the king!" 
in the streets while carrying a white 
flag, which made the boys of the 
street laugh, but at which no one 
took any exception. He added that 
King Louis Philippe was driven o 
and that for the present the republic 
was much spoken of. Thereupon 



190 



The Farm of Mmceron. 



Ragaiid declared that all was lost ; 
for he, like all those of his age, 
only understood the republic as ac- 
companied by scaffolds, drownings, 
and robberies, as in that of 1793, 
which he well remembered. 

Jeannette, then, with the consent 
of M. le Cur^, wrote a long and 
touching letter, which she addressed 
to Solange, in which she poured 
forth all the warmth and fire of her 
little heart. The poor child dared 
not write directly to Jeannet, in 
the fear that new events might pre- 
vent his receiving the missive ; but 
she did not doubt that Solange 
would find means to read it to him 
who would receive so much conso- 
lation from its contents. The mis- 
fortune was that, in the midst of 
the fray, that good girl could hear 
nothing about her old friend ; and, 
between ourselves, it was, I believe, 
because she had no permission to 
mix herself up in the affair, as she 
lived retired and absorbed in prayer 
with the other young sisters of the 
novitiate. It therefore followed 
that when Jeannet, in his turn, 
wrote to M. le Cur^, it seemed, from 
the quiet, sad, and cold tone of 
his letter, that he knew nothing of 
this step of Jeannette's, or, if he 
knew it, he attached no importance 
to it, and wished them to under- 
stand it was too late to repair mat- 
ters. 

It was this last idea which fastened 
itself in the child's head as firmly 
as a nail in the wood. She became 
profoundly sad, which, according 
to her habit, she concealed as much 
as possible ; and thus passed weeks 
and months without anything fur- 
ther being said of the return of the 
dear boy, so fondly desired by all at 
Muiceron. 

So far affairs in Paris went on 
quietly, and the people who believ- 
ed in scaffolds began to think 



they might sign the lease between 
their shoulders and heads. For 
now that all this fine story is over, 
it must be avowed the first part of 
the revolution was more laugh- 
able than terrible. I had it from 
Michou, who was present and wit- 
nessed many things in detail, which 
were served up for our amusement 
during many of the following win- 
ters. The good man never wearied 
of relating how the great city of Pa- 
ris, that had driven off a king from a 
desire of giving herself a hundred 
thousand in his place, played at 
comedy for three months, for the 
sole purpose, I suppose, of afford- 
ing other countries a perpetual di- 
version. Once, for example, in re- 
membrance of spring-time, a crowd 
of little trees were planted at all 
the corners, as signs of liberty ; and 
as, for this amusement, each roan 
became a gardener on his own hook, 
without ever having learned the 
trade, you can imagine what chance 
these precious emblems of freedom 
had of flourishing. It is not neces- 
sary to say that they fell down 
and were trodden under foot in a 
very short time, so that the beauti- 
ful green ornaments were renounc- 
ed at the end of a few days ! 

Another time, the street-boys 
assembled and formed the brilliant 
resolution that they would have a 
general illumination. And then — 
I really would not have believed it, 
if Jacques Michou had not vouched 
for the truth — these ragamuffins 
ran in troops through the streets, 
hand-in-hand, shouting out a song 
which had but two words, always 
sung to the same tune. 

"Light up! light up!" they 
cried at the top of their voices ; 
upon which, all classes, rich and 
poor, high and low, obediently 
placed candles in the windows, 
Without daring to utter a word 



The Farm of Muice 



rgr 



fl^ost. the decree; and this Instcd 
more than a fortnight, 

1 will only ask, if the king or 
OUT holy father, the Popt, had tx- 
actcd such a thing even once, what 
would have been sRid? There 
was also the farce of the laborers, 
wHo were out of work, taking the 
air. And marching by thousands 
■long the quays lo the great 
diiteaii, where live or six fine men 
who were <^1cd the government re- 
iidcd, and who were very brave in 
words, but became half crazy when 
■A was time lo act; which must not 
i: wondered at, as their task was 
Mine of the easiest. The men ar- 
■ited, they would send one of 
iirir number to ask some little 
jTor, which was sure to be promis- 
-d for next day. Then they re- 
tanied the same as they came, 
ad »o much the worse for those 
who were found in their way that 
d»y: for not a cat could have come 
cwt alive among so many legs. 
Tkb amusement was called "a 
mtnifestation." But to say what 
»M ever manifcslcd except want 
tad misery in every house — for 
•hen such promenades are made. 
no wutIc is done — is what you may 
loBn, perhaps, sooner than I, if the 
iK$ of discovery will ever come. 

Daring this time, they pretend- 
«! to make laws for the country, 
in a lai^e building where a great 
nnmber of men from the provinces 
ullccd themselves hoarse every 
liy, imulting each other, and even, 
i have been told, flung whatever 
'h-y happened to have near at 
'-.lad at one another's heads; so 
thit he who appeared the master 
of all, and was called president, 
• M forced to speak with a great 
^<il, u he could no longer make 
!ii» voice heard. For those wJio 
'ikcd noise all thi.t row was very 
imasing; bat quiet people were 



obliged to shut their eyes and stop 
up their ears. In my opinion, in- 
stead of being contented with that, 
they should have descended into 
the streets, and enforced order 
with heavy blows of the cudgel; 
but, if they thought of that later, 
for the time being good people 
seemed asleep, which emboldened 
the rabble to such a degree they 
thought themselves masters of the 
situation. 

You doubtless think our dear 
jpod master, M, le Marquis, was 
discouraged at seeing the republic 
established in place of his cherish- 
ed hopes. Not at alt. On the con- 
trary, he was as ardent and fiery as 
ever, assured that it was "a ne- 
cessary transition " — a phrase which 
I repeat as I heard it, without pre- 
tending to explain it, and which, 
probably, was profoundly wise. 
He was very busy coming and go- 
ing with his friends, and arranging 
all, in words, for the approaching 
arrival of the young legitimate 
pi-ince, who remained near the 
frontier with a large army, invis- 
ible for the time, but ready to 
march at a moment's notice. 

Jean-I.ouis and Michou allowed 
themselves in secret to be rather 
doubtful of these fine asserlioi 
but, respectful and devoted as they'' 
were lo that excellent gentleman, 
they made the agreement lo follow 
him about like his shadow, and to 
shield him whenever he might 
incur any risk. Thus, whenever 
M. !e Marquis was seen, near hin 
was always the handsome, brave 
Jeannet, with his pale, serious face, 
or ihe old game-keeper, looking 
very jaunty, but with such fierce 
eyes and strong arms a man would 
think twice before attacking him. 
Hear mademoiselle, who was half 
dead with fear for her father's life, 
confided him entirely to liis ^ 



192 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



iage friends, and begged them every 
morning to be faithful to their 
trust. Besides, this good ^ soul, 
formerly so desirous of seeing and 
living in Paris, yawned there almost 
as much as at Val-Saint. 

There was not much amusement 
going on in society. Rich people 
stayed at home, and guarded their 
money, which was carefully con- 
cealed in some secure place, ready 
to fly in case of necessity; as for 
out-door amusements, none were 
thought of. M. le Marquis had 
something else to do than drive 
out with his daughter; and to cir- 
culate around among the manifes- 
tations was not the most pleasant 
performance — far from it. Poor 
mademoiselle seemed doomed to 
the miserable fate of always run- 
ning after some distraction, fStcs^ 
and other disturbances of that 
kind, without ever finding them. 
Add to all this, she was in a con- 
stant state of fear, as she was little 
accustomed to the cries, songs, 
patrols, and threats which filled the 
capital. Her only consolation was 
to hope that there would soon be 
an end of all this ; and Dame Ber- 
the encouraged her to be patient, 
showing herself all the while full 
of the idea of the near triumph of 
the cause, as she said. And mean- 
time, while waiting for it, she em- 
broidered little strips of white 
satin by the dozen, to decorate the 
belts of the king's officers when 
the triumphal entry would be made 
into Paris. 

Their happiest moment was in 
the evening, when these five per- 
sons, drawn together through 
friendship and devotion, were re- 
united to talk over the events of 
the day, and to plan for the next. 
M. le Marquis ordered the servants 
off to bed — for they were not sure 
but there might be spies among 



them — and, keeping Jeannet and 
Michou, he joyfully laid before 
them all his plans and hopes. 
Jean-Louis listened with one ear; 
and fortunate was it that respect 
prevented him from joining in the 
conversation, as his remarks might 
have been very malapropos. Can 
you guess why.^ He thought of 
other things ; and while his master 
soared away in imagination to the 
frontier, where the invisible army 
of the king manoeuvred, in heart 
and soul he was in the beloved spot, 
where he lived over again the happy 
days of his childhood. 

And thus they advanced, without 
knowing it, to the terrible days 
which gave the death-blow to the 
republic, in the midst of the blood 
of so many honest men, which flow- 
ed and mingled with that of the 
rabble, for love of good order, 
which could easily have been estab- 
lished without so much suffering. 
Alas ! it was not the first time in our 
gay, beautiful France that things 
have begun with songs and pleasant 
jokes, and ended amid the noise of 
cannon and the cries and lamenta- 
tions of the wounded. 

Before relating this last part of 
my story, I must tell you that our 
curtf, always in correspondence 
with Jean-Louis, was much aston- 
ished at the uniform coolness of his 
letters. At last he thought best 
to ask an explanation during the 
month of May, advising him to go 
and see Solange, who for a long 
time had had good news for him. 
Do you think it was long before 
Jeannet ran quickly to the convent ? 
When he read that Jeannette loved 
him and desired his return, he 
nearly became wild with joy. So- 
lange let him have the precious 
letter, which he read and re-read 
all one night, so as to be better 
able to reply to it It was time for 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



193 ' 



Bufijts to change, as Jeannetle de- 
clined visibly from the pain she 
sufTered in believing herself dls- 

It is always so with women (I 
must make the remark) ; they tor- 
ture without mercy, or at least with 
very little thought, the poor hearts 
which become attached to them ; 
and then the day they feel pain in 
ihcir turn all must end in the 
qaictcest manner, otherwise they 
will die; and then, again, they will 
have all the pity and sympathy on 
their side. So our two dear chil- 
dren made up and became friends 
with a few words written on paper ; 
ind enchanted were they both, I 
can assure you. Now it was easy 
to wait. Jean-Louis, in his answer, 
ihowed the same heart, the same 
tenderness, as formerly. He wished 
no excuses from his sister, saying 
(hat all the fault was on his side — 
"hich was a big story, as every one 
could sec but himself, and made 
ihem both laugh and weep at Mui- 
icton. As for his return, it was 
I Boi necessary to promise anything. 
^L Hey knew well that the day duty 
^B would no longer detain him he 
^Pmnild lake the first train and our 
\ px>d friends, the Ragauds, while 
nui wishing him to leave M. le Mar- 
quii, commenced to prepare for the 
bippy moment, so ardently desired 



i Ktgiud told the women it was 
' I tbt time for economy, and the 
J week he called in the 
pud the masons to replas- 
6house, and to give it an air 
I inside, which, I must 
trbiewledge, was very much need- 
rA Jcannctte directed the changes 
m Jein-L.oui3' room, and I can as- 
v.iie you ihe spared nothing, and 
ficni at least fifty francs of her fa- 
ther'* crowns in a splendid paper 
^t the walls, which was yellow, 
vol- XIX.— 13 



covered with large bouquets of 
bright Rowers that had the most 
beautiful effect. The month of 
June found them busily occupied; 
and then they began to count, not 
the days, but the hours, that would 
separate Jean-Louis from the dear 
home that had adopted him. 

His last letter announced hiS' 
speedy departure. The joy at 
Muiceron, and its holiday look, was 
touching to see. Jeannelte, pink 
and white, like an eglantine rose, ' 
had never looked prettier. 

Suddenly, one morning, M. le ! 
Cur6 entered the farm, and, in the 
midst of all this happiness, pro- 1 
nounced these terrible words : 

" My children, they are fighting 
ia Paris, and we must pray to God, 
for the danger has never been 
greater ; happy those who will 
come safe out of it!" 



I shudder when I speak of that 
horrible time. Alas ! we all know 
about the fearful stniggle of blood 
and tears called " The days of 
June, 18 48." 

Never did the lowering stomw 
clouds more quickly burst, and 
never did a great city, in all the pride 
of her beauty and wealth, come 
nearer complete ruin. Each quar- 
ter, each place, each cross-way, 
were battle-fields. Houses were 
demolished, that barricades might 
be erected across the streets; and 
this time, if extravagant accounts 
went abroad, not one appeared 
exaggerated in face of the real 
truth. 

For three long, weary days — why, 
no one ever knew — the army kept 
hidden; then the sovereign people 
were masters of the situation, and 
acted as best pleased their capri- 
cious will; and I rather think no- 
body but a fool could have helped 



ig^ 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



being disgusted with serving such 
kings. 

At the end of these three days, at 
last the cry was heard from all the 
barracks, "Forward!" And as in 
the time of the great Napoleon, 
generals in fine uniforms and wav- 
ing plumes dashed about on horse- 
back, and there was a terrific noise 
of cannon and musketry. How 
terrible was the anger of the Lord ! 
For these enemies, who grappled in 
the fierce death-struggle, were chil- 
dren of the same mother, and yet 
forgot it in the midst of their sense- 
less fury and thirst for vengeance, 
when, in truth, they had nothing 
to avenge. 

What more shall I tell you.^ 
You know it all better than I ; per- 
haps you were there ; and, besides, 
it is not so long ago that you can- 
not remember it ; and when you re- 
call it, pray fervently to the good 
God such a time may never again 
be ours. 

When the battalions moved, 
every honest citizen left his bed, 
and armed, to be ready to assist the 
army. M. le Marquis was one of 
the first on the scene, accompanied 
by his two body-guards. Made- 
moiselle, when she saw them leave, 
wept, and threw herself on her knees 
in her room, unwilling to listen to 
Dame Berthe, who still could have 
the heart to speak of " the triumph 
of the right," so rooted in her head 
was this fixed idea. Leave these 
poor women, more to be pitied than 
blamed, lamenting and praying to 
God, while listening, with hearts 
half dead with agony, to the noise 
of the battle, and we will see what 
became of the combatants. 

When they left the house, there 
was no appearance of extraordinary 
excitement, and even the quarter 
where M. le Marquis lived, very 
quiet at all times, seemed calmer 



even than usual, for the very good 
reason that, of all who occupied it, 
those that were brave ran elsewhere, 
and the cowards buried themselves, 
like moles, in the cellars. Our 
friends first went down one long 
street, crossed a second, a third, 
and only then, when coming up to 
a great bridge with a Prussian 
name very difficult to spell — and 
therefore I cannot write it — began 
to see and hear the horrors of the 
deadly combat. 

M. le Marquis stopped. 

" Friends," s&id he, " let us make 
the sign of the cross; perhaps one 
of us will not return to sleep in his 
bed, but may be killed, wounded, or 
made prisoner. It is well to pro- 
vide ourselves with a passport for 
the other world, and one more bless- 
ing for this one." 

And this excellent gentleman 
instantly put in practice what he 
preached, pronouncing aloud the 
name of the Father, and of the Son, 
and of the Holy Ghost. 

" Come," said he joyously, " I 
feel younger by ten years. Ah ! 
while I think of it, have you white 
cockades in your pockets.?" 

" Faith ! no," said Michou ; " I 
confess to M. le Marquis I did not 
dream of taking that precaution. 
But we need not worry about that ; 
if we want them, I will tear oflf an 
end of my shirt." 

Jean-Louis had been equally 
forgetful of the white cockades ; 
M. le Marquis told them their heads 
were turned, but forgot to add he 
was in the same fix ; for they had 
rushed to arms in such a hurry, 
each one had only taken time to 
dress quickly and seize his gun, so 
ardently desirous were they to see 
the end of the masters of Paris. 

Soon they were in the midst of 
the troops and a crowd of volun- 
teers like themselves. 



The Farm of MuUcron, 



^Thc fight was hoi. The height 
and solidity of the barricades, for 
the most part cemented with stone 
and mortar like ramparts, forced 
them to establish a siege; and Ihe 
thick walls that sheltered the rioters 
were only destroyed with the aid of 
cannon, and after many deaths. I 
must be frank, and say it was not a 
war ver^- much to the taste of our 
soldiers, who like to see the faces 
of the enemies at whom they aim; 
neither, as a first effort, was it very 
amusing for our friend Jeannel, who 
had never before seen any fire 
but that in the chimney at Muice- 
ron. So when he found himself in 
Ihe midst of the scuffle, surrounded 
with dead and wounded, smoke in 
his eyes, loud oaths and curses in 
his ears, without counting the 
whistling of the balls, which I have 
l«en told produces a very droll 
effect when not accustomed to it, 
he stopped short, and looked so 
Uupefied Michoii laughed at him. 
That old soldier had been present 
« the battle of Wagram, and, being 
icry young at the time, was at first 
half crazy with fear, which did not 
prevent him from showing great 
brairery when he recovered his 
tense*. He therefore understood 
from experience precisely how 
Jcannel felt, and, giving him a hard 
iilow on his shoulder, shook the 
young fellow's g\m, which he was 
cirelcwly pointing at random. 

"Arc you going to let yourself 
: i: killed like a chicken ?" he cried 
■i him, swearing tremendously; 

be quick, my boy ; you can sleep 
lo-morrow." 

Jean-Louis jumped ; he drew 
himticlf up to his full height, and 
hri handsome face reddened with 

lime, although he had done no- 
' rng dishonorable. 

■' Jacques." said he. " I am afraid 
I im a cowan). " 



"Big mule!" gaily cried the 
game-keeper; " on the contrary, by- 
and-by you are going to see how 
we will amuse ourselves." 

They were at the time before a 
barricade, which was most obsti- 
nately defended. The conversation 
could not last long, but Jacques 
Michou did not lose sight of the 
boy. He saw that he soon recover- 
ed himself, and kept out of the way 
Q^ the balls as well as he could— 
something which required as much 
skill as coolness — and handled his 
gun with as firm a hand as though 
he were hunting. 

Fighting went on there for a 
good hour. The soldiers began 
to be furious, and, notwithstand- 
ing the number of killed on both 
sides, no advantage was gained. 
Cannon were brought up; at (he 
first fire, a large breach was effected, 
and it was seen that the insurgents 
were reduced to a small number, 
who attempted to escape. 

At that sight, the soldiers and 
volunteers could not be restrained. 

"No prisoners!" cried a hun- 
dred voices, hoarse with rage. 

That meant death to every one. 
Our officers were no longer masters; 
the tide, once let loose, soon over- 
flowed, and a horrible mixture of 
shots, cries, and oaths, frightful to 
hear, pierced the air. 

Jeannet became as crazy as the 
rest, He fired so often, his gun was 
burning in his hands; his tiishe vei- 
led hair, and his face, blackened 
wtth powder, changed his appear- 
ance so completely no one would 
have recognized him. He loaded 
and reloaded, fired at hazard, and 
no longer heard Michou, who, 
always at his side, cried, " Look 
out!" every moment. Suddenly 
the game-keeper gave a yell that 
resembled the howl of a wolf. A 
man, covered with blood, had juat 



A 



jg6 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



leaped upon the ruins of the barri- 
cade, and a.inied at Jean-Louis, who 
was not three steps from his gun. 

It is not easy to make you under- 
stand the rapidity with which old 
Michou threw himself before Jean- 
net to preserve his life. It was 
like a flash of lightning, but that 
flash sufficed; he had time to fire 
before the rioter, who rolled lifeless 
on the heaped-up pavement. 

All was ended. Five minutes 
afterwards, at least in that comer, 
it only remained to remove the 
dead, and carry the wounded into 
the neighboring houses, where the 
women were ready to dress the 
wounds. There was time to 
breathe. 

Alas! the poor, blinded people 
paid dearly in that quarter for their 
folly and madness, All the unfor- 
tunate wretches who had raised 
that barricade were dead or dying, 

Jacques looked around for his 
master and his friend. M. le Mar- 
quis, with his arm al! bleeding, was 
seated leaning against a post, very 
weak and faint from his wound ; but 
his eyes sparkled, and a smile was 
upon his lips. The game-keeper 
rushed to him. 

"It is nothing, old fellow," said 
our master, "only a scratch on the 
wrist; lend me your handkerchief." 

By the mercy of God, it was 
really not much ; and our dear lord 
quietly wrapped up his hand, while 
he asked about Jeannet. 

" Heaven has worked miracles 
for that child," said Michou proud- 
ly. " Ah 1 he is a brave boy, I tell 
you. He fought both like a fox 
and a lion !" 

"I wish to see him," said M. le 
Marquis. " Go bring him to me." 

Jacques willingly obeyed. 3t 
was some time before he found his 
pupil — for such he could be called. 
He was in the midst of a crowd 




that surrounded him and loaded 
him with congratulations and com- 
pliments on his bravery. His con- 
duct had been noted, and the com- 
manding officer was then asking 
him his name and residence, thai 
he might inscribe them in his re- 
port, Jeannet, who shrank from 
observation, looked like a criminal 
before his judges. Michou, seeing 
him so timid and confused, told 
him he was a fool, and came very 
near being angry himself. 

" Just see how frightened yoti are 
now!" said he to him. in such a 
cross tone the officer smiled. " Ex- 
cuse him, colonel, he always looks 
sheepish when before people he 
don't know. His name is Jean- 
Louis Ragaud, and he comes from 
the commune of Val-Saint-sur- 
Range, near Issoudun." 

"All right," said the officer; 
" that is enough, my brave fellow. 
Jean Ragaud, Gen. Cavaignac will 
hear of you, , . . and, if it depends 
on me, you will hear from him." 

Jeannet bowed as awkwardly as 
possible, which made the game- 
keeper grumble again. 

" AgainIbegofyou,"said he, "to 
keep that bewildered stare. You 
look like the head of S. John the 
Baptist, cut off and laid on a dish, 
that is painted in our church. I 
suppose it is because you are so un- 
happy ! The general will no doubt 
send after you to have you hanged — 
unless he sends you the Cross of 
the Legion of Honor. . . ." 

"The cross!" cried Jeannet, 
seizing the game-keeper by the 
arm. 

" Ves indeed, idiot ! I know how 
soldiers talk ; would the colonel 
have said as much unless he was 
sure of the fact?" 

"The cross!" repeated Jcan- 
Louis, with tears in his eyes. "O 
Jacques Michou ! if it were tntef^L J 



Fragment of Early EnglUk Poetry. 



h " That would make you bold, eh ? 
And it would be a fine present to 
lake back to Muiceron." 

" Hush !" said Jeannet : " the bare 
thought makes me crazy." 

"I hope not," replied Michou; 
"but I would be half wild myself 
Come, now, let us be off; we have 
earned our dinner. M. le Marquis 
is asking for you." 

"\Vait a moment, good, kiad 
Jacques," said Jean-Louis. " I have 
Dot yet thanked you ; and yet I 
know you saved my life." 

'■ What nonsense !" said Michou, 
«ho in his turn looked embarrass- 
ed. " In such a battle, do you think 
1 fellow looks after any one's skin 
but his own?" 

" Oh I I saw you," replied Jean- 
net. " You sprang before me, or 1 
would have been killed." 



" Listen," said Michou in a sol- 
ennn tone, " before God, who hears 
me, and conducts all by his divine 
hand, it was not so much your life 
that I wished to save, ... it was' 
another's that I wished to take." 

"How.?" 

" We should not love revenge," 
replied the game-keeper ; " but the 
temptation was too strong; faith! 
I am ready to confess it, if it was a 
sin — of which I am not sure. Jean- 
net, he who aimed at you from the 
barricade — didn't you recognise 
him ?" 

" No," said Jeannet, " I saw no 
one." 

" It was Isidore Perdreau. Ga4 
have mercy on his soul!" said 
the game-keepei, blessing himself. 
" My poor Uarbette in heaven will 
ask for ray pardon, , . ." 



FRAGMENT OF EARLY ENGLISH POETRY. 



TO tllOSS WHO GET - 



L LVVVN-E BY THE ONEST CRAFT OF 



Knele ye bolh yn^e and olde, 

And both yer hondes fayr upholde, 

And say thennc yn thys manere, ■ 

Fayre and softe withoulen here ; 

Jhesu, Lord, welcome Thou be 

Yn forme of bred as y The se ; 

Now Jhesu for ThjTi holy name, 

Schieide Thou me from synne and schame, 

Schtyffand hose!, grant me bo. 

Ere that y schall hennus go. 

— Christian Scktols and Scholars. 



198 



Self-Educsiiam. 



SELF-EDUCATION* 



Words the most familiar, and 
which convey to the mind the most 
clearly marked associations of 
ideas, very frequently grow vague 
and obscure when we seek to li- 
mit their meaning by accurate and 
scientific definitions. When we at- 
tempt to define that which is com- 
plex, or to make a generalization of 
facts of diverse natures, we find it 
extremely difficult to avoid includ- 
ing more than we intend, or leaving 
out something that should be em- 
braced. 

This will become evident to any 
one who will take the trouble, for 
instance, to examine into the vari- 
ous definitions of life which have 
been given by philosophers and 
scientists.! Still, they all agree, 
however widely they may differ in 
their views concerning what life is 
in itself, that the law of growth ap- 
plies to all living beings. This is 
true, not of physical life alone, but 
of intellectual and moral life as 
well. What I have to say on this 
subject at present relates more 

^ A paper read before the Xavler Union, of 
this cit?. 

tS. Thomas tays {Sumtma Ccnirm Geniiltt^ 
1. 4, c. xl.) : ** Nam TiTentia tunt quae teipM mo- 
vent ad agendum ; ilia Tero quae non nisi ezteriora 
movere possunt omnino sunt vita carentia.*' 
This, however, is rather a descripUon of a vital 
phenomenon than a definition of life itself. Fichte 
says : *' Life is the tendency to Individuation ;*' 
which, like most of the phrases of the German 
pantheists, means nothing or tnjthing yx>u 
please. 

Acoordlng to Richerand, *' Life Is a coUecUon 
of phenomena which succeed each other during a 
limited time In an organised bodv ** \ but this 
applies equallv to the succession of phenomena 
which Ukea plsce in the body sfter death. Her- 
bert Spencer defines life to be '^ the oo-ordinaiipn 
of actions "; but what is anything but a co-ordi- 
nation of sctlng forces, consequently of actions } 
This definition is as applicable to sulphuric add 
attoUfik 



especially to intellectual life, 
consists in thq union of the i 
gent principle with the object 
mitted to it, and which it \ 
hends as true — that is, as be 
reality what they seem to b 
resulting from this, as go* 
beautiful. 

Truth is the harmony of th 
with things.* Intellectual g 
is a continual approach to th 
feet harmony of thought with t 
which, however, to the finite 
is unattainable ; and this fac 
stitutes one of the great char 
the cultivation of the mind. 

The nature of the human 
lect pkces limits to menta 
gress, though they are not a 
able in any given case, but m 
indefinitely extended. That 
are limits, however, you will r 
perceive by reflecting that 1 
not possess even one idea whicl 
not, either in itself or in its 
tulates, contain something 
transcends all human compr 
sion. 

What, let us ask ourselv 
the law of intellectual grc 
The condition of all growth 
fort. Life is a struggle in ' 
lesser forces are overcome by 
er. This is true of the indii 
as of the race. It is only I 
fort, by the exertion of power 
we live and consequently 
Labor, then, is the law of intelh 
as of all progress. 

Before going further, let u 

^ Kant defined truth to be the harm 
thought with thought, not of thougl 
thingi. 



The Farm of MuUeron. 



ciiy, slopped at the fani), and re- 
ported there was agitation every- 
where \ that a great number of 
workmen in the factories had de- 
camped; and, as under tiimilar cir- 
cufflSiances alt sorts of stories are 
utid and believed, it was added that 
half ihc capital was already burnt, 
and that smukc was seen in all the 
other parts of the city. At that, 
Michou shrugged his shoulders; but 
he was anxious about his master, 
■bom he knew to l>e the man to do 
a thousand imprudent things, so he 
took 3 hasty farewell of his friends, 
anil that very evening passed Mui- 
Lcron in full rig, armed and equip- 
ped, ready for his post. 

So once again everybody at Mui- 
rcron became gloomy and miserable, 
ai each day brought its fresh con- 
iingent of sad news. For if, in the 
■■iiy and among learned men, where 
';i!(c is c»'cry chance of correct in- 
:"rination, every one appears half 
it^iiy in time of public calamity, 
anil In a fever to talk all kinds of 
nonsense, you can imagine what it 
's in a village, where one is obliged 
■ ' listen to the neighbors and gos- 
..|>r, who always improve on the 
n jit absurd reports. It is true, 
«l;o, that they never see a paper, 
»nd it is lucky if they preserve a 
fe* gleams of good sense; but what 
'ich one draws from his own pri- 
.I'c source amply suffices to bewil- 
kr everybody. 
I, who speak to you, and who was 
.rf young at the time of this rcvo- 
:iiun, rcinemher well to have heard 
: [lositively affirmed ihat the king, 
'- ."jis Philippe, and his family had 
-L-a crucified in front of their ch&- 
m, then cut in little pieces, boil- 
:, ,iml c.iii-n by the people! And 
I L'Mition, it was said that 
'■-i the Seine had formed a 
.,,; cascade from the heap- 
ti.-i;jj cuipscs, and were red with 



blood as far as the bridge at Rouen, 
I did not think the thing incredible, 
and, with great simplicity, 1 always 
awaited still more extraordinary 
news. 

1 remember, also, that a band of 
our most respectable young men 
look turns every night in mounting 
guard around the chateau of Val- 
Saint, because it was known, from 
a trustworthy source, that the cel- 
lars contained more than a hundred 
barrels of powder, ready to blow up 
at the shortest notice. Now, So ask 
how so many barrels, the least of 
which weighed as much as a tun of 
wine, could have been placed there 
without being sten, is what no per- 
son thought of; and the reflection, 
what man, sufficiently desirous of 
pulling an end to his days by bring- 
ing that enormous building down 
upon him (a thing which could 
profit no one), would be capable of 
setting fire to the powder, still less 
entered their heads; and yet terror 
was at its height at the mere thought 
of an explosion so tremendous that 
it would have broken all windows 
for two leagues round. And thus 
it is that good people, without wish- 
ing it, lend their hands to the revo- 
lution. 

It was not that all this was be- 
lieved at Muiceron as readily as I 
swallowed it, but, in reality, they 
we re very anxious, and ardently de- 
sirous of hearing news. A long week 
passed. M. Michou wrote a short 
letter, in which he said everybody 
was well, that M. le Marquis and 
Jean-Louis were always together, 
and cried out, " Long live the king !" 
in the streets while carrying a white 
flag, which made the hoys of the 
street laugh, but at which no one 
took any exception. He added that 
King Louis Philippe was driven out, 
and that for the present the republic 
was much spoken of. Thereupon 



Self-Education. 



They are not imaginary, but they 
are not so great as to frighten men 
in your condition of life. For you, 
young gentlemen, the obstacles of 
circumstance do not, I may say, 
exist. Your occupations leave you 
a few hours out of the twenty-four, 
which you are free to devote to 
study ; you may enjoy, if such be 
your desire, the conversation of 
men of thought and learning, whilst 
books of all kinds are within your 
reach. I may add that, in a great 
metropolis like this, you possess 
special advantages. Here you 
have the best of everything. Where 
there is the greatest demand for 
the most perfect, thither will it 
gravitate by a law as universal as 
that of altraction. To this city, 
from two worlds, come the best 
orators, the most learned men of 
science, the finest singers, the most 
accomplished actors, for the same 
reason that the fattest beeves, the 
choicest wines, and the most costly 
fabrics are sent hither — that is, be- 
cause there is a demand for them. 
On the other hand, life in great 
cities has its intellectual dangers. 
There is here so much of the mere 
noise of life that most men find it 
difficult to dwell within themselves, 
to receive as welcome guests 
thoughts that do not concern the 
business or the pleasure of the 
hour — difficult not to be drawn in- 
to the whirlpool of human passion, 
where men eddy round and round, 
shouting, rushing, struggling, in 
wild confusion, forgetful of them- 
selves, forgetful of truth. In a 
great commercial centre, too, we are 
apt to become the victims of the 
prevailing opinion which attaches 
honor and respect to wealth before 
all things; and I know of nothing 
more hurtful to intellectual growth 
ihan the absorbing pursuit of riches 
or that narrow disposition of soul 



which causes men to fawn uponM 
rich, even though they have nothing 
but money. That it is of impor- 
tance to every one to think correct- 
ly, to possess a trained and culti- 
vated mind, I need not attempt to 
prove. The harmonious develop- 
ment of our faculties in accordance 
with the principles of eternal wis- 
dom is, I may say, the great work of 
life; for the proper training of the 
intellect necessarily involves the 
cultivation of the moral faculties. 
Of the necessity and priceless 
value of such education there can 
be no diversity of opinion among 
enlightened men. Nor wealth nor 
place can give to man the dignity 
which is derived from the perfec- 
tion of his own powers. We are 
greater than whatever ministers to 
our wants and vanities. 

Another consideration which 
you will permit me to present to 
your attention, as suggestive of 
salutary thought in connection 
with the benefits to be derived 
through an association like yours, 
is this ; no man who has done 
nothing more than go through s 
college course, it matters not how 
brilliant he may have been, can 
rightly be called educated. Edu- 
cation is the work of the man, and 
not of the boy. The best that 
school-training can do is to teach 
the boy how he should study when 
he has become a man. Though 
there will generally be found a 
certain refinement, correctness of 
expression, and intelligent appre- 
ciativeness in those who have made 
a collegiate course, yet, if this be 
not followed up by the study of the 
man, they will be found to possess 
neither mental strength nor logical 

Before entering upon the direct 
treatment of the proper method to 
be pursued by those who seekl 



The Farm of Mute 



■»mld 



a^^inst. the decree; and this lasted 
mute than a fortnight. 

I will only ask, if the king or 
'Tijr holy father, the Popt, had ex- 
_^led wich a thing even once, what 
been s»id ? There 
1 also the farce of the laborers, 
> were out of work, taking the 
«ir, and marching by thousands 
along the quays to tlie great 
chitcau, where five or six fine men 
who were called the government re- 
uded, aiid who were very brave in 
words, but became half crazy when 
li was time to ad ; which must not 
L wondered at, as their task was 
.'me of ihe easiest. The men ar- 
nifd, they would send one of 

(their number to ask some little 
bvor, which was sure to be promis- 
fll for next day. Then they re- 
lumed the same as they came, 
■ml so much the worse for those 
litd were found in their way that 
■ If; for not a cat could have come 
ill alive among so many legs. 
I his aintiscment was called " a 
i^iuiifcstaiion." But to say what 
»M «rer manifested except want 
«nd misery in every house— for 
•hen inch promenades are made, 
M work is done — is what you may 
l*am, perhaps, sooner than I, if the 
day of discovery will ever come. 
Otjring this time, they pretend- 
■ I Like laws for the country, 
-:-■ bnilding where a great 
it men from the provinres 
..a ihumsulves hoarse every 
l-y. insulting each other, and even, 
'■ hjvc been told, flung whatever 
■'■ry hapfirncd to have near at 
:nd al one another's heads; so 
I .it he who appeared the master 
all, and was called president, 
• M forced to speak with a great 
bell, as he could no longer make 
bi» Toicc hcaril. l-'or those who 
Iftctl noiie all this row was very 
> ■BMiing; but <iutct people were 



igr 

obliged to shut their eyes and stop 
up their ears. In my opinion, in- 
stead of being contented with that, 
they should have descended into 
the streets, and enforced order 
with heavy blows of the cudgel; 
but, if they thought of that later, 
for the time being good people 
seemed asleep, which emboldened 
the rabble to such a degree they 
thought themselves masters of the 
situation. 

You doubtless think our dear 
good master, M. le Marquis, was 
discouraged at seeing the republic 
established in place of his cherish- 
ed hopes. Not at all. On the con- 
trary, he was as ardent and fiery as 
ever, assured that it was " a ne- 
cessary transition " — a phrase which' 
I repeat as I heard it, without pre- 
tending to explain it, and which, 
probably, was profoundly wise. 
He was very busy coming and go- 
ing with his friends, and arranging 
al), in words, for the approaching 
arrival of the young legitimate 
prince, who remained near the' 
frontier with a large army, invis- 
ible for the lime, but ready to 
march at a moment's notice. 

Jean-Louis and Michou allowed 
themselves in secret to be rather 
doubtful of these fine assertions, 
but, respectful and devoted as they 
were to that excellent gentleman, 
they made the agreement to follow 
him about like his shadow, and to 
shield him whenever he might 
incur any risk. Thus, whenever 
M. le Marquis was seen, near him' 
was always the handsome, brave 
Jeannet, with his pale, serious face, 
or the old game-keeper, looking 
very jaunty, but with such fierce 
eyes and strong arms a man would 
think twice before attacking him. 
Dear mademoiselle, who was half 
dead with fear for her father's life, 
confided him entirely to his viU 



I 



202 



Self-Education. 



preparation which directly con- 
cerns the moral nature. As the 
mind is to be freed from prejudice, 
the will is to be taken from be- 
neath the yoke of passion. It is 
through the will that the intellect 
is warped by prejudice. He who 
is the slave of passion will rarely 
have an honest desire to improve 
his mind ; and, even where this ex- 
ists, the tyrant into whose hands 
he has surrendered his soul will 
deprive him of the power. Sensual 
indulgence produces a deteriora- 
tion of the nervous system, which, 
of course, causes a corresponding 
degeneracy in the intellectual fa- 
culties. How can there be a love 
of excellence without self-respect, 
and how can a man who habitual- 
ly violates the sanctity of his na- 
ture respect himself? 

" Nothing," says Cicero, " is so 
injurious, so baneful, as lust, which, 
were it stronger or of greater dura- 
tion, would extinguish the very 
light of reason. It prevents thought, 
blindfolds the eyes of the mind, and 
can have no society with wisdom." 

" I will simply express my strong 
belief," says Faraday, one of the 
greatest men of science of this 
century, "that that point of self- 
education which consists in teach- 
ing the mind to resist its desires 
and inclinations until they are 
proved to be right, is the most im- 
portant of all, not only in things 
of natural philosophy, but in every 
department of daily life." 

The assent of the mind is, in a 
marvellous manner, subject to the 
power of the will. How readily 
we give credence to what flatters 
our vanity, or is, from whatever 
cause, agreeable to us ! 

We easily persuade a man that 
what he wishes to do is right, but 
usually labor in vain when passion 
pleads against us. 



In this undoubted psychological 
fact is found the hidden cause of 
the infidelity of many young men. 
They do wrong, and passion seeks 
to justify their conduct to their in- 
telligence, which becomes the tool 
of the perverted will. 

Or, if you prefer to take another 
view of the subject, I will say that 
what the French call rinterioriii- — 
the habitual dwelling with one's own 
thoughts — is an essential condition 
of mental growth. But this is pain- 
ful to the sensual man, who has 
violated the sanctuary of his soul, 
and can consequently no longer 
dwell there in peace. 

What pleasure can the father find 
in the bosom of his family, when he 
has betrayed the wife whom he 
swore to love, and has brought 
shame upon the name which his 
children have received from him 1 

To him, then, who wishes to be- 
gin the life-work of self-improve- 
ment I would say : Seek to have a 
large mind, from which no narrow- 
ing prejudice shuts out the full 
light of truth; have a pure heart, 
with the strength to love all that is 
right. 

Then, I ask of him the will to 
work and to persevere in labor. 
Labor is the great law of progress, 
the necessary condition of all im- 
provement. He who wishes to be 
an educated man must have cou- 
rage ; he must consent to see him- 
self forgotten for a time, oversha- 
dowed by the easy- won reputations 
of those of his own age, who will 
wear their honors full-blushing, 
whilst all his life is still concentred 
in the bud that wraps it close and 
nurtures it. 

Is it easy, in the fresh-blown flower 
of manhood, in the enthusiasm of a 
newly-found liberty, when fair hands 
hold out the cup of pleasure, when 
bright eyes and smiling lips woo 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



193 



Kings to change, as Jeannette de- 
clined visibly from the pain she 
suffered in believing herself dis- 
dained. 

It is always so with women (I 
most make the remark); they tor- 
lure without mercy, or at least with 
very little thought, the poor hearts 
which become attached to them ; 
and then the day they feel pain in 
their turn all must end in the 
I ^^ckest manner, otherwise they 
'U die ; and then, again, they will 
Hve all the pity and sympathy on 
"J. So our two dear chil- 
Q made up and became friends 
pb a few words written on paper ; 
d enchanted were they both, I 
a»uTe you. Now it was easy 
to wail. Jean- Louis, in his answer, 
thowed the same heart, the same 
lendemess, as formerly. He wished 
DO excuses from his sister, saying 
ihai all the fault was on his side — 
»hich was a big story, as every one 
Eould see but himself, and made 
them both laugh and weep at Mui- 
ccton. As for his return, it was 
^^91 necessary (o promise anything. 
^bfcey knew well that the day duty 
^Bvuld no longer detain him he 
^Hntild take the first train and our 
^^J0(Hi friends, the Ragauds, while 
not wishing him to leave M. le Mar- 
quis, commenced to prepare for the 
bippy moment, so ardently desired 
by all. 

lUfaud told the women it was 
not the time for economy, and the 
Utowing week he called in the 
paJDlcn and the masons to replas- 
lerall the house, and 10 give it an air 
of freshness inside, which, I must 
ukaowledge, was very much need- 
ed. Jeuinetie directed the changes 
in Jean-Louis' room, and I can as- 
larc jrou she spared nothing, and 
ipcnt at least fifty francs of her fa- 
tbct'fl ctownn in a splendid paper 
^^»r the walli, which was yellow, 

HL vol. XIX.— 13 



covered with large bouquets of 
bright flowers that had the most 
beautiful elTect. The month of ' 
June found them busily occupied; 
and then they began to count, not 
the days, but the hours, that wo\ 
separate Jean-Louis from the dear | 
home that had adopted him. 

His last letter announced hi^ ' 
speedy departure. The joy at 
Muiceron, and its holiday look, was 
touching to see. Jeannette, pink 
and white, like an eglantine rose, 
had never looked prettier. 

Suddenly, one morning, M, le ] 
CuriS entered the farm, and, in the 
midst of all this happiness, pro- | 
nounced these terrible words : 

" My children, they are fighting 
in Paris, and we must pray to God, 
for the danger has never been 
greater; happy those who will 
come safe out of iti" 



I shudder when I sjieak of that , 
horrible time. Alas ! we all know 
about the fearful struggle of blood 
and tears called "The days of 
June, 1848." 

Never did the lowering storm- 
clouds more quickly burst, and 
never did a great city, in all the pride 
of her beauty and wealth, come 
nearer complete ruin. £ach quar- 
ter, each place, each cross-way, 
were battle-fields. Houses were 
demolished, that barricades might , 
be erected across the streets; and 
this time, if extravagant accounts 
went abroad, not one appeared 
exaggerated in face of the real 
truth. 

For three long, weary days — why, 
no one ever knew — the army kept 
hidden; then the sovereign people 
were masters of the situation, and 
acted as best pleased their capri- 
cious will; and I rather think no- 
body but a fool could have helped 



2CX4. 



Self- Education . 



est desire to encourage you to be- 
come authors; there would be few- 
er and better authors if men were 
in the habit of doing what I would 
have you do. Write, not that 
others may read your thoughts, 
but that they may become clear to 
your own minds. 

"I confess," said S. Augustine, 
" that by writing I have learned 
many things which nothing else 
had taught me." You will recall 
to mind the apothegm of Bacon: 
" Reading makes a full man, talking 
a ready man, and writing an exact 

I have no hesitation in saying 
that, of all means of mental culture, 
writing is the best, as. well for ex- 
tending and deepeoing the intel- 
lectual faculties, as for giving them 
justness and polish. 

Do I propose to you to go back 
to the drudgery of task composi- 
tions.' Such is not ray thought. 

I suppose you to be interested in 
certain subjects, of which you wish 
to get at least a tolerably thorough 
knowledge. You take the authors 
who have treated most exhaustively 
of these matters ; you read them, 
you study them; you apply your 
own minds, in sustained thought, 
to the facts and principles which 
they give you. And here precisely 
lies the diflicidty; for you will find 
that, when you will have acquired 
the power of sustained thought, you 
will be able to master almost any 
subject. 

Now, to get this mental habit, 
nothing will aid you like writing, 
I do not believe that any man who 
has never translated his thoughts 
into written language is able to 
think profoundly or correctly. Do 
not, however, misunderstand me. 
One may write negligently aud 
thoughtlessly, as he may r&ad witli 
indolence and inattention. Put 



your hand to the pen, and begin to 
meditate upon the thoughts that 
fill your mind. Should you, for 
weeks and months, not write one 
sentence for every hour you hold 
the pen, do not be discouraged, and, 
above all, be persuaded that this 
time has not been lost. Think 
neither of style nor of the reader; 
give all your attention to truth and 
to your own soul. The style is 
the man. Write out the life that is 
within you. Keep what you have 
written, and after months and years, 
in looking back, you will perceive 
that you have grown steadily, in- 
creased day by day in intellectual 
vigor and refinement ; and there 
will always be special worth in 
words written, not to please the 
vulgar crowd, not to propitiate a 
false and intolerant public opinion — 
written to gain neither applause 
nor gold, but for God and truth, 
and the dignity of the human soul. 

" There is nothing," says Seneca, 
" however difficult or arduous, 
which the human mind cannot 
conquer, and assiduous meditation 
render familiar. Whatever the soul 
demands of itself it obtains." But 
how are you to learn the secret of 
assiduous meditation, to acquire the 
habit of retaining difficulties in 
mind, to be considered and recon- 
sidered, to be taken up at the leisure 
moment, and laid down as deferred 
but not abandoned ? 

As the soldier takes the sword, 
the painter the brush, the musiciaa 
his instrument, the mechanic the 
tools of his trade, each to perfect 
himself in his art, so be who wishes 
to learn how to think must take the 
pen and do honest work. 



iclude [his part of my 



dIM 



Self-Edueatifin. 



205 



4Mbject with a quotation from Sir 
William Hamilton : "' The primary 
principle of education is the deter- 
mination of the pupil to seir-activity 
— the doing nothing for him which 
h« is able to do for himself." This 
principle is applicible to every 
stage of the mind's development, 
in it will be found the secret 
success in the great work of self- 
■flncation. 

The student. I have said, should 
cultivate a fondness for intelligent 
nd thoughtful reading; for in 
books chicly all human knowledge 
ii treasared up. 

" Many a man lives a burden to 
the earth." says Milton; "but a 
good book is the precious life-blood 
of a master-spirit, embalmed and 
iieisured up on purpose to a life 
btyood life." But only a few 
books are good. The great mass 
of those that are written fall upon 
the world dead, or at best survive 
but a short time. 

We are about to celebrate the cen- 
tennial anniversary of our nation- 
il existence, and, in the hundred 
jeus of our life, we have made 
many books. How many of them 
will be read in the next century ? 
A dozen? Hardly. 

There is the Augustan age, the 
ige of Leo X., the Elizabethan age, 
the age of Louis XIV., the age of 
Queen Anne, all remarkable for 
literary excellence and the number 
ctf great writers whom they produc- 
td, and yet you can count on your 
Angers the really good books that 
tich has bequeathed to us, And 
thi*. too. i« worthy of remark : a 
coniidcrable portion of the books 
itui trurvivG are saved by style 
liune, and not on account of more 
wild worth. Books which have 
the inductive sciences as their ob- 
ject can, from (he nature of things, 
inre but a ^ort time, since these 



sciences, being in a state of continu- 
ous development are constenily 
outgrowing their own conclusions, 
and the treatises of even the ablest 
observers are superseded by those 
of men who, with less genius, have 
more certain and numerous data. 

Works of imagination, poetry 
and romance, may meet with tem- 
porary success, without possessing 
the higher qualities, from the fact 
that they describe a mental, moral, 
or social phase of existence whose 
chief interest lies in its actuality. 
When this is past, the literary ef- 
forts called forth by it die. Id 
fiction, only the very best is worthy 
oi study. 

" McdiacTlbus Base poetl* 
iri>d homlnen, dcd dt.non conccHerc CDlumnK." 

And here is a case in point, in 
which we should know how to rise 
above prejudice — the vulgar preju- 
dice of the insipid and intellectually 
indolent society of our day, in 
which it is considered the proper 
thing for a man of culture to read 
each worthless production that hap- 
pens to have a run. 

Persons of intellectual aspirations 
should, as far as possible, associate 
with their superiors in knowledge 
and elevation of thought, and should 
exclude the common herd from in- 
tellectual companionship. 

There is at least an aristocracy 
of mind, to which neither gold nor 
title can give admission, but only 
kinship of spirit, smitten with the 
love of high thinking. What Tenny- 
son has written of a different union 
may be applied to that of mind 
with mind: 

" Vel )l ahiU be. Lhou ihalt lowci to bis level 

diybydiy. 
Whit la line witbin taee irowlng eouse la itd- 

Ai. £e husbinil is, the wife ia ; thou trt mated 

with a tl-iwn. 
Aod the KTOnnesa of hli nature will bavewelgbl 

Allow me, in this connection, to 



2o6 



Self'Education. 



say a word of periodical litera- 
ture. 

A book can wait for success ; the 
best books have not been under- 
stood by the generation for which 
they were written ; but a newspaper 
or magazine must succeed at once, 
or fail utterly, since its life is neces- 
sarily ephemeral. Hence the great 
probability is that it will be guided, 
not by principle, but by policy; 
that it will aim, not to uphold truth, 
but to flatter the prejudices of its 
readers. If it is the organ of a party, 
it must defend its interests blindly ; 
and hence, whenever argument is 
attempted, it will be found to con- 
sist of little else than special plead- 
ing and sophistry. But since the 
average newspaper-reader is not 
fond of logic, the partisan organ 
will deal rather with men than with 
principles; and the whole basis of 
this procedure is double-dealing — 
untruth erected into the dignity of 
a principle. Its business will be to 
whitewash its friends, and besmear 
its enemies. When its party is out 
of office, it will swell with indigna- 
tion at the public corruption, and 
will use what are called the argus 
eyes of the press to discover things 
which do not exist ; but when the 
spoils arc in the hands of its friends, 
it will devote itself to covering up 
their misdeeds. There is also what is 
called the independent press, which 
generally has less of principle than 
that which is avowedly partisan. 
It in turn affirms and denies every- 
thing, plays fast and loose, palters 
in a double sense, and, with a seem- 
ing honesty, is most unfair, lend- 
ing all its influence to persuade 
men that there is no such thing 
as truth, and that morality is only 
cant. 

There are yet other heads of in- 
dictment that may be brought, 
without injustice, against the press. 



Its columns are filled with details, 
more or less minute, of all the hor- 
rible and disgusting crimes which 
disgrace society, with sins against 
the decencies of life, with coarse 
personalities, and advertisements 
which are an opprobrium to human 
nature. 

This, I must confess, is a one- 
sided view of the question; it is, 
however, the view which my sub- 
ject forces me to take in treating 
of the means of self-education. 

Though it would be absurd to 
ask you not to read newspapers, it 
would, in my opinion, be wholly 
unwise to counsel you to make use 
of them to any great extent as 
aids to true cultivation of mind. 
We grow, morally and intellectually, 
by association with that which is 
above us, and not by contact with 
what is low ; and it is not by filling 
the mind day by day with what is 
startling, corrupt, sensational, or at 
best only of passing interest, but 
by lifting it up into the higher and 
serener atmosphere, from which 
the trivial and transitory value of 
these things is perceived, that it 
will gain in depth and power. 

Except in the line of sfudy 
which belongs to one's profession, 
the wisest rule is to confine our- 
selves to the works of really great 
minds, which we should not mere- 
ly read, but study. 

In connection with practical self- 
education, I consider the " conver- 
sation evening," as described in 
your Report for 1872, excellent. 
In intellectual pursuits, as in other 
things, association gives increase of 
power and the means of progress. 
The contact of mind with mind 
develops the latent fire, and strikes 
into life the slumbering thought. 
Mind becomes supplementary to 
nxind ; and the intercommunion of 
souls, which constitutes the puresi 



Self-Education. 



;"rici.dshtp, becomes also the source 
1 l!ie hijjfaest pleasure. 

1 know that the value of mere 
..[cUcctual culllvation may be ex- 
iggeratcd, and that, in point of 
&ct, the wen who, in our day, 
deny God, insist most upon the 
developed mind's self-sufficiency, 

" In the writings of our great 
poets" says Strauss, after having 
rejected CrtA and the soul, " in the 
^lerformanccs of our great musi- 
fians, we find a satisfying stimulus 
iot the intellect and the heart, 
»nd for fancy in her deepest or 
most sportive moods." * 

Indeed, there is a danger in po- 
lite education which we should be 
most careful (o avoid. The love 
nf poetry and music, of the fine 
.'.rti in general, has, I think, a ten- 
<Icn<y to make us unreal and vision- 
in, because it separates feeling 
Inini acting. ^S'e may have high 
ihoaghts, Enc sentiments, and plea- 
>unblc emotions, and yet lie sloth- 
fully on our couch. But life is for 
iclion, and to this end thought, 
VBtiment, and feeling should all 
coupire. If science and philoso- 
fbf be oar favorite pursuits, we 
tvjr acquire inveterate habits of 
n^ysis which, by drying up the 
famtains nf feeling, and isolating the 
iotelleet from the heart, will con- 
•m the mind into a storehouse 
fijr »b«1ractions and lifeless formu- 
Itt. This tendency of the study 
ot idencc vilt give us a SEttisfac- 
Wy explaDaiion of many of the 
intellectual errors of the present 

ytom abstraction, only the ab- 
Rnct, the unreal, can be inferred, 
«A hence the new philosophy of 
alieisfti doc» not affirm bi-ing, but 
merelf the phenomenon. 

The exaggerated importance 

• Hu OUFailk and Hit Nm. p. ■». 



207 

which this age has attributed to mer« 
intellectual cultivation has, amongst 
other results, produced what may 
be called over-education — an ex- 
cessive activity of brain, which 
threatens to enfeeble the physical 
health of modem peoples by ab- 
normally developing the nervous 

I have referred to these dangers, 

not for the purpose of insisting on 
them, but rather that I might have 
an opportunity to say that they are 
not to be greatly dreaded by us. 
The church gives us fixed principles 
of faith, certain rules of conduct, 
which will prevent the love of 
literature from taking from us that 
deep and practical seriousness of 
mind which is inseparable from 
the true Christian character, whilst 
she guides us with an eye that sees 
the light of heaven through the 
dark mazes of philosophy; and the 
fear of over-education should cer- 
tainly not trouble us. 

The educated Catholics of this 
countrj' seem to be fast sinking to 
a low level of mediocrity, above 
which no man has the power or the 
courage to raise his head. Where 
are the men, lay or clerical, who 
give promise of becoming worthy 
to be the successors of Kenrick, of 
England, of Hughes, or of Urown- 
son ? 

And yet never was there an age 
or country in which men of might, 
able to do battle for the truth, were 
more needed. If we sink out of 
the intellectual life of the American 
people, we shall be passed by and 
forgotten. 

Permit me, then, young gentle- 
men, before concluding this hastily- 
written address, to exhort you to be 
ambitious, not of success, but of 
excellence, which is its own reward. 
He who is worthy to succeed can 
despise success. After the noble 



Self-Edtualion. 



I 



resolve to be true to God, to one's 
self, and to one's fellowman, I know 
of no higher aim in life than to 
grow in intellectual strength. 

Older men than you might say 
that my words smack something too 
much of the savor of youth, which 
is " a bubble blown up with breath, 
whose wit is weakness." Hut with 
you, enthusiasm, I am sure, need 
not plead for pardon. Even to 
have dreamed of deeds of high 
emprise and noble endeavor, of 
victories won on the foughlen field, 
is something; and to the young 
should belong hope, which is not 
only the charm of life, but also its 
strength. 

Without the living hope of some- 
thing better, man falls back upon 
himself, in impotence, like a bird 
whose wing is dipt. He who 
wishes to do much must hope for 
still more, 

Hope gives the conviction of 
strength ; it is confidence, and con- 
fidence is power. Have faith and 
hope in God and in yourselves ; 
and, above all, believe that the 
highest wisdom consists in tender 
love for the religion of JesUs Christ. 
Guard yourselves against a life of 
indulgence, which is incompatible 
with generous ambition and is de- 
atructiveof character. Yield not to 
the fascinations of a literature which 
flatters human weakness and pays 
court to the senses instead of 
speaking to the soul. Be not cyni- 
cal, be large-hearted, since the 
true view is the generous view. 
Give the homage of admiration to 
every great man, whether he be a 
hero, a genius, or a saint. 

When you see Napoleon on the 
battle-field, and look into his eye, 
and behold there the soul of the 
war-god that looks and conquers, 



forget for the moment his tyranny 
and selfishness, and let your soat 
shout unto his presence a shout oi 
living enthusiasm, even as the war- 
cry of his own unconquered veterans 
when, in the battle, he rode amongst 
them in strength and majesty, like 
unto the archangel when he beat 
into hell the rebellious powers of 
heaven. When you stand in the 
Roman fonim, and see Cicero arise 
and take into his hands the enchain- 
ed hearts of his hearers, and play 
upon them, as the harper sweeps 
his fingers over the trembling 
chords of the lyre, till it shouts 
or laughs or wails, sighs like the 
zephyr, sings like the seraph, curses 
like the demon, let your soul also 
be attuned to the thrilling accents 
of his divine eloquence. 

When you behold young Xavier, 
surrounded by the most brilliant 
audience that fame could attract, 
suddenly, after a burst of applause, 
stop, reflect a moment, then quit 
that scene of triumph, and, clothed 
in simple garb, turn his eager steps 
toward the East, where millions 
dwell who have never heard the 
name of Jesus, and there, strong in 
the power of divine love and super- 
human self-sacrifice, cause every 
knee to bend to Jesus and every 
tongue to bless his holy name, until 
at last, still seeking for some soul in 
darkness lying, on a barren isle, 
far from man or beast, alone, with 
the ocean before him, the desert 
around him, and God within him, 
he breathes out his great soul in 
the words of a confidence certain 
of itself: "In thee,0 God! have 
I hoped; I shall not be confounded 
for ever" — when you behold all 
this, lift up your hearts to God, and 
ask him to give you, too, the strength 
to be Christians. 



On Hie Wing. 



209 



ON THE WING, 



A SOUTHERN FLIGHT. 



II. 

** lo son Monnco ; gopra an scoglio, 
Non seme, non coglie, 
K pure Tuol manginr.'* * 



It is true indeed that he does 
eat, the prince of the ancient name, 
and exquisitely beautiful little 
town, of Monaco. But it is food 
that would give an indigestion to 
anv man with a conscience. The 
prince has reserved to himself of 
his lovely tiny principality very 
little more than his large palace 
and the surrounding gardens. The 
rest is let to the keeper of a gam- 
bling establishment built and organ- 
ized on a very magnificent scale, 
and standing, with its hotel and 
^veral gay shops, in the most ex- 
quisite Italian gardens that ima- 
gination can picture — veritable gar- 
dens of Armida, with terrace above 
terrace, flights of white, gleaming 
steps, handsome balustrades, and 
all the glorious flowers and foliage 
of far-distant and still more sunny 
regions. They command a view 
of unspeakable beauty. They are 
full of all the sweet, peaceful sug- 
gestions of lovely nature, heighten- 
ed and enhanced by the order and 
arrangement of subtle art. As I 
wandered up and down the marble 
stairs, and from beneath the shade 
of eucalyptus, palm, mimosa, tama- 
risk, and cypress, into the sunny 
walks Dright with flowers, my heart 
Nank within mc at the dreadful 
thouglit that all this had been 

* '* M 7 name is Monaco, 
A rock my seat : ' 
I neither reap nor sow, 
And yet I eat." 

VOL. XIX. — 14 



brought together for no other pur- 
pose than to minister to human 
passions of the worst kind, and to 
accumulate sordid gains by trading 
on vice. Games of chance may 
not, in themselves, be wrong. Far 
be it from me to assert that they 
are. But if the chronicles of Mo- 
naco could be truly written for only 
one season, we should look on this 
beautiful scene, where God*s best 
gifts in bountiful nature have been 
used to decorate and adorn it to 
the utmost, as simply one of the 
gates of hell, and probably one of 
its broadest and largest. The moon 
was riding through a pure expanse 
of spotless blue, her reflection danc- 
ing on the rippling sea with silver 
footsteps, as we passed down the 
flights of broad stairs from terrace 
to terrace to join the night-train to 
Mcntone. The journey took us 
barely twenty minutes ; and we 
were silent and depressed. We had 
seen no startling sight : all was 
perfectly decorous and calm. A 
slight click, click, very occasionally, 
as the heaps of gold had been piled 
on the tapis vert, and a subdued, 
muffled noise, hardly perceptible, as 
the croupiers dragged forward the 
gains and the losses of silent figures 
that sat or stood avound the numer- 
ous gambling-tables — that was all. 
Hours passed. People came and 
went with noiseless tread and con- 
trolled countenance. No man com- 



:?io 



On the Wing. 



mitted suicide in our presence. 
No woman shrieked at her loss or 
laughed at her success. Outwardly, 
it was calm, silent, and intense. 
But there is a wordless language 
which speaks from one human soul 
to another, and which, whether we 
will or no, reveals something of 
the inner state and the unspoken 
secrets. The very air teemed with 
these secrets. And as I passed out 
into the quiet night, I wondered 
whether perhaps in hell there will 
be the same decorous silence, with- 
out the exterior beauty, and all 
the fire of anguish be hidden be- 
neath the outer garb — so entirely 
did it seem that, to many, it might 
be but one step from Ms to that. 

*' O tu che. »tasi tua forluna o voglia, 
Al paesc fatal d'Arinida arrive, 
Pensi indarno al fuge:ire ; or Tanne spo^lia, 
B porg^i ailacci suoi le man cattive/'* 
— Gerusalcmme Liberata^ Canto 7, Stanza 32. 

The rusticity of Men tone was a 
relief after the sort of nightmare 
to which we had so needlessly sub- 
jected ourselves at Monaco. It 
was carnival time, and the pea- 
santry were making merry. A mot- 
ley crew came pouring down the 
only street worthy of the name, 
in fantastic dresses, making hide- 
ous sounds through huge horns, 
shouting and dancing. They had 
two bears with them, which, I af- 
terwards heard, in their frolic they 
had let loose, to the alarm of quiet 
folks. For myself, I scrambled up 
a steep, narrow, and very dirty 
vicolo^ t P^-rt of which was com- 
posed of broken steps, glad to be 
out of their way. And so, climb- 
ing higher and higher, I found my- 
self at the parish church, where 

* ** O thou, whom chance or will brings to the 

soil. 

Where fair Armidadoth the sceptre guide, 

Thou canst not flj' ; of arms thyself despoil, 

And let thy hands with iron chains be 

Ued." 

— Fair/ax's Translation, 
t A street-lane. 



there was an Exposition of the BI&S5. 
ed Sacrament, and where the naise 
of the masks and merry-maken 
could not penetrate. 

As I am far from intending Xo 
give my kind readers anything©? the 
nature of a guide-book — a task for 
which I am utterly unqualified— J 
will not weary them with an account 
of how and by what route we found 
ourselves at the San Marco Hotel 
at Bologna, the City of Arcades, the 
capital of jurisprudence, whence 
came many an astute lawyer, rear- 
ed in its celebrated university, 
which has also given the church 
six sovereign pontiffs, and amongst 
them the witty and learned Bene- 
dict XIV. To Bologna we owe the 
great school of painting found- 
ed by Francia, which boasts of 
the Caracci, Domenichino, Guido, 
and his pupil Guercino, besides 
many others. We thought our- 
selves unusually accurate and learn- 
ed, when, on arriving at the Acca- 
demia^ we asked the surly guardian 
which way we ought to turn to get 
to the Pinacoteca ; and not till we 
had, in a more roundabout form, 
told him we wanted to see the pic- 
tures would he condescend from 
his stolid dignity to tell us where 
to go. The Franc ias alone, the 
S. Cecilia of Raphael, or the Mar- 
tyrdom of S. Agnes by Domeni- 
chino, would be worth a yet longer 
journey to behold. And the Head 
of Christ Crowned with Thorns, 
drawn in crayons by Guido, with 
stains of damp on* the paper, and 
some slight discoloration from age, 
leaves an impression on the mem- 
ory surpassing, to my mi§d, all 
that artist's finished paintings. Bo- 
logna has set an example our more 
liberal times, as we are apt to think 
them, seem unwilling to follow, 
and are doing so but slowly and 
grudgingly. The learned ladies 



On the Wing. 



211 



who aspire to equality with the 
other sex might come here in a 
body, raise the now declining 
glories of the university, and fill 
those comparatively empty halls. 
Bologna has known female law- 
yers of eminence, and doctors, 
and at least one surgeon and an- 
atomist of the gentler sex, and 
has done homage to their learn- 
ing and merit. Might it not be as 
well to take advantage of a univer- 
sity so large-minded, and once so 
celebrated } — convinced, as we are, 
that if the ladies took the lead, the 
gentlemen would follow. 

We had had the honor many 
years ago of knowing Cardinal 
Mezzofanti, so celebrated as a lin- 
guist. He was a Bolognese, and had 
been librarian of the university 
here, and, when we knew him, 
occupied an important post in the 
Vatican library. At that time he 
had mastered something like for- 
ty languages. He told us that, a 
short time previous, he had been 
informed there was a poor sailor 
come to Rome from some out-of- 
the-way part of the world — Lapland, 
1 believe — "wYio spoke a dialect no 
one could understand or make 
mything of; and that the man, 
being a Catholic, wanted to go to 
his Easter duties. The cardinal 
sent for him, and made him dis- 
course in his presence. In two 
days his eminence was quite ready 
to hear his confession, and could 
talk with the man in his own tongue 
*ith fluency. 

Through the cool, shady arcades 
of beautiful Bologna we wandered 
to the Piazza Vittoria Emanuel, 
which formerly was known by the 
more honorable name of Piazza del 
^iigante. The crowd was so great 
that we could hardly make our way 
past the groups of peasants and 
welUto-do farmers, in their warm, 



brown cloaks, all talking and ges- 
ticulating, with apparently nothing 
else to do. There was a market 
going on,,but not one which seemed 
of sufficient importance to justify 
so large a crowd, and which pro- 
bably collects there daily, about 
mid-day, out of the abundant lei- 
sure which pervades Italian life, 
even in its most industrious forms. 
We visited the shrine of S. Domi- 
nic, and were long engaged in ad- 
miring its extraordinary beauty. 
The saint died at Bologna in 1221. 
He was in England when the vis- 
ion was granted him which re- 
vealed to him that, before the next 
Feast of the Assumption, his earthly 
career would be closed, and, on 
arriving at Bologna, had forewarn- 
ed the students at the university 
that he was about to leave them. 
Shortly after, he went to Venice on 
the affairs of his order. He re- 
turned to the monastery of S. Nicho- 
las, at Bologna, in the great heats of 
the last days of July. The follow- 
ing morning he celebrated his last 
Mass, and said Office in choir. He 
then complained of headache, but 
refused to take any further repose 
than was obtained by sitting on a 
sack of wool which happened casual- 
ly to be at hand. Finding his suf- 
fering increase, he sent for the novi- 
ces, to give them his last exhorta- 
tion, summing up all in these simple 
words: "Be filled with charity, 
keep humility, and observe vol- 
untary poverty." In the hope that 
a purer air might benefit their be- 
loved father and founder, they car* 
ried him to the Church of S. Mary of 
the Mount. But the journey, brief 
as it was, proved rather to have 
aggravated his condition. Once 
again he addressed the assembled 
brethren; and finding that there 
was some idea of burying him 
there, instead of in his own monas- 



212 



On the WiMg. 



tery, he entreated to be taken back 
to S. Nicholas, that he might, as he 
expressed it, be buried beneath the 
feet of his brothers. Thgy wanted 
to change his clothes, but discov- 
ered he had no others but those he 
wore. Brother Moneta therefore 
lent him a habit. He had received 
the last sacraments at S. Mary's of 
the Mount; and fmding that his 
disciples, in the excess of their 
grief, were delaying to read the 
prayers for the dying, he was the 
first to beg they would commence. 
While they prayed around him, his 
lips silently repeated the words; 
and when they came to the sen- 
tence, " Come to his assistance, ye 
saints of God. Come forth to meet 
him, ye angels of the Lord, receiv- 
ing his soul, and offering it in the 
sight of the Most High,"* he lifted 
up his hands toward heaven, and 
at the same moment gave up his 
pure soul to God. 

It was at noon, on Friday, the 
6th of August. Thus he reached 
his home five years before his com- 
panion in arms in the warfare of 
the great church militant, S. Francis 
of Assisi, who was six years his 
junior. The last words of the 
holy dying are ever precious to the 
Christian world ; and it is to be 
remarked that those of the canon- 
ized saints have most frequently 
been taken from Holy Scripture or 
from the liturgy of the church. S. 
Francis died repeating the 141st 
Psalm; thus his last words were, 
" Bring my soul out of prison, that 
I may praise thy name: the just 
wait for me, until Thou reward me." 

The greater part of our journey 

♦ The above passage is really in the Prayers 
for the Dead. The Domiolcan ritual dlfifers in 
some respects from the ordinary ritual : whether 
it includes any difference in the Prayers for the 
Dying I have been unable to ascertain. The 
above account is taken from some passages in 
Lacordaire*s life of the salat. Lacordaire was 
himself a Dominican. 



to. Bologna from Genoa ha 
through a highly cultivate 
flat and uninteresting c 
The contrast was great on t. 
way from Bologna to Florenc 
its forty-five tunnels, its 
turnings and windings, the 
ful valleys of the Apennin* 
the mountains themselves 1 
as if the giant hand of natt 
crushed them like rose-leav 
then flung them down with 
crinkles in them. You look 
on fertile fields and beautifi 
towns nestling on the sides o 
hills, with gardens and m* 
smiling in the sunshine. 1 
are attempting to realize the 
scene before you, the rel 
engine is bringing you ne; 
rugged rocks, with hanging 
and fringes of . the golden 
A black cavern yawns in fr 
you, and in a second you are 
ed in darkness. Away y< 
hurried, with grind, and pu 
roar, regretting the sunny 
from which you have so su 
been snatched. Just as y 
recovering from the shock, 
you emerge on a scene as bt 
as the last ; and again ar 
doomed to lose it, almost 
your dazzled eyes have rec 
from this unnaturally rapid t 
sion of day and night, and 
reminded me of a certain 
where, as astronomers assi 
the inhabitants, if there I 
are exposed to the vicis 
of several days and nights 
course of our comparatively 1 
ly space of four-and-twenty 
1 have always ventured tc 
they were not also condem 
dress and undress each 
otherwise I think many 01 
must be tempted to folk 
example of that poor gen 
who cut his throat, leaving i 



On the Wing. 



213 



on the table in which he stated 
that it was the constant buttoning 
and unbuttoning which had been 
too much for him. 

Nothing can exceed the beauty 
of the view as the plain of Tus- 
cany opens before you. We had 
seen it two-and-twenty years ago, 
before any railroads were there to 
cut short the delights of travelling. 
We had gazed long and lingeringly 
from out the windows of our travel- 
ling-carriage, while the setting sun 
left his last kiss on the mountain 
heights, and the evening mists 
gathered below. I, for one, had 
never seen it since. But sometimes 
in my dreams that view had come 
back to me, and, when I awoke, it 
was still there. Sometimes the 
phantasmagoria of the mind had 
suddenly unfolded it before my 
memory without my being able to 
say when and where I had painted 
that picture on my brain. And 
now I saw it again ; and sudden- 
ly all those broken recollections 
seemed to gather themselves to- 
gether, and unroll before me, while 
my soul whispered, "Here is the 
reality of what for so many years 
has haunted you, and which you 
have so often been^ tempted to 
believe was a trick of your imagina- 
tion. It is a fact ; and you can 
recall it and put it together, piece 
by piece ; as you will do, far more 
perfectly, the broken and half- 
forgotten fragments of your life 
when the barrier of death is pass- 
ed." 

The only other wide expanse 
*hich has left th^ same impression 
on my imagination, waking and 
"sleeping, is the view from the 
lieautiful viaduct at Aricia, as it 
first burst upon me — the vast cam- 
pagna and the crimson lights of the 
seuing sun. 

This was our first visit to Flor- 



ence since the government had ta- 
ken possession of the Dominican 
church and monastery of San 
Marco, and opened the latter as a 
museum to the public in 1869; so 
that my old jealousy that Frank 
could gaze at those wonderfully 
lovely angels of Fra Angelico was 
now at an end. I do not think 
there is a cell without some ex- 
quisitely devotional painting by the 
monk-artist, whose every picture is 
an embodied meditation and a 
prayer. We paused long in the 
two cells where Savonarola had 
lived and studied and suffered. 
The old question forced itself upon 
me as to what had been the real 
character of that grand, imposing 
figure, which fills so large a page 
in the history of Florence — the hard- 
featured reformer, the man of re- 
lentless will and burning eloquence. 
Where was the little rift in the flute 
which jarred that celestial music } 
Where wa§ the flaw in the gem 
which spoiled its intrinsic value .'* 
And wliich was the snare in his 
life which prevented his growing 
on into heroic virtue.? His gifts 
and graces were immense, and, at 
one time at least, so supernatural 
that they seemed at once the guar- 
antee and the pledge that he would 
die a saint in the highest accepta- 
tion of the word. Frank, who has 
read a great deal about him, written 
by all sides, is persuaded that it 
was a form of spiritual pride and 
dependence on himself that ruined 
all. Of course, at this distance of 
time, and judging only from exist- 
ing documents, no one can say 
when precisely this began — when 
the annihilation of self first gave 
place to an inner complacency 
when that heart, covered, as before 
with the rude hair-shirt, began to 
throb with a secret sentiment of 
personal satisfaction in the graces 



214 



On tJie Wing. 



God had given. It must have been 
long, if ever, before those set, stem 
features began to betray that an- 
other spirit had entered into the 
soul o/ the ascetic monk, which 
gradually was tarnishing the purity 
of his spiritual life. But when the 
end came, and he bowed to death 
in its most dreadful form, hurried 
on by the malignity of his enemies — 
who, having once laid their hand 
on their prey, feared lest the mercy 
of Rome should be enlightened to 
arrest its own mandate — can any 
doubt that the man who had done 
so much in a holy cause, and had 
so decried the pomp and pride of 
life, found all the graces attached 
to a great and accepted sacrifice ? 

We hurry from Florence. And 
though I might linger over my 
pages, and make my story more full 
of information, and possibly of in- 
terest, I yet refrain from anything 
that may trench on the character of 
mere sketches, which alone I aim 
at. Frank forms one of a deputation 
to the Holy Father, and he was to 
reach Rome by a certain day. We 
arrived long enough before that 
date to establish ourselves in a 
house in the Ripetta, overlooking 
the yellow Tiber. Charon, mild, 
modern, and a Roman, ferries his 
boat just beneath our windows. 
The rope is fastened to a stake on 
our balcony, and makes a creaking 
noise as the boat crosses the river, 
to which we are so habituated that 
we think it musical. Charon wears 
a glazed hat, and affects a nautical 
air quite uncalled for, considering 
his limited navigation. For the 
moderate fee of one half-penny he 
conveys his passengers to and fro 
across the classic river. Landed 
on the opposite shore, we pass along 
a narrow lane, on one side limited 
by a high wall, on the other by a 
green bank paved with violet-leaves. 



Modem violet-leaves, but 
less descendants of those tl 
beneath the coulter of Cinci 
plough along these Quintia 
that early morn when the i 
senate went to call the hall 
hero to another and less p 
field, and bade him cro 
Tiber (where we have don 
turn his plough-share into a 
against those ever-recurring 
and -^qui. Let the violets 
O warrior ploughman ! an 
few brief days thou shalt re 
find the little purple floweri 
to hail thy triumph. Shall 
Racilia behind the tall vine 
bearing the toga that is to co 
brawny shoulders of the no 
borer? Or have these famili; 
of our early life lost their q\ 
the sterner and more assur» 
mories of Christian Rome ? 

The narrow, violet-border* 
leads into wide fields and 
fortifications of the Castle o 
Angelo. We are outside th 
of the city. The white w 
Rome stand glittering in tl 
shine to our left ; to our rii 
the green, undulating Cam 
and before us are the heij 
Monte Mario, pine-crowned, 

S. Michael, poised in i 
sheathes his avenging sword 
the huge round tower that ' 
tomb of Hadrian, and by tu 
hiding-place of the popes 
prison of their enemies. 

Darkly looming against th 
white sky, the bronze fig 
Rome's guardian angel fo 
holds his weapon half-way 
his scabbard, like the sus 
threat of an avenging power. 

Dark-browed Roman wor 
hanging out inconceivable ' 
rags that surely never ca 
served for human raiment, 
on the wooden rails that mc 



On the Wing. 



215 



road. They are jabbering, in harsh 
and femininely shrill tones, their 
curtailed patois of the Roman 
tongue; and the lark, in advance 
of the season, is carolling overhead 
in the motionless air and in the 
quivering light of the mid-day sun. 
We re-enter the city by the Porta 
Angelica, and are standing on 
the fields of the Vatican, where 
stood Nero's circus and Nero's 
gardens. Of all the characters of 
the heathen Roman Empire, none 
comes more prominently forward 
as the very type of human depravity 
and accomplished wickedness than 
that of Nero. He seems the em- 
bodiment of evil heightened by a 
versatility of talent and varnished 
by the gloss of a false poetic sense 
that makes him the exact opposite 
to all that produces heroic virtue 
in its greatest charm, as well as its 
highest glory, among the Christian 
saints. His was the poet nature 
debased to the lowest sensuality 
and the meanest vanity. And in 
the mystic saints, is there not ever 
something of the poet nature car- 
ried to its most subtle expression 
and its utmost elevation in the 
ascetic purity and tender devotion 
of a S. Francis or a S. Gertrude ? 
There is a wonderful sequence in 
the low-lying, half-hidden events 
of the church's history. There is 
a mar\'ellous counterbalancing of 
good against evil, as though the 
providence of God had (if we may 
use the expression) taken pleasure 
in substituting light for darkness, 
and beauty for ugliness; selecting 
in each the exact counterpart of the 
other, and placing them in juxta- 
position. And so it is in this spot, 
which most brings to our recollec- 
tion the lavish and foul luxury of 
Rome's artist emperor, the degraded 
being who was by turns actor, 
poet, musician, wrestler, or coach- 



man, but fiend always ! There, 
where the horrid pomp of his mid- 
night revels was lighted up by the 
living and burning forms of the 
meek martyrs of the church — there 
we now have the grandest monu- 
ment of the faith for which those 
martyrs died that ever has been, or 
probably ever will be. And the 
great saints, the pillars of the 
church, the founders and foundress- 
es of her armies of religious orders, 
stand now, sculptured in cool mar- 
ble niches along the aisles of that 
gorgeous Basilica which stands on 
the very ground of Nero's infamous 
gardens. There, too, was another 
" Potter's Field," in which to bury 
strangers ; for the clay soil on 
which S. Peter's is built had served 
in the old Roman manufactory of 
bricks and earthenware. The pot- 
ters had excavated numberless caves 
on the slopes of the Vatican hills, 
where subsequently the Christians 
concealed themselves, and, as in 
the other catacombs of Rome, cele- 
brated the divine mysteries and 
buried their dead. It is said that 
S. Peter himself, on his first journey 
to Rome, baptized many in these 
very catacombs — many, probably, 
who later on had received that 
other baptism of blood in the ghast- 
ly revels of Nero's gardens, and 
whose remains were gathered to- 
gether secretly by the brethren, and 
buried in the caves of the " Potter's 
Fields." And now the strangers 
have become possessors; the holy 
dead have consecrated what might 
well have been called another " field 
of blood " ; and the successors of 
S. Peter sit in reverend state and 
govern Christendom on the very 
spot where the first Bishop of Rome 
celebrated in secret the first Masses 
Rome ever witnessed. The grain 
of mustard-seed has indeed become 
a great and goodly tree, and the 



3l6 



On the Wing. 



birds of all nations and all ages 
lodge in the beneficent shadow of 
its branches. 

The whole history of the Basilica 
of S. Peter, whether the first that 
sheltered the relics of the apostles, 
or the present more magnificent 
one, built from the designs of Ber- 
nini, and completed by Michael 
Angelo, teems with facts of this 
nature. 

The old roof of S. Peter's was 
covered by Pope Honorius I. with 
the gilt bronze tiles that had roofed, 
some historians say the temple 
of Romulus, others that of Jupiter 
Capitolinus, possibly of both ; as 
though the first founders of pagan 
Rome, the Romulus and Remus of 
history and legend, were to pay 
tribute to the founders of Christian 
Rome, the great apostles SS. Peter 
and Paul, whose blood cement- 
ed the walls of the early church, 
and over whose sacred relics that 
venerable roof was to hang ; or, as 
if the false Jove, dethroned and 
vanquished by the fisherman, were 
stripped of his splendor to do honor 
to the true God. The tiles have 
been removed elsewhere now, but 
the fact still retains its touching 
import. And the like is carried 
out in the present Basilica ; for the 
Pantheon, raised to the honor of its 
myriad of demon gods, gave up 
the bronze of its portico at the 
command of Urban VIII., that out 
of it Bernini might fashion that 
wonderful work, the Baldacchino 
over the high altar. Wonderful 
work ! that, as we gaze at it, never 
weary and ever admiring, we ask 
ourselves in what way the mind of 
the architect * wrought when he 
brought forth this splendid design. 
Did it come to him at once, like the 
one grand idea ruling all the caden- 

• The Baldacchino at S. Peter's is by Bernini. 



ces of action in a Greek pla 
did he build it up, piece b 
in his soul, and touch and 
the beautiful image like the : 
diversities of an idyl ? We 
to the first, for that is most 
spiration, and the Baldacc^ 
S. Peter's must have been a; 
ration. 

As we pass beneath the de 
dow of the great colonnad 
Peter's into the vast piazza 
the Basilica, it is like steppii 
the mazes of a forest out i 
sunny plain. Almost catch 
diamond spray of these ever 
fountains, we mount the eas 
so dignified in their gradual 
and pass into the gallery 
fa9ade with the same awe 
feeling we have experiencec 
suddenly we have found ou 
glance come in unexpected c 
with the deep, scrutinizin 
of a dark eye and the overl 
solemnity of a thoughtfi 
heavy-laden brow. And fi: 
bass-relief before us tells 
history of the church. Chi 
livers the keys to S. Pete 
kneeling, receives the tokens 
high office. At either end 
long gallery are the equestri 
tues of two great imperial de 
and benefactors of the church 
stantine the Great still gazes 
labarum that appeared to 
mystic form not far off on th 
hill of Monte Mario, pine-cr 
and where now stands a chi 
commemoration of the eve 
event which turned the C 
Seven Hills, the Babylon of t 
phecies, the woman drunk u 
blood of the martyrs, into thi 
nal City, the port of the cl 
bark, the patrimony of S. 
and the home of all Christian 
— the city of which a gre 
royal sufferer once said ; " J 'ai 



On the Wing. 



41/ 



que Rome est I'endroit oil on peut 
le mieux se passer du bonheur."* 
Here . all sorrow is ennobled, all 
grief is sheltered. The great King 
of the church is himself " the Man 
of Sorrows," and here his Vicar 
reigns ! 

At the very entrance we pause to 
ponder over as touching an elegy 
as ever was written in memoriam ; 
and the grief it portrays is that of 
the other great defender of the 
church, whose equestrian statue 
meets us on the left end of the 
galler)' — Charlemagne mourns for 
Adrian L 

"I, Charles, write these verses, 
weeping for my father ! Yea, my 
father, my dear love ! These ver- 
ses are my lamentation for thy loss. 
Be thou ever mindful of me, whose 
memory seeks thee dwelling with 
Christ in the blessed region of 
heaven. The priests and the peo- 
ple loved thee with a great love, 
and all with one love, best of shep- 
herds! Great friend! I mingle in 
one our names and our illustrious 
titles. Adrian and Charles — empe- 
ror, I ; and father, thou ! " 

In the history of nations, as in 
the life of individuals, there is a 
not unfrequent repetition of events 
bearing the same type though not the 
same in fact. They give a charac- 
teristic coloring to the biography 
of the individual or the history of 
the people. The events and the 
man react on each other. But 
this is especially true, and in a far 
deeper sense, with the history of 
God's church. When the Israelites 
came out of Eg>'pt, they spoiled the 
Egyptians. They carried aAvay as 
a tribute the treasures unwillingly 
conceded by their former masters. 
The Christian world, on the conver- 
sion of Constantine, stepped forth 

* ** I hATC found that Rome is the place where 
9TIC can enjoy the most happiness.*' 



from the darkness and despotism of 
paganism, and Charlemagne, as if 
in commemoration of this antitype 
of that deliverance, endowed the 
church of S. Peter with rich tri- 
butes from Egypt for the benefac- 
tion of the clergy, and for the 
lighting and repairing of the great 
Basilica. Human governments are 
generally ungrateful ; but the 
church is a divine government, 
though carried on through human 
agents, and gratitude is one of her 
virtues and one of her most dis- 
tinctive attributes. Constantine 
and Charlemagne are not forgotten. 
Their statues guard the entrance, 
of S. Peter's, as erstwhile their 
power guarded and endowed the see 
of Peter. Nor shall even the weak- 
er sex fail of the tribute liberally 
paid to loyalty and devotion. There 
is something sublime in the grati- 
tude depicted in the monument to 
the Countess Mathilda, who holds 
in her hands the mitre and the 
keys, as though to suggest the idea of 
consigning them to the protection 
of the great mediatrix of the incor- 
rigible Emperor of the West, Hen- 
ry IV., and who had sheltered in 
her own dominions the great S. 
Gregory, and done so much to in- 
crease the patrimony of the church. 
A royal father giving his crown and 
sceptre into the hands of a favorite 
child could not more touchingly 
portray the loving appreciation of 
the sovereign pontiffs towards one 
who had been so true to the church's 
cause. And time has no effect in 
diminishing the gratitude of that 
church which is built upon a rock, 
and where all is enduring, any more 
than it has in diminishing the glory 
of the saints; for it was Urban 
Vni. who erected the monument 
in S. Peter's to the spiritual daugh- 
ter of the great Hildebrand, Gre- 
gory VII. — a grateful memory of 



2I» 



On the Wmg. 



more than six hundred years' stand- 
ing! 

We have often heard people 
complain of a sentiment of disap- 
pointment on first entering S. Pe- 
ter's. It has been accounted for 
by the fact that the perfect pro- 
portion and harmony of the whole, 
producing therefore no startling 
contrasts, fail to effect so "sudden 
an im])ression on the mind as 
would be the case were the har- 
mony less absolute. To this it may 
be replied that some minds are more 
alive to impressions of harmony, 
and others to those of contrast. 
We can best speak from experi- 
ence, and we all agreed that nowhere 
had we felt such a sense of complete- 
ness and its consequent repose fall 
upon our souls as when we pushed 
aside that heavy leathern portal, 
and passed within the precincts 
of S. Peter's. I do not remember 
ever to have done so, though I 
have probably been there fifty 
times, without an involuntary pause 
as I first entered; and before ap- 
proaching the holy-water stoups, 
supported by white marble boys of 
six feet high, who carry a large 
marble shell between them, and, 
everything being large in propor- 
tion, fail not to look like infants, 
in spite of their real size. The 
first chapel to the right as you en- 
ter is the one in which a large 
number of very valuable relics 
are kept in rich reliquaries, and 
which are only shown to the pub- 
lic on certain days. These are 
distinct from the great relics of the 
Passion, which are exhibited to the 
crowd from the loggia in the dome 
on either side of the high altar 
during Holy Week. I used to be 
attracted to that chapel, which is 
otherwise less striking than many 
of the others, by the Piet^ of Mi- 
chael Angelo. In my father's house 



in England we have that 
Pietk, said to be an origin 
is on a smaller scale and ur 
ed ; at least the head and f( 
of Our Lady always gave n 
impression. Not so the figi 
Our Lord, which is full of tl 
tenderness of death. The 
supineness of the limbs and 
arm, which has fallen off Our 
lap, and hangs down ;• the 
of the worn face; the wond 
graceful and yet manly 
pierced, like the feet; the { 
position of the whole body, 
broken flower flung on the 
er's lap — are full of the c 
religious feeling and pathos 
it is difficult thoroughly to 
ciate it where it stands in S. i 
It is over the altar, and oi 
need do as I used to do at 
when a child, to be able to 
ciate all the details. I usc( 
alone, when I was sure of not 
caught, down the dark, drear 
sage which led to the dark, d 
chapel, on the damp, marble 
ment of which stood this suj 
original of the Pielii. The 
ting a chair from a bath-ro 
the vicinity of the chapel, I 
upon that, so as to bring i 
nearly on a level with the h< 
Our Lady, and thus be a 
look down, as she does, on tin 
Christ supported on her knee 
How often in S. Peter's ] 
wished I could do the same 
the undoubted work of M 
Angelo, and trace again in 
line the pathetic beauty of 
ing and death, as, with eyes f 
tears, I nad done in early life 
Pieti at S. Peter's has the 
absence of real beauty in th* 
of Our Lady with the one at I 
the same long upper lip and 
of finish. It also gives a lil 
pression with all other pia 



On the Wing, 



^19 



which the Mother is represented 
as holding her Divine Son on her 
knees — ^a thing which in reality 
would be impossible. No woman 
could support on her knees the 
dead body of a full-grown man. 
Michael Angelo, whose idealism 
was always under the control of 
his marvellous anatomical drawing, 
was too conscious of that not to 
endeavor palpably to counteract 
what probably, as he was working 
at the group, he felt to be an invin- 
cible objection. He has certainly 
made it look possible in his Pietk. 
but he has done it at the expense 
of beauty and congruity. The 
Blessed Virgin's lap is enormous; 
her whole figure looks powerful and 
gigantic, while that of the Saviour 
is undersized in proportion. 

I have often paused in the space 
opposite this first chapel, across the 
nave, to watch some fifty little 
urchins learning their catechism. 
Merry little creatures they seemed 
to be, all more or less in the n^^ligS 
attire of Italian beggar life, pictu- 
resque in color and dilapidated in 
texture. Sparkling black eyes and 
gleaming white teeth were their 
chief and never-failing beauty. 
They sat on low forms, or rather 
they leant upon them, lay upon 
them, scrambled over them, waiting 
for their instructor, who always 
seemed long in coming. When at 
last he did arrive, a faint semblance 
of order was established. The lit- 
tle creatures shouted forth the an- 
swers in a sort of loud sing-song, 
nudging each other all the time, 
twinging their little, naked, well- 
bronzed legs, and keeping up some 
perennial jokes all the time with each 
other, but little in unison with the 
words they were repeating. 1 can- 
not say that their demeanor seemed 
at all to affect the stolid gravity of 
their priestly instructor, or even to 



try his patience. He simply ig- 
nored it. He appeared to have no 
eyes nor ears for any sound but 
the well-known monotony of the 
responses. It is to be hoped some- 
thing may come back to them of it 
all when they are old enough to 
think. For myself, I could only 
reflect on what a strange reminis- 
cence it would seem to me to have 
learnt my catechism beneath the 
dome of S. Peter's. To these little, 
careless mortals, it was only a part 
of their everyday life. 

The niches, filled with colossal 
statues of the founders and foun- 
dresses of religious orders, embellish 
the walls on all sides ; and proba- 
bly all Catholics look out for some 
special saint as they wander 
through the Basilica. We used 
particularly to salute S. Teresa and 
S. Frances of Rome ; the latter at- 
tended by her guardian angel. 
These statues produce a grand 
effect, being all of white marble, 
standing in niches of many-colored 
marbles and rich carving, though 
they are far from all having artistic 
merit. There are still some niches 
empty. Who will fill them ? What 
saintly founders or foundresses of 
new orders does the future of the 
church still reserve for us? Or will 
the last day come, and find those 
niches empty still.? With the ex- 
ception of the four statues under 
the dome, they are (and must al- 
ways be) canonized saints and 
founders of orders. 

I have heard of people whose 
great ambition was to be buried in 
Westminster Abbev. I knew one 
pretty bride, of high rank and 
youthful ambition, who was married 
in the Abbey because she was per- 
suaded that her husband would be 
a great statesman, and that his 
grateful country would bury him 
there. But I never heard of any 



220 



Oh the Wing. 



one? who dreamed of fdling one of 
ilui rmpty nichcH in S. Peter's. On 
HiHl rntnlni; iho church, one sees 
fho \\\s\\\s LunpH burninj^ round the 
i\uUc^Hi\»uid of S. IVtcr, as the 
\\\^\ i\\\.\x W I'uUcd. They seem 
t\* ^HM^ hU\ orange-colored glow 
idl sUv^uiul You ^tand or kneel 
^^t^.iiHx( the i^urbte Ixidustnuie* and 
Ks^k vU»\%u v»« ihc kneeling figure of 
^^ux V I tvKuv ^he u>mbolf his great- 
v^> t'i\\\\NVM.-t. U ist 4 NrAutifuU rest- 
Kit i ►^a-^e oi hvuv<uJ^^ lawyer* and 
v ,^^c v^* v^c K*>* >*v^Rsv>i' C;xnova 

X ^\.v: i^Nt X l:\iut :u l.a::n. I 
>,M ^ V >- » n1 ,i ^» u 1 1^» u s I U u >: r ,i: iv>n of 
S^vw t iM U- nu4> >!.iixo u stranger, 
s\ S' \ In hs ,»'^ v.> I he notice of one in 
iSv ^I'^.i. vU ^vvin^; it cv^nstantly. I 
>.s\vv wvui u^ S. lVter*s that 1 did 
wk.il, ,.tv ^t>ai ^^ayer at the tomb of 
^ iv i^s'^iW;* ; \\>x it must be remera- 
SsKssl \\\y: vvlics (not all of them) 
s^^ ^ \\\\\\ he here, as well as those 
x^i ^ IVier. 1 had had occasion to 
M\'.v a ihem in a manuscript, which 
\\\\ ihu» the hands of a certain 
\v IN Ivamed Capuchin, who holds a 
lut;h pvisi in his order, and in con- 
uoiiion, also, with the Sovereign 
l\>hliif. He surprised me by ask- 
iug me where I got those prayers 
and hymns. He had never read 
them before, in the many years he 
ha^l lived at Rome in the venerable 
convent of his order, and might 
have seen them fastened by a small 
chain to the spot where he must 
so often have knelt. Perhaps the 
fac t that in every church in Rome 
you will find an indulgenced prayer 
printeil up somewhere as an incen- 
livi' to devotion, may have led to 
\\\% not }).irticularly noticing the 
one at S. Peter's. 

I'lauk used to tell Mary he never 



knew any one so greedy oi indul- 
gences as she was. She always 
looked out for these short prayers ; 
she never went to S. Peter's with- 
out kneeling, as she passed the 
priests in their confessionals, to re- 
ceive the little tap from the long 
wand they have in front of the con- 
fessional, and to the receiving of 
which an indulgence is attached. 
He used to tell her laughingly that 
he did not understand how she had 
the face to disturb the priest saying— 
his OAice, and oblige him to lift his» 
eyes from his Breviary, and detach- 
the long stick as she knelt a yard 
or two distant. We have seen her- 
unblushingly obtain three raps in 
succession with all the devotion 
possible ; and then, when she and I 
were looking another way, Frank 
would strive aupinst his natural 
British underoonstrativeness, and 
kneel for the HnJe blow, getting up 
again with a shy Mush. Mary and 
I never took anr notice. We knew 
that the small act of humility, which, 
among the childlike Italians, came 
almost as a matter of course, cost 
him far more than it did us, and 
therefore had more merit. The 
Romans have a harmless supersti- 
tion that if you are leaving Rome, 
and are anxious to return, you will 
not fail to do so if you deposit some 
small coin in a safe place. I had 
done so the last time I had been 
there ; and, sure enough, I was back 
again to claim my money. But 
though I could remember the part 
of the church beneath the statue of 
S. Juliana where I had dropt it into 
a crevice, I never could find it 
again. However, that did not mat- 
ter, since the charm had worked 
successfully. A draught of the wa- 
ter from the fountain of Trevi is 
said to have the same effect. I 
drank a cupful once in pure jest, 
and have been to Rome four times 



On the Wing. 



221 



^ince ; but something more powerful 
than the hidden half-pence or the 
/ountain of Trevi has lured me back 
again. There is, I believe, no spot 
ID the world where everybody gets 
to feel so at home as in Rome, out- 
side the land of their birth and the 
roof that shelters all their domestic 
aifections. 

In the same place where I had 
hidden my little coin 1 remember a 
scene which filled my imagination 
with intettjst and admiration. It was 
Holy Thursday. The high altar 
was being stripped of all the oma- 
tnents, and washed with wine, to the 
mournful chanting of the choir; the 
daylight was fast declining, though 
still some rays of the setting sun 
stole through the yellow- tinted 
windows below the dome; and 
the Grand Penitentiary was seated 
in his violet robes on a raised plat- 
fomi, in a crimson velvet chair, 
with no partition between him and 
the low stool to his right, on which 
the penitents were to kneel. There 
were several steps, covered with 
cloth, to mount from the pavement 
of the church to the seat of the 
.prelate; and at some distance 
from these was a temporary railing 
to prevent the crowd from ap- 
proaching within hearing of what 
should pass between the penitent 
and the priest. We stood among 
the crowd. The penitent was a 
man of about thirty years of age, 
with coal-black hair and beard, 
deep, dark eyes, and regular fea- 
tures. It was very curious to hear 
the remarks of the bystanders ; and 
they were very characteristic of 
Italians, born to the faith. Most 
of them were praying aloud, in brief 
ejaculations, that God would grant 
him perfect contrition. The wo- 
men especially were exclaiming : 
**Ah! poverello, ma piange?"* 

* Ah ! poor feUow. Why, be is weeping ! 



Two priests passed through the 
crowd, and paused a moment, with 
a smile of indescribable benevolence 
and satisfaction that a big fish had 
been caught in Peter's net, and was 
being drawn to land. The confes- 
sion lasted a long time. The man 
never for a moment shifted his po- 
sition; but by degrees the vener- 
able prelate bent his ear closer and 
closer to the poor penitent, and his 
countenance showed a mixture of 
compassion and tenderness quite 
paternal. The man*s forehead al- 
most touched the priest's shoulder, 
as he poured forth his long history 
of error and shame. At length the 
priest's hand was raised to give the 
absolution, and a murmur of relief 
and congratulation ran through the 
crowd of spectators. The hand 
rested on the man's head before he 
rose from his knees. He came 
quickly down the steps. The crowd 
parted to let him pass. He. can 
have seen none but smiling and 
happy glances all around him, if he 
cared to look up; but all silently 
made way for him, and in a mo- 
ment he was lost in the multitude, 
absolved and released from the 
burden of some "reserved case." 
Of course there were many conjec- 
tures as to who and what he might 
be. Some said he had been a ban- 
dit ; others that he was a priest 
who had broken his vows, and 
made this confession in public as 
art act of greater humility ; for of 
course it is not imperative to carry 
all reserved cases to the Grand 
Penitentiary, nor need the penitent 
wait for Lent to get absolution. 
Nevertheless, the prelate with 
power to absolve all reserved cases 
(of which murder is one) occupies 
that raised confessional throughout 
Lent for certain hours of the day. 
Mary was so overcome at the piety 
and charity of the crowd in the 



122 



On the Wing. 



warm interest they evinced, and 
observed so often that it must be 
delightful to be thus prayed for 
while making one's confession, that 
we began to apprehend she would 
mount the platform herself, had 
not Frank timely observed to her 
that, in all probability, she had no 
reserved case on her conscience ! 

By this time the shades of night 
were closing in. The lights were 
all extinguished. The altars stood 
bare and cold. The dark crowd 
swayed in dense masses towards the 
open doors. The light of the moon 
struggled pale and wan through the 
high windows where the setting sun 
had lately thrown a golden glow. 
The vast cathedral echoed to the 
steps of the departing crowd, and 
we turned towards home, more 
deeply impressed with the desola- 
tion expressed by the Holy Thurs- 
day ceremonies in S. Peter's in the 
stripping of the altars than with 
many others more generally remark- 
ed. 

It was night before we reached 
our apartment in the Ripetta. 

Mary's bedroom overlooked the 
river, and in the morning she could 
see S. Peter's bathed in the rosy 
light of the rising sun, while flights 
of white sea-gulls came up the river 
with the early tide to feed upon 
the refuse which had been thrown 
into the water. They came swoop- 
ing down, with their glittering plu- 
mage flashing in the sunshine, and, 
dipping low, would snatch some 
dainty morsel from the swift water, 
and mount up, in graceful, curving 
flight, to repeat the same again and 
again. As the port was close to 
our house, no doubt it was an ad- 
vantageous position for both the 
breakfast and supper of the gulls. 
They always returned in the eve- 
ning, but at no other hour in the 
day. At night we could see lights 



in three windows of the \ 
They were always there, and 
at about the same hour the) 
peared. One day, when Mi 
calling on Cardinal Anton 
asked her where we were 
and on her describing the p 
and how she could see S. 
and the Vatican, and special 
three windows, he told 1 
lights were from his own apa 
His eminence is very fond < 
ers, and has a garden in R 
which he takes great p 
They were talking of flowe 
he observed to Mary that sh 
find very much the san- 
throughout Europe, though 
course equally distributed, 
objected that she had nev 
the little common yellow p 
of our English woods, in tl 
of Italy. " Nevertheless, ; 
find we have it," was his 
And not long after, on our 
Viterbo, we saw its starry b 
by the roadside, and hailed 
old friend, dearer to ourhea 
even the graceful pink cy 
which from the position of th 
reminds me of a pretty, I 
child with her hair all dra\ 
from her forehead. 

What memories crowd upc 
I recall these trivial incident: 
happy hours have I spent 
that deep-blue but not un 
sky, with the warm breeze 
ed by the breath of violets 
Doria Pamphili Villa! Tl 
stone pines, with their soft, 
ing sighs; the large willow 
ping their bright-green 
wands into the clear wa 
violet anemones, with he 
there a large crimson one, ( 
low tulip lighting up tlie so 
grass like a sparkling gem ; 
lefs, not bashful and hidden 
ingly beneath their leaves 



On the Wing. 



223 



^m colder climes, but lifting their 
y\ii\t dark-purple heads high in the 
air, Xo drink the light and leave a 
perfumed kiss on every breeze that 
floats; soft masses of white cloud 
sailing slowly over the blue ether, 
and casting dappled shadows on 
the long grass. In the distance is 
S. Peter's and the Vatican, with fields 
of broken ground in many tints of 
yellow and green and red between it 
and the stone balustrade against 
'which we lean. It appears, from this 
point of view, to be quite outside 
the city, and to stand alone and 
untrammelled by meaner buildings. 
Behind us is a dense avenue of ven- 
erable ilex, and but now we were 
visiting the Colombarium, the other 
side of the road, and moralizing on 
the pagan practice of cremation, as 
compared with the hallowed Chris- 
tian sepulture — it must have been 
so difficult to realize that the little 
handful of ashes in the urn had 
anything to do with the dead wife 
or child or father, that they had 
loved, embraced, and conversed 
with! 

Again, I remember a day when 
we were living at Capo le Case. I 
took Ann with me, and we set oiit 
for a long walk regardless of the 
flight of time. We directed our 
course to S. John Lateran. On 
our way, we paused at San Clemente, 
where we had several times visited 
the subterranean church under the 
guidance of the kind and learned 
F. Mullooly. Few, perhaps, have 
ever noticed, in a church which 
presents so much else to interest 
them, a small picture, the head of 
S. Catharine of Sienna, over an 
altar at the bottom of the church, 
on the right hand. It is modern, 
and by a Dominican artist whose 
name is unknown to me, and pro- 
bably to all save the brothers of 
his order. Nevertheless, I have 



never seen devotion more exquisite- 
ly depicted than in that sweet, 
sorrowful face, with the tears stand- 
ing in the large, uplifted eyes. 
Through the open door of the 
church penetrated the scent of large 
masses of Banksia roses that hung 
over a wall in a garden nearly 
opposite. Untrained, untrimmed 
they flung long wreaths to the wind, 
and lay in cloud-like bunches of 
soft, creamy white. As we passed 
by the door of the hospital of the 
Salvatore, two Sisters stepped out 
into the sunshine, on some errand 
of charity for their sick and aged 
patients. We then visited the 
Basilica of S. John Lateran, " the 
mother and head of all churches.'* 
The gigantic statues of the apostles 
have a very imposing effect, in spite 
of their many artistic faults, more 
so, perhaps, than the equally faulty 
statues at S. Peter's. Then we 
wandered into the large piazza in 
front of the cathedral, and looked 
beyond the gates and crumbling 
fortifications of Rome upon the 
Alban hills. The long avenue of 
trees leading to the church of 
Santa Croce di Gcrusalenime were 
coming into leaf; so were the group 
of trees to our right, by the low 
wall of the piazza, on which grew 
tufts of fern and yellow-blossomed 
oxalis. We sat on the steps, and 
ate some hot chestnuts I had bought 
by the roadside, getting, at the 
same time, a i)inch of salt from a 
dark-browed matron, with a yellow 
kerchief across her ample bosom, 
and a silver dagger in her hair, 
who sold cigars in a little wooden 
booth. It was enough to be alive 
on such a day and in such a scene, 
with the easy liberty of Italian life 
and the total absence of " Mrs. 
Grundy." There was no one to 
see us (save a few beggar-women) 
sitting on the step^ of the grand 



224 



On tlie Wing. 



portico, and scattering the skins of 
our chestnuts on the pavement at 
our feet, while we silently drank in 
the balmy air and rejoiced in the 
beauty of the view before us. Ere 
we returned, we visited the Scala 
Santa, and looked long on Giaco- 
metti's beautiful group of the Kiss 
of Judas. The evening was clos- 
ing in when, wearied but satisfied, 
we reached our home. But if these 
remembrances are full of light and 
warmth, not less pleasing are those 
of our moonlight drives the year 
that we remained in Rome till the 
middle of July, and every evening 
used to visit the Colosseum, or S. 
John Lateran and Santa Maria 
Maggiore, stopping to gaze long 
upon the cold silver light, so sharp 
and sudden on every curve and 
shaft, on architrave and entablature, 
on capital and plinth, while the 
dense shadows lurked behind like 
black stains of unfathomable dark- 
ness. Then we would drive to 
S. Peter's, and after crossing the 
bridge of Sant* Angelo between 
the angels, each holding an instru- 
ment of the Passion, we would 
look across the dark river to see 
the covered balcony of the house 
where Michael Angelo was an 
honored guest, and had introduc- 
ed the young Raphael to the small 
circle of favored ones who met 
nightly under that roof. There, too, 
Vittoria Colonna probaljly came 
to increase the charm by her wit 
and beauty, while Michael Ange- 
lo nourished those sentiments of 
pure and profound veneration for 
her great merits which made him 
bitterly reproach himself after her 
unexpected death, because he who 
had never breathed one word of 
love to her while living, had dared 
to press a kiss on her marble brow 
when cold in death. What noble 
sentiments, wl)^t lofty times ! And 



yet in many things how unseeml3r% 
would some of their practices ap — 
pear to us .^ For it was in ih^ 
Church of San Silvestro al Quiri— 
nale that they used to meet after - 
Vespers, to converse and laugW 
and jest together. We look acros ^^s 
the river to mark that house. It i^ 
dark and silent now. No lightzz: 
gleam from the windows. HalfiB 
defaced frescos still cover some o — 
the walls, but it is let from top t ^ 
bottom to several families of th^ai 
very poorest of the people. 

But I must pause. Rome is ine>«c 
haustible, whether in her classic, h^^ 
Christian, or her artistic treasure^^ 
besides the charm of social inte^^ 
course, the delight of varied socm - 
ety, and the equal ease and spler» - 
dor which may be found in th.^ 
interior life of her princely palaces. 
Nor can I close this chapter with- 
out speaking of one whose pre- 
sence, though now confined with- 
in the walls of his own pal- 
ace, makes Rome so doubly dear 
to the true Catholic. The days are 
gone when our afternoon drive 
might be gladdened by the plea- 
sure of finding the well-known 
crimson coach and magnificent 
black horses checking our progress, 
while we hastened to descend and 
kneel where he would pass, that we 
might catch a glance, perhaps a 
smile, and certainly the blessing, of 
the venerable old man in whom we 
recognize the Vicar of Christ. We 
had been admitted to more than 
one private audience, besides wit- 
nessing several of those receptions 
in which hundreds of people of 
many nations kilelt to kiss his feet, 
and to hear that sweet, clear voice 
utter words of exhortation and en- 
couragement. This last time we had 
entered the Vatican with sad and al- 
tered feelings. It was no longer a 
gala-day, that on which we were to 



There was no Room for Them in the Inn. 



225 



v*i5it the universal father of Chris- 
tendom. We were going to con- 
dole with an august prisoner, a fa- 
t her defrauded of his rights, a sov- 
e reign deprived of his possessions. 
'%%^'eall felt depressed and inclined for 
silence. The Pope had been in- 
disposed, and, as we were kept wait- 
ivig a long time, we began to fear 
Kis Holinesss would prove unable 
to receive us. Our spirits flagged 
-^irith every second that we were left 
in expectation, till Mary began to 
look so pale I feared that she was 
ill. At length, however, we per- 
ceived a stir among the crimson- 
liveried servants who were in at- 
tendance in the vestibule ; present- 
ly the curtain at the end of the 
long gallery where we stood was 
drawn aside, and once again our 
eyes beheld him who is ever pre- 
sent to our thoughts, and whose 
name is breathed in so many pray- 
ers. The first feeling that filled 
our beating hearts, as we looked on 
his saintly and venerable face, was 
joy to feel that he was still amongst 
us; that despite increasing years, 
and the increasing malice and ha- 



tred of his enemies, his eye had 
not dimmed or his strength failed 
him. This impression was in- 
creased with every word he spoke. 
It was like the dawn which pro- 
mises the perfect day, no matter 
how dark the night has been. 
" The people imagine a vain thing !" 
He is still with us — he, the father 
of his people! He may be ours 
for years to come. He may see 
the day-spring of the church again. 
He may live to witness her tri- 
umph. And should it be other- 
wise — should that white head be 
laid low before the triumph of the 
church over her enemies — will he 
see it less, will he share it less, be- 
cause he has gone before ? Impos- 
sible! The church militant and 
the church triumphant are one. 
But our hopes go further; or ra- 
ther, they are more human. We 
believe that Pius IX. will livjp to 
see the end of confusion and the 
beginning of peace ; the downfall 
of falsehood and oppression, and 
the restoration of himself (and 
others) to all their rights. May 
God grant it ! 



THERE WAS NO ROOM FOR THEM IN THE INN. 

No place for Him ! So Him you drive away ; 
You drive away your God, your God. Oh ! stay. 
O height of human madness ! wonders rare ! 
No place for Him ! without Whom no place were. 

— Crashaw, 



VOL. XIX. — 15 



226 A$ifar and Zara. 



ANTAR AND ZARA; 

OK, 

"THE ONLY TRUE LOVERS." 

AM EASTERN ROMANCE NARRATED IN SONGS. 
BY AUBKSY DB VERB. 

PRKFACB. 

Who has not heard of those CbristiBn communities which have held their own during: so m^f*^ 
centuries, on the citied slopes of the LebtJioc, or on the adjacent plains ? Seveiml of them have c^^' 
ed from a period earlier than that ic which the foundations of our oldest monarchies were laid. ^^ 
Maronites derive their name from Maron, a hermit of the IVth century, whose cell, on the bank^ ^ 
the Orontes, gradually attracted a Christian population about it. In the Vllth and Vlllth ceo*^' 
ries, when the sword of the False Prophet was carrying all before it, they retreated from the upla r*^* 
of the Euphrates and Mesopotamia to the fastnesses of the Lebanon. The Melchites, a race of aa*^* 
questionably Arab origin, and whose religious offices are atill celebrated in Arabic, emigrated ^ 
Syria before the Christian era, and became Christian in the IVth century. Weakened by tta^Jj^ 
hereditary feuds, they retain, notwithstanding, all the pride of their ancient stock, and not less ^^ 
its heroism, its generosity, its hospitality, its sense of honor, and its passion for poetry and eloqueia^^' 
The devotion of both these races to their Faith is sufficiently attested by their having retained itda:*^' 
ing so many centuries of wrong, and in spite of so many persecutions. In the massacres of i860 alcv^^ 
about z3,ooo of them perished. 

f^w subjects are more worthy of attention than the ways of a People which still keeps so mta^'^ 
of what belonged to the feudal and monastic system of Europe in the Middle Ages, and combio^* 
them with the patriarchal traditions of the world's morning. Much that we possess they lack ; bu^« 
among them, some of the affections— Patriotism and Love, for instance — retain a meaning which ap- 
pears to grow daily more rare amid the boasted civiliBation of the West That meaning is iUnstrate<i 
alike in their lives and tiieir poetry. It has been observed that the religious poetry of the E»st 
sometimes resembles love-poetry. The converse remark may no less be made. Bastem love-poetry 
is wide in its range ; but its more characteristic specimens resemble the early poetry of religion or ps* 
triotic devotion, so full are they of elevation and self-sacrifice. I know not how far the spirit of such 
poetry can make itself intelligible to the sympathies of the West. To many readers the presest 
poem will be an experiment new, not only as regards its spirit, but its form also— that of a story 
narrated in songs. It was composed, in substance, some years ago, when the author was in the 
East. 

PART I. 

HE SANG. * 
I. 

O WIND of night ! what doth she at this hour 

In those high towers half lost in rock and brake ? 

Where is she ? Sits she lonely in her bower } 
If she is pensive, is it for my sake ? 

Perchance she joins the dance with other maids : 
With whom ? By whose are those white fingers pressed ? 

Perhaps for sleep her tresses she unbraids 
While moonbeams fill the chamber of her rest. 

♦ Throughout this poem the lover's, songs are in the longer metre ; the lady's in the shorlcr. 
In the xst and 3d parts, the songs are all his ; in the 3d and 4th, all hers ; in the 5th and 6th, the two 
classes are mixed. 



Antar and Zara, 22 j 

Tell her, O wind ! that I have laid my head 

Here, on the lOUgh stem of the prostrate pine 
Which leans across the dried-up torrent's bed, 

And dream at times her face, and dream it mine. 

Once in the palm-grove she looked back on me ; 

A wild brier caught her zone : I saw it fall : 
Large is the earth, the sun, the stars, the sea — 

For me that rosy girdle clasps them all. 



II. 

By night I crossed the tremulous poplar bound 
Which cools the south wind with its watery bower ; 

I heard the river's murmur, mid that sound, 

And smelt the fragrance of the trampled flower. 

Where that pure crystal makes thy morning bath 
A white tent glimmered. Round it, rank on rank. 

The crimson oleanders veiled the path. 
And bent or rose, as swelled the breeze or sank. 

I entered not. Beside that river's brim 
I sat. Thy fawn, with trailing cord, drew near : 

When from my knee its head it lifted, dim 

Seemed those dark eyes, by day so large and clear. 

Go back, poor fawn, and house thee with thy kind ! 

Where, amid rocks and mountains cold with snow. 
Through forests sweep the branching hart and hind ; 

Go back : go jip : together let us go. 



III. 

Tell her that boasts — that slender is and tall — 
I have a cypress in a sunny space : 

Tell her that blushes, by my garden wall 
A rose-tree blushes, kindling all the place. 

Tell her that sweetly sings and softly moves, 
A white swan winds all night below my trees ; 

My nightingale attunes the moon-lit groves — 
Can I not portion out my heart with these } 



aaS Antmr and Zara. 

If I were dead, my cypress would lament, 
My rose-tree shed its leaves upon my grave, 

My nightingale weep long in forest tent — 
She would not mourn me dead that scorns to save. 



IV. 

Thou cam'st, thou cam'st ; and with thee came delight, 
Not mine alone. The little flowers and leaves 

Shook at the first gleam of thy garment white ; 
And still yon myrtle thrills, yon almond heaves. 

Thou spak'st ! That voice, methinks, is heard on high ! 

The buds and blooms in every amaranth wreath 
By angels worn expand in ecstasy ; 

And in pure light a heavenlier fragrance breathe. 

Hail, Land that gav'st her birth ! Hail, precinct old ! 

Hail, ancient Race, the Lebanonian crown ! 
The Turk hath empire, and the Frank hath gold : 

Virtue and Beauty, these are thy renown ! 



V. , 



Thou wentest : with thy going came my night : 
As some deep vale when sudden sinks the sun. 

Deep, yet suspended on the mountain height 
And girt by snows, am I when thou art gone. 

With death those hills, so late all amethyst, 
At once are clad : the streams are filmed with ice : 

The golden ether changeth into mist : 
Cold drops run doWn the beetling precipice : 

The instant darkness cometh as a wind. 

Or falleth as the falling of a pall ; — 
Return, my light of life, my better mind. 

My spirit's day, my hope, my strength, mine all ! 



VI. 



Bieathe healthful zephyrs, airs of Paradise, 
Breathe gently on that alabaster brow ; 

Shake the dark lashes of those violet eyes ; 
Flatter those lids that such high grace allow. 



Antar and Zara, S29 

Those cheeks, pure lilies, capture with sweet stealth. 
And warm with something of a rose-like glow ; 

Those tremulous smiles, costlier than miser's wealth, 
Draw out ; those magic tresses backward blow ! 

Thus much is yours. 'Tis mine where once she strayed 
To cull sad flowers that ne'er shall meet her sight ; 

To watch, close shrouded in the tall rock's shade, 
High up one little casement's glimmering light. 



VII. 

Seest thou, O maid ! some star by us unseen. 
Buried from us in depths of starless space ? 

Know'st thou some joy of lesser joys the queen, 
That lights so sweet a mystery in thy face ? 

That face is as the face of them that bask 
In some great tidings, or the face of one 

Who late hath set his hand upon some task 
By God ordained, that shall for God be done. 

That light is as the light of them who bent — 
That shepherd choir — above the Babe new born : 

Upward from Him thy day is ever sent, 
A lifelong kindling of the Bethlehem morn. 



VIII. 

Since that strange moment. Love was as a breeze. 

And I a leaf wafted by it along : 
Onward 'twixt magic heavens and mystic seas 

We passed. If I was weak, yet Love was strong. 

On, ever on, through mountainous defiles, 
By Love sustained, upborne, on piloted, 

I wound o'er laughing lakes and happy isles ; 
I asked not whither, and I felt no dread. 

I breathed, methought, some everlasting spring : 
I passed, methought, in endless, aimless quest 

(A dew-drop hanging on an eagle's wing) 
Through some rich heaven and ever-deepening West. 



2y> Ah far and Zara^ 

That dream had end. Once more I saw her face : 
No love it looked : the sweet lips breathed no sound 

Then fell I, stone-like, through the fields of space, 
And lay, dead bulk, up&n the bleeding ground. 



IX. 

River that windest in thy jewell'd bed, 
The palms of her soft feet beside thee move : 

But gentleness and peace are round thee spread, 
And therefore I am gone from what I love. 

Nightly on thee the stars thou lov'st shall gaze : 
Thee and thy heaven no envious cloud can sever 

In vain to her I love mine eyes I raise ; 
And therefore, happy stream, farewell for ever ! 

Pale passion slays or dies. I would die young. 
Live while I live ; then sink without a sigh, 

As some swift wave, from central ocean sprung, 
Subsides into the flat tranquillity. 



X. 

O heart whereon her Name was graved so long ! 

Heart pressed at last to hers, henceforth be snow ! 
For love's sake let me do to love no wrong : 

There are who watch her. To the wars I go. 

There are that watch her : and in fields far off 
There are that wait my banner, name my name ; 

My House was ne'er the upstart Moslem's scoff: 
Its orphaned heir his fathers will not shame. 

This is the grove where, by yon meeting streams. 
She too her love confessed — how falteringly ! 

From that glad hour a Church to me it seems : 
I leave it : I must leave it though I die. 

Here as I slept, an Angel, not to sense 
Revealed, above me traced the sacred sign : 
" Here is Love's palace : Duty calls thee hence : 

Alone where Duty stands are Church and Shrine." 



/^ L^umgi^ Pkihs^p^ky. 



331 



F. LOUAGE'S PHILOSOPHY.* 



i: design of F. Louage in com- 
this little text-book is most 
«rorthy, and one which we are 
illy bound to commend, as it 
attempt to carry out a plan 
ve repeatedly and earnestly 
ted in this magazine, of fur- 
\ good text-books of philo- 
written in the English lan- 
The credit of originating 
irpose belongs, so far as we 
to the Christian Brothers. 
)od work had, indeed, been 
by Mr. Brownson, in trans- 
the Fundamental Philosophy 
ties. Nevertheless, as this is 
ecisely suited for use as a 
►ok, the preparation of such 
book remained a desidera- 
and our attention was first 
to the practical need of one 
•e of these text-books by a 

the editor from the Supe^ 
' the Christian Brothers at 
ore, urging the great neces- 
translating some one of the 
manuals, or preparing a new 
This demand was the occa- 

our mooting the question in 
ages, and since that time the 
d has been supplied by three 
It publications. One of these 
translation of Balmes' admi- 
r realise on Logic ^ brought out 
the auspices of the Christian 
rs ; another, the first part of 
Il's Philosophy^ which has 
lighly commended both in 

1 and in this country, and a 
\ the work now under notice. 

urtt 0/ Philosophy ; embracing Logic^ 
•ict^ and Ethics. Designed as a text- 
ile use of fchoolg. By Rev. A. Louage^ 
^fcsftor in the UniverBlty of Notre 
ItlUmore : Kelly, Piet ft Co. i&n- 



We have delayed noticing this 
text-book by F. Louage for a long 
time, simply from a feeling of re- 
luctance to express, without obvious 
necessity, the judgment which we 
formed on first perusing it — that it 
is very far from being a successful 
eifort, and, moreover, that it con- 
tains a philosoplhical doctrine which 
cannot be safely taught in our Ca- 
tholic schools. We shall proceed 
by-and-by to establish the justice 
of both these criticisms ; but, be- 
forehand, we wish to offer -a few 
preliminary remarks explaining the 
past and present attitude of The 
Catholic World in respect to 
soundness of philosophical doc-, 
trine. 

It is well known that a number 
of doctrinal decisions on philoso- 
phical topics have been promulgat- 
ed by the reigning Sovereign Pon- 
tiff, which have made the true sense 
and teaching of the church on sev- 
eral important points much more 
clear and definite than it had pre- 
viously been to a large number of 
sincere and learned Catholics. For 
a long time, some of these decisions 
— those, namely, concerning ontolo- 
gism — were not universally known, 
and their import had not been suf- 
ficiently discussed and explained 
to give a certain and distinct di- 
rection to those who, like ourselves, 
in this country, had not been au 
courant with the affairs which 
brought about these decisions. 
Philosophy has been generally, and 
more especially in England and the 
United States, in a miserable and 
chaotic state until a comparatively 
brief period, during which a more 



2S2 



F. Louages Philosophy. 



wholesome tendency has been 
awakened. The worst and most 
dangerous errors have been those 
which have sprung from the sensist 
school. As a natural consequence, 
those whose Catholic belief has led 
them to reject these gross errors, 
being unacquainted with the scho- 
lastic philosophy, have been inclin- 
ed to throw themselves back on 
Platonism, and to welcome any 
system of philosophy which put 
forward a high ideological doctrine 
in which the necessary and eternal 
truths, the immutable principles of 
first and final cause, the being and 
attributes of God, and all natural 
theology, were professedly exalted 
to their due supremacy, and placed 
on a basis unassailable by a mean 
scepticism and materialism. The 
very same took place in the in- 
stance of Cardinal Gerdil, of Male- 
branche, and of others, at a former 
period ; and F. Rami^re, one of the 
most successful opponents of on- 
tologism, has lucidly explained how 
this is precisely the reason that the 
said system has appeared in a cap- 
tivating light, in our own day, to a 
number of minds to which scepti- 
cism and materialism are especially 
odious. This may explain the fact 
that we have taken a more decisive 
and explicit stand in regard to sev- 
eral important philosophical doc- 
trines, since the more thorough ex- 
amination of the differences be- 
tween the ancient and received 
teaching of Catholic schools, and 
the various modern theories, have 
convinced us of the great import- 
ance of adhering closely, not only 
in respect to the substance of 
doctrine, but even in respect to form 
and the use of terms, to that phi- 
losophy which has a Catholic sanc- 
tion. Within the limits defined by 
positive, explicit authority, this ad- 
hesion is, of course, obligatory on 



the conscience in the strictest ai 
gravest sense. In a former artic! 
on Dr. Stockl's Philosophy^ we hav 
explained our position, which 
that of the best and most approve 
European authors, in regard to th 
obligatory doctrine, so far as relatt 
to ideology. Beyond this, we^T^- 
spect, of course, the liberty whic^rr 
the church concedes. Her pos -i 
tive sanction has been given to thi ^ 
scholastic principles, method, aacf 
doctrine, only in general terms. 
While, therefore, we advocate the 
adhesion to scholastic philosophy, 
as the only safe and really scien- 
tific way of procedure in education, 
we do not close our eyes to the fact 
that there are several important 
topics in respect to which discus- 
sion is not only allowable, but really 
necessary. The best philosophical 
writers living, who are in the main 
disciples of S. Thomas, differ very 
much from one another in regard 
to questions of this sort. Kleutgen, 
Liberatore, S^nseverino, Tongiorgi, 
Ramiere, and Stockl may be cited 
as the most distinguished modern 
expositors of the doctrine common- 
ly taught in Catholic schools ; and 
the differences among these are well 
known. A very able writer, who is 
now publishing a series of articles 
in this magazine, and who happily 
combines a profound knowledge of 
mathematics and physics with his 
deep metaphysical science, departs, 
in some instances, from all these, 
and strikes out a path for himself, 
in which we are sure that every 
philosophical reader will watch his 
progress with the greatest interest 
Personally we are disposed to favor 
the stricter Thomistic doctrine so 
ably elucidated by Liberatore and 
Stockl, and to prefer text-books of 
a similar method and doctrine; 
yet we should not think we were 
authorized to censure as unsound, 



F. Louagcs Philosophy. 



^3S 



theological sense, any pbilo- 
lical work, merely because it 
It deserve, in our judgment, to 
;riticised on purely scientific 
nds, or to condemn as abso- 
r unsound, in ^ purely philo- 
ical sense, a work essentially 
rcordance with the scholastic 
m, on account of any particular 
ons of its author on topics of 
ence among Catholic teachers 
cknowledged scientific emi- 
i and authority. 
; are sorry to be obliged to 
hat, in our judgment, F. Lou- 
work cannot be exempted by 
dost impartial criticism from 
r theological or philosophical 
ire for radical unsoundness on 
important points, and besides 
that it cannot stand the test 
^en literary criticism, and is, 
fore, wholly unsuitable for use 
text-book in Catholic schools. 
5ive the author full credit for 

intentions, and attribute his 
re to accomplish his laudable 
rtaking simply to the fact that 
las attempted a very difficult 

in which very few have 
:ved a remarkable success, 
}ut having duly estimated its 
ous nature, and made the re- 
te preparation for coping with 
omiidable obstacles in the way 
hap})y issue. 

e are bound to sustain the 
;ment we have pronounced by 

proofs and reasons, in view of 
;reat importance of the subject 
.^atholic teachers and pupils, 
this duty we shall now en- 
or to fulfil, in accordance 
the sentiment of the trite old 
(sophical adage : 

Amicus noster Plato 
S«d magis arnica Veritas 

id, first, we think that the au- 

has underrated the average 

ude of our young men for 



philosophical studies. We have 
not the pleasure of knowing F. Lou- 
age's pupils or their literary attain- 
ments; but we presume that they 
are not worse off than the pupils 
of other Catholic colleges, where 
the philosophical education re- 
ceives a far greater development 
than his " text-book for the use of 
schools " seems to warrant. We 
know, of course, that the literary 
instruction hitherto given in the 
public schools of this country is 
too light and superficial to serve as 
a fair preparation for philosophical 
pursuits; and we admit that even 
our Catholic schools and colleges, 
though certainly superior to most 
public institutions of a like kind, 
may yet complain in some measure 
of the same evil ; but, notwithstand- 
ing this, we believe that those 
among our youths who feel any in- 
clination to dedicate themselves to 
the study of philoso[)hy have suffi- 
cient ability to master ten times as 
much of philosophical matter as F. 
Louage*s text-book contains. 

A book which pretends to em- 
brace logic, metaphysics, and ethics 
within the narrow compass of 
about 220 small pages of clear type 
cannot be styled " a course of phi- 
losophy"; and when it claims to 
be " designed as a text-book for the 
use of schools," it tends to give 
abroad a very wrong idea of the 
present condition of Catholic edu- 
cation in America. If our boys can- 
not have anything better than the su- 
perficial philosophy the "text-book " 
of the reverend author furnishes, 
we would say: Let them forsake 
philosophy, and be satisfied with 
the Catechism of the Christian Doc- 
trine, Let them remain undis- 
turbed in their humble simplicity, 
and do not foster in them the vain 
thought that they are superior to 
others, only because they have 



\ 



234 



F. Louage's Phihsophy. 



learned by heart a few philosophi- 
cal phrases, which they would be 
embarrassed to defend, and even to 
explain. 

The London Tablet^ November 
22, 1873, remarks that our author 
" does not go very deeply into any- 
thing." This remark is true. 
Many important philosophical doc- 
trines are not even mentioned by 
him ; his book says nothing about 
universals, nothing about the es- 
sential constituents of being, no- 
thing about real and logical dis- 
tinction, nothing about simplicity 
and composition, nothing about 
quantity and quality. We do not 
think that any one can aspire to 
the honor of being a philosopher 
without a clear and distinct know- 
ledge of these subjects, and of the 
many momentous questions con- 
nected with them. 

Again, the " text-book " is alto- 
gether silent about creation, its 
true notion, its possibility, its re- 
ality, and its final end — a silence 
which is all the more remarkable, 
as every one knows how pertina- 
ciously this Christian and philo- 
sophical dogma is attacked every 
day by the adepts of the rational- 
istic schools. The " text-book *' 
ignores cosmology altogether; and 
therefore it does not even allude to 
any theory concerning the consti- 
tution of bodies, the nature of mat- 
ter, the laws of physical causation, 
or the conditions of natural phe- 
nomena. Neither is anything said 
in particular about the origin of 
the human soul — a subject con- 
cerning which many ancient and 
modern errors should have been 
pointed out and refuted ; nor any- 
thing about that important truth 
that the soul is the form of the 
body ; nor anything about the 
scholastic view of the origin of 
ideas — a view which the author 



should not have silently passed 
over, but was obliged to refute be- 
fore concluding, as he does, in favor 
of the exploded ontologistic system. 

In his theodicy we havre sought 
in vain for any mention of a posi- 
tive conservation of creatures, or 
of God's immediate concurrence 
with all creatures in their opera- 
tions. We only found a few re- 
marks, altogether unsatisfactory, on 
the " influence " of God over the 
free actions of man. The "text- 
book " is equally deficient in ethics, 
where the whole discussion about 
the ultimate end of man is entirely 
forgotten, although it is unques- 
tionably one of the cardinal points 
of moral philosophy. Natural rights 
are not even mentioned; habits, 
virtues, and passions are likewise 
absolutely ignored. 

We might go on enumerating 
other deficiencies of the '* text- 
book"; but as we have other 
things more important to notice, 
we will only point out in general 
that scarcely any modern error i^ 
directly impugned, and scarcely 
any of the plausible arguments ad- 
vanced by modern thinkers against 
such capital truths as divine provi- 
dence, human liberty, etc., are an- 
swered or even hinted at. We can- 
not be surprised, then, that Dr. 
Brownson regards this "modest 
work " as " simpler and more easily 
understood by the English reader 
ignorant of Latin and the scholas- 
tics " than F. Hill's work. It is 
clear that it must be so ; for, when 
all things difficult are set aside, 
what remains must be just as easy 
as any " reader ignorant of Latin 
and the scholastics " can desire. 
But "the fact is," as the London 
Tablet very wisely observes, "that 
such books as this are a mistake. 
We have had plenty such as this 
from France before, their use in 



F. LcHMge's Phitosopliy. 



235 



Hrhools and colleges being jterni- 
nons, as wc can testify ; because 
:iie)r create either a slovenly or a 
ctptical habit of mind. Either a 
b/y student sees difHculties and 
']uestions suggested, and he takes 
ni> tiouWc to gel the things es- 
pliinetl lo him, or a clever, active- 
mrnded boy is induced to dub 
logic and metaphysics humbug, and 
10 raminate 00 his own imaginings 
md wayward reasonings." 

An elementary course of philoso- 
phy, (o be really useful, should be 
nothing less than an accurate sum- 
mary of some complete standard 
*ork already accepted and recog- 
niied by good philosophical and 
theolngical authorities; so that the 
itudcnt may know that, in case of 
need, he can. by referring to the 
litter, solve the doubts and diffi- 
ruldes now and then arising from 
the incompleteness and brevity of 
the former. We have many such 
^JJtturscs of philosophy in the Latin 
■giiagc, They are the work of 
tticnt writers, who carefully coi- 
ned and meihodii'ally condensed 
jl tbcir books the learning and the 
" centuries for the benefit 
pthow who needed an introdoc- 
co the philosophical discipline. 
. iludent who can make tise 
' such Latin books perceives, 
mile going through his course of 
sophy, that he is brought into 
iBttant relation with the most 
thinkers of the classical 
nioiophical ages, knows that 
rorks are always accessible 
\ htm, and is gratified to think 
t their *ecogni;!ed authority af- 
"s him a solid guarantee against 
\ subreption of fallacious doc- 
Whcn such conditions as 
e arc realtr,cd, it is evident that 
■ elementary course of philosophy 
f be very useful indeed. But 
'l it not the case with an Eng- 



lish course of philosophy designed 
as a text-book for ihgse who do 
not understand Latin. Such a 
text-book cannot refer the English 
student who knows nothing but 
English to other complete and ap- 
proved works of philosophy ; for we 
have none such in our language. 

It seems to us that before we 
can employ a good English text- 
book of philosophy for the use of 
schools to the best advantage, we 
must be provided with a great, 
sound, and exhaustive philosophical j 
work in our own language, to which 
the student would refer for all those * 
questions and difficulties which 
cannot be sufficiently explained in 
an elementary course. VVc think 
that even F, Hill's English Elements 
of Philosophy^ excellent as it is, 
needs to be supplemented by a 
higher English philosophical work. 
Those of his pupils who cannot 
consult the Latin volumes of the 
schoolmen may frequently remain 
in doubt as to the proper settlement 
of many important questions which 
their professor did not judge ne- 
cessary or possible to examine 
thoroughly in his valuable book; 
and we have no doubt that all 
professors of philosophy will agree 
with us that such a great English ^ 
work as we suggest — a very arsenal' 
of good philosophical weapons — ts 
one of the greatest necessities of 
our time and of ou r country. With- 
out it, all our philosophical efforts 
are doomed to be more or less in- 
sufficient and unsuccessful. 

And now, let us come to another 
consideration. If any book needs 
to be extremely correct in its ex- 
pressions and definitions, surely 
elemcnlary text-books for beginners 
must be so ; for, if the foundation 
is wrong, what is built upon it can- 
not be right. Now, we are sorry 
(o say that F. Louage's Course of 



336 



F. Lauage^s Philosophy. 



Philosophy teems with false no- 
tions and incorrect expressions. 
Dr. Brownson openly rejects the 
author's definition of philosophy^ of 
beings of existence^ of possibility y of 
esse nee y of science ; and in the main 
he is evidently right. Yet, while 
we admit with Dr. Brownson that 
** the science of the supersensible " 
is not a good definition of philoso- 
phy, we do not adopt his own defi- 
nition, " the science of principles "y 
because we know that the true 
definition of philosophy is "the 
science of things (supersensible or 
not) through their highest princi- 
])les.** . Nor do we agree with him 
that F. *I.ouago*s definition oi being — 
** that which exists or may exist " — 
is iniorroct: for, although what 
n\av ovist* but docs not exist, is no 
\\\\\\^ \\\ the rriU order, yet it is 
^^^luotluh^ \\\ the ideal order, as an 
kM\'\\ v^ thvmnht: and therefore 
\ \ v»\» ♦tto'» dofinition of being is 

\\\x dvtlhUh>u of possibility, as 
\W '\^\vv\\\^'\\\ of the attributes 
N^ Ith \\ \ oh^htutr a being, in such a 
w^w \\\A\ lU r\iHlence does not in- 
\y»lu M\s fontradiction," we do 
uva iHi|»i'ovt;, not exactly for the 
U4JI0U iuUluccd by Dr. Brownson, 
ilut (ho )\on-existent has no attri- 
i»ulcb, but because the definition 
i iiubiders the attributes as "con- 
hlitucnts " of being (which they are 
h(»l), and because the word "agree- 
imiii " should either be replaced 
by ** non-repugnance," or at least 
• jiialified by the epithet " intellec- 
hi.il," referring to the divine in- 
h lln I, in which all possibilities are 
Kit .illy ( ontained. 

I li.il ** the essence of a being 
. «.ht)i;iici nf the collection of its 
, ...» hii'tl iillriliutes," as the author 
>,\ iIm- •* li'Kl-book " says (p. 7), is 
I . M.ihily •( |in ill error. The attri- 
\tsk\i^^ lif ^ bt^iHg are not the mate- 



rial components of its essence, nor 
do they precede the essence ; it is, 
on the contrary, from the essence 
itself that all the attributes flow. • 
The essence of any given being is 
nothing else than " the ratio of a 
given act to its term," as has been 
clearly established by a writer in 
The Catholic World, March, 
1874, and the attributes of any given 
being are nothing else than different 
aspects of the actuality of its es- 
sence. 

It is no less erroneous to say that 
" a genus is a collection of beings 
having one or more attributes com- 
mon to each " (p. 8). This defi- 
nition might be admitted in natural 
history; but, in philosophy, genus 
is not a collection, nor is it conceiv- 
ed by composition, but by abstrac- 
tion. Genus is usually defined to 
be " a ratio which can be found in 
many things, and be predicated of 
each of them when an incomplete 
answer is given to the question 
What is itr To confound the 
universal with the collective is in- 
excusable, we think, in a "text- 
book " of philosophy. 

"A species," says the author, 

is a collection of beings belonging 
to one and the same genus, but 
having particular and constitutive 
properties " (p. 8). Same remark 
as above : Species, in philosophy, is 
not a collection, but is "a ratio 
which can be found in many things, 
and be predicated of each of them 
when a complete answer is given 
to the question. What is it f** Spe- 
cies, like geRUs, is a universal. 

" Being, the most general genus, 
is divided into two species, corpo- 
real and incorporeal beings " (p. 8). 
No philosopher of good reputation 
has ever considered being as ?» 
"genus." It is known that "be- 
ing " is above all genus, and accord- 
ingly is called "transcendental." 



« :. 



F. Louages Pfiilosophy. 



il" being" were a genus, nothing 
itjuld save us from pantheism. 

"Science ... is objective, when 
H'c consider it as existing in the 
<i)i)ect contemplated " (p. 9). Can 
scicrnce be considered as existing 
.n the moon ? 

■' Art is the application of science 
10 external things according to de- 
lennined rules " (p. 9). If so, 
then all artists and artisans should 
be racn of science ; which, unhappi- 
ly, i& not Inie. .A.rt is usii.illy and 
(iglitly defined as Rtcia ratio facti- 
tilium — " a right method of making 
utjtbing" with or without the ap- 
plication of science. 

" lx>gic is the first part of philoso- 
Vhj — ihe part which treats of the 
Tint courts of the human mind to 
discover itiilh " (p. 17). We think 
ihjt apprehension, judgment, and 
reuoning, which are the proper 
oliject of logic, are no efforts of ihe 
hucnan mind, but very natural and 
tponlaueous operations. 

" An idea may be considered as 
Milling cither in the mind or out 
of it " (p. tS). It is very improper 
<o ^ve the name of idea to any- 
ihiug out of llie mind, as words, 
E«iurcs, and other outward natu- 
tiJ or conventional signs. 

"Ideas are, first, either true or 
t»l(e. They arc tnic when they 
lonform with iheir objects, false 
•hen they do not. But since this 
conformity is always with the ob- 
jects at represented in our minds, 
*nd not as they may be in reality, 
•e may, with this explanation, ad- 
mit ilic opinion of those who pre- 
tend that there are no false ideas " 
(P' id). This explanation has no 
^touQds. Ideas are never com- 
peted with the objects as represcnt- 
rd in our minds. Such a compari- 
>on would have no meaning ; for 
liie object as represented in our 
U ii nothing else than a subjec- 



237 

tive form identical with the idea 
itself. When philosophers say that 
there are no false iiitas, they mean 
that ideas always conform to their 
object as it shows itself. This is 
the common and true doctrine. 
Even the author himself, probably 
forgetful of what he had said in 
this passage, teaches, a few pages 
later, that "we cannot err in per- 
ceiving or in feeling " (p, 23). 

"An idea is distihct when it can 
be readily separated from any other 
idea, . , . and is confused when the 
object cannot be distinctly deter- 
mined " (p. 21). We believe that 
ideas are called "distinct," not 
when they can be readily separaUH 
from one another (a thing which 
wc cannot even conceive), but 
when they represent distinctly 
their object in all its particulars. 
In the contrary case, they are call- 
ed " confused." 

"The extension of an idea signi- 
fies the whole collection of the 
individuals which the same idea 
embraces" {p. ai). This is false. 
The extension of an idea is the 
range of its universality; and wc 
have already remarked that uni- 
versality is not a collection of 
individuals. Moreover, it is (em- 
prehension that " embraces " what- 
ever it comprehends, while exten- 
sion embraces nothing, but only 
"reaches" potentially the terms to 
which it extends, inasmuch as the 
idea is applicable to them. 

" When, in order to form a 
species, we collect several individ- 
uals having common properties, we- 
perform an operation which is call- 
ed generalization " (p. 21). This 
is very wrong. Generalization, 
says Webster, "is the act of reduc- 
ing particulars to their genera "; 
and this cannot be done by collect- 
ing individuals, but only by leav- 
ing aside whatever is individual, 



238 



F. Lautkge's Philosophy. 



and retaining that which is com- 
mon. 

" When the mind, after having 
compared two ideas, declares their 
consistency or their inconsistency, 
it makes a judgment " (p. 23). 
The mind properly compares, not 
the ideas themselves, but their 
objects as cognized. Two ideas 
may be found consistent, and yet 
no judgment be made. Thus, I see 
that the idea of whiteness is .consis- 
tent with the idea of paper; but 
does it follow that my mind judges 
the paper to be white ? Not at all. 
It might as well judge the paper to 
be green ; for the idea of green is 
no less consistent with the idea of 
paper. It is therefore evident that 
the mind in judging does not de- 
clare the consistency or inconsis- 
tency of two ideas, but affirms the 
mutual inclusion or exclusion of 
two objective terms as apprehend- 
ed. 

" Nothing is more obscure or 
less useful than such classifications 
(of categories) " (p. 24). The 
author should have been loath to 
condemn what all great philoso- 
phers have praised. He might 
have considered that classification, 
as in all the other sciences, so also 
in philosophy, brings clearness, 
and that clearness is very useful. 

"Reasoning is said to be im- 
mediate when no comparison is 
needed" (p. 30). How can there 
be reasoning without the compari- 
son of two terms with a third } 

" Method is that operation of the 
mind, etc." (p. 44). Method is the 
order followed in the operation; 
the operation itself is the use of 
method. 

" Induction ... is an operation 
of the mind inducing us to affirm, 
etc." (p. 46). Why " inducing us ".> 
It is the conclusion that is induc- 
ed, not ourselves. 



"The criterion of certitude is 
the sign by which certitude is per- 
fectly distinguished from error" 
(p. 52). We remark, that there 
are criteria of truth, but not pro- 
perly of certitude. Certitude is 
the firm adhesion of the mind to 
the truth made known to it, and 
needs no criterion,, because it cer- 
tifies itself by its very existence. 
The author says that " certitude is 
at the same time a state and an act 
of the mind. As a state, it may be 
defined to be a disposition by 
which the mind tends to adhere 
firmly to the known truth " (p. 50). 
But this is a great mistake. First, 
the act of adhering to truth is an 
act of judging, not an act of certi- 
tude. Secondly, the state of certi- 
tude is not a disposition by which 
the mind tends to adhere to 
truth. So long as the mind tepds 
to adhere, there is no adhesion, 
and therefore no certitude. Certi- 
tude is the rest of the mind in the 
known truth. 

" Reason is a perception " (p. 
62). It is superfluous to remark 
that reason is a faculty, and no 
perception is a faculty. 

"Consciousness cannot be de- 
ceived, although it may deceive" 
(p. 62). How can consciousness 
deceive? And if it can deceive, 
on what ground does the author im- 
mediately add : " Hence conscious- 
ness gives true certitude " } 

" The evidence of senses is that 
invincible propensity which induc- 
es us to refer our sensations to the 
bodies which, according to our 
conviction, have been the cause of 
them" (p. 63). We observe, that 
our propensity cannot be our evi- 
dence. Our evidence must be ob- 
jective, whilst our propensity is 
a subjective disposition. The evi- 
dence of senses is the evident per- 
ception of an object acting on the 



F. Lounge's Philosopky. 



239 



j«nsc5. The invincible propensity 
~ nothing but the necessity of 

-IdiDg lo that evidence. 

"Common sense is nothing else 
i.in that general knowledge of 
ii-:! notions or principles which is 

jnd in all men" (p. 65). Com- 
iin sense, according to Webster, 
.9 thai power of the mind which, 
br & Icincl of instinct or a short pro- 
[cu of reasoning, perceives truth, 
■ie relation of things, cause and 
I'cct, etc., and hence enables the 
ii/isessor to discern what is right, 
iicful, ot proper, and adopt the 
iLi! means to accomplish his pur- 
liiic. This deiinilion, or rather 
.nrription. is wonderfully correct. 
Itat kind of instinct, in fact, which 
the Scutch jihilosophers wrongly 
coniider as blind, is really nothing 
l«sihan a short process of reason- 
tnt nhich carries evidence within 
iiidf. Reasoning, when formal — 
ili»t i«, when its premises and its 
oncliision present themselves dis- 
'nctly and in a logical form, as in 
'be scientific demonslraiion — car- 
iie» within itself what may be styl- 
ni ftjitx evidence; and, when in- 
furmal — that is. when the ronclu- 
«on and its grounds present ihem- 
flve* as implied in one another 
••(ihout a«suming the formal shape 
uf in argument — it carries within 
itiHf what may be called tiireet 
evidence; and because it is in this 
K-cond manner that men common- 
ly iciinire their first convictions, 
ihi» shorter and informal process 
uf reasoning is called reasoning of 
■-WKiuB senst. Accordingly, com- 
nnii „!,„- is not merely "a gener- 

' l.Ti.iv. l,-,I^c," but a source of gen- 
■I i l.Ti.iwledge, extending to all 

^^.■lLt^inns that arc evident but 
mfannal, and especially 10 moral 
dictates, such as "Good is to be 
done," "Evil is to be shunned," 
*Cod is to be honored," etc., 



which in fact have ever been 
fcaown by the special name of 
judgments of common sense — scn- 
siis rialiirce communis. 

" The laws of nature, considered 
individually, are contingent " (p. 
76). Would they cease to be con- 
tingent if they were not consider- 
ed individually? 

"Metaphysics literally means 
ab^'t nature, and nature here signi- 
fies the material world" (p. 81), 
These two assertions do not agree 
with the common notion of meta- 
physics, and have been refuted in 
The Catholic World for Decem- 
ber, 1873. 

"Special metaphysics has been 
called/fliTttuiti/i^/fi^ "(p. 81). Pneu- 
matology is only a part of special 
metaphysics. Every one knows 
that cosmology and anthropology 
belong to special metaphysics no 
less than natural theology. 

"In this dissertation (ontology) 
we consider being as abstracted 
from existence" {p. 81). Onto- 
logy does not consider being as ab 
stracted from existence, hut con- 
siders being as such, and therefore 
as existing either in the order of 
things, or at least in the order of 
ideas. It is as impossible to con- 
ceive being as abstracted from ex- 
istence as to conceive a circle as 
abstracted from rotundity, 

" Some existence must have ex- 
isted before any possibility" (p. 
84.). We do not like the expres- 
sion " existence exists," as we 
would not like this other, "velocity 
runs." Moreover, possibilities are 
co-ctemal with God; it is Ihcre- 
fore incorrect to say that some ex- 
istence must have existed hefore 
them. 

" Principle is that which con- 
tains the reason for the existence 
of something. . . . Cause is that 
which produces something, or which 



240 



F. Louage's PkUosophy. 



concurs in the production of 
something" (p. 85). These defini- 
tions are very vague and unsatis- 
factory, to say the least. 

"The condition is the difficulty 
to be conquered in order to obtain 
the effect " (p. 86). By no means. 
Is the presence of the object a dif- 
ficulty to be conquered in order to 
see it ? 

"The end . . . has been im- 
properly called the final cause " 
(p. 87). Why " improperly " } 

" Modification ... is the sub- 
stance appearing to us with such 
or such determined form ** (p. 89). 
Quite absurd. Modification is not 
the substance, but the accidental 
form itself, no matter whether ap- 
pearing or not appearing to us. 

" Modification cannot exist with- 
out substance, nor substance with- 
out mollification " (p. 90). This pro- 
position is too universal. Would 
the author admit modifications in 
the divine substance ? 

" Some authors divide infinite 
into the infinite aciu^ or the actual 
infinite, . . . and the infinite po- 
tcntia, or the potential or virtual 
infinite, which can be infinitely 
increased or diminished. But cer- 
tainly this division cannot be ac- 
cepted, since the infinite and a 
substance which can be increased 
are two t^rms involving contradic- 
tion " (p. 91). What the author 
calls "some authors" are all the 
schoolmen. We put to him the 
following question : Will the hu- 
man soul have a finite or an infi- 
nite duration.^ If finite, it must 
have an end ; but, if it has no end, 
it cannot but be the contradictory 
of finite — that is, infinite. Yet this 
infinite duration is successive ; it is 
therefore not actually, but poten- 
tially, infinite. Hence the division 
of the schoolmen can and must be 
accepted. The author thinks that 



the potential infinite is not infinite, 
but indefinite ; but surely what has 
no end is infinite, not indefinite, 
although it is conceived by us in- 
definitely, because it transcends 
our comprehension. The indefi- 
nite is not that which has no end, 
but that of which the end remains 
undetermined. 

" That we have in our mind the 
idea of the infinite is certain. . . . 
Evidently it has been placed in our 
mind by God himself, since the 
finite could not give the idea of 
the infinite" (p. 91, 92). We un- 
doubtedly have a notion of the in- 
finite; but the author gratuitously 
assumes that this notion is an id^a 
placed in our minds from without, 
while the fact is that such a notion 
is not an ideaj but a concept of our 
mind, or a result of intellectual 
operation. Of course, the finite 
cannot give us the idea of the in- 
finite; but from the finite we can, 
and we do, form a concept of the 
infinite. This is the true and com- 
mon doctrine. We cannot under- 
take to give in this place a refuta- 
tion of ontologism; we only re- 
mark that the ontologistic theory 
is so generally repudiated that it 
should not find a place in a text- 
book for the use of schools. 

" A material being is one which 
is essentially extensive and inert " 
(p. 92). If so, how can the author 
consider as " more acceptable " 
the view of Leibnitz, that "a mo- 
nad is essentially unextensive " ? 

(P- 93), , 

" Spiritual substance is quadru- 
ple — ^namely, God, the angels, the 
human soul, and the soul of the 
beasts" (p. 93). The soul of the 
beasts spiritual! — a nice doctrine 
indeed for the use of schools. 
Nor is this an oversight of the au- 
thor; for we find that he endows 
beasts with intellect also (p. 170). 



F. Louage's Philosophy. 



24«1 



I Whal shall we say, but thai we live 
P fa an age of progress ? 

The properties of a being are 
P^ikose parts which conslituce the 
^"K'Cp- 93)- Wc \\a.ye already 
observed that the being is consti- 
tBted by its principles, and not by 
tis properties. 

" A being is true when it agrees 
•ilh its own attributes" (p. 94). 
It would be more philosophical to 
say that a being is true when iis 
constituent principles agree with 
one another, 

"A bad action or a sin is some- 
thing merely negative" (p. 95). 
Fake. The physical action is pos- 
ilHie, and its sinfulness is not a 
ation, but a privation, as iheo- 
gians know. 

"Wcm«y define relation, in gen - 
o be a property pertaining to a 
iBng when compared with another 
' (P- 95)- T'l'S 's a wrong 
eiinliion. Relation can hardly be 
jllied a property. Distance and 
■ relations ; yet no one 
vid dream of calling them /rc- 

I " Identity is the perseverance of 
being in the same state " (p. 96). 
lulhor should have said " in 



rnlity 



for 



Mige of slate docs not destroy 
fcntity. 

I "Space is virtually {peUntia) in- 

pte, using the word infinite, as we 

v before explained, in the sense 

f indefinite. It is also immense 

I infinitely divisible " (p. 97}, 

« author might have considered 

immensity is infinity ; and 

lerefore, if space is immense, it is 

Unite, and not indefinite. 

W^ Time is the duration of a being, 

• the permanence of its existence " 

\ 97), Wiihdtil successivity there 

t 00 lime; and therefore the defi- 

1 of time given by the author 

j^essCD tidily defective. 



" Duration without an end . . 
is the same as immortality " (p, 98); \ 
If the earth is to last without aH>J 
end, shall we call it immortal .' 

" Perfections are modificatiom 
of beings" (p. 107). This proposiJ^ 
tion, as understood by the aiithor,^^ 
who extends it to all the perfeclionsJ 
of contingent beings, is evidently! 
false. 

"The Scolists teach that there 'm 
a real distinction among God's at- 
tributes " (p. 115). ISy no means. 
The Scotists would never have 
taught such a gross error. Tiiey 
taught that the distinction between 
God's absolute attributes was a 
formal, and not a rfal, distinction. 

" For God, the interior acts are 
those whose object is himself" (p. 
1 2i). There are not many interior 
acts in God, as the author implies, 
but one permanent act only. 

" It appears difficult to reconcile 
the immutability of God with his 
liberty. Three systems have been 
formed for this purpose, but ihey 
arenotsatisfactory "(p. 124), If the 
author had considered that God's 
liberty is all ad extra, andnot tf(/i«- 
tra^ he would have seen that he had 
no right to qualify as he does the 
theological solution of the present 
difficulty. Each of the three solu- 
tions is satisfactory, at least in thi«. 
sense: that each of them sets at 
naught the objections of the oppo* 
nents. This is all we need. As to 
which of the three solutions is the 
best, it is not our duty to decide. 

" Immensity means the same as 
omnipresence " (p. 130). This ii 
not true. Omnipresence is relative, 
and its range is measured by the 
actual existence of creatures, as it 
does not extend beyond creation ; 
while immensity is absolute, and 
transcends all created things. 

" S. Thomas says that God also 
sees future free and contingent 



4 



242 



F. Louages Philosophy. 



things in their essence — that is, that 
he sees them in his eternal and im- 
mutable decrees " (p. 133). Does 
the author mean that S. Thomas 
considers the essence of contingent 
things as equivalent to the eternal 
and immutable decrees ? 

" But Molina and his disciples 
contend that with such a system (S. 
Thomases) it is impossible to defend 
human liberty " (p. 133). Here Mo- 
lina and his disciples are repre- 
sented as the decided adversaries 
of the Angelic Doctor. It is not 
fair. The author should have re- 
membered that S. Thomas's doctrine 
is variously explained by various 
writers, and that it is possible to 
be a follower of S. Thomas without 
being a Thomist in the usual sense 
given to this word. 

" Veracity consists in this : that a 
being can neither deceive nor be 
deceived *' (p. 134). Shall we deny 
the author's veracity because he has 
been sometimes deceived } 

" Justice is the attribute accord- 
ing to which we give to others what 
belongs to them " (p. 135). Justice 
with us is a virtue, not an attribute ; 
with God, justice is an attribute, but 
does not consist in giving to others 
what belongs to them ; it consists in 
giving to others what the order of 
reason demands. 

" Providence is, therefore, a con- 
tinuous creation" (p. 137). The 
mistake is evident. It is conserva- 
tion, not providence, that is thus 
defined. 

" The action of God upon us 
during life is constant, and this is 
what we mean by his providence " 
(P- ^37)- This is another mistake. 
The author confounds the notion 
of providence with that of concur- 
sus. 

" In regard to its wrong use (of 
liberty), God cannot have an imme- 
diate, but only a mediate, influence 



on man's actions, in the sense that 
he has granted liberty of which a 
bad use is made against his sugges- 
tions. His sanctity forbids that 
he should act immediately in that 
case" (p. 138). Not at all. God 
immediately concurs to all our ac- 
tions, whether good or bad, as every 
theologian knows, inasmuch as they 
are physical actions ; and concurs 
neither immediately nor mediately 
to their badness, because their bad- 
ness is nothing but a privation, and 
therefore requires no efficient 
cause. 

The author misrepresents (pp. 
138, 139) the doctrine of the Moli- 
nists concerning the influence {con- 
cursus) of God upon our actions. 
He says that this influence, accord- 
ing to the Molinists, " is positive 
and direct, but not on our will^'* and 
" consists in aflbrding a concourse 
of circumstances the most suita- 
ble for the determination." The 
author may have found this inter- 
pretation of Molina's doctrine in 
some old book ; but it is known 
that the Molinists have always ad- 
mitted God's influence "on our 
will," though they never admitted 
the physical predetermination ; and 
it is no less certain that none of 
them maintain that "a concourse 
of circumstances " suffices to ex- 
plain God's influence on our free 
actions. 

We are afraid that the reader 
must be tired of following us in this 
enumeration of philosophical, theo- 
logical, and historical mistakes, and 
we ourselves are tired of our irk- 
some task. Indeed, the psychology 
and the ethics of our author are 
open to as much criticism as the 
rest of the work ; but what we have 
said abundantly suffices to justify 
our opinion that F. Louage's text- 
book has no claim to adoption in 
Catholic schools. Accordingly, we 



F. Louvre's Philosophy. 



243 



f shall omit the detailed examination 
I i>f the last 86 pages of his work, 
innot conceal the fact that 
I we have been much surprised and 
I paioed at the open profession of 
ontologism made by the author in 
his article " On the Nature and Ori- 
gin of out Ideas." That Dr. Brown- 
wn, inhis^^Tinc, should try to show 
ihai his 9wn ontologisin can be phi- 
biophically defended and does not 
1 bll under ecclesiastical condem- 
Wion, we do not wonder. He is 
. priest; he does not write 
rr sehnol-boys, but addresses him- 
1 educated men, who can sift 
< arguments, and dismiss with 
I smile what they think to 
leunsound; and, after all, he takes 
It care to screen himself behind 
w!y invented distinction be- 
cen ideal intuition, and percep- 
11 or cognition, based on the as- 
traplion, honestly maintained by 
I, that "intuition is the act of 
le object, not of the subject," But 
" text-book " the case is 
j<ry different. !•'. Louage makes 
B distinctions, and takes no pre- 
■utions. He declares uncondition- 
ly that *■ God is present to our in- 
ject, and seen by it," and that 
' 'I rational ideas come into (he 
ind ky thf intuitive pererpiion of 
E simple being, or of God," and 
"n a word, all rational ideas, 
T all, arc nolhing else than the 
f the simple being (Cc*/) con- 
il in itself " (p. 156). Can the 
Bthor be ignorant that this doctrine 
bincide« with the doctrine which, 
I the i8ih of September, 1861, 
Roman Congregation of the 
f Inquisition has declared to be 
Icnahic (/u/c tradi non posse) 1 
■ reverend author believes that 
s doctrine has been held by S. 
ustinc, S. Anselm, S. Bonaven- 
, Rosiuct, and many others"; 
> we doubt whether this fact, even 



if i 



well established, would 
afford him sufficient protection 
against the Roman declaration. 
We presume, in fact, that S. Augus- 
tine, S. Anselm, etc., are better 
known and understood in Rome 
than in America. But, waiving all 
discussion on the subject, we can- 
not but repeat that a text-book foi 
Catholic schools must not teach as 
*''lhe true doctrine," and not even 
as a probable doctrine, what the 
Catholic Church shuns as unsound, 
unsafe, and untenable. This " true 
doctrine," nevertheless, he says, is 
" a mere hypothesis " ! 

And here we slop. We have 
given sixty passages of F. Louage's 
book, by which it is manifest that 
his course of philosophy is as sadly 
deficient in philosophical accuracy 
as it is glaringly incomplete in its 
survey of the philosophical topics. 
It is to be regretted that a man of 
his facility in writing has not de- 
voted himself to some subject more 
congenial to his talents. Such 
books as this are a mistake. A 
philosophy which is not precise in 
lis definitions nor deep in its bear- 
ings can only do harm. Such a 
philosophy will certainly not enable 
the young student successfully to 
uphold truth, nor make him proof 
against sophistry, nor afford him 
any guidance whatever in after-life. 
It will, on the contrary, lay him 
open to temptation and seduction, 
as it will open his eyes to many ob- 
jections which he has not the pow- 
er to solve. Indeed, unpretending 
common sense is safer for individ- 
uals and for nations than a superfi- 
cial philosophical training. A sad 
experience shows this to be a fact. 
It was shallow philosophy that most 
powerfully aided the spread of ra- 
tionalism and infidelity in France, 
Germany, and other European na- 
tions. America needs no such things 






1 



F. Lomgx's Philosophy. 



244 

We need thorough and comprehen- 
sive philoBophical teaching in ac- 
cordance with the tradition of the 
schools which have been formed 
and directed by the highest ecclesi- 
astical authority, and which shall 
be conducted by men thoroughly 
competent for the task. The only 
fruit our youth can gather from any 
other system will be noxious in its 
effects both on their minds and 
their morals. Yet, as we cannot 
remain idly wailing and doing no- 
thing until the perfect system of 
education descends from heaven, 
we cannot dismiss this Important 
matter without a few more remarks 
upon the practical course to be 
pursued under our present disad- 
vantages. 

In the first place, we renew our 
recommendation of F. Hill's text- 
book for all classes which cannot 
make use of a Latin manual, and 
are capable of understanding the 
above-mentioned treatise. Profes- 
sors who understand the Latin lan- 
guage can prepare themselves lo 
elucidate and supplement the text 
by their own lectures and explana- 
tions, Those who read French 
will find in the translation of F. 
Kleutgen's Philosapkie der Vorseit 
into that language an exposition of 
scholastic philosophy, with a refuta- 
tion of modem errors, which will 
be of the greatest utility. Those 
who read German are referred to 
the works of Dr. Stockl, and those 
who read Italian to San Severino * 
and the admirable treatise of Libe- 
ral ore~--Od'//fl Conoscensa iHteliet- 
luaU. It is a pity that these works 
of Kkutgen and Liberatore could 
not be at once translated into En- 
glish, while we are waiting for the 
coming man who will give us a 

of Ihii Duthoi li m 



•The prineipil 
LallD. WebellCTc 
inlnlUn. There 
the Clvitla Catltli, 






great original work. The 1 

lie Unions which are so devotedly 
pursuing "studies" in respect to 
education, or some other society of 
young men anxious lo promote 
their own intellectual culture, could 
not do better than to provide for 
the necessary expense of making 
and publishing these and similar 
translations. The English lan- 
guage is poorly provided with 
works of this kind. If the study 
of Latin must be excluded from 
the education of so many of our in- 
telligent and cultured young men, 
or so superficially pursued as to be 
practically useless, it cannot be loo 
earnestly recommended to them to 
learn the French, German, and Ita- 
lian languages, or at least one or 
two of them, that they may have 
access to their rich and abundant 
stores of Catholic literature, con- 
tained not only in books, but in the 
periodicals, which are conducted 
with an ability and extended over 
a range of subjects far beyond what 
our own have yet attained. This 
last remark applies especially to the 
French periodicals. The best works 
ought, however, to be translated 
into English, and the only obstacle 
to this desirable work is the ex- 
pense, which at present effectually 
hinders its being done, except for 
very popular and salable books. 

Something ought to be done to 
enable young men who discover at 
a later period, when they are already 
engaged in the business of life, the 
defects of their education, to sup- 
ply these in some way. The manly 
and sensible letter of the alumni 
of the Dublin Catholic University 
to the Irish bishops expresses a 
want felt not only by young men 
in Ireland, but also in England and 
America, These young Irishmen 
point out two notable defects in 
their collegiate instruction — a(li 




F. Louages Philosophy. 



245 J 



I of inslniciion in physical science, 
a defect of inslruction in the 

I (cienee of Catholic doctrine. The 
Irish bishops, and the English 
bishops also, arc beginning energet- 
ic and wise measures for the im- 
provement of higher education for 
Cuiholic young men. At present, 
there seems no immediate prospect 
of similar measures being under- 
talini in this country; but, as a 
practical substitute, we venture to 
suggest to Catholic Unions and other 
Ucieties that courses of lectures 
would portly supply that lack, which 
it felt by so many, of the more re- 

I pilar and systematic instruction 

' which they did not receive at col- 

In respect to the actual instruc- 

Jton ai present given in schools, 

lains one other important 

Ppoini to be noticed. It is a regular 

Pjan of the plan of study in our 

picaderaies for young ladies, to give 

' ftem lessons in philosophy during 

c lust two years of their course. 

After a short course of pure logic, 

h presents no special difficulty, 

i'dic pu])ih of the academies under 

hfte Indies of the Sacred Heart — 

I irhich m.iy be taken as a specimen, 

; suppose, of other schools of 

Plimilar grade — have two lessons a 

tcck in what is called "mental 

ly," and another lesson in 

►ethics, during two years. The early 

which the pupils graduate, 

K»hich is usually about the comple- 

Ition of their eighteenth year, and 

^ttie many branches of study they 

; expected to pursue, make it 

mpoisible to give more time to 

: lessons. F. Hill's text-book 

s to be too difficult for use in 

liiew schools under the present 

tireumctances. Some might think 

It would be better to drop the study 

f philosophy altogether in young 

ldi»' schools, and cite in their 



own favor what we have said abov^. 
of the mischief of superficial in-^., 
struction in tijis science. But, ia^ 
the first place, if we were to give, 
this counsel, there is no probability 
that it would be followed ; and 
our own actiuaintance with the in- 
tellectual condition and wants of 
this very interesting and important 
class of young people induces us to 
think, that they cannot be relegated 
entirely to the catechism class, and 
really require instruction in these 
higher branches of mental and mo-, 
ral science. We would like to see the 
experiment of using Y. Hill's Phi- 
losophy fairly tried with these class- 
es, before it is rejected as too diffir 
cult. If an easier one is found to, 
be necessary, the only thing to be 
done is to try to make such a text- 
book, which shall be solid, accurate, 
sufficiently comprehensive, and yet 
written with a lucidity of style and 
explained with an appositeness of 
illustration, by examples, which will 
make it intelligible both to the 
teachers and the pupils. A diffi- 
cult task, certainly, and requiring a 
very unusual combination of high 
intellectual capacity and science 
with tact and skill in the adapta- 
tion of style and manner to the 
condition of the juvenile mind. Yet 
is it not equally difficult to make a 
good catechism? If it is feasible 
to produce such a text-book, we 
think there are classes of boys for 
whom it would be as useful as for 
female pupils. There are unques- 
tionably women, as well as men, 
who need and are capable of a 
much higher intellectual discipline 
than that which is possible for the 
generality, but we see no way for 
such persons to obtain what they 
desire, except by their own private 
reading, aided by the advice of a 
learned..and-^irdtGiQUS counsellor, 
" ' made in 






s V.'A ■ 




■'<\v-' »r i»E \ 



246 



Easier^ 



the present system by providing 
a longer course and more advanced 
instruction for a select class of 
pupils. 

This leads us to remark that the 
religious women who are dedicated 
to the work of higher instruction 
need themselves better preparation 
for their elevated and important 
task than they can at present re- 
ceive in convents. Beyond their 
previous education in the convent- 
school, which prepares them only to 
give what they have received, they 
can at present proceed no further, 
except by private study, for which 
both time and proper books are 
lacking. Lectures by learned 
priests, which advanced pupils 
might attend, would be the most 



effectual means of giving this train* 
ing. And as the principal object 
of these higher studies is not a 
mere intellectual culture, but edu- 
cation in the principles and doc- 
trines of the Catholic religion, there 
is need of more thorough doctrinal, 
and we might even say theolof^ical 
instruction in convent-schools, from 
priests who can devote a large part 
of their time and labor to a truly 
pastoral care of this choice and 
precious portion of Christ's flock — 
religious women and the young 
girls under their maternal care. 
There are many things to be 
amended and improved in all de« 
partments of Catholic education. 
Emendemus in melius quod ignoran^ 
ter peccavimus. 



EASTER. 

He's risen : O stars ! rejoice ; O angels ! sing ; 
Though we stand dumb with awe, or doubting turn 
To probe the wound above that heart where burn 
Great flames of love. The saints with rapture fling 
Their crowns before the throne, and angels wing 
Their anthems through the air. Come, man, and learn 
Where crowns belong ; thy God-like soul should yearn 
For them thick-set with every holy thing — 
Good deeds, prayers, penances, all shining bright 
With fire of charity. Rejoice again, 
O stars ! O angels, saints, and man ! a Light 
Is risen that floods the worlds with joy. No pain 
Is felt this day ; earth's moan may cease, and night 
Grow bright with stars of hope — 'tis heaven we gain ! 



Grapes and Thorns. 



GRAPES AND THORNS. 



CHAPTER XI. 



the V 

^ toih: 
^Phoae 



One of the greatest severities in 

ihe imprisonment of a criminal is, 

probably, that he can no longer see 

the witle earlh nor Ihe free skies, 

I to ihat not only is his body cramp- 

i, but his mind is thrown back on 

ttif, and forbidden to send out 

tendrils which can 

" wmctiraes shoot through the eyes, 

and fasten on distant objects, when 

ihose near by are repelling. More- 

L over, the universe itself becomes to 

^K^ like another prisoner, and he 

^Hno scarcely believe that the large, 

^^Wooth creation sails uninterrupted- 

]" \i on its way when he sees of it but 

one little spot for ever shut in by 

the bars of his cell. 

Mr. Schcininger's window in the 

' '1 had been low, giving him a 

H of the street not far away ; but 

H cell in the prison was higher up, 

A separ;tted from the window by 

^{UHage. Silting or lying down, 

wrtfore, he saw only a small sijuare 

Ifiky; and standing, the lopmost 

'eof a blue hill became visible. 

Inly one other earthly object was 

I tight : and as time passed by 

X became still less and less of 

mh. and assumed a variable but 

p»iy» supernatural character: it 

n the vtone Christ that stood on 

leehurch notfaraway. Heconld 

of it but the lowest hem of 

\ robe; and as it stood there, 

mounded by air alone, above the 

Brow line of the distant htU, it 

mcd an awful colossal being 

n over the edge of a sub- 



merged world. At morning, when 
the sky was bright behind it, it 
darkened, the lineaments of the 
face were lost in a shadow that was 
like a frown, and its garments and 
its hands were full of gloom. At 
one season there were a few days 
when the risen sun at a certain hour 
surrounded the head with an in- 
tolerable splendor, and then it was 
an image of wrath and judgment. 
It wore quite another character on 
bright evenings, when, the setting 
sun shining in its face, it came, 
white and glowing, down the hill- 
side, with arms outstretched, full 
of irresistible love and invitation. 
To see this image, he had to stand 
at the grated door of his cell, 
When sitting or lying down, there 
was no view for the prisoner but a 
square of sky barred otT by iron 
rods; and as the earth rolled, his 
view travelled with it, day after 
day going over the same track in 
the terrestrial sphere. At evening 
a few pale stars went by, afar off, 
and so unaware of him that they 
were like distant sails to the ship- 
wrecked mariner, hovering on thtt 
horizon and disappearing, each 
failure a new shipwreck to him. 

One morning, when he opened 
his eyes just as day was beginning 
to flickerin the east, he saw a large, 
full star, so brilliant that it trem- 
bled in the silvery sky, as if about lo 
spill its brimming gold. U was so 
alive, so intelligent, so joyous, that 
he raised himself and looked at it 



248 



Grapes and Thorns^ 



as he would have looked at a fair 
and joyful face appearing at the 
door of his cell. Surely it was 
like good tidings, that glad star in 
the east ! He got up, and, as he 
rose, there rose up whitely against 
the sky the Christ of the Imma- 
culate Conception, seeming almost 
transparent in that pure light. 

The prisoner knelt on the stone 
floor of his cell, and lifted his hands. 
" God of my fathers," he said, " de- 
liver me! for I am turned in my 
anguish whilst the thorn is fasten- 
ed!" 

It was the first prayer he had ut- 
tered since the night of his arrest, 
except those outcries which were 
more the expression of anger and 
a devouring impatience than of peti- 
tion. Having uttered it, he lay 
down again, and tried to sleep. 
He dreaded the thronging thoughts 
and tormenting pains of the day, 
and there was a tender sweetness 
in this new mood which he would 
fain have kept and carried off into 
sleep. To keep it by him, he call- 
ed up that story suggested by what 
he had just seen, the star in the 
east and the Christ. He did not 
believe it, but he found it soothing. 
It came to him like David*s song 
to Saul, and, though but a mythi- 
cal story, as that was but a song, it 
kept down the tigers of anger and 
despair which threatened to rise 
and tear him. 

It was his own Judaea, which he 
had never seen, indeed, but which 
was to him what the fountain is to 
the stream — the source of his being. 
How fair and peaceful was that 
silent night that overhung, unbar- 
red by iron bolts, free from hori- 
zon to horizon! The holy city 
was sleeping, and by its side slept 
Bethlehem. Within a stable a fair 
young matron had just laid her 
newly-bom child on its bed of 



straw, while Joseph, his Jewish 
brother, ministered to both, feel- 
ing sad and troubled, it must be, 
that those so dear to him were so 
illy cared for at such a time. 
The ox and the ass looked on with 
large, mild eyes, and warmed the 
air with their breath. It was poor, 
but how peaceful, how tender, how 
free ! The open door and win- 
dows of that poor stable were to 
him more beautiful than the barred 
and guarded portal of a Herod or a 
Caesar. 

Yet with what a blaze of glory 
the Christian church had surround- 
ed this simple human picture! 
The poor man who had been able 
to give his family no better shelter 
than a stable was held by them 
more honored than Herod or 
Caesar; and cherubim, bright and 
warm from heaven, like coals just 
from a fire, drew near to gaze with 
him, and burned with a still white 
light above his head. They called 
this matron a miraculous mother, 
they showered titles over her like 
flowers and gems, they placed the 
moon beneath her feet, and wreath- 
ed the stars of heaven into a gar- 
land for her head. 

How terrible and how beautiful' 
was this Christian legend ! The 
Jew had abhorred it as a blas- 
phemy, and his blood chilled as he 
suffered his thought to touch one 
instant the awful centre of this 
strange group — the Babe to whose 
small hand these idolaters gave 
the power to crush the universe, 
on whose tiny head they placed the 
crown of omnipotence. It was 
useless to try to sleep. The sooth- 
ing human picture had blazed out 
with such an awakening superna- 
tural glory that he could not even 
lie still. He rose again, and stood 
at the door of his cell. The star 
had melted from sight, the peace- 



Grapes and Thorns. 



249 



till, cloudless morning was spread- 
ing over ihe sky, and where the 
Let af ihe Christ stood on the hill- 
..'(I the beams of the sun were 
|iirkting. Beautiful upon the 
i:iiiiintains were the feet of Him 
"h.j brought good tidings, 

"A Christian would call it roi- 
ur.uloiis," he muttered, looking at 
:ii-ii light ; and he shuddered as he 
.|-)ke. But that shudder did not 
lome from the depths of his soul, 
»hete a new light and peace were 
blDodiog. It was like the clamor 
lad ronfusion outside the doors of 
Ike temple when the Lord had 
driven forili the money-changers, 
md was less an expression of ab- 
liomncc than a casting out of ab- 
ioTTcnce. 

The Jew did not know that, 
Iwwever, nor guess nor inquire 
»iui had happened in his soul. 
He scarcely thought at all. but 
ttood there and let the light steep 
lum tbiougli. Some dim sense of 
lunoony stole over him, as if he 
kwrd a smooth and noble strain 
<i music, and for the first time 
■■■■^ce his imprisonment he remem- 
■-rred his loved profession, and 
.'ingtd to feel the keys of a piano 
w ui organ beneath his hand. 
Hit fingers unconsciously played 
40 the iron bars, and he hiimmcd 
* tone lowly to himself, without 
teowtng what it was. 

"Uiiw beautiful upon the moun- 
Vm are the feel of Him that 
Mngcth good tidings, that publish- 
dh peace!" 

Then, catching himself idle and 
ifwming, he turned away from the 
jaiing, took a book from the 
utilr, and began to read. 

This book had been to Mr. 
': nunint^cran intellectual substitute 

' that ipiritual consolation which 
■■ had not. Finding early in his 
KuiimoDincnt that his mind was 



working itself into a frenzy over 
the horrors of his position, and in- 
juring him physically more even 
than confinement did, he had begun 
the study of a language with which 
he was entirely unacquainted, and, 
whenever he found his thoughts 
accomplishing nothing profitable, 
he turned them resolutely to this 
study, and bent them, with the 
whole force of his will, to learning 
dry rules and regulations. The 
discipline had saved him much, but 
it had not prevented his growing 
thin and haggard, and loathing food) 
and almost forgetting how to sleep. 
But on this morning study did 

task. The prisoner lifted his eyes 
now and then from the book, and 
loolsed outward to the sky, and 
then dropped them again, still in 
a dream, and wondering at him- 
self. So might the sea have won- 
dered when its waves sank to rest 
beneath the divine feet of the Lord 
passing over. 

How many times during those 
terrible months he had striven to 
produce a perfect calm in his own 
soul by calling up stoical thoughts, 
and all in vain; or, if not in vain, 
the only effect had been a tempo- 
rary and enforced calm. 

Nor was it unworthy a manly 
and reasonable character that such 
an effect as he now experienced 
should be produced by something 
which, apparently, appealed only 
to the artistic or the marvellous. 
Every soul has its beautiful gate; 
and if truth, walking about out- 
side, should choose to enter by that 
vine-wreathed portal, and reach 
the citadel by way of gardens and 
labyrinths, instead of approaching 
by the broad avenue of reason, 
who shall say that it is not as well? 
Besides, in the artist, that gate 
stands always open. 



250 



Grapes and Thorns. 



It was those same sunbeams, 
shining on the hill-top, and speak- 
ing to the lonely prisoner of a 
dawn of hope and joy, which to 
Annette Gerald's eyes had flashed 
like the two-edged sword by whose 
lightnings the first sinners in the 
world had fled out into the de- 
sert. But this sorrowful daughter 
of Eve missed one of the consola- 
tions of our first mother; for Eve 
could lament aloud, and call on all 
creation to weep with her; but this 
later exile must take up her misery 
as if it were a delight. 

She went about smilingly, making 
preparations for this little journey 
she had announced her intention 
of taking. 

" But you needn't put everything 
in order, just as if you were never 
coming back again," her mother 
said. " 1*11 see to things." 

She was sitting in Annette's 
chamber, and watching her at work. 

**Well, mamma, just as you 
please," the daughter answered 
gently, and touched her mother 
caressingly on the shoulder in pass- 
ing. 

A lock of Mrs. Ferrier's dark hair 
had fallen from the comb, and was 
hanging down her back. Annette 
paused to fasten it up, and, as she 
did so, caught quickly a pair of 
scissors near, and severed a little 
tress. 

" What in the world are you cut- 
ting my hair for ?" exclaimed Mrs. 
Ferrier, who had witnessed the 
operation in a looking-glass oppo- 
site. 

Annette laughed and blushed. 
She had not meant to be detected. 
" I'll tell you when I come back, 
mamma. You shall see what I am 
going to have made. It will be 
something very wonderful." 

She turned quickly away, and 
bit her lip hard to keep down some 



rising emotion. She had se 
single thread of silver in that c 
brown tress, and the sight, to 
ing at all times — the mother's 
gray hair — brought with it the j 
nant thought that white 1 
would come fast and thicl; i 
her mother should know what 
journey meant. 

"What are you taking all t 
common dresses for.^" Mrs. 
rier asked. "They are hardl 
to go to the mountains with." 

"Oh! we do not mean t< 
gay and fashionable," was the 
reply. " We want to have a c 
time by ourselves." 

"But you have got your jc 
case," the mother persisted, 
don't see what you want of 
monds with a shabby black 
gown." 

In spite of the almost int 
able thought that after these 
hours she would probably r 
see her mother again, Am 
found this oversight irritating, 
not for anything would she 
spK)ken one word that was not 
tated by respect and affec 
The only way was to escape 
and make her preparations 2 
ward, and for that she had a: 
cuse. 

" By the way, mamma," she 
"I want to see F. Chevreuse 
this is just the hour to catch 
at home. Won't you take 
drive now, and leave me a 
house .^ Wouldn't you just as 
go out before lunch as after ? 
and I haven't had a drive tog 
for a long time." 

And then, when she was 2 
she made haste to put intc 
trunks all those common, i 
articles which fitted her pr 
needs, and the few souvenir; 
dear to leave behind, and the 
ables, which might some da 



Grapes and Thorns, 



251 



money should fail them. 
d scarcely turned the key 
I, when her mother came in 
lling on her gloves, " I 
speak to F 
she rernarfccd, 
Ih you." 

said nothing, but dress- 
3f hastily. It really seem- 
tough every obstacle were 
aced in her way; yet how 
impatient with her 
«hcr, whose heart was so 
be smitten, through her, by 
le grief, and who would 
call in bitterness of soul 
Ord and act of this their 
together.' And, after all, 
■no desire to lalk with the 
What could she say to 
kll that was necessary was 
ind she couid not ask his 
nor any service from him, 
t his forgiveness. The one 
could do for them was to 
B ihem. set the officers of 
Dn their track, and make 
worse than that of Cain, 
icanhwas no longer wide 

d, but close and full of 
eyes and prating tongues. 
Id seemed to her, indeed, 
ely small, having no least 
wre (he restless, curious 

did not penetrate with 
I«sg pen. for ever ready to 
11 he heard and saw to 
he equally restless and 
eople at home, 
a confession you have to 
Mrs Fcrricr asked, as they 
kI the priest's house, 
lod been driving along in 
nd «t this question An- 
ted and blushed violently. 

e, mamma!" she said, in 
ft her mother's look of 
lent, " 1 was off a ihou- 
•, and you gave me such 
pbeo you spoke. Yes, it 



confess 



You can see F. 
and I will go in 
after. You need not wait for me. 
1 am going to walk out to the con- 
vent to Sister Cecilia a few min- 
utes. The walk will do me good; 
and afterward I would like to 
have you send the carriage there 

The excitement under which she 
was laboring led her unconsciously 
to assume a decided and almost 
commanding tone, and her mother 
submitted without any opposition, 
Annette certainly did not look 
well, she thought; and, besides, 
she was going away. This last 
consideration was one of great 
weight with Mrs. Ferrier, for she 
looked on railroads and steam- 
boats as infernal contrivances ex- 
pressly intended to destroy human 
life, and never saw persons in 
whom she was interested com- 
mit themselves to the mercies of 
these inventions without entertain- 
ing mournful apprehensions as to 
the probable resuh. Moreover, 
Annette had been very sweet and 
fond with her all day, and was 
looking very beautiful, with that 
wide-awake glance of her bright 
eyes, and the crimson color flicker- 
ing like a flame in her checks. 

" I think, dear, on the whole, I 
won't go in to-day," she said. 
"It might take too long; for this 
is his busv time of day. To-mor- 
row will do as well." 

Annette only nodded, unable to 
speak; but in stepping from the 
carriage, she laid her small hand 
on Mrs, Ferrier's, and gave it a 
gentle pressure. 

" That girl grows prettier and 
sweeter every day," said the moth- 
er to herself, as her daughter disap- 
peared within the doorway. "And 
how black velvet does become 



352 



Grapes and Thorns. 



Father Chevreuse knew well that 
no ordinary errand could have 
brought Annette Gerald to his 
house, and it was impossible for 
him to meet her with the ordinary 
forms of civility. Scarcely any 
greeting passed between them, as 
he rose hastily at her entrance, and 
waited for her first word. She was, 
perhaps, more collected than he. 

"Are you quite aloner here?*' 
she asked. 

He led her to the inner sitting- 
room, and closed the door after 
them, and even then did not think 
to offer her a chair any more than 
she thought of taking one. 

"We have told mamma that we 
are 'going away this evening for a 
little journey, and she expects us 
to return in four weeks. John 
knows all about our affairs. At 
the end of four weeks, he will say 
something to you, or you to him, 
whichever you please, and at that 
time you will open and use this 
packet." She gave him an envelope 
carefully sealed, with the date at 
which it was to be opened writ- 
ten on the outside. "If anything 
should happen to you in the mean- 
time, some one else must open it ; 
but care must be used not to have 
it read before the time." She 
paused for an answer. 

"You need not fear," the priest 
said, taking the packet and looking 
it over. He thought a moment. " I 
will write also on this that, in the 
event of my death, it is to be 
opened by F. O' Donovan or by the 
bishop of the diocese." 

He went to a table, wrote the 
directions, and then gave them to 
Annette to read. 

" It is a private paper of mine," 
she said, after reading and giving 
it back ; " and I have the right to 
say when it shall be read. I give 
it intayour hands only on the con- 



dition that my directions sh^ 
complied with." 

He bowed, understanding 
fectly that the words were in 
ed as a future shield for him. 

" At the same time, you will 
this also, which is yours," she 
ed, and gave him a paper roll 
ed and tied, but without an 
rection. 

F. Chevreuse shrank a 
took the roll, then let it drop 
his trembling hand. The col 
business-like manner of his \ 
and his sympathy for her had 
his thoughts fixed on her 
here was something which br 
his mother's image up befon 
with a terrible distinctness. 1 
impossible for him not to 
that this little package was 
she had died in trying to 
Tears blinded his eyes. Th 
evening he had spent witfc 
came back like a vision ; he 
her face, heard her voice, sa^ 
kneeling before him for his 
ing. 

Making an effort to contro 
hide his emotion, he stoope 
take up the package he had 
ped ; and when he looked up ; 
his visitor had left the room 
was walking quickly to the s 
door. For one moment he 
irresolute; then he hurried 
her. But she had already 
out, and either did not or ^ 
not hear him call her back. 

The sight of her going 
so, wrung all thought of selfish 
out of his mind. He went 
into the room, and watched h 
she walked swiftly up the s 
So innocent, so generous, so 
as she was, yet of all the suf 
by this miserable tragedy, wit! 
exception, the most unhappy ! 
grief, that must fall upon the i 
er of the guilty one no one < 



iSrapts and Thorns. 



m 



nX the mother of a crim- 
never hold herself surely 

of his crimes, since a 
oliness in her own life, a 
"e in his training, and a 
stant prayerfulness in his 
[ght have saved him ; but 
; wife was, of all people 
rid, the most innocent and 
wronged 

ght and graceful her step 
30 would not think that 
ned a light heart? She 
cquaintance, and stopped 
rd of greeting, and the 
le along afterward smiling, 
at some merry jest. Pass- 
bouse of another friend, 
;d and kissed her hand to 
n the window, with how 
face the priest, who had 

self-control, could well 

ere nothing I can do,* 

can say, to help her?" 
himself, turning away 

window. "It is cruel 

so young should bear 
h a burden! What can 
hat can I do ?" 
Tched in vain for some 

help. There was none. 

she should do her own 
5 advice of others must 
nd for words of comfort, 

not for him to speak to 

: manner had shown clear- 

:ance which she felt must 

:n them, and there was no 

for him to accept that 

He could pray, and that 

time he had come to this 
1, Annette Gerald had 
the convent, and was 
lister Cecilia. 

e only two words to say 
jar Sister," she said, " and 
IT seem very childish, but 
so in reality. Lawrence 



and I are going to make a little 
journey, which may last about four 
weeks, and poor mamma will be 
lonely. Besides that, she will 
worry. She hates to have me go 
away from her. Will not you be 
very kind to her, if she should come 
to yoii? Oh! I know you always 
are that; but recollect, when you 
see her, that I am really all she has. 
A son does not count for much, 
you know, especially when he is a 
young man. Very few young men 
are much comfort to their mothers, 
I think. Tell F. Chevreuse the 
very first time you see him that I 
said this to you, but don't tell any 
one else. And now, dear Sister, I 
have but a little time, for we start 
this evening. If there is no one 
in the chapel, I would like to go in 
a while. People have got so in 
the habit of wandering into the 
Immaculate, and looking about 
carelessly, that it is no longer 
pleasant to go there." 

The same air, as of a person 
gentle, indeed, but not to be de- 
tained nor trifled with, which had 
impressed F. Chevreuse in his visi- 
tor, was felt by the Sister also. 
She rose at once, saying that there 
was no one in the chapel, and 
would not be for some time, all the 
Sisters being engaged, unless Anita 
should go in. 

" Anita has not been well ?" Mrs. 
Gerald remarked with absent cour- 
tesy. 

" No ; she has not been the same 
since that terrible trial," the nun 
sighed. 

Annette Gerald's face lost its 
absent expression, and took a some- 
what haughty and unsympathizing 
look. "Is that all?" she inquired 
in a tone of surprise. 

"But, you know," expostulated 
the Sister, " Anita's testimony was 
of the greatest importance. Be- 



254 



Grapes and Thmms. 



sides, the scene was a most painful 
one for her to be dragged into. 
She is such a tender, sensitive crea- 
ture." 

Annette had paused just inside 
the parlor-door, and she had evi- 
dently no mind to let the subject 
drop indifferently. 

" My dear Sister," she said with 
decision, " I am truly sorry for your 
sweet little Anita; but I think it 
wrong to foster the idea that there 
are certain sensitive souls in the 
world who must be pitied if a 
breath blows on them, while others 
are supposed to be able to bear the 
hurricane without being hurt. A 
great deal of this shrinking deli- 
cacy comes from a selfish watching 
of one's own sensations, and for- 
getting those of others, and a 
great deal from being pampered by 
others. You remember, perhaps, 
an old myth, which I have half for* 
gotten, of a Camilla who was fas- 
tened to a lance and shot across a 
stream. She was a woman soft and 
weak, perhaps, but she had to go. 
Now, in this world there is many 
a woman who has all the miserable 
sensitiveness and delicacy of her 
kind, but with that there is also a 
will, or an unselfishness, or a ne- 
cessity which transfixes her like a 
spear, and carries her through all 
sorts of difficulties." For one in- 
stant a flash of some passion, either 
of anger, impatience, or pain, or of 
all mingled, shot into the speaker's 
face, and seemed to thrill through 
all her nerves. " Oh ! it is true in 
this world also," she exclaimed, 
**that unto him that hath shall be 
given. The happy must be shield- 
ed from pain, and those who cry 
out at the prick of a pin must be 
tenderly handled; but the miser- 
able may have yet more misery 
heaped on them, and the patient 
find no mercy." 



"My dear lady!" expos 
Sister Cecilia, when the 
paused, quivering with excit< 

" Oh ! I do not mean to 
harshly of your sweet little j 
interrupted Mrs. Gerald, n 
ing herself; "I was only rei 
of others, that is all. But k 
her I would recommend tl: 
more of the sufferings of 
and less of her own." 

" It is precisely that whicl 
her," replied the Sister, a litl 
pleased. "She thinks of tl 
ferings of others, and, fa 
that she has caused them, 
her heart about it." 

Annette made a motion 
and had an air of thinking 
slightingly of the young n< 
troubles. "She merely di 
duty, and has no responi 
whatever," she said. "The 
•needs to be scolded, and set 
some hard, wholesome woi 
would do her good to work 
garden, and spend a good c 
time in the open air. A 
who has been taken possess 
by some morbid idea should 
be shut up in a house." 

Sister Cecilia suffered her 
to pass on without saying a 
word. She was surprisec 
deeply hurt at the little syn 
shown their household flow 
pet, yet she could not but pc 
that, in a general way, muc 
had been said was quite true. 

Passing by the chapel-door 
ly after, she saw Annette < 
on her knees before the 
with her head bowed forwai 
hidden in her hands. Ha 
hour afterwards, when Mrs 
rier's carriage came, she ws 
in the same position, and 1 
be spoken to twice befor 
was roused. Then she start< 
looked up in alarm. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



carriage has come." whis- 
( Sister, and looked quick- 
ifrom the face turned to- 
,it was so white and worn. 
baU-hour she seemt-d to 
I'D ten years older. 

I go now?" she excloim- 
im air of terror, and for a 
teemed not to know where 

Then murmuring an ex- 
\ recalled herself, and. by 
Igic, threw off again the 
^ aod pain. "Vou need 
"Sister Cecilia, only say 
to her for me," she said. 
leally not 



^er was almost a stranger 
Annette Gerald, and was 
en by surprise when the 
■d .It the door, and, with- 
Bd of farewell, kissed her, 
burricd away. 
i to the office, John, for 
|d," she said ; and no one 
Bve suspected from her 
ihat slie trembled before 
ito whom she gave that 
ipder. 

pe came running lightly 
1 siitirs, having been on 
I for his wife, and John, 
jlhe carriage-door open, 
|kh asloni.shment at sight 
tight greeting exch.inged 
he two. He could main- 
B and stolid reserve, if he 
ling to conceal; but this 
ky on the brink of ruin 
pnly beyond his power, 
fd bU comprehension. 
IB glance of scmiiny into 
I man's face, he met a 
I dcfi.tnt kauUur. " Vou 
ligo any further with us, 
iMrnmce said. " We shall 
Jyou. Jack, drive round 
Raid's. 

a his coat down to 
; in which no- 




255 

:hing would have induced him vol- 
untarily to take a promenade— was 
forced to walk home, comforting 
himself with the assurance that it 
was the last order he should have 
to obey from that source. Per- 
haps, indeed, he would not have 
obeyed il now, had they not driven 
away and left him no choice. 

The sun was declining toward 
the west, and touching everything 
with the tender glory of early 
spring, when they drew up at the 
collage gate, the sound of their 
wheels bringing Mrs. Gerald and 
Honora to the window, and then 
to the door. 

"We can't stop to come in. Mam- 
ma Gerald," .\nnelte called out. 
" We are going olT on a little vi.sit, 
and only come to say good-by. 
Isn't it beautiful this afternoon? 
The trees will soon begin to bud, if 
this weather continues." 

The two ladies came out to the 
carriage, and Mrs. Gerald caught 
sight of her son's face, which had 
been turned away. It had grown 
suddenly white. She exclaimed : 
" Why, Lawrence ! what is ihe mat- 
ter?" 

"Oh! another of those faint 
turns," interposed his wife quickly, 
laying her hand on his arm. " He 
has no appetite, and is really faint- 
ing from lack of nourishment. The 
journey will do him good, mamma. 
We are going entirely on his ac- 

"Oh! yes, it's nothing but a turn 
that will soon pass away," he added, 
and seemed, indeed, already better. 

" Do come in and take something 
warm." his mother said anxiously, 
her beautiful blue eyes fixed on his 
face. " There is some chocolate 
just made." 

" We have no time." Anisette be- 
gan; but her husband immediately 
opened the carriage -door. 



k 



«S6 



Grapes and Thorns. 



" Yes, mother," he said. " I won't 
keep you waiting but a minute, Ni- 
non." 

The mother put her hand in his 
arm, and still turned her anxious 
face toward him. "You mustn't 
go to-night, if you feel sick, my 
son," she said. "You know what 
happened to you before." 

** But the journey is just what I 
need, mother," he answered, trying 
to speak cheerfully. " Of course I 
won't go if I feel unwell ; but this 
is really nothing. I have not quite 
got my strength up, and, as Annette 
says, I have eaten nothing to-day." 

Those little services of a mother, 
how tender and touching they are 
at any time ! how terrible in their 
pathos when we know that they 
will soon be at an end for us for 
ever! How the hand trembles to 
take the cup, and the Hp trembles 
to touch its brim, when we know 
that she would have filled it with 
her life-blood, if that could have 
been saving to us ! 

" Sit here by the fire, dear, while 
I get your chocolate," Mrs. Gerald 
said, and pushed the chair close to 
the hearth. " There is really quite 
a chill in the air." 

She stirred the fire, and made the 
red coals glow warmly, then went 
out of the room. 

He looked round after her the 
moment her back was turned, and 
watched her hastening through the 
entry. The temptation was strong 
to follow her, throw himself at her 
feet, and tell her all. He started 
up from the chair, and took a step, 
but came back again. It would 
kill her, and he could not see her 
die. He would let her live yet the 
four weeks left her. Perhaps she 
might die a natural death before 
that. He hoped she would. At 
that thought, a sudden flame of 
hope and of trust in God rose in 



his heart. He dropped 
knees. "O my God! tak 
ther home before she hea 
and I will do any pena 
anything!" he prayed, w 
ment rapidity. "Be m< 
her, and take her!" 

He heard her step retui 
hastily resumed his seat, 
forward to the fire. 

"You look better aire 
said, smiling. "You ha> 
color now. Here is your < 
and Annette is calling t 
make baste." 

She held the little tray fo 
he managed, strengthene< 
desperate hope of his, to < 
cup, and even smile faint 
ing it back. And then 1 
put his arm around his 
waist, in a boyish fashio 
sometimes with her, and 
to the door with her so. j 
he kissed her, and jumpec 
carriage, and was driven 
never occurred to her, s( 
obedient had he been t< 
quests, and so expressiv< 
looks and actions been, th 
not uttered a word while 
the house nor when he dr 
He had accepted her littl 
with affection and gratituc 
had been tender and care 
that was enough. Moreov 
really looked better on 
which proved that her pr 
had done him good. 

How Annette Gerald 
from home she could not 
afterward. Her trunks 
in advance, and she and 
band chose to walk to tl 
in the evening. Some wa 
ceeded in answering all he 
charges and anxious for 
She promised to sit in a n 
so as to be at the furth 
from a collision in fron 



Grapes and Thorns. 



257 



iv€ the life-preservers all 
and in the steamer. She 
basket of luncheon her 
ut up, and allowed her 
' be tied for her and her 
incd. And at last they 
the portico, and it was 
to say good -by. 
Mr mamm^! don't be too 
ibout me, whatever hap- 
melte said. " Remember 
s care of us all. I hope 
:e care of you. Whenever 
disposed to worry about 
little prayer, and all will 
It xgain." 

irkness hid the tears that 
tm her cheeks as she end- 
n a. ieyi tninutes all was 
the two were walking arm- 
(wn the quiet street, 
iray !" Lawrence said when 
le to the street where his 
ved. 

out of their way, but they 
Ti by the house, and paused 
(f it. The windows of the 
om were brightly lighted, 
could see by the glow of 
that it stood on a table 
icforc the fire. As they 
I shadow leaned forward 
liite curtain. Mrs. Gerald 
Ing with her elbow on the 
id talking to some one, 
V the slender hand that 
3 her chin, and the coil 
savy hair. They saw the 
Dvcment with which sh^ 
ack a lock of hair that had 
falling on to her forehead. 
it fell the arm she held 
She only pressed it the 
at hc.raight not forget that 
■wfti nrnT him, but did not 
There was nothing for her 

go inside the gate to the 
" h« whispered. " Perhaps 
ir her speak." 
VOL. XIX. — 17 



She &ofiIy opened the gale, and 
entered with him. The moonless 
night was slightly overclouded, and 
the shadows of the trees hid them 
perfectly, as they stole close to the 
window like two thieves. Lawrence 
pressed his face to the sash, and 
listened breathlessly. There was a 
low murftiur of voices inside, then 
a few words distinctly .spoken. 
" And by the way, dear, I forgot to 
close the blinds. Oh ! no, I will 
close them. IJon't rise !" 

Mrs. Gerald came to the window, 
opened it, and leaned out so close 
to her son that he heard the rustic 
of her dr^ss and fancied that he 
felt her breath on his cheek. She 
was silent a moment, looking up at 
the sky. "The night is very soft 
and mild," she said. "Those chil- 
dren will have a pleasant journey." 
One instant longer she rested there, 
herhandhalf extended to the blind, 
then she sent upward a word of 
prayer, which brushed her son's 
cheek in passing. " O God I pro- 
tect my son !" she said. 

Then the blinds were drawn to- 
gether, and the son was shut om 
from her sight and sound forever. 

" It is our signal to go," Annette 
whispered to her husband, "Come! 
We have no lime to lose." 

He held her by the arm a mo- 
ment. 

" Isn't it better, after all, to stay 
and have it out here ?" he ask- 
ed desperately. " I'd rather face 
danger than fly from it. Running 
away makes me seem worse than 1 
am." 

" You have no longer the right 
to consider yourself," she answered, 
with a certain sternness. " I will 
not submit to have a convict for a 
husband. I would rather see you 
dead. And your mother shall not 
visit you in a felon's cell. Besides, 
no one is to be profited by such a 



258 



Grapes and Thcrns, 



piece of folly, and you would your- 
self repent it whea too late. Come!" 
He said no more, but suffered 
himself to be drawn away. He 
could not complain that his wife 
treated his heroic impulses with a 
disrespect amounting almost to 
contempt, for he could not himself 
trust them. 

After having closed the window, 
Mrs. Gerald returned to her place 
by the fire. A round table was 
drawn up there between two arm- 
chairs, in one of which Miss Pem- 
broke sat, knitting a scarf of crimson 
wool. The shade over the lamp 
kept its strong light from her eyes, 

' xnd threw a faint shadow on the 
upper part of her face; but her 
;et and serious mouth, and the 
round chin, with its faint dent of a 
dimple, were illuminated, her brown 

J dress had rich yellow lights on the 

I folds, and the end of a straying curl 
her shoulder almost sparkled 
with gold. Her eyes were down- 
cast and fixed on her work, and 
rimson loop after loop dropped 
swiftly from the ivory needles 

I scarcely whiter than her hands. 
"As 1 was saying," Mrs. Gerald 

[ resumed, " six months of the year 

I they were to pass with Mrs. Ferricr 
fe gone, and next fall th«y will 

I have an establishment of their own. 
It will be better for both of them, 
am sure Afinette will make a. 
good housekeeper. Besides, every 
married man should be the master 
of a house. It gives him a place 
in the world, and makes him feel 
his responsibilities and dignities 

" Yes, every one should have a 
home," answered the young woman 
gravely. " It is a great safeguard." 

Mrs. Gerald leaned back in her 
chair, and gazed into the fire. There 
was a smile of contentment on her 
lips and an air of gentle pride in 



the carriage of hei 
thought, or dreamed, she 
about the birth-day ring hi 
had given her, and, present 
coming aware of what she wi 
ing, looked at it and smiled 
she were smiling in his face. 

" I never before felt so wel 
tented and satisfied with his 
tion," she said, her hap 
breaking into words. " Hi: 
riage has turned out well. 
seem to be perfectly unitec 
Lawrence is really proud 
wife ; and with reason. She 
more like what she was when 
knew her than a butterfly is 
grub. She has developed wi 
fully." She was silent a m< 
then added : " I am very thar 

She drew a rosary fron 
pocket, and, leaning back i 
chair with her eyes closed, 
to whisper the prayers as the 
slipped through her fingers. 

Miss Pembroke glanced a 
and smiled faintly. It was 
pleasant to see this mother 
in her son, yet how tremblii! 
precarious was her hapf 
This woman's heart, which b 
itself in beating, was always 
to catch some fleeting glory 
springing tide; like the foi 
which holds the rainbow a m 
among its chilly drops. 

While one woman prayei 
other thought. She had 
tlwelt upon this subject of w< 
lives being wrecked from k 
friend, husband, or child, at 
sight of Mrs. Gerald had !> 
her a constant illustration o 
a wreck. These thoughts 
troubled her, for she was n< 
to judge hastily, and she di 
know whether to pity or to 
so ruinous a devotion. Now 
the question floated up, : 
the wish to decide o 




Grapes and Thorns. 



'59 



•c life should thrust the problem 
ifi her, when she would be too 
i:unriiicd to Ihinic righlly. She was 
(itc one who siands safe yet wist- 
i:!l on shoie, looking off over trou- 
kd walers, and Mrs. Gerald and 
Unette seemed to her tossing far 
1:1 on the waves. She even seeni- 
itl to herself to have approached 
hi! brink so near that the salt tide 
r.mI touched her feet, and to have 
ilniwn back only just in lime. 

Gradually, as her fair fingers 
wove the glowing web, a faint cloud 
(tme over her facCf and, if it had 
been possible for her to frown, that 
deeper shadow between the brows 
night have been called a frown. 
Her thoughts were growing stem. 

"Were we made upright, we wo- 
am, only to bend like reeds to 
ttery wind?" she asked herself. 
' 'Can we not be gentle without 
bfing slavish, and kind and tender 
vithout pouring our hearts out like 
met? Cannot we reserve some- 
tJiiilg to ourselves, even while giv- 
ing all and even more than our 
Wends deserve ? Cannot we hold 
'If iJeacc and happiness so firmly 
' ('Ur own hands that no one shall 
4»e the power to destroy them?" 
Kach question as it came met 
• I'ha prompt answer, and resolu- 
-1 followed swiftly : " Never will 
:-' r myself lo be so enslaved 
..-■lion as lo lose my indi- 
. .ihd be merged and lost 
■ '.or be made wretched by 
' [liLr. or to have my sense of 
•lice at:d right confused by the 
'vire lo make excuses for one I 
• c. Never will I suffer the name 
iip-h I have kept stainless to be 
— iciated with the disgrace of an- 
other, and never will i leave the 
trly and honorable ways of life, 
e 1 have walked so far, to fol- 
r Boy one into the by-ways, for 
f pretext. Each one is to save 



his own soul, and to help others 
only to a certain extent. I will 
keep my place!" 

That resolute and almost haugh- 
ty face seemed scarcely to be Ho- 
nora Pembroke's ; and she felt so 
surely that her expression would 
check and startle her companion 
that when she saw Mrs. Gerald 
drop the rosary from her fingers, 
and turn to speak lo her, she quick- 
ly changed her position so as to 
hide her face a moment. 

Mrs. Gerald's voice had changed 
while she prayed, and seemed 
weighted with a calm seriousness 
from her heavenly communion ; 
and her first words jarred strangely 
with her young friend's thought. 

"How uncalculaiing the saints 
were!" she said. "Our Lady was 
the only one, I think, who escaped 
personal contumely, and that was 
not because she risked nothing, but 
because God would not suffer con- 
tempt nor slander to touch her. 
He spared her no pang, save that 
of disgrace; yet she would have ac- 
cepted that without a complaint. 
How tender he was of her! He 
gave her a nominal spouse lo shield 
her motherhood; it was through 
her Son that her heart was pierced, 
and the grief of a mother is always 
sacred ; and he gave her always 
loving and devoted women, who 
clustered about and made her lit- 
lle court. She was never alone. 
But she is an exception. The 
others were despised and 'maltreat- 
ed, and they seemed to be perpetu- 
ally throwing themselves away. I 
do not doubt that those saints who 
never suffered martyrdom nor per- 
secution were still, in iheir day, 
laughed and mocked at by some 
more than they were honored by 
others. They never stopped to 
count the cost." 

Miss Pembroke felt at the first 



26o 



Grapes and Thorns. 



instant as though Mrs. Gerald 
must have read her thoughts, and 
her reply came like a retort. "It 
is true they did not count the 
costs," she said; "but it was God 
whom they loved." 

" Yes," Mrs. Gerald replied gen- 
tly, "that was what I meant." 

She was too closely wrapped 
in contentment to perceive the 
coldness with which her compan- 
ion spoke. It seemed to her that 
all her cares had floated away, and 
left only rest and sweetness be- 
hind. She no longer feared any- 
thing. There comes to every one 
some happy season in life, she 
thought ; and hers had come. 

When, the next day, she received 
a note from her son, which he had 
written from their first stopping- 
place, she was scarcely surprised, 
though it was an unusual attention. 

It was but a hurried line, written 
with a pencil and posted in the 
station-house. 

" My darling mother," he wrote, 
" if you should find your violet-bed 
under the parlor window trampled, 
blame Larry for it. He saw his 
mother's shadow on the curtain 
when he was on his way to the sta- 
tion last night, and took a fancy to 
go nearer and peep through the 
window. But he didn't mean to 
do any harm then, nor at some 
other times, when he did enough 
indeed. Forgive him for every- 
thing." 

Mrs. Gerald immediately went 
out, letter in hand, to see what 
marks had been left of this noc- 
turnal visit; and, sure enough, 
there, on the newly-turned mould, 
was the print of a boot — well she 
knew her son's neat foot — and, on 
the other side, a tiny and delicate 
track where Annette had stood! 
But not a leaf of the sprouting vio- 
lets was crushed. 



Miss Pembroke smiled to see the 
mother touch these tracks softly 
with her finger-tips, and glance 
about as if to assure herself that 
there was no danger *of their being 
effaced. 

" Such a freak of those children!" 
she said gaily. " Do you know 
what I am going to do, Honora? 1 
mean to sow little pink quill daisies 
in those two foot-prints, and show 
them to Lawrence and Annette 
when they come back. It was a 
beautiful thought of them to come 
to the window, and it shall be com- 
memorated in beauty. The ground 
is nearly warm enough here now 
for seeds. When they come back, 
the tracks will be green. I wish 
flowers would blossom in three 
weeks." 

Mrs. Ferrier also heard that day 
from the travellers. 

"I have a particular reason for 
asking you to be very careful 
about my letters," Annette wrote. 
" Don't let any one see or know of 
them. I will tell you why pre- 
sently. We are very well. Write 
me a line as soon as you receive 
this, and direct to New York. We 
shall not stop there, but go right 
on out West, probably. And, by 
the way, if you should wish ever to 
hear from Mrs. Gerald's relations, 
seek in New York for a letter di- 
rected to Mrs. Julia Ward. Say 
nothing of this now. I will ex- 
plain." 

" And why should I wish to hear 
from Mrs. Gerald's relations } " 
wondered Mrs. Ferrier. But she 
said nothing. The secret was safe 
with her. 

Meanwhile, the travellers had lost 
no time on their way; and three 
days from their leaving Crichton, 
they were on the ocean. Every 
stateroom and cabin had been ta- 
ken when " Mr. and Mrs. Ward " 



Grapes and Thorns. 



he office of the sieamer; 
apuio, seeing ihe Udy in 
less on account of ihe sick 
e WHS crossing the ocean 
Mlly gave tip liis own slate- 
he travellers. 

)uite as well for liim to do 
1 ; for the very day they 
stomi started with them, 
ras too faithful an officer 
his post on deck. So all 
g he watched, courageous 
bl, over ihc lives commil- 
B care, while underneath 
I>ecial guests lay helpless 
rable, counting his foot- 
steepless as he. The 
irolibcd beside them, like 
-beating heart, the long 
ihed the deck, the wind 
) whistled through the 
le steamer creaked and 

fe brought bad luck to the 
■cite," said her husband. 
tre overboard, the storm 
(tsc." 

^ first place, my name is 
ms the answer from the 
rth. " In the next plaue, 
Nothing mysterious in this 
is simply the equinoctial 
ch has been threatening 
' I knew we should have 
le third place, your being 
3 would make no differ- 
tcver in the weather. Are 

r- 

e knew well that a little 
lejic would best blow away 
md's vapors. 

\ sick of lying here," he 
tticntly. "The tain must 
iinless it is another Hood. 
jhow it looks out?" 
|ur aside the curtain, and 
ke window. The rain had 
bt the wind still blew, and 
^t was everywhere, shin- 
tough ihc waves and down 



26 1 

through the clouds. As the steamer 
rolled, .\nnette, lying in her lower 
berth, could .see alternately the griiy 
and tumbled clouds of air, and the 
gray and heaving sea, which was 
less like moving water than a ruin- 
ed, quaking earth, so heavily it rose 
and fell. 

Lawrence Gerald, closely wrap- 
ped in furs, knelt on the sofa, and 
looked out, humming a tune that 
seemed to be for ever on his H[)b 
since his wife had first sung it to 
him, so chat she was sometimes half 
sorry for having suggested it to him. 
A few words broke out while she 



Injugtuichftbcd." 

His thoughts seemed to be so 
haunicd by the image of thai cold 
and peaceful slumber that his wife 
trembled for him. He had not the 
enduring strength to be.-ir a long 
trial, but he had that fitful strength 
which prompts to desperate deed.s, 

"I can see cifies built and de- 
stroyed yonder," he said. " There 
are white towns between dark 
mountains, and little hamlets tip in 
the crevices; they grow, and then 
they are swallowed up. It is like 
a great earthquake. When the 
world is destroyed, it will perhaps 
look like that, pale and ashy." 

" Suppose we should go up on 
deck, and see what it looks like," 
said Annette suddenly, anticipating 
the wish she knew he would have 
expressed. "It will be a change 
after our three days* imprisonment, 
and we may think the stateroom 
a pleasant refuge when we come 

They escaped the crest of a wave 
that leaped over the rail after ihem, 
and reached the wet and slippery 
deck. 

" We mustn't speak to the ofii- 



Li«A< 



262 



Grapes and Thorns. 



cers," Annette whispered, seeing 
the captain near them. 

He passed them by without no- 
tice, and they hurried on to the 
shelter of the smoke-pipe, where 
the heat had dried the planks ; and 
here, holding by ropes, they could 
look over the rail and see the long 
streaks of pale blue, where the foam 
slid under the surface of the water ; 
see the gigantic struggle of the sea, 
and how the brave ship pushed 
through it all straight toward her 
unseen port. 

Nothing is so perfect a figure of 
life as a ship on the sea, and one 
can hardly behold it without moral- 
izing. 

"Suppose that this ship had a 
soul of its own, instead of being 
guided by the will of other beings," 
said Annette ; " and suppose that, 
finding itself in such a woful case, 
it should say, * I see no port, no 
pole-star, no sun, nor moon, and I 
doubt if I shall ever see them 
again. I may as well stop trying, 
and go down here.* Wouldn't that 
be a pity for itself and for others ?'* 

" But suppose, on the other 
hand," returned her husband, "that 
the ship had got a deadly thrust 
from some unseen rock, and the 
water was running in, and it could 
never gain the port. What would 
be the use of its striving and strain- 
ing for a few leagues further.^" 



" We know not wliere the 
of a soul is set," said Ac 
dropping the figure. " God \ 
for he has set it, near or far 
it may be nearer than we thin 
is scarcely worth while for a 
to lose his soul by jumping 
board at ten o'clock, when he 
save it, and be drowned tc 
eleven." 

Lawrence drew back as a 
wave rose before them. H< 
only been playing at death 
reality was quite another 1 
Chilled and drenched with s 
they hurried down to their 
room. 

It was a weary journey, 
the storm came head-winds 
after the head-winds a fog, th 
which they crept, ringing th( 
bell, and stopping now and th 

Mr. and Mrs. Ward did no 
pear once among the passei 
even when everybody crowd< 
to catch the first glimpse of In 
and they were the last to a 
when the passengers prepar 
land at Liverpool. They had 
a fortnight from home, the 
having delayed them two day* 
they knew not what might 
happened in that time. A teh 
might have sped under the wa 
an hour while they toiled over 
and just at the moment of e 
their flight might be intercept 



TO BB CONTINUED. 



Dante Gabriei Rosetti. 



263 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSETTI.* 



It ii uot dilfictilt to understand the 
lule which has been bestowed upon 
", RuMflti of llie "Pocis" Poet." 
( Ell volume is full of delicate rhyiiimi- 
J W experiments — winding bouts of 
IJMfodjr with subtle catches of silence 
■fntnperseil — which aitematcly pique 
d satisfy. No brother of the craft 
' tmid fail to obtain valuable hints 
bm these snidics. But Mr. Rosetti 
a no mere word-poiser ; he is an ar- 
tist in the highest sense of the word, 
Thnjc canvas teems with a tliou- 
wtij nnmcless lights, which as they 
""» and disappear make all the dif- 
iriciice between the real and the un- 

During the two years or more that 
Mr. Rosclti's volume has been be- 
<jrc the English-reading public on 
Mh siiJes of the Atlantic, it has been 
ftrquenily reviewed. Perhaps tlie 
dtsi justification of the present review 
u ihat, over and above purely lite- 
(117 merits, Mr. Rosetti has peculiar 
(liims upon the interest of Caihulic 
reuiers, to which we would draw ai- 
itniion. 

We gather from the brief notice at 
Ae beginning of the volume that 
niitiy of these poems were compos- 
c't i*cnly years ago, yet, if we ex- 
cfjil the occasional appearance of a 
"n^le poem in the pages of a maga- 
'ioc, Mr. Rosetti has published noth- 
ing before. We can hardly believe 
;l;j.i even the barbarians of twenty 
'■--JH ago can have conibiiieil against 
;:. publishing, like Mr, Bazzardjs 
_fnciids in Ji-iwin Gnmt, and so we 
•uppoFc that he was fain to 

jifur the teverestofall 1 




that passed by a middle-aged man 
upon the productions of his youth. 
And now, having altered something 
and burnt more — had he waited, he 
would have found old age more in- 
dulgent — he publishes the remnant, 
all of which, he tells us juslly enough, 
is mature, for which his mature age 
is sponsor. 

It would be far easier to estimate 
Mr. Rosetti's position as a poet had 
he written more. Nor is this precise- 
ly a truism; for one feels at once 
that what he has given us is most pre- 
cisely and emphatically a selection. 
Every one of his poems, .whatever 
else it may be, is at least a cunning 
piece of artist's work in this or that 
particular style, with a distinct fla- 
vor of its own and true to itself 
throughout. If you know, and care 
for, the old Scots ballad, you will at 
once appreciate the specimen he gives 
you. If you object to the coarse- 
ness which shades the tenderness of 
" Slrattou Water," your criticism is un- 
learned. As well complain of ihe 
peat flavor of a " Finnan haddie." 

Poets who sing because they must 
sing, who pour into trembling ears 
great heterogeneous floods of song, 
the rcHeclion of their many moods, 
things beautiful and rather beautiful, 
an d plain and very plain ; all the thou- 
sand-and-one scraps which have some- 
thing clever in them, or illustrate 
something, or with the composition 
of which something interesting, wheth- 
er pleasant or painful, is associated — 
take, for instance, any chance volume 
of Wordsworth or Browning — may be 
in the long run our benefactors, but 
they have no claim upon the ready- 
ey of thanks; they charm, per 



1 



264 



Dante Gabriel Rasettu 



haps, but they often also bore. If 
a man whose imagination has not 
been left out is bored by Mr. Roset- 
ti's volume, it is time for him, accord- 
ing to the Turkish proverb, to put 
his trust in God — his wine is running 
to the lees, his roses wither. And this 
is true although the generations of 
poetic taste are so short-lived that al* 
most before a man has reached the 
tnezzo eaminoy and certainly before 
he has lost his sense of life's enjoy- 
ments, he is apt to find himself some- 
what out of harmony with the poetry 
of the day. Mr. Rosetti is no pro- 
phet of a new theory of art or master 
of a new phrase-mint, but rather a 
merchant whose cargo tells a tale of 
every port at which he has touched. 

It is natural to compare, even if 
only to contrast, any new poet with 
Mr. Tennyson, as the t>oet who has 
had more immediate, sensible influ- 
ence than any other upon the 
taste of his day ; and although there 
is a prejudice against comparisons, 
it is difRcult to see how they can be 
avoided if one is to do something 
more than point and ejaculate. In 
the present case, there is at least suf- 
ficient resemblance to suggest com- 
parison. Amongst living poets these 
two are pre-eminently artist-poets, 
who finish their work and hide well 
away all their literary shavings. 
They are almost the only living 
poets who never go on talking till 
they can find the right word, and 
who never stammer. 

There is not a scrap of either of 
these poets that, for the refined work 
there is in it, it would not be a shame 
to bum. Again, they are like in this, 
that they have an intense sensuous ap- 
preciation of the medium which they 
use, which seems to belong rather to 
the art of the painter or the musician 
than to that of the poet. It would 
not be difficult to make a color-box 
of Mr. Tennyson's favorite words. 



literary formulas for cool gn 
bits of scarlet. On the othe 
Mr. Rosetti's art is rather tha 
musician than the painter; 
duces his effects rather by 
changes of manner than by tl 
of single words, although his 
in these too is exquisite. £ 
dulations remind one of Cr 
lines in " Music's Duel " : 

'^ The Iute*s light genins now dcth pro 
Heaved on the torKet of iwoU^n rhi^ 
Whose flourish, meteor-like, doth cu: 
With flash of high-born fancier ; here 
Dancing in loftir measures, and anon 
Creeps on the toft touch of a tender t 
Whose trembling murmurs, meltiuj 

airs. 
Run to and fro, complaining his swe 

And so, having drifted into 
of difference, we will continue 
are unlike because, althoug 
affect the quaintnesses of m< 
art, the laureate has done littl 
than utilize, for poetic purpo: 
antiquarian and art knowled| 
gentleman of the period with 
that way. But Mr. Rosetti is 
diaeval artist heart and soul 
though it may not be literal 
that he has no end beyond his 
would certainly feel that he wa 
evil that good might come of 
sacrificed a point of art to any 
whatsoever. 

Mr. Tennyson's pictures 
middle-age, beautiful and life 
they are, are the less true fo 
somewhat formal flourish of ant 
whereby they give themselve 
were, a modem frame. Of < 
Tennyson's knights are not r 
gentlemen in the sense that R 
Greeks are French courtiers, bt 
how they are the realized aspi 
of modem gentlemen of cultu 
refinement, and measures of ii 
able reaction against the spirit 
day. 

I think the consciousness t 
wants a loosely-fitting medise^ 
or, so to speak, the armor \ 



Dante Gabriel Rasetti. 



j6s 



HIV paiticubr quality of matt inside, 

iiuktt Mr, Tenn>-son afTect the hy- 

'rid medievalism of the Round TaUe 

in prcfereLice to the genuine strain of 

e old chroniclers. His mail-clad 

I bights always remind us somenhat 

I common scene in a marine 

I i^Mriiitn — s whelk-shell inspired 

1 energy not its own by the 

I taniiion of a hermit-crab, wlio, hav- 

l,i(ili>pased of the original occupant, 

loipulaies the shell at his pleasure. 

Ii may be urged, with some justice, 

Kbt a poet is no mere collector of 

Ichmji and old lace. He gathers 

■to himself of all precious thinge, to 

le for his thought such vehicle as 

tewKDls ; but he has no duties to his 

" milcriBls that they should be in keep- 

■■H with one anoiher or with them- 

':hes, provided they minister to his 

Yes, but it must be remem- 

kI that both tliese poets belong to 

pKhool which owes its success to the 

Egious observance of such duties, 

1 tliough self-imposed; and it 

s remain true [hat the 

c a poet can afford to borrow 

Idles instead of parts or aspects, 

id lliexe plead the poet's cause each 

tiown tongue, not tiis, the great- 

■ilhis Iriumpli. I am nut indicat- 

I any failure on the part of Mr. 

Boyton when I speak of his At- 

' n poems as a splendid masque. 

\ ktwwg where his strength lies. 

k has chosen his legend as a man 

'it choose an antique wine-cooler 

c; but the liquor inside, 

Bagh superlatively good, is not 

eras or metheglin, but port and 

tlie other hand, if we 

> Mr. Kosetti's treatment of 

medixva] aubjects, " Dante at Ve- 

™fl," "Sisier Helen," "The Stafif 

umI Scrip," wc find that his medisval 

igiirct live, indeed, with the intenscst 

kind of life, but that that hfe, from its 

•oof to its outermost fringe, is stained 

•riih the color of its own day and 



country. It is this union of purism 
and vitality which is Mr. Rosetti's 
distinguishing characteristic. 

It is now time for us to examine 
some of Mr. Roselti's iwems in de- 
tail. "The Blessed Damozel," the 
first poem in the volume, were it not 
for its title, would be perfect ; but we 
confess that the ultra quaintness of 
the title is the one point in the 
medieval dress which does not, to 
our mind, harmonize with the Catho- 
licity of the subject. 

'i'he subject would be trite enough 
in many hands. A young man has 
lost his love, and dreams of her night 
and day, until at length the soul of hit 
imagination pierces that heaven into 
which she has been received ten years 



The viaaitt WHS n< 

Krom that still lo 

Albeit, lo IbiDi (he 



With the calm, unhesitating realism 
of Fra Angtlico, he paints his lady 
leaning out towards him "from the 
gold bar of heaven," with stars in her 
hair and lilies in her hand; and the 
outline is so clear and firm, so free 
from the mist of niocleni sentimental- 
ism, that the paroxysm of doubt 
which breaks in at the end of the 
fourth stanza, and which for a mo- 
ment makes the radiant vision tremu- 
lous, is really wanted to remind us of 
the abyss which the imagination is 
spanning : 



Sn UiBll tti 






" The tides of day and night " al- 
ternate far down in the abyss beneath 
her feet, where the earth is spinning 
about the sun " like a fretful midge." 
If any one is tempted to doubt if the 
heavens of modern science, with their 



266 



Dante Gabriel Rosetti. 



vast distances and harmonious order, 
are more poetical than the star- 
spangled cope upon wliich the Chal- 
dean shepherds gazed, let him read 
this poem. The simple imagery with 
which Mr. Rosetti clothes the abysses 
of heaven seems, without destroying 
their immensity, to render them visi- 
ble ; 



Again : 

'■ The sun wu Eone bow ; llic curled moon 
Flulloilng tti liowii Ih* BUlf." 

He sees that she is looking for him, 
and Ciien she speaks, not to him, for 
she sees him not, but of him, of what 
their life in heaven will be when he 
has come— for he must come, she 
says. And again, as she talks of the 
life in heaven, it is Frn Angelico in 
words; lush meadow-grass, so soft 
to road-worn feet, and golden -fruited 
trees, and tender intercourse from 
which all the acerbities and con- 
ventionalities of life are banished ; an 
atmosphere in which the freshness of 
morning and the peace of evening 
are woven into one eternal day, 
which, as he says elsewhere, " hours 
no more offend." How thoroughly 
Dantesque in its homely sublimity is 
the conception of Our Lady and 
her handmaids at (heir weaving : 



We hardly think that this poem of 
Mr. Roselti's strikes a single false 
chord even to Catholic ears. The 
utmost that can be said is that the 
blessed soul is too absorbed by her 
longing for her earthly love. But 
then the heaven of theology is an 
assemblage of paradoxes which faith 
alone can knit together; and, in its 
entirety, wholly without the realm of 
art. In this poem we have one as- 



pect of the hfe of the blessed, 
curus quidem sibi sed nostri ! 
tus," as S, Bernard says, pres 
to us most vividly in the only < 
an artist's pencilcan command — 
of earthly love. But this low 
rene and pare, and, despite iu i 
sity, free from all pain and impati 
The passion is supplied by th 
frain in the earthly lover's hea 
in his' touching commentary 
the confidence of her " we two ' 
do thus and thus when he come 



:hilon«<>(old. Bu 


, thou uyil 
I shill God 1 


'besouloboKlikeni 


™ wiih ihr 



Having ended her descriptic 
heaven's mysterious joys : 



But soon the smile fades awa 
the angelic convoy glides past, f 



If it be objected that this is loo 
a violation of the state in whit 
lear.i are wiped away, I answer, 
that there are tears and tears ; 
ondly, that if anthropomorphism 
lowable in our realizations of G 
fortiori is it allowable in our re; 
tions of those who, although the 
raised above the estate of hurai 
are still human. Again, ever 
angels of Christian art have a 
scriptive right to tears, and is i 
written, Isai. xxxiii. 7, " Angeli 
arnar^ flebunt ?" 

And now we will say wha 
have to say of perhaps the 
wonderful of all Mr. Rosetti's p< 
which somehow, for more ra 
than one, suggests itself Miri 




ni to •■ The Blessed Damojiel." He 

ti.is tallwl it "Jenny," and Jenny is 
tht name — neither French nor Greek 
'ill mend ihe matter — of a young 
pfiwiiute. Wc freely confess tiiat 



: two < 



iwm which we heartily wish Mr. 

RiMftii hail never written ; but, lake 

1^ .is ii stanih, few will be disposed to 

ilcny thai it Is a very real sermon 

tj;iinn lusl, rU the more inipres- 

t>ccause it is indirect. The 

t, such OS it is, is this: A man, 

Niig but not in his (irst youth, who 

liw km for some years settling 

^iiwn to a. student's- life, throws his 

i aside one cveningi and goes 

o one of his old haimts. Hav- 

! >{>ent half the night in dancing, 

being smitten with Jenny's 

Mlhful beauty, he goes home with 

Kr. She, i>oor thing, utterly tired, falls 

I dcul asleep at supper, and he, watch- 

^ her, falls to moratiztng, half cyni- 

oUy, hnlf tenderly, upon innocence 

M lu«t and destiny, until at last 

iic pity of it all wholly possesses him 

i:ni kills every otlier thought. And 

*) musing till early dawn, till 



Cloiur lOEBiber guddcoly." 

Iw ilipl sonic gold pieces into her 
luir, and goes widi the half-express- 
(d hope that, .13 God has been mer- 
ciful to hiin, so he will be merciful 
■a her also. 

What first touches him is her evi- 
itmi longing for rest : 



Poloiiiif )roa OBI wliU \hwg you (re." 

The girl hnseir, beyond her youth 
and beauty, is nowise better than htr 



fellows, and so she individualizes a 
larger pathos, and is in some sense 
a more touching representative of the 
victims of man's lust — 



) this 



He is penetrated by the c 
iween the fate of this poor girl and 
tliat of his cousin, just such another 
girl in natural disposition — 



but in the guarded atmosphere of 
her home, with every point in her 
character blooming into good. 



Miyn. 



sihat 



!d ihcn. 



1(11 be. 



bis pridE fimwanied 
Till la Ihe end, cbe diy ofdiyj, 
At1ud|tuicnt.oaeofbiao<rnri«. 
As frill md lo« u yoa. ihki: rlie. 
Hli duigbUrwlDi bii mothei'i eyei t" 

Many a man would be fain to listen 
to such a sermon who would reject 
any other. For the preacher is no 
missionary in disguise, but a fellow- 
sirmer converted in the presence of 
his sin, if we m.iy call it conversion ; 
at least, beaten down and overwhelm- 
ed by the colossal horror and pity 
of it, as a wild beast is tamed by a 
prairie- fire. 

Many beautiful things have been 
said by non-Catholic poets of Our 
Blessed Lady. Indeed, a very pretty 
book might be made of these Gentile 
testimonies, from Milton, Cowley, 
Crashaw (before his conversion), 
Wordsworth, Keble, and many others. 
It would seem that Parnassus is as 
one of the high places of Baal, where 
the Spirit of the Lord rushes upon 
the poet, whose eyes are opened and 
he must needs bless her whom he 
that Uesseth " shall also himself be 
blessed, and he that curselh shall be 
reckoned accursed," and he cries. 



I 



268 



Dante Gabriel Roselli. 



" How beautiful are thy tabernacles," 
O Mary, Mother of God, " as woody 
valleys, as watered gardens near the 
rivers, as labernacles which the Lord 
has pitched as cedars by the water- 
side." But with Mr. Rosetti it is 
something more than this. One is 
tempted to fancy that with his Ita- 
lian name he must have really inher- 
ited an Italian's devoiioa to the Ma- 
ciuiiiia. His poem " Ave " is neither 
more nor less tiian a meditation upin 
the joyful, sorrowful, and glorious 
mysteries of Our Lady's life, and it 
breathes a devotion as tender and 
sensitive — in a word, as Catholic — as 
though it had been written by F. 
F:»ber. We shall venture lo transfer 
the whole of it to our pages, for we 
cannot otherwise justify what we 
have said, and part of its specific 
beauty is that it is in one breatli : 



Mother of &lrileli|thl, 
Thuu barulnuid perfect In Gocl'tal«;ht. 
Now iiuinR founh bnlde IbcTluec, 
TtayK[r> weiDin TMnity. 
Hclog * diugbtcc born lo God. 
Mother of Chrtat trom lUll Id Road, 
And wife udio tbe Holy Cbosl: — 
Obi when our need is ullermosl, 
Tkiokthit [olucb lodulb ouyitiiki 

Thou hnd-ilone oVbumtnily. 
Giound-stonE of the K'Mt roTfiiery. 
PubloDul like U4, yet mare Ibin we 1 
Mlad'st tbou not (when June's heavy bremth 
Warmed ihe lonR dayi In Nazareth) 
ThUeve thou didst go forth to give 
Thy Howeiinottie drink that they might live 
One Mac nighl more amid Ihe landi. 
Far off the ireet were M pale winds 
Againit Itie (ervid iky ; ihe «ea 
Slehed further oB eternally 
Ai humAD sorrow El|[bi> la sleep. 
Then suddenly the awe gtew deep, 
Ai ofa day lo which aU days 
Were foottlept In God's tecrel waya : 
Until a [oldlnR '" 



IS God i 



every wl 



Gathered about thee ; and ■ 

Heine of the silence ; - Hail.' It Mid, 
' Than thai art hi|bly faTardd : 
The Lord is wlUi thee here and now ; 
Bleued amoiiK ill women Ihou." 

Abt Knew'stlbouoftheend, wbtnfi 

That Bibc wia on ihr bourn nnned ! 

Did thy greil torrow dawn on ibee— 



tipon bia Father's builnesi 1 — 
Or still was God's high aecrel kepi i 

Nay. bul I Ihink ibe whisper crept 
Like KTOwtbihrouib childhood. WorkiiJ 
play. 
Things common 10 Ihe coarse of day, 
Awed thee with meaninKs unlulhli'd, 
And all IhiauRh Rlrlhood, »>nulhlaE lUlI'd 
Thy aensei like Ihe birth of light. 
When Ihou halt Irlmoied Ihy lamp 11 DllK 
Or washed Ihy ifirmeots In ihe streao : 



That He Wi 



le and thou w 



Efl 



Fur thou, a waicbcr erea u they, 
Wouldstilie from where throuKhautlhcdty 

Thau wrouKhteit nlmeni for hit poor ; 
And. findlDK the fined terms endure 
Of day and nlibi which nerer brou|hl 



111 ihrouEh clou 



ng.Oijnd'' 



Then that dlidple whom hi 

Well heedmE, hiply would be movW 

To 1^ thy btening In his name : 

And thai one ihouchi In boih. the sane 

TbouEh si lent, then would dup ye iDuftd 

Sick tears el pitlencc, dumb and slow. 
Yet, ' Surely 1 come quickly.' so 
He said, from life and death gone home. 
Amen : eno so. Lord Jesus come I 



: oh ■ whai 






*is uni 10sea 

Infinite, imminent eternity ? 
And does the death-pang by man*s seed sn^s- 

tain'd 
In Time's each instant cause thy face to bead 
Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he 
Blesses the dead with his hand sllenUy 

To his long day which hours no more offead ? 

*' Mother of grace, the pass is difficult. 
Keen as these roclcs, and the bewildered sonls 

Throng it like echoes, blindly shudderiiy 
through. 
Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's Tolce extols, 
Whose peace abides in the dark avenue 

Amid the bitterness of things occolt" 



FOR EVER. 

Those we love truly never die, 
Though year by year the sad memorial-wreath— 
A ring and flowers, types of life and death — 

Are laid upon their graves. 

For death the pure life saves. 
And life all pure is love, and love can reach 
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach, 

Than those by mortals read. 

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead : 
A friend he has whose face will never change, 
A dear communion that will not grow strange : 

The anchor of a love is death. 

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath 
Will reach our cheek all fresh through fourscore years : 
For her who died long since, ah ! waste not tears — 

She's thine unto the end. 



Visit to mn Artist* s Studio. 



273 



Thank God for one dead friend, 
^Vhose mother-face no miles of road or sea 
Or earthly bonds can hold apart from me — 

First friend in life and death. 



VISIT TO AN ARTIST'S STUDIO. 



I DO not know if, outside his own 
small circle of patrons and ac- 
quaintances, any one has heard of 
the artist Van Muyden. Yet hid- 
den talent is none the less a divine 
gift because few know it ; it gives a 
more pathetic interest to a life to 
know that it is a life harassed with 
care, vexed by non-appreciation, 
hampered with poverty. Perhaps 
Van Muyden is only obscure be- 
cause he would not lower his art to 
suit the dealers' terms or the public 
taste. When I visited his studio, 
he was settled in a small house 
in the suburbs of Geneva, Switz- 
erland. His own appearance was 
striking : the supple form, not very 
tall, but very spare ; the large eyes 
that seemed to dart through you 
and search your soul, the high fore- 
head, wrinkled and bald, told of a 
man with an intellect higher than 
that of his fellow-men, an ideal en- 
throned beyond the region of which 
they know the bearings, and of the 
cares wjth which they can sympa- 
thize. He was a man past the 
prime of life, eager and enthusias- 
tic—eccentric, perhaps, as the 
world's estimate goes ; but who is 
not ?— I mean amongst those whose 
characteristics are worth studying 
at all. He wore over his vest 
and trowsers an old brown dressing- 
gown, suggestive of the appearance 
one is used to connect with mediae- 

VOL. XIX. — 18 



val scholars and seers. His forte 
is not landscape-painting, and, in- 
deed, he seemed lost at Geneva, de- 
spite the southern beauty of its en- 
virons, for Van Muyden 's predilec- 
tions were evidently for the repre- 
sentation of the human kind. But 
then, if it was man that he loved to 
copy, it was not broad-cloth man, 
sleek, respectable, decorous, well- 
off, but man as you find him in Italy 
or Spain — picturesque as his scan- 
ty surroundings; an unconscious 
artist, a born model; man imbued 
with the spirit of the sun-god ; man 
carolling and trilling without ef- 
fort, believing himself born to sing 
like the birds; man in himself a 
study, a picture, a statue, a marvel. 

Van Muyden explained his theo- 
ries very freely, and they were well 
worth listening to. 

" In the north, you see, " he said, 
" an artist is forced, if he wishes to 
be truthful, to copy a thousand 
pitiful details of upholstery. Such 
pictures are called genre j and this 
realistic, mathematical accuracy, 
utterly destructive of the pictu- 
resque, is lauded to the skies ; but, 
good God ! could not a Chinese do 
as well with his wonderful imitative 
faculty, altogether apart from the 
feeling of art } The North makes up 
for the picturesque by the comfort- 
able ; what a compensation for the 
artist ! But modem art has more 



274 



Visit to an Artist's Studio, 



to contend with than vitiated taste 
or the loss of that free and natural 
life which in simpler times was 
more conducive to artistic inspira- 
tion ; we have to struggle on with- 
out a school or a standard of taste. 
We no longer have those centres 
where the traditions of art were reli- 
giously kept ; those high-priests who 
gathered round them numerous and 
docile disciples, as of old the Athe- 
nian philosophers in the groves of 
Academe. Even in Italv, in Rome 
itself, no such centre can be found. 
A young artist has to make his 
own solitary way, pursue his ideal 
alone, keep up his enthusiasm by 
his own unaided exertions, and 
probably find neither patron nor 
master to care for his works or 
guide his attempts." 

The artist was |^irely right ; for 
the great schools of painting were to 
art what the religious orders are to 
the church — centres towards which 
a vague vocation may be directed 
and find its true mission, with 
brethren to share its enthusiasm 
and superiors to guide its aspira- 
tions. Most of his pictures were 
Italian scenes, some domestic, but 
mostly treating of the monastic 
life. The cool cloister, with its ilex 
or orange-trees seen cornerwise 
through the railings ; the ola portico, 
with a monk seated in meditation 
on the fragment of a sculptured 
pillar : the noon-day siesta ; the beg- 
ging friar coming home with his 
sack of food ; the preacher starting 
meekly, staff in hand, for the dis- 
tant station where he is to preach 
a Lent; the novice arranging the 
altar; the monk digging his own 
grave in the sunny cloister, or wash- 
ing the altar-plate in the sparkling 
fountain, etc. etc. — such werechief- 
ly the subjects chosen. Why ? He 
was not a Catholic, this artist ; but 
it seems to have come to him intui- 




tively that there is more room for 
artistic expression and artistic li- 
berty in things pertaining to the 
old church. His own studio 
as perfect a picture as any he coul 
have painted ; a treasure-house o 
antiquities carelessly displayed. I _;^ 
was lighted by two immense wi 
dows, one of which was shaded 
a sort of slanting tester, throwi 
the light on the easel in the midd 
of the room. Between these wi 
dows stood a nondescript piece 
furniture in carved oak, very bl 
and old — a species ois^cr^taircy wi '•rli 
an "extension*' holding a smsftJi 
washing-bowl, surmounted by a 
dolphin's head, which was crown<s<J 
for the nonce with a scarlet berr^t^<a» 
Large jars of old porcelain wer« 
placed here and there, either on \\\^ 
ground or on substantial itaglr^s^ 
and two corners of the room were 
filled with high chests equally carv- 
ed, on whose capacious tops rested ^ 
medley of distaffs, horns, helmetis, 
old swords, a spinning-wheel, and a 
confused mass of tattered garments 
or drapery, dingy and time-stain- 
ed, crimson cloaks, blue tunics, 
purple veils, etc. An array of pipes, 
hooked into the wall for security, 
stood on the high mantel-piece, 
together with one of those common 
brass kitchen lamps in use at Rome, 
with four projections enclosing 
wicks, and whose shape has never 
been altered since the days when 
Nero rode in the arena and the 
Christians went calmly to the stake. 
On the unoccupied spaces on the 
wall hung the artist's pictures, 
some few representing touching 
family scenes (all Italian) strewed 
among the monastic subjects. 
Right in the centre of the ceiling 
hung a movable apparatus, in which 
was placed a lamp — modem, alas ! 
This came down quite close to the 
easel, and gave all the light required 



Visit to an Artist's Studio. 



^^n 



nigkt-work. A carved table 
curiously -twisted legs, and two 
•backed mediaeval arm-chairs 
red with tapestry, completed 
iimiture, besides a green baize 

for the models. This re- 
ed me of the palco used for 
hing in Italian churches, even 

there is a proper pulpit ; 
of my readers may remember 
miniature stages, raised about 
feet from the floor, and on 
I the excited orator can prom- 
I like a lion in his cage while 
\g his burning periods at his 
tricken listeners. Van Muy- 
las a wife and nine children, 
I fact we ascertained through 
*ply to a question prompted 
e enormous quantity of under- 
hung out to dry on the balus- 
outside the studio. We did 
ee Mme. Van Muyden, and 
thankful we did not ; for such 
dess display of household se- 
must argue a woman whose 
jance would frighten romance 
)f the veriest sentimentalist 
;ver lived. So we speculated 
tnce on this domestic guardian 
I artist's peace — an excellent 
orthy woman, no doubt, a cap- 
ouse-keeper, a careful mother, 
bful wife, but scarcely a help- 

a companion, a Beatrice, to 
isband. How few men of sensi- 
lature, high-strung character, 
ng organization, have fit wives ! 
is it that they generally take 
icy to peculiarly unsuitable 
tn ? Is it that they are so soft- 
ed that they cannot resist the at- 
on of the first pretty face they 
r so rapt above the reach of com- 
interests that they form, as it 
inevitably, an incongruous un- 
nd only wake up to find them- 
) irretrievably tied to a showy 
m, or a plodding, unapprecia- 
ousewife ? What perverse fairy 



casts her spell on the poor artist's 
marriage-day, atid makes of the 
chime of his wedding-bells the knell 
of his possible fame ? 

Poverty is the safest ladye-love 
for an artist, as one of Dante's 
friends was always telling him. 
Artists and scholars are the Francis- 
of-Assisiums of the intellectual 
world, and the same bride as that 
spiritually wooed by the heroic 
voluntary beggar, is the most fitting 
companion for them. With her, 
at least, they can enjoy the perfect 
freedom from care which alone 
makes want supportable ; they can 
throw around their destitution that 
halo of romance which the prosaic 
details of a household invariably 
strangle out of existence. But in 
the early choice of a wife more 
hopes go down, more aspirations 
are smothered, than those whose 
aim is worldly success and the favor 
of the great. The ideal is the vic- 
tim par excellence J for the struggling 
artist, tied by his own hasty impru- 
dence to a woman of inferior mould, 
soon feels the spark of genius die 
within him ; the incentive to " do 
and dare " has dwindled down to 
the netcessity of " earning and eat- 
ing. * A woman with uncompre- 
hensive soul peevishly reminds 
him at every moment of the world 
of matter, without even offering him 
the compensation of a blind and 
admiring worship of his talents in 
his own peculiar sphere; in short,, 
he is a living example of the adage, 
" A man that's married is a man 
that's marred." 

\ Far be it from me to bring this- 
reproach on any particular individ- 
ual ; but such was the train of 
thought naturally induced by the 
unsightly array of house-linen hung 
like delusive flags of truce on the 
balusters of the artist's home^ 
Early marriage is undoubtedly 



276 Visions, 

best for the generality of men in up the thorny road to Pamas 

the world, but it is intellectual and then recommend early marri 

ruin to artists. Let us wish them but unless such exceptions be fot 

the rare fortune of a wife that will let them beware of the fate typi 

be a real helpmate to their higher by the prosaic decoration of ^ 

and better selves, a staff to lean on Muyden's abode at Geneva. 



VISIONS. 

The white stars gleamed in the jessamine bush, 
And the bright stars up in the sky. 

And Gilfillan stood at the garden-gate, 
And so at the gate stood I. 

The apple-boughs bent as we lingered there, 

And showered their rosy rain — 
Is it all that shall fall in that pleasant path. 

If we meet at the gate again ? 

O Gilfillan gay ! why seek away 

From lady-love, kith, and kin 
The world's Well-done, or 'neath foreign sun 

The golden spurs to win } 

O womanly heart ! be still, be still ! 

It is threescore years to-day — 
And thou canst throb with this wild, wild tide. 

And I all withered and gray ! 

And Gilfillan *s bones 'neath the kirk-yard stones 

Of a foreign and far-off land — 
No preacher so loud of the coffin and shroud, 

And the house that is built on sand ! 

Oh! a rare, rare castle of human hope 

We builded aloft in our pride ! 
And, oh ! woe betide so weary a dream ; 

For my lover is by my side. 

We have known no partings, no weary years, 
We have known no days of sorrow ; 

For I am but seventeen to-day. 
And we shall be married to-morrow ! 



A Ward for Women. 



277 



A WORD FOR WOMEN. 



BY ONE OF THEMSELVES. 



It has been urged that women 
should refrain from writing for the 
public, and busy themselves with 
interests more strictly within their 
own domain than those of litera- 
ture. The demand might claim 
respectful notice, if all women 
would give heed to it. Since they 
will not, is there any reason why 
those who employ their pens in 
the production of sensational sto- 
ries and other demoralizing works 
should have the field all to them- 
selves? Or is it right that others 
of equal ability should shrink from 
entering it in defence of religion 
and morality ? 

The space is ample for all com- 
batants. Our learned and vener- 
able doctors, stern champions of 
Inith, who keep their logical and 
polemical lances ever poised to 
strike the foe, to demolish error, 
and force conviction upon minds 
finnly closed against less cogent 
weapons, need not fear being jos- 
tled by humble handmaidens of 
the same mistress, who have ven- 
tured within the lists. These mfly 
uo good service, also, with a large 
class whom their telling blows 
shall fail to reach. 

Our women and youth, who will 

fead and be influenced for good or 

evil by "feminine literature," can- 

^oi be amused with metaphysical 

discussions that gain an attentive 

hearing from men of philosophical 

tastes, or even by moral essays and 

reflections, however excellent and 

edifying. 

Unfortunately, it is not a ques- 
tion of forming the tastes of read- 



ers. Alas ! these are already form- 
ed by a vitiated literature, flowing 
from a godless system of education, 
and carrying the poison through 
the whole length of its course. 

The only question is, Where 
shall the antidote be found, and 
how administered? Certainly not 
in moral lectures that will not be 
read, or in fiction of the goody- 
goody sort. 

Our only hope — and it is a bright 
one — for the future of our young 
Catholics lies in the blessed awak- 
ening — effected by the clear tones 
of that infallible voice which never, 
in any age, gave forth an uncertain 
sound — that is causing schools for 
Christian culture to spring up 
through the whole length and 
breadth of our country. But what 
for our children of a larger growth, 
whose tastes are already perverted ? 

We think it is unquestionable 
that, as the daughters of the first 
Eve, according to the flesh, have 
aided powerfully in commending 
the forbidden fruit to the lips of a 
deluded public, so the daughters 
of the second Eve, according to the 
spirit, may do much to remedy the 
consequences of the fatal banquet. 

There are certain influences ex- 
ercised almost exclusively by wo- 
men. There are certain subjects 
to the consideration of which the 
flexibility of her nature enables her 
to bend her efforts with graceful 
success, and to far better purpose 
than the "stern masculinity " of 
man's heart, head, and pen can 
compass. 

Well, then, if women may write, 



2/8 



A Word far Women. 



it behooves them to treat of such 
matters, and in such manner, as 
shall secure readers. For our peo- 
ple must and will read. Right 
or wrong, it is a necessity of the 
age. From the abodes of wealth 
and leisure, in the metropolis of 
fashion, to village homes and rural 
firesides, our people must and will 
read. Happy for them if the 
nourishment their fevered imagina- 
tions so morbidly crave be at least 
harmless ! A highly-seasoned sen- 
sational literature has stimulated 
the craving to a degree of frenzy, 
if not to actual organic disease; 
happy, indeed, for them could such 
mental pabulum, such agreeable vi- 
ands and cooling fruits, be fur- 
nished and accepted as would 
gradually assuage the wild thirst 
for excitement, until wholesome 
correctives should become pala- 
table ! 

To secure success in tilling the 
field from which so desirable a har- 
vest is to be gathered, the most 
conscientious writers must be con- 
tent, however they may deplore the 
necessity, to sharpen their plough- 
shares in the camps of these Philis- 
tines of literature. With no blunt 
implement can the soil be com- 
pelled to yield such harvest. 

We may furnish entertaining and 
edifying biographies, and gain a few 
readers. For this department wo- 
men are by nature peculiarly fitted, 
if they will guard against the ten- 
dency to exaggeration which is 
their besetting sin. But for one 
reader of such a book there will be 
fifty, even among Catholics, who 
will prefer the demoralizing trash 
in cheap newspapers and dime 
novels to the best biography that 
can be produced. 

Truth should be presented in a 
sharp and, to use a phrase of the 
times, taking way which shall com- 



pel a hearing. The popular absur- 
dities and glaring depravities of 
this "enlightened XlXth century" 
should be set forth with vehement 
energy and convincing force. 

It is no shadow, but a real, all- 
pervading, soul-destroying power 
with which the Christian athlete of 
this day is brought into close con- 
flict. The foe must be met by an 
attitude as firmly hostile to its evil 
enticements as it assumes against 
all good influences. "Beating the 
air " will win no victory. Seeking 
to compromise or modify the stem 
principles of eternal truth held and 
proclaimed by the Catholic Church 
from first to last will only ensure 
defeat. 

If our women join in the struggle 
to resist the forces of infidelity 
which threaten to overwhelm our 
sons and daughters in temporal and 
eternal ruin, and, in their zealous 
enthusiasm, step beyond the sphere 
of domestic privacy and humble re- 
tirement that is happily their own ; 
if some literary Judith even throws 
off* for the moment the delicate ten- 
derness of her sex, and seems to 
pass the limits of female decorum 
to strike off" the head a leading 
Holofemes, let us not cry, Out upon 
her for such unwomanly act ! Let 
us reflect that it would have been 
more in accordance with her nature 
and inclination to have remained 
quietly in her sequestered home 
and at her ease, if she could have 
forgotten the fearful interests that 
were at stake. 

What woman could look on with 
apathy when husband, brother, or 
child was exposed to certain death, 
from which her strongest effort 
might possibly snatch the dear one, 
or listen to the remonstrance that 
it was unbecoming and improper 
for a woman to put forth such ef- 
fort, and that it must prove a very 



A Word for Women, 



279 



feeble and faulty one at the best ? 

And shall we ask her to fold her 

^ands in ease, and remain silent 

in fitting retirement, when the 

Souls of her beloved are exposed 

t:o eternal death? No; it is her 

inalienable right to speak and act 

'^rhen by word or deed she may 

possibly rescue souls. 

Should sentiments of mere hu- 
wnan feeling, and affections from 
which it is most difficult to detach 
the heart of woman, enter into, im- 
l)ue, and even control the means 
she uses to promote interests dear- 
er than mortal life, she has nothing 
to fear but the critics. Her hea- 
venly Judge will never condemn her 
for using such weapons as he has 
endowed her withal in his holy 
cause. 

Honey is sometimes better than 
vinegar, feminine sentiment often 
more effective than masculine wis- 
dom, and fervor always to be pre- 
ferred to apathy. 

We need not fear that the Cath- 
olic woman will be carried too far 
by her fervent zeal in resisting the 
** spirit of the age." She can ne- 
ver be led into the mistakes of the 
so-called "strong-minded." Our 
vigilant and loving mother, the 
Holy Catholic Church, arms her 
daughters with invulnerable shields 
against all fanaticism. She holds 
also in her hands the power to 
sanctify all influences by which 
souls are attracted to her embrace ; 
to transmute all metals into gold. 

If an appeal to the sentimental 
«nd emotional element in the heart 
of a stranger to her fold has drawn 
the wanderer to her maternal bo- 
5oro, her gentle, all-prevailing in- 
spiration soon condenses feeling 
into principle, and the romantic vi- 
sionary stands clothed in the pano- 
ply of a martyr. 
If fitting words bravely spoken 



have called hither a soul from the 
slough of transcendentalism, spirit- 
ism, free love, or from the ranks of 
the " strong-minded," there is no 
fear that it may prove less docile to 
the genial influence than that of the 
dreamer, or fail to be speedily in- 
vested with all the delicate attri- 
butes and simple dignity of the true 
woman. 

All honor to the Catholic women 
in our own country and in Great 
Britain who are striving, each in 
her own way, to promote the inter- 
ests of a sound and truly Catholic 
literature. When there were but 
few of these in America, our sisters 
beyond the Atlantic reached their 
hands across the great waters to 
rescue souls. It will be known 
only at the great accounting day 
how many they first attracted to 
the consideration of eternal verities. 
From that time they have increased 
in number, and have continued to 
enrich British Catholic literature 
by their contributions, while en- 
couraging their American co-work- 
ers. 

A feminine Catholic literature 
may not be faultless, and yet gain 
numerous readers, and prove a 
power for good, not only within the 
church, but beyond her pale. Wo- 
men are human, and therefore liable 
to imperfection. 

When we notice the faults of fe- 
male writers, we must not forget the 
difficulties which encompass them. 
Few American women who write 
are exempt from a multitude of 
vexatious household cares, or even 
from kitchen drudgery. Many are 
oppressed with poverty, have no 
power to earn a subsistence but by 
the pen, with helpless families de- 
pendent upon their literary exer- 
tions. Among the most favored, 
scarcely one can be found who has 
not some invalid — a husband, pa- 



38o 



New Pkblicatians. 



rent, or child — who requires her at- 
tentions by night and day. It may 
be safely asserted that such literary 
leisure as men devoted to these 
pursuits ordinarily enjoy is un- 
known to American women. With 
all their disadvantages^ the man-el 
is, not that their performances 
should be imperfect* but that they 
have reaily accomplished so much 
under the shadow ot trie crowding 
cares and duties waich. scrround 
t:ieui ;a tie* rvax^cos^ domestic rela- 
t:cc>> 

I it thefflt tiki cccirw?? . rh^a» and 

c .crvrts cc rtexr 7<as^ ai>,''ix jjkI 



more perfect. And to this end le ^ 
them bestow their cordial smile-^ 
and most graceful bows of ackno^^^ 
ledgment upon their best frienc^^ 
— the critics who will take the pai^^ 
to examine and pass honest and L jd- 
telligent verdicts upon their prodixe 
tions. Acute criticism is the pu-r^. 
ing fire of literature, without whzcA 
it would soon become overburden- 
ed^with nonsense. As the friend 
who kindly admonishes us of our 
faults is entitled to the warmest 
comer in our hearts, so the critic 
who frankly sets forth the defects 
of any production may justly claim 
the most sincere gratitude of its 
author 



XKW rUBLICATIONS. 



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'.V tv'^vv. \tw Yoik. American 

•*x , > ''^v^^ V vv. 4 ^, M;uk*$ Place. 



*♦. » 



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^x .V v\ \xvVvi ui UvK^piuUs, The need 

., • - Vx v'^t »u Uu> UiAnoh of philan- 

» ^ vx. V 'x x'ai\ l\H.> well proved. 

'..4^ ^. vvUv\» AUvl Uulic.'i xvho interest 

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/.^ N- * *'\v^ xU^mcivMed peisons who 

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V \ \\ '^^v ii»v shuich .ikme is ci>mpe- 

^^ ..\,^! \uiU >i»v\U SiH^ial evils and 

w i ^v> ^uiv i5i coKl, selfish, and 

. . x • «, V v v|'l v^ »ai as it is Christian- 

M* ivcuuiv* .i»v always lackiiij; in 

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ganization and of religious institutions 
among those who are out of the one true 
church, parah'ze their efforts. It is only 
Christian unity which can give the pro- 
per remedy for this lamentable state of 
things, and without Catholic faith and 
obedience this unity is impossible. Re- 
ligious orders are alone capable of carry- 
ing out great works of charity, and they 
cannot exist and flourish except in the 
Catholic Church. If modern societj' does 
not return to the bosom of the church, its 
evils are incurable, however much indi- 
viduals may do in a partial way. Never- 
theless, these partial and imperfect ef- 
forts ought to be encouraged ; and during 
this past winter we have had occasion to 
admire and rejoice in the outflow of a 
stream of beneficence upon our suffering 
population in New York which has re- 
lieved an immense amount of misery. In 
so far as the special subject of this pam- 
phlet is concerned, it is obvious that the 
erection of a new Bellevue Hospital is 
imperatively demanded, and we trust that 
it will be accomplished. 



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281 



I 



Ukiveksitk Laval. Sixieme Centenaire 
DE Saint Thomas d'Aquin a S. Hya- 
ciNTHK ET A QUEBEC. Quebec : Cot6 
ct Cie. 1874. 

We are rejoiced to see that the six- 
huodredth anniversary of S. Thomas was 
celebrated with due splendor and solem- 
oity in at least these two places on the 
American continent. The same was done 
in private at the college of the Jesuits, at 
Woodstock. The Quebec pamphlet, be- 
sides the two excellent discourses of M. 
I'AbM B^n and the Rev. F. Prior 
Bourgeois, O.S.D., contains a very re- 
markable poem by a religious of the Con- 
gregation of the Precious Blood at S. 
Hjacinthe. We tender our thanks for the 
courtesy of the friend who sent us this 
bteresting memorial of a religious fite 
vhich does honor to the taste and piety 
of the devout and cultivated Catholics of 
Lower Canada. 

The two discourses contained in the 
pamphlet are of a high order of excellence 
in regard both to thought and diction. 
We have accidentally omitted to notice 
imong the other discourses that of Pro- 
fessor Paqu^t, which is fully worthy of the 
brilliant occasion on which it was deliver- 
ed, VIZ., the soiree which took place in 
the evening in the grand hall of the uni- 
'fersity. 



TtuE TO Trust. London : Burns & Oates. 
1874. (New York ; Sold by The Catho- 
lie Publication Society.) 

This story, the epoch of which is placed 
doringthe reign of Henry VIII.. is almost 
worthy of Lady Georgiana Fullerton, and 
its style frequently reminds us of that ac- 
complished writer of fiction. The charac- 
ter of Catharine Tresize is truly beautiful 
ind original. We recommend this story 
IS one of the best which has lately ap- 
peared. 



N Six Months ; or, The Two Friends. 
By Mary M. Meline. Baltimore : Kelly, 
Piet & Co. 1874. 

The story of the two friends, who are 
two young Americans converted to Ca- 
tholicity in Europe, has the advantage of 
appearing upon tinted paper, in a neat 
form, suitable to the polished, ornate dic- 
tion and poetic fancy of the lady author, 
a near relative of the late Mr. Meline, 



who was one of our favorite contributors. 
Miss Meline has a cultivated literary 
taste and a decided talent for writing 
stories. She has, moreover, the genuine 
Catholic spirit of fen'ent devotion to the 
Holy Father, and in the present story 
describes some scenes connected with 
the invasions of Rome under Garibaldi 
and La Marmora. We trust Miss Meline 
will not suffer her pen to lie idle, but 
keep it busily at work. 



Dr. Coxe*s Claims to Apostolicity 
Reviewed. Right Rev. Bishop Ryan's 
Reply to the Attack of the Episcopal 
Prelate. Buffalo: Catholic Publica- 
tion Co. Price 15 cents. 

Dr. Coxe is a prelate who has always 
been conspicuous for arrogance and reck- 
less assertion in maintaining the pre- 
tensions of the High Church party in 
the Protestant Episcopal denomination, 
and for his vituperative and defamatory 
assaults on the Catholic Church. In this 
temperate but severe criticism. Bishop 
Ryan has made an end of his claims to 
possess episcopal character and mission, 
and has refuted him out of his own mouth. 
We trust that this able and valuable pam- 
phlet will not be permitted to go into ob- 
livion, as pamphlets are wont to do, but 
be carefully preserved and made use of 
by clergymen and others who have to 
deal with Episcopalians searching after 
the true church, of whom there are so 
many in these days. 



Count de Montalembert's Letters to 
A Schoolfellow. •1827-1830. Trans- 
lated from the French by C. F. Audly. 
London : Burns & Gates. 1874. (New 
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society. 

Goethe somewhere remarks that many 
of an author's best thoughts are to be 
found in his letters to his Intimate friends ; 
written, not for llie public, not for fame 
but from the strong desire to communi- 
cate that which is most living within him 
to a kindred spirit. 

In the confidential correspondence of 
great minds there is a yet greater charm. 
We feel a kind of personal interest in men 
who have exercised great intellectual 
power over us ; they become our heroesi 
and we endow them with imaginary qual> 



282 



New Publications^ 



ities, from lack of more certain informa- 
tion concerning them. The minutest 
details in their lives become to us affairs 
of moment. How they looked, how they 
dressed, what they thought about the 
most trifling subjects, seem to us to be 
matters worthy of becoming a part of 
history. There is a still higher interest 
in the story of the unfolding of a power- 
ful intellect. It contains a lesson in psy- 
cholog}' more instructive than any which 
can be learned from abstract treatises on 
this subject. This it is that gives the chief 
value to autobiographies of philosophcrSi 
poets, and theologians. Yet an autobio- 
graphy can never be a mirror in which 
we may behold the workings of the hu- 
man mind. It is an after-thought, a re- 
flex judgment, the expression of what 
men, now think they once felt or thought. 
It does not give us /he process of intel- 
lectua! growth, but a theory concerning 
what that process must have been ; and 
a theory formed by the individual con- 
cerning the flux and reflux of the cur- 
rents of his own life can never be wholly 
trustworthy. Autobiography is necessa- 
rily subject to all the vices inherent in 
special pleading. 

The truest history of the intellectual 
and moral development of a man is to be 
found in his letters to his intimate friends. 
There we have, not what in after-years he 
thinks he thought and felt, but what he 
really did think and feel ; and in this 
view of the matter, the egotism which is 
always so prominent in letters to friends 
gives them an additional value. Instead 
of being ofiended with the writer for 
talking so much about himself, we are 
grateful for the weakness which gives 
us a truer insight into his character. 

These considerations will prepare our 
readers for a favorable criticism upon the 
volume before us. Few men have lived 
to whom we more gladly give the homage 
of admiration and respect than to Charles 
de Montalemben ; and though we strong- 
ly condemn certain words which he ut- 
tered when his mind was troubled by 
suiFcring and disease, and which, had he 
lived longer, he himself would have been 
the first to wish unsaid, he was yet so 
great a man that we willingly forget that 
he made this blunder. 

These Letters, of which Mr. Audly has 
given us an excellent English translation, 
were fint published in the Conteviporain 
(June. 1872, to March, 1873). 

They run from 1827 to 1830, and, as the 



work of a youth from his seventeendi to 
his twentieth year, arc of course freth, 
frank, and ardent ; but they also reveal 
in the future orator and historian a depth 
of feeling and a command of language 
rarely to be met with in one of so tender 
an age. 

They are addressed to M. Ubon Corau- 
det, whom Montalembert calls the friend 
of his soul, his dearest friend ; to whom 
he is bound by a common sjrmpatby io 
every noble feeling and high aim ; whom 
nor time nor absence can make bisi 
even for one moment forget. What cfaidljr 
strengthens him in his faith in the per- 
manency of this friendship is the fact that 
it is based on religion, which becomes 
the immortal mediatrix between his soul 
and that of his friend. 

When he travels and contemplates the 
beauties of nature, his only regret is that 
his friend is not near him ; when he reads 
a poem, and his soul is borne aloft oo 
the wings of inspiration, he exclaims, 
" Oh ! if he were but here to share my 
delight." He never dreams of the fu- 
ture, of battling for religion and freedom, 
of victories won and defeats nobly borne, 
that he does not behold his friend by bis 
side ; and when, picturing to himself the 
vicissitudes of life, he imagines that pos- 
sibly, in spite of his high resolves and 
strong purposes, he may fail, maj be 
doomed to obscurity and the contempt 
of the world, he seeks for consolation in 
the thought that in the heart of his friend 
he will iind a better world. 

His friend is, as it were, his other self, 
which gives to him a twofold life ; mak- 
ing him feel always that " joy was bort 
a twin," and that all who joy would win 
must share it, and that sorrow, too, longs 
to pour itself into the heart of love. 

This strong friendship — " the only im- 
pulse of the soul admitting of excess"— 
which, like a thread of gold, runs through 
all these letters, wins at once our sympa- 
thy and our confidence. 

There is something noble and great in 
the youth who is capable of such pure 
and deep love. After all, it is the heart 
that reaches highest and deepest, and 
through it man attains to the best. 

Of course there is in these letters much 
that is immature ; were It not so, they 
would not be the letters of a mere boy; 
but the infinite faith in the possibility of 
divine realities even on earth, the lofiy 
contempt for what is mean and ignoble, 
the self-confidence that never doubts ol 



New Publications, 



283 



itself, the festlen activity that no work 
Btisfies, the boundless craving for Icnow' 
ledi^e, the freshness of the heart that falls 
like dew upon every lovely thing, giving 
it health and beauty — all this so charms 
ind delights us that we have no eye for 
defects. 

" A contempt for life,*' he writes to his 
friend, ** is» in my opinion, the finest privi- 
lege of youth. As wc grow older, the 
more we cling to a frail existence which 
becomes a burden to ourselves and to 
others." 

What has experience that can compen- 
sate for the loss of 

"TiMlore of hif her things and better days ; 
Tlie unbounded hope, and heavenly igno- 
rance 
Of lAat ia called the world, and the world's 

wavs; 
Hie Boments when we gather from a fi^lance 
More Joy than from all future pride or praise 
WUcfa kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The iMart in an ealaUnce of its own ** ? 

Young Montalembert, with wealth and 
Mble birth, which gave him the entrie of 
ibe highest circles, found no charm in 
what is called society. His mind was too 
serious, his ambition too lofty, to permit 
bim to throw away the precious time of 
Toaih in frivolous amusements. 

''People usually say," he writes to his 
friend during the summer vacations of 
i^7f " that in youth we ought to give our- 
Klfes up to the pleasures of society. 
In ny opinion, this amounts to downright 
absurdity. I should think that in youth 
*e ought to plunge into study or 
inio the profession we wish to embrace. 
When a man has done his duty to- 
vards his country; when he can come 
before the world with laurels won in the 
mate or on the field of battle, or at 
least when he enjoys universal esteem ; 
*hen, sigain, he is sure of commanding 
oniversal esteem and respect, then I 
can understand that he has a right to 
rajoy himself in society, and to mix in it 
vith assurance." 

Monulembcrt had a passion for labor, 
vhich is the only sure road to excellence 
and power, and which is also the great- 
est evidence of ability. 

We find him, when not yet ten years 
'^Id, shut up in his grandfather's library, 
acting as his secretary, helping him in 
the designs of his geographical maps, 
and absorbed in the study of the grc.it 
English orators ; and later, at college, giv- 
ing up his recreations, and devoting fifteen 
hours a day to the se^*srest mental disci- 



pline. By saving five minutes every 
morning in his cell at Sainte-Barbe out 
of the time allowed to the pupils for ris- 
ing and dressing, he managed in one 
year to translate a whole volume of 
Epictetus. He spent a portion of the 
summer vacation of 1827 at La Roche- 
Guyon, the country-seat of the Due de 
Rohan ; and though the castle was filled 
with guests, for whom the duke provided 
every kind of amusement, this intrepid 
young worker is able to write the follow- 
ing lines to his friend : 

" While you are idling your time away, 
pray just hear what I shall have read 
during my month's residence at La 
Roche : in the first place, all Byron, 
which is no trifling job ; Delolme, on the 
British Constitution — a capital and highly 
important work ; the whole of the Odys- 
sey, twenty-four cantos, at the rate of one 
a day ; Thomson, Cowper, Pliny's Let- 
ters ; the Lettres ProvinciaUs ; the Life of 
S, Francis Xavier, by Bouhours, which 
the duke obliged me to read ; three vol- 
umes of the Mercure newspaper ; and, 
lastly, the poetical part of the Greek Ex- 
cerpta:* 

Even in Stockholm, whither he went 
in 1828 with his father, who had been 
appointed French ambassador to the 
court of Sweden, he is able, in the midst 
of the endless and tiresome routine of 
court etiquette, to devote six or seven 
hours a day to study. ** In the morning," 
he writes, '* I read Kant, whom I study 
deeply, not finding him over-difficult in 
the beginning. At night I plod in detail 
over Northern history. In the afternoon 
I devote all the time I can catch to my 
correspondence, to reading a few Ger- 
man poems and novels, and to certain 
statistical or political studies." 

Not content with working himself, he 
seeks to rouse the flagging energies of 
his friend by pointing out to him what 
great things he may be able to do for 
God and his country. The ruling pas- 
sion in Montaleinbert's heart, in these 
early years as during his whole life, was 
the love of the church and of freedom. 

" Religion, liberty," he writes — *' such 
are the eternal groundworks of all virtue. 
To serve God, to be free — such are our 
duties. In order to fulfil them, we must 
use every resource, every means, which 
Providence has placed in our hands.' 
And again : " I have succeeded in pre- 
serving my faith in the midst of one hun- 
dred and twenty infidels ; I hope that God 



2S4 



New Publications. 



will not allow me tc lose my indepen- 
dence of mind in the midst of half a dozen 
absolutists." 

And then he pictures to himself the 
great good which might be accomplished 
bj a writer who, bidding defiance to the 
prejudices of youth and the public, would 
raise a bold and eloquent voice in de- 
fence of freedom and the church. " What 
a noble part he would have to play !" he 
exclaims. " What blessings he would 
confer upon mankind ! What services 
he would render to religion ! Ah ! where- 
fore has not God deigned to give me 
talent? With what passionate ardor I 
would have embraced such a glorious fu- 
ture T Who does not perceive here how 
the thoughts of the boy were father to the 
deeds of the man? 

No author of our time has written more 
feelingly or eloquently of Ireland than 
Montalembert. He was drawn to her by 
a double attraction — he loved her for her 
faith, and he sympathized with her be- 
cause she was wronged. The finest por- 
tion of his history of The Monks of the 
West is that devoted to the Irish saints. 
Nothing could be more beautiful or 
more consoling than the noble pages 
which he has devoted to this subject. As 
his Histoire de Sainte Elisabeth opened a 
new path across the vast field of Catholic 
histor}', his studies on S. Columba and 
S. Columbanus called attention to the 
wealth of religious poetry and Christian 
example which was suffered to remain 
buried in the archives of the early Irish 
Church. In these letters we perceive the 
first awakening of his love for Ireland, 
and are able to trace the causes which 
led him to study the history of that most 
interesting but unhappy land. 

*' By reading the admirable speeches 
of Grattan," he writes in 1828, *' I have 
discovered, as it were, a new world — the 
world of Ireland, of her long-sufferings, 
her times of freedom and glory, her sub- 
lime geniuses, and her mdefatigable 
struggles. The universal interest now 
felt for Ireland, and the remarkable cir- 
cumstances in which she is placed at 
present, have tempted me to unfold before 
the eyes of those Frenchmen who care 
for Ireland the highly interesting annals 
and the sundry revolutions of her history. 
My Irish parentage on my mother's side, 
my deep knowledge of English, and my 
acquaintance with several families in that 
country have confirmed my first ideas on 
this matter, and I have determined upon 



writing a history of Ireland from t' 
168S, and to do it as soon as poss 
order that it may be published, 
can be done, before the vital ques 
the emancipation is solved. Tl 
perhaps no country presenting 
plentiful harvest of events equail; 
esting and unknown." 

Montalembert was in Sweden fi 
wrote this letter, and he at once 1 
England for books, that he might 1 
delay set to work on his propose< 
ry of Ireland. In addition to t 
proposed at the end of the year 
Ireland itself, that he might con 
braries and make a thorough st 
the people and country. This sor 
ambitious project of the youthful 
lembert led to no other immedi 
suits than an article on Ireland 
Revue Franfaise, and a journey 
Emerald Isle in 1830; but to it we 
doubt in part indebted for the el 
chapters on the Irish Saints ii 
Monks of the West. His first lett< 
Ireland to his friend is full of the 
siasm with which the history of ths 
try had inspired him : 

"As for the. Irishwomen," he 
" they are bewitching. They fo 
most beautiful female populatioi 
beheld. But I reserve all my r 
on the country and the people 
conversations in Paris. For the 
I must simply beg of you to pr: 
my passion for Ireland may not 1 
criminal, for it threatens really 1 
me astray from the lawful object 
affections ; and I am but too often 
ed to turn away my thoughts fn 
France to a country so complei 
sponding to my beliefs, my tast 
even my most trifling prepossessii 

He visited the county Wicklow 
tember, 1830, and wrote to his frier 
the ** meeting of the waters in the 
Avoca." *' No, never," he exclai 
France, England, the Netherlai 
even in Germany, have I met with ai 
comparable to the wild and picti 
defiles of this Wicklow County. 
"Only figure to yourself the g 
and yet the most lovely landscap 
rents abounding in numberless ca 
struggling to make their way t 
perpendicular rocks ; forests of 
fabulous depths ; meadows and 
full worthy of the Emerald Isle ; ai 
old abbeys, modern residences, and 
built in the purest Gothic style. 



New Publications. 



285 



in such a landscape, the most 
t cheerful, most poetical popu- 
tic world. Then, again, say to 
lat Grattan passed his child- 
; that he meditated his speech- 
lese torrents ; that one of these 
was bestowed on htm by his 
and that therein he lived in 
: that all these beautiful lands 
>fied and immortalized by the 
if 1798. Well, figure to your- 
,and you will still have but a 
i what I have felt for the last 

is eyes Irishwomen were the 
tiful, and Irish scenery the 
y, he was prepared to admire 
cally the men of the country. 
College he dined with the 
Bishop Doyle and several of 
>r8, who, he says, received him 
^ Homeric hospitality, 
don't know," he writes, " which 
id mire most, the people or the 
feel confounded at the sight 
pie, equally faithful — as I said 
cle, whilst myself hardly be- 
-equally faithful to its old mis- 
its old faith, who, of all the 
$ of their forefathers, have pre- 
hing but their religion, the 
snatched from the conqueror, 
;r allowing themselves to be 
ay by the invincible attraction 
3. ... As for the priests, 
model priests — manly, open, 
nergetic, - No hypocrisy, no 
:serve, to be read on their can- 
rene countenances ; they talk 
with all the buoyancy of a 
>l-boy, and of their country, of 
and unfortunate Ireland, with 
that would melt a heart of 
\ can sec that over their hearts 
d patriotism hold equal sway, 
order to comprehend fully 
otism is, one must hear an 
: talk of his country." 
oistake to affirm, as has been 
Montalcmbert made this jour- 
land merely, or chiefly even 
re to see O'Connell. 
It Liberator had indeed fired 
lieart with enthusiasm, and he 
miles through a dreary coun- 
! the pleasure of talking with 
rem these letters it is evident 
ing, higher and more general 
hich cou!d be inspired by an 
however great, had drawn him 



to the Isle of Saints. At Derrynane he 
found O'Connell, surrounded by his 
twenty-three children and nephews, look- 
ing like a plain country farmer. " I was 
struck," he writes, " but not dazzled, by 
him. He is by no means the most in- 
teresting object in Ireland." 

He heard O'Connell speak, and, in spite 
of his enthusiastic and imfirst matter/' or materia ^rima^ usually 
means matter without form, or potency without 
act ; and nevertheless it is not rare to find the 
denomination of materia prima applied to the 
matter which is in the bodies, and which is cer- 
tainly not without a form. We cannot enter 
here into a discussion about this subject ; but it 
Is obvious that, if we wish to be consistent aqd 
avoid equivocation, we must carefully guard 
afainst applying to anything actual the very 
i^pithet we employ to characterize iti contrary. 



of a being may be regarded unc^Kei 
two correlative aspects — that \ 

either as the terminability of a (k^ n 
act, or as the actuability of a f^^n 

potency. Under the first asp g ^ | 

possibility involves a positive r g=— a/ 
ity, because it implies a real en*fk;>» 
which is eminently (that is, ism « 
more perfect manner) pre-conta.wj. 
ed in the entity and power of its 
cause. Under the second aspect, 
possibility does not involve any- 
thing positive — unless we speak oi 
the possibility of accidents, which 
require a positive subject — ^but 
only connotes something positive, to 
wit, the first act by which the term 
is to be formally actuated. Pos- 
sibility, under this second aspect, 
and with reference to primitive be- 
ings, is nothing else than the po- 
tentiality with which we clothe 
nothingness when we conceive it 
as a term out of which beings are 
educed by creation; for nothing- 
ness thus conceived connotes the 
act by which the non-existing term* 
can be brought into being. 

Every possible being has, there- 
fore, a twofold incomplete possi- 
bility — iht formal and the material. 
The formal consists in the ter- 
minability of a first act ; the mate- 
rial in the actuability of its term; 
while the complete and adequate 
intrinsic possibility of the being is 
a simple result of the concurrence 
of the two. 

It must be manifest, as a con- 
sequence from the preceding re- 
marks, that a possible being is not 
truly, but only nominally^ real. 
For its material possibility, or its 
possible term, is only an entity of 
reason, since it means nothing 
more than a non-entity conceived 
as liable to actuation; and its 
formal possibility, or its possible 
act, although involving, as we have 
said, the notion of a positive real- 



The Principles of Real Being. 



291 



Uy eminently contained in the en- 
tity of the Creator, is still nothing 
formally in that line of reality to 
which we refer when we speak of 
ts possibility. Thus the possibil- 
ty of man, so far as it is eminently 
contained in the entity of the Crea- 
tor, is no human entity at all, but 
simply God's entity and power; 
just as the possibility of velocity, 
so far as it is eminently contained 
in the entity of its cause, is no 
formal velocity at all, but simply 
the entity and power of the agent 
by which the velocity can be 
brought into being. Certainly, the 
Telocity with which a drop of rain 
falls to the ground has no formal 
existence in the earth which pro- 
duces it, but only in the drop itself; 
it being evident that the attractive 
power of the earth is not velocity, 
but the principle of its production. 
And the same is to be said of any 
other effect inasmuch as it is emi- 
aently contained in its efficient 
cause. Nothing, therefore, that is 
merely possible has any formal be- 
ing in its cause ; whence it follows 
that whatever is merely possible is 
iiothing more than an entity of rea- 
son— that is, an unreality — whether 
we consider its material or its 
formal possibility. All entities, in 
to, of which the act and the term 
are beings of reason, can have no 
actuality but an actuality of reason. 
Hence possible beings are them- 
selves only beings of reason, and 
have no reality, either physical or 
metaphysical. Why, then, are they 
called realt Certainly not for 
what they are, but simply because 
their possibility is the possibility 
9f real beings. Many philosophers 
Vc wont to style them metaphysical 
realities ; but this is a mistake, for 
«tll metaphysical reaKty implies ex- 
istence. 
Possibles, as mere beings of rea- 



son, have neither actuality nor 
formal unity, except in intellectual 
conception ; whence it follows that 
they do not constitute number, ex- 
cept in intellectual conception. 
This inference is evident. For 
every multitude is made up of dis- 
tinct units; and therefore no real 
multitude can be conceived with- 
out real units really distinct. On 
the other hand, possible beings are 
not real, but conceptual, units, nor 
are they really, but only mentally, 
distinct from one another. As, 
however, they are distinctly con- 
ceived, and have a distinct ideal 
actuality in the intellect that con- 
ceives them, they constitute what 
may be called an ideal multitude. 
Such a multitude, as seen and ex- 
haustively comprehended by God's 
intellect, is absolutely and positive- 
ly infinite ; for possibilities are no- 
thing but the virtual degrees of 
being which God's infinite real- 
ity eminently contains, and which 
God's infinite power can produce 
outwardly. The range of possibili- 
ties is therefore co-extensive with 
God's infinity, and thus actually 
comprises an infinite (not an indefi" 
nite) multitude of distinct terms. 

This infinite multitude is dis- 
tinctly and positively known to God 
in the perfect comprehension of 
his own infinite being, which is the 
inexhaustible source of all possible 
beings; to our intellects, however, 
which cannot comprehend infinity, 
the same infinite multitude is 
known only negatively^ inasmuch as 
we understand that the multitude 
of possible beings admits of no 
limit whatever. We have, in fact, 
no positive intuition of the infinite, 
but acquire a notion of it by means 
of abstraction only, as we remove 
the limits by which any finite real- 
ity directly perceived by us is cir- 
cumscribed. In other terms, our 



292 



The Principles of Real Being, 



notion of the infinite is not an intui- 
tive idea^ as the ontologists assume, 
but only an abstract concept.* 

Thus far we have spoken of what 
is called intrinsic possibility. Be- 
sides this possibility, which is theo- 
retical and absolute, there is also a 
relative possibility which is extrin- 
sic and practical. Extrinsically pos- 
sible we call that which is in the 
power of some being to do. With 
regard to God, all that is intrinsi- 
cally possible is also extrinsically 
possible; for his omnipotence has 
no bounds. With regard to crea- 
tures, whose power is confined to 
the production of accidental acts, 
the range of extrinsic possibility is 
very limited, since it is reduced to 
acts of a determinate species, and 
depends on extrinsic conditions. 
Still, as the efficient power of creat- 
ed substances is never exhausted 
by exertion, creatures virtually con- 
tain in their own power a multitude 
of possible acts which has no limit 
but that of the multitude of terms 
or subjects which can be placed 
within the sphere of their activity. 
This amounts to saying that the ac- 
tive power of creatures can be ex- 
erted, not only successively, but 
even simultaneously, in the produc- 
tion of any number of accidental 
acts of a certain kind. Thus the 
attractive power of the sun suffi- 
ciently accounts for the possibility 
of innumerable movements which 
can take place at any time and at 
all times in any number of planets, 
comets, or particles of matter 
around it ; so that the multiplica- 
tion of the effects does not require 
the multiplication of the power, but 
only that of the number of subjects, 
or potential terms, in which the 
acts proceeding from that power 
must be received. 

• Sec Catholic World, July, 1873, P»K« 471. 



From what we have just said of 
real possibility, it will be easy to 
determine in what real impossibil- 
ity consists. Really impossible we 
call that which cannot eiist in na- 
ture. Now, nothing can exist in 
nature which is not an act com- 
pleted by a suitable term, or a term 
actuated by a suitable act, or an 
actuality resulting from the conspi- 
ration of an act and a suitable term, 
as we have shown in a preceding 
article. That, therefore, is absolute- 
ly and intrinsically impossible in 
which this essential law of being is 
not fulfilled. Thus passion without 
action is absolutely and intrinsically 
impossible, because a term cannot 
be actuated without an act ; w^hite- 
ness with nothing white is absolute- 
ly impossible, because no mode of 
being is conceivable where there is 
no being ; a material form actuat- 
ing an intellectual term is absolute- 
ly impossible, because the one can- 
not give that kind of reality which 
the other should receive, and thus 
they cannot conspire into one es- 
sence ; rotundity and triangularity 
in the same subject are absolutely 
impossible, because they exclude 
and destroy one another. General- 
ly, whenever the assumed princi- 
ples of a thing do not conspire into 
one essential ratio, the thing will 
have no essence, and consequently 
no possibility of existence. Hence 
everything is intrinsically impossi- 
ble which lacks some constituent, 
or of which the constituents cannot 
meet together. 

Things intrinsically impossible 
are no beings, not even ideal be- 
ings ; for ^ince they have no es- 
sence, they have no objective intel- 
ligibility. Nevertheless, they are 
said to be really^ iruly^ entitaiively 
impossible, inasmuch as they are 
the opposite of possible entity, real- 
ity, and truth. 



The Principles of Real Being. 



293 



Besides this intrinsic and abso- 
* lute impossibility, there is a relative 
impossibility, which is styled ex/rin- 
sic, arising from a deficiency or 
limitation of extrinsic power. It is 
evident that a thing intrinsically 
possible may be extrinsically im- 
possible to causes possessing limit- 
ed power. To God nothing is im- 
possible. When we say that God 
cannot sin or make a square circle, 
we do not limit his power, but only 
point out the intrinsic impossibility 
of the thing. And let this suffice 
with regard to possibles and impos- 
sibles. 

Principles of real relation. — Rela- 
tive we call " that which connotes 
something else " — id quod se habetad 
diud. Thus the greater connotes 
the less, as nothing can be styled 
" greater " except as compared with 
something less; and, similarly, the 
less connotes the greater, as nothing 
can be styled " less " except as 
compared with something greater. 
Hence greater and less are both 
relative. 

That one thing may connote an- 
other, there must be some link be- 
tween them — that is, a communica- 
tion in something that reaches them 
both, and thus connects the one 
with the other. Hence, to consti- 
tute a relative being, three things 
we required : ist, that which is to 
be related, or the subject of the rela- 
tion; 2d, that to which it is to be 
related, or the term of the relation ; 
3d, that through which it is related, 
or the foundation or formal reason 
of the relation. 

It is worth noticing that the word 
"relation " is used by philosophers 
in two different senses. Sometimes 
it is used as meaning simply " the 
respect of a subject to a term " ; as 
when we say that the father by his 
paternity is related to his son, or 
th?.t the son by his filiation is re- 



lated to his father. Here paternity 
and filiation are simple relativities^ 
which may be called " transitive re- 
lations," as the one leads to the 
other. But sometimes the word 
" relation " is used as meaning " the 
tie resulting between two terms from 
the conspiration of their distinct 
relativities " ; as when we say that 
between the father and his son there 
is a tie of consanguinity. Relation 
in this sense is nothing else than 
the actuality of two correlatives, in- 
asmuch as connected by their dis- 
tinct relativities, and may be styled 
" resultant relation," or " intransi- 
tive relation," as it does not lead 
from the subject to the term, but is 
predicated of both together. 

The precise distinction between 
relativity and resultant relation is 
marked out by the two prepositions 
to and bctivcen. Relativity relates 
the subject to its term; resultant 
relation, or correlation, intervenes 
between two tenns. Relativity 
needs completion in a term having 
an opposite relativity, as it is evi- 
dent that paternity has no comple- 
tion without a son ; and thus one 
relativity essentially needs to be 
completed by the other ; but corre- 
lation is perfectly complete, as it is 
the result of the completion of one 
relativity by the other. And, lastly, 
the formal reason or foundation of 
the simple relativity is that which 
induces the connotation, or the re- 
spect of one term to another ; whilst 
the formal reason of the correlation 
is the conspiration of two relativi- 
ties. Thus the foundation of pa- 
ternity and of filiation is generation^ 
active on the part of the father, and 
passive on the part of the son ; but 
the formal reason of consanguinity 
is not the generation, but the con- 
spiration of paternity and filiation 
into a relative unity. This shows 
that these two kinds of relation are 



294 



The Principles of Real Being. 



entirely distinct, though they are 
essentially connected with one an- 
other in the constitution of the re- 
lative being. 

Let us now inquire in what the 
reality of relations consists. Here 
again we have to make a distinction ; 
for among the relations which are 
called real^ some are real in fact, as 
the transcendental relations, and 
others are real by denomination 
only, as all the predicamental rela- 
tions. 

Transcendental relation is that 
which intervenes between the act 
and the term, or the formal and the 
material principles of one and the 
same being. Such a relation is 
called " transcendental," because 
it transcends the limits of any par- 
ticular predicament, and, like beings 
extends to all predicaments. This 
relation is truly real, whether we 
take " relation " as a simple relativi- 
ty or as a resultant correlation. 
For the relativity of an act to its 
term is nothing less than the actual- 
ity of the act in the same term ; in 
like manner, the relativity of a term 
to its act is nothing less than the 
actuality of the term in the same act. 
We know, in fact, that the common 
foundation of the two relativities is 
actuation^ active on the part of the 
act, and passive on the part of the 
term ; and from actuation nothing 
but actuality can result. And since 
by such an actuation the act and 
the term are really constituted in 
one another, hence their relativities 
need nothing extrinsic for their 
completion, but the one intrinsically 
completes the other in the same in- 
dividual being, and both conspire 
into one absolute actuality, which 
is the formal complement of the 
same being, as we have shown in 
another place. 

But with predicamental relations 
the case is different. The subject 



and the term of the predicaic 
relation do not communicate 
one another through thenu 
immediately, but through j 
thing else, and are always phy 
ly distinct, as we shall see 
after; whence it follows thai 
predicamental relativity alwa; 
fers the subject to a term ext; 
to it, and thus needs somethin 
trinsic for its entitative comph 
But nothing which is extrins 
the subject can complete any 
intrinsic to it so as to form i 
entity. Therefore the relativi 
the subject to its term is not i 
entity of the subject, but only i 
denomination. The minor of 
syllogism can be easily proved 
two things which are, and rei 
extrinsic to one another ca 
conspire into otie real unity 
the subject and the term of p 
camental relations are, and rei 
extrinsic to one another ; they 
not, therefore, conspire* into on 
unity. Hence they cannot 
rise to any new real entity 
unity and entity are conve 
terms. 

Moreover, predicamental 
tions arise between two abs 
terms without anything new 
introduced into them. For 
have two real terms, A and B, 
sessing something which is cor 
to both, their communicatic 
this common thing will make 
relative. Yet such a commu 
tion leaves A and B in posse 
of that reality which is said 
common, and adds no real ent 
them. If A and B are both i 
the whiteness which is in A 
no means modified by the exis 
of whiteness in B, The fact 
A and B are both white, si 
means that whiteness is not 
fined to A ; but it does not i 
any new real entity in A^ 



TIte Principles of Real Being, 



295 



therefore A remains identically the 
same, whether there is another 
white body, B^ or not; and if there 
were one thousand white bodies, A 
would become related to them all, 
and acquire a thousand relativities, 
without the least real modification 
of its entity. 

Not even the relation between 
agent and patient, which is the 
nearest possible imitation of the 
transcendental relation between the 
essential constituents of absolute 
being, is a new entity. A being 
which acts is an agent j and a be- 
ing which is acted on is ^patient. 
Agent and patient are connected 
by predicamental relation, the act 
produced by the first, and received 
in the second, being the foundation 
of their relativities. Now, is the 
relativity of the agent to the pa- 
tient a new real entity above and 
besides the substance of the agent 
and its action ? By no means. 
For such a relativity arises from 
this only : that the act produced by 
the agent is received in the patient ; 
and as the patient is a being dis- 
tinct from the agent, the reception 
of the act in the patient cannot 
concur to the constitution of any 
new reality in the agent. Hence 
the whole reality of the agent, as 
such, consists in its substance and 
its action ; while the reception of 
its action elsewhere can add no 
real entity to it, but simply gives it 
a real denomination desumed from 
the reality of the effect produced. 
For the same reason, the relativity 
of the patient to the agent is no 
new real entity above and besides 
the substance of the patient and its 
passion. This relativity, in fact, 
arises from this only : that the act 
received in the patient comes from 
the agent ; and as the agent is a 
being distinct from the patient, the 
coming of the act from the agent 



cannot concur to the constitution 
of any new reality in the patient. 
Hence ihe whole reality of the pa- 
tient, as such, consists in its sub- 
stance and its passion, or reception 
of the act ; while the coming of this 
act from a distinct being can add 
no real entity to it, but simply gives 
it a real denomination desumed 
from the reality of the causation*. 

From what precedes we may 
conclude that the reality of predi- 
camental relations requires no new 
real entity superadded to the reat 
terms and the real foundation of 
their relativity, and accordingly 
predicamental relations are only 
nominal realities. 

Relations are either virtual^ for- 
maly or habitual. Virtual relativity 
is predicated of a subject which con- 
tains in itself virtually (in actuprimo)* 
something through which it can 
communicate with a distinct term. 
Thus everything visible has a vir- 
tual relativity to the eye before it 
is seen ; because all that is visible- 
has the power to make an impres- 
sion upon the eye. Hence visi- 
bility is a virtual relativity, or, if 
we may so call it, a mere rcfera- 
bility. In Latin, it is called onto — 



"ordination 



»» 



and in the lan^ 



guage of the schools, the visible 
would be said to have "a special; 
ordination to the eye** — visibile ordi- 
nem habet ad oculum. In the same 
manner, the eye has a special ordi- 
nation to the visible, the intellect 
to the intelligible, etc. 

The formal relativity is predicat- 
ed of a subject which is formally 
(in actu sccundo) connected with its. 
correlative by the formal partici- 
pation of a common entity. Thus, 
when the visible object strikes the 
eye, the action of the one upon the 
other entails a formal link of rela- 
tivity between the two, and it is 
thus that the previous virtual rela- 



296 



The Principles of Real Being, 



tivity of the one to the other becomes 
formal. This formal relativity in 
Latin is often called rcspecius — " a 
respect " ; and the things thus re- 
lated are said " to regard " — respi- 
cere — one another. 

The habitual relativity is predi- 
cated of that which has been 
Ijrought into relation with its corre- 
lative by something in which both 
originally communicated, but which, 
owing to the destruction of one of 
the two, has ceased to be common. 
This relativity in Latin is properly 
called habitudo — that is, " habitual 
connotation *' ; and the subject 
thus related is spoken of as habetis 
se ad alt quid — a phrase which we 
<lo not attempt to translate, and 
which is used by philosophers in a 
more general sense to express all 
kinds of relations. * Thus a mur- 
derer is still habitually related to 
the man whom he has killed, al- 
though the man killed is no more a 
man; and, in the same manner, a 
•son is habitually related to his fa- 
ther, even after his father's death ; 
for he is still the same son of the 
same father, and it would be ab- 
surd to pretend that he has lost his 
own relativity and ceased to be a 
real son only because his father is 
no more. It must be remarked, 
however, that this habitual relativi- 
ty cannot be real, except when the 
relation has an intrinsic foundation. 
For when the foundation is ex- 
trinsic, there is nothing formally re- 
maining in the subject which, after 
the suppression of the term, can 
keep up its relativity. Thus, if the 
moon were annihilated, the dis- 
tance from the earth to the moon 
would totally vanish, as every one 
will easily admit. 

Much might be said about predi- 
camental relations, both intrinsic 

*The general definition of relation is, Tdy 
xuiu* Mmm est* est ad aliud se kahere. 



and extrinsic; but, in a general 
treatise like this, we cannot well 
enter into matters of detail. We 
will only state that relations are 
divided according to their founda- 
tions. Intrinsic relations are re- 
spectively founded on substance, 
on action and passion, on quality, 
and on quantity; and therefore 
may be reduced to four kinds. 
Extrinsic relations also may be di- 
vided into four kinds, as they are 
respectively founded on a common 
cause, on a common region of ubi- 
cation, on a common duration, or 
on a common extrinsic term of 
comparison. 

Substance, and everything else 
considered absolutely, founds the 
relations of unity and plurality. 
Action and passion found the rela- 
tions of causality and dependence. 
Quality founds the relations of like- 
ness or unlikencss. Quantity founds 
the reltations o( equality or inequality. 
All these relations are called intrin- 
sic , because their foundation is 
somethins; intrinsic to the terms re- 
lated. 

A common cause founds the re- 
lation which we may call of colla- 
teralncss between two terms pro- 
ceeding from it. Thus two broth- 
ers are connected in mutual .frater- 
nity, inasmuch as they are the off- 
spring of the same parents. A 
common region of ubication and 
movement founds the relation of 
distance, A common duration 
founds the relation of succession. 
A common extrinsic term of com- 
parison founds the relation of site 
or situation. All these relations art 
called extrinsic, because their foun- 
dation is extrinsic to the terms re- 
lated. 

Principles of real distinction. — 
Distinction is nothing but a nega- 
tion of identity; and therefore 
there must be as many kinds of 



The Principles of Real Being. 



297 



distinction as there are kinds of 
identity which can be denied. 
Hence we cannot properly deter- 
mine the principles of real distinc- 
tion without first ascertaining what 
are the principles of real identity. 

Identity is a relative unity ^ or a 
relation founded on the unity of a 
thing. For the thing which is to 
l)e styled the same must be com- 
pared with itself according to that 
entity on account of which it is to 
k pronounced to be identical with 
itself; and it is evident that such 
an entity must be one in order to 
be the same. Thus if I say : " The 
pen with which I am now writing 
is the very same which I used yes- 
terday," the pen with which I am 
now writing will be the subject of 
the relation, the pen which I used 
yesterday will be the term of the 
relation, and the oneness of its en- 
tity will be the foundation of the 
relation and the formal reason of 
the identity. 

As relations, like everything else, 
are specified by their formal rea- 
sons, it is clear that there must be 
is many kinds of identity as there 
are kinds of unities on which the 
relation of identity can be founded. 
Now, three kinds of unities can be 
conceived: first, the formal unity 
of a complete being, or a complete 
unity, which may be called physical 
unity; secondly, the unity of an 
incomplete or metaphysical reality, 
which may be called metaphysical 
unity ; thirdly, the unity of a being 
of reason, which may be called 
l(^\cal unity. Accordingly, there 
can be three kinds of identity, viz., 
the physical, the metaphysical, and 
the logical. Let us say a word 
alx)ut each. 

Physical identity is a relation 
founded on the unity of a physical en- 
tity, and is the most real of all iden- 
tities. Some philosophers taught 



that this identity is merely a logi- 
cal relation, or a relation of reason, 
because, a relation cannot be real 
unless its subject be really distinct 
from its term — a condition which 
cannot be verified when the subject 
and the term are identical. But 
they did not reflect that a thing 
must be called really identical with 
itself then only when it cannot be 
really distinguished from itself, and 
inasmuch as it excludes real distinc- 
tion from itself. It is therefore 
manifest that real identity excludes 
real distinction in that in which 
there is identity. Nevertheless, the 
thing which is substantially identi- 
cal with itself may still really differ 
from itself in the manner of its be- 
ing, and may, as the subject of the 
relativity, involve a real entity, 
which it does not involve as the 
term of the same relativity ; and 
accordingly the substantial identity 
of a thing with itself docs not ex- 
clude all real distinction. The pen 
with which I am now writing, al- 
though identical with the pen that 
lay on the table one hour before, is 
now in different accidental condi- 
tions, and has some real mode, 
which was wanting one hour ago. 
And this shows that there can be a 
sufficient real distinction between 
the subject and the term of the 
relation, even though they are sub- 
stantially identical. 

Physical identity may be divided 
into complete and incomplete. It is 
complete, or total, when a being is 
compared with itself through the 
unity of its physical entity, as in 
the preceding example of the pen. 
It is incomplete, or partial, when a 
physical part is compared with a 
physical whole, or, vice versa^ as 
when we compare the whole man 
with his soul or with his body. 

Metaphysical identity is a rela- 
tion founded on the unvt^ oi ^ 



298 



Tlu Principles of Real Being. 



metaphysical entity, and possesses 
a metaphysical reality. It may be 
divided into adequate and inade^ 
quate. It is adequate when a be- 
ing is compared with itself through 
the unity of some metaphysical 
reality which belongs to it. Such 
is the personal identity of John 
when old with John when young ; 
for although he has undergone 
many physical changes in his body, 
and therefore has not preserved a 
perfect physical identity with him- 
self, still his formal personality, 
which is wholly due to his soul, has 
not changed at all. The identity 
will be inadequate when any meta- 
physical constituent of a complete 
being is compared with the being 
itself, or vice versa. Such is the 
identity of the substantial act with 
the substance of which it is the act, 
of the matter with the material be- 
ing, and of any property or attribute 
with the thing of which it is the 
property or the attribute. Such is 
also the identity of the divine 
Personalities with the divine es- 
sence ; for, although the divine 
Paternity identifies itself perfectly 
with the divine essence, this latter 
requires further identification with 
the divine Filiation and with the 
passive Spiration ; for it must be as 
whole and perfect in the Second 
and the Third Person as it is in the 
First. 

Logical identity, or identity of 
reason, is a relation founded on the 
unity of a being of reason. It may 
be divided into objective and subjec- 
tive. The objective has its founda- 
tion in the real order of things ; 
the subjective has no foundation 
except in our conception. Thus 
the identity we conceive between a 
horse and its owner as to their 
animality is an identity of reason 
only, although it is grounded on a 
real foundation ; for animality is 



indeed to be found really in both, 
but its unity is only a unit of reason; 
for animality, as common to both, 
is only a logical entity, which wc 
call "genus." The same is to be 
said of the identity between Peter 
and Paul as to their humanity; for 
humanity, though real in both, ii 
not numerically, but only specifical- 
ly, one, and its unity is therefore i 
unity of reason ; for " species " is a 
logical being. On the contrary, 
when we . say that " a stone is 
heavy," the identity between a 
stone and the subject of such a 
proposition has no foundation ex- 
cept in our reason, and therefore is 
purely subjective ; and the same is 
to be said of the identity of the 
verb is with the copula of the pro- 
position, of heavy with the predicate^ 
etc. It is evident, in fact, that the 
ground on which these last relations 
are founded is not a real unity, and 
not even a unity having anything 
corresponding to it in the real 
order ; since subject, predicate, etc., 
are mere conceptions and creations 
of our mind. 

We have thus three kinds of 
identity : the physical, which is 
either complete or incomplete; the 
metaphysical, which is either ade- 
quate or inadequate; the logical 
which is either objective or merely 
subjective. Since distinction i* 
the negation of identity, it is obvi- 
ous that the distinction between 
two terms always results from the 
non-unity of the same, and is con- 
ceived by the comparison of the oW 
with the other according to soln^ 
thing which can be affirmed of the 
one, and must be denied of Ac 
other. Those things, in £act, arc 
said to be distinct of which the one 
is not the other, or in one of which 
there is something not to be foond 
in the other. 

First, then, to deny real physical 



1 



The Principles of Real Being. 



299 



identity is to assert real physical 
distinction. Physical distinction 
may be either complete or incomplete 
as well as physical identity. It 
will be complete, or major, when, 
comparing two complete wholes 
with one another, we deny that the 
one is the other ; as when we deny 
that the sun is the moon. It will 
be incomplete, or minor, when, 
comparing together the whole and 
any of its parts, we deny that the 
whole is any of its parts, and vice 
versa ; as when we deny that 
Germany is Europe, or that the 
roof is the house. It is evident 
that incomplete physical distinction 
always coexists with incomplete 
physical identity. 

The true and certain sign of real 
physical distinction between two 
things is their separability or their 
state of actual separation. For 
when two things are completely 
distinct as to their physical entity, 
they are each in possession of their 
own distinct existence ; and con- 
lequently the existence of the one 
does not depend on the existence 
of the other. On the other hand, 
although a physical whole cannot 
exist as a whole, if its parts be 
separated, yet each of its physical 
parts can exist separated, as each 
of them has its own existence inde- 
pendent of the existence of the 
whole. 

Secondly, to deny real metaphysi- 
cal identity is to assert real meta- 
fhysicai distinction. Metaphysical 
distinction may be either adequate 
or inadequate no less than meta- 
physical identity. It will be ade- 
quate, or major, when, comparing 
together two metaphysical con- 
stituents, we deny that the one is 
the other; as when we deny that 
the act is the potency. It will be 
inadequate, or minor, when, com- 
paring a metaphysical compound 



with any of its constituents, we deny 
that the constituent is the com- 
pound, and rice versa; as when 
we deny that existence is the thing 
existing, or that person is person- 
ality. The inadequate metaphysi- 
cal distinction always coexists with 
an inadequate metaphysical iden- 
tity. 

Thirdly, to deny an identity of 
reason is to assert a distinction of 
reason. A distinction of reason 
may be either objective or merely 
subjective, no less than the identity 
of reason. It will be objective, or 
major, when, comparing together 
two entities which are really identi- 
cal, we find in their identical reality 
a ground for denying their concep- 
tual identity ; as when we deny 
that God's eternity is God's immen- 
sity, or when we deny that in any 
given being one essential attribute, 
as animality, is another, as ration- 
ality. This distinction is objective, 
because its ground is found in the 
object itself; and yet it is not real, 
because each term represents the 
same thing under two distinct as- 
pects. Thus, in man, animality 
really includes a rational soul, and 
therefore implies rationality. But 
the distinction will be purely sub- 
jective, or minor, when, comparing 
together two entities, we find no 
ground whatever for denying their 
identity, except in our subjective 
manner of viewing them. Thus, 
although vian is identical with 
rational animal, we can distinguish 
man from rational animal as a sub- 
ject from a predicate ; and it is 
evident that this distinction has no 
ground but in our conception. 

Accordingly, we have three kinds 
of distinction : the real physical, 
which is either complete or incom- 
plete ; the real metaphysical, which 
is either adequate or inadequate ; 
the logical, or of reason, which via 



300 



The Principles of Real Being. 



either objective or merely subjec- 
tive. This division is exhaustive. 
Some will say that we have for- 
gotten the modal distinction. But 
the fact is that we have abstained 
on purpose from mentioning it in 
connection with any special kind 
of distinction, because it may fall 
under the physical as well as the 
metaphysical distinction, according 
as it hapi)ens to be understood ; for 
it is differently understood by dif- 
ferent writers. 

Some authors consider that there 
is a modal distinction between the 
spherical wmx and its sphericity, be- 
tween the soul affected by fear and 
its affection, between the finger in- 
flected and its inflection, and 
generally between the modified sub- 
ject and its mode. Others, as 
Suarez, seem to admit a modal dis- 
tinction between the wax simply 
and its sphericity, between the soul 
simply and its aifection, between 
the finger simply and its inflection, 
and generally between the subject 
simply and its mode. And others, 
again, admit a modal distinction be- 
tween the wax having a spherical 
form and the same wax having a 
difl*erent form; between the soul 
afl*ected tiy a movement of fear and 
the same soul affected by a different 
movement ; between the finger in- 
flected and the same finger not 
inflected ; and generally betiueen a 
subject having one mode^ and the same 
subject having another mode.''' 

These different opinions have 
been occasioned by an imperfect 

* There are philosophers who do not admit any 
real distinction between a things and its mode. 
Thus ToHKiorRi {Qntol.^ n. 148) says that *' the 
mode of any beins^ is really nothing else than 
the beings itself considered in a different manner." 
This view deserves no discussion, as it is evi- 
dently f^lse. If the mode of a thing were the 
thing itself, then the sphericity of the wax would 
be the wsx« the joy of the soul would be the soul, 
and every affection would be the subject of the 
affection. The author seems to have confound- 
ed beings the participle, with beings the substao- 
Uve. 



analysis of distinction. Those vbo 
originally treated of this matter 
called real all distinction which 
was not a mere distinction of rea- 
son, and overlooked the necessity 
of subdividing real distinctions into 
physical and metaphysical. Hence 
the modal distinction was simpiv 
called real^ without further exaniio* 
ing whether it had a physical or a 
metaphysical character; the more 
so as it was assumed that real model 
were physical entities — which wooM 
convey the idea that real modal 
distinction is of a physical nature. 
But the assumption is not to be 
admitted, because, as we have re- 
marked in another article, modes 
cannot be styled " physical " enti- 
ties, as they have no possibility of 
separate existence. This being 
premised, let us briefly examine 
the three aforesaid opinions. 

The first admits a modal distinc- 
tion between spherical wax and its 
sphericity. Sphericity cannot ex- 
ist without a subject; and tlle^^ 
fore it must be ranked among meta- 
physical entities. On the other 
hand, spherical wax is a metaphy- 
sical compound of wax and spheri- - 
city. Hence, from what we hare 
said above, the distinction of the 
one from the other is an inadequak 
metaphysical distinction. 

The second opinion admits a 
modal distinction between the wai 
simply and its sphericity. Spheri- 
city, as we have stated, is a meta- 
physical entity, and so is " wax sim- 
ply" also; for wax, as such, is 
not yet spherical, although, as a 
subject of sphericity, it excludes 
every other form. Such a wax 
therefore has no form, and, as suchi 
it cannot exist; and accordingly 
it is an incomplete being. Hence 
the distinction between the wax 
simply and its sphericity is that 
which intervenes between two prio- 



i 



The PrincipUs of Real Being, 



Tfil 



% complete being, and 
is an adequate meiaphysi- 
tion. 

rd opinion alone gives 
otion of the modal dis- 
For if a piece of wax 
pherical happens to ae- 
ther form, say the cubi- 
»mparison of the cubical 
iherical wax will involve 
physically real ; and as 
ice of the wax is still the 
listinction will be found 
le two terms, except that 
:s from denying the iden- 
cubical with the spheri- 
We have thus a real and 
nodal distinction : real 
ily because the spherical 
'' and physically differs 
cubic wax; modal^ be- 
negation of identity falls 
> modes, and not on the 

lis we learn that neither 
lor the second opinion 
tioned gives the true no- 
lodal distinction. The 

only the identity of the 
nvax with its sphericity; 

denies only the identity 
iimply with sphericity, 
s evident that neither 
rax nor wax simply is a 
is evident, therefore, that 
nion denies modal iden- 

modal distinction can- 
thing else than a denial 
entity. Therefore neither 
ves the true notion of 
inction. 

rs are accidental formal i- 
modal distinction may 
\cd formal. The Scotist 
rs imagined a formal 

of another kind, which, 
to them, was to be ad- 
tween the attributes of 

and which was neither 
mere distinction of rea- 



son, but something intermediate. 
They called it " formal distinction 
arising from the nature of the 
thing " — distinetio formalis ex ' na- 
tura ret. We need not refute this 
invention. We have already given 
in full the general theory of dis- 
tinction, and we have found no 
room for any formal distinction in- 
termediary between real distinc- 
tions and distinctions of reason; 
and, as to the attributes of real be- 
ings, we have shown, in the article 
before this, that they are not really 
distinct from one another, but ad- 
mit of a simple distinction of rea- 
son, which, however, has a real 
foundation in the thing. 

Sometimes distinction is styled 
formal as contrasted with virtual. 
Thus we may say that there is a 
formal distinction between two 
terms formally existing — ^^., two 
existing men, and a virtual distinc- 
tion between two virtual terms — 
/.^., two possible men. And gener- 
ally, whenever one and the same 
thing virtually contains two or 
more, these latter, as thus con- 
tained, are said to be virtually dis- 
tinct. Thus intellect and reason 
are only virtually distinct, as they 
are one concrete power of acquir- 
ing knowledge which can perform 
its task by two different processes. 
This virtual distinction is, of 
course, nothing but a distinction 
of reason. 

Sometimes, again, distinction is 
called positive as contrasted with 
negative. It is positive when the 
two terms of which we deny the 
identity are both positive, and it 
is negative when one of the two 
terms is negative ; as when we dis- 
tinguish the existent from the non- 
existent. Negative distinction is a 
real distinction; for the negation 
of real identity can be predicated 
not only of two real beings, but 



302 



The Principles of* Real Being. 



also, and with greater reason, of the 
existent as compared with the non- 
existent. 

It may be remarked that disiinc^ 
tiorty difference^ and diversity are 
not synonymous. Diversity is 
most properly predicated of two 
things that are not of the same ge- 
nus ; difference of two things that 
are not of the same species, and 
distinction of two things that are 
not numerically identical. Never- 
theless, the terms distinct^ different^ 
and diverse are very frequently em- 
ployed for one another, even by 
good authors. 

We observe, lastly, that distinc- 
tion, as such, is not a relation ; for 
all relation presupposes some dis- 
tinction between the terms related, 
as a condition of its possibility. 
Yet two positive terms really dis- 
tinct have always a certain relative 
opposition, inasmuch as there is 
always something common to both 
(at least their being) which may be 
taken as a foundation of mutual 
relativity. 

And here we close our investiga- 
tion about nominal realities. We 
have shown that possibles, rela- 
tions, and distinctions are no special 
realities, but are called real from 
the reality of other things. Real 
possibility is only the possibility 
of a real being; real relation is 



only the actuality of tw 
really communicating in sc 
identical; and real distin 
only the existence of tl 
which the one is not re 
other. 

As this is our last articl 
principles of real being, w 
remind the reader that oi 
in this treatise has been 
point out distinctly, and tc 
with as great a philosophi 
cision as our language coi 
mit, all that concerns the < 
tion of being in general, 
have failed to employ ah 
best phraseology, but we h 
analysis of real being is ph 
ically correct, and the p 
we have laid down under 
dance of the ancients will I 
to shed a pure and abunds 
on all the questions of 
metaphysics. But the stu 
philosophy should not forj 
the greatest difficulty in th 
ment of all such question: 
not so much from the na 
the subjects investigated, 
the imperfect knowledge a 
application of philosophic 
guage. And this is the rea; 
we did our best to determ 
exact purport of the tern 
frequently employed in me 
cal treatises. 



Antar and Zara. 303 



i« 



ANTAR AND ZARA; 

OK, 

THE ONLY TRUE LOVERS." 

AN EASTERN ROMANXE NARRATED IN SOKGS. 
BY AUBREY OB VBRB. 

PART II. 

^lE SANG. 



I. 



I heard his voice, and I was dumb 
Because to his my spirit cleaved : 

He called to me from far. I come. 
Because 1 loved him, I believed. 

He said, "Though love be secret yet, 
Eternity its truth shall prove." 

It seemed not gift, but ancient debt 
Discharged, to answer love with love. 



II. 



Tliy herald near me drew and knelt : 
I knew from whom the missive came 

Ere yet I saw, ere yet I felt 
Thy sigil-mark, or kissed thy name. 

I read — 'twas like a thousand birds, 

Music confused of Paradise : 
At last the words became thy words ; 

Thy voice was in them, and thine eyes 

Above them shone in love and power, 
And flashed the meaning on the whole : 

We were not severed, friend, that hour : 
One day shall blend us, soul with soul. 



Aittar and Zara. 

III. 

Hiat iace is valorous and grave : 

To it, despite thine unripe spring, 
ThjT qNTifs might the painter gave : 

It is the countenance of a king. 

Look down, strong countenance, strong yet fair, 
Throagh all this weak, unstable soul ! 

Like stars sea-mirrored, kindle there 
His virtues—truth and self-control ! 

Not beauty, nor that youthful grace 
Uncaieful girlhood's natural dower. 

Suffice. A child of royal race, 
A hero's wife should walk in power. 



IV. 



Like some great altar rises vast 
That rock whereon our City stands. 

With gray woods girt ; with shade far cast 
At mom dividing distant lands. 

NvMT war she fears, nor summer drouth, 
By rumiels pierced whose sparkling tide 

Is drawn from mountains of the South 
O'er myriad arches far descried. 

.\round her cliff-like, stony zone, 

Ftom tower to tower, from gate to gate, 

At eve, when sunset changes stone 
To gold, her princes walk in state ; 

And priests entoning anthems sweet. 
The people's strength ; and maiden choirs 

That, passing, make them reverence meet ; 
Attd orphaned babes, and gray-haired sires. 

tr^h iip» with many a cloistered lawn. 
And chai>elleii gallery widely spread, 

KKt^mlSt flower-dressed at eve and dawn, 
llw happy • City of tlie Dead." 



Antar and Zara. 3^5 

There musing sit I, day by day ; 

I sing my psalm ; I pray for thee : 
** If men could love, not hate," I say, 

** How like to heaven this earth would be !" ' 



V. 

Love bound a veil above my brow ; 

He wrapt it round me, o'er and o'er ; 
He said, " My little nun art thou, 

My solitary evermore. 

" Where hid'st thou when the falcons fly ; 

The flung jereed in music shrills ? 
When sweep the Arab horsemen by 

In valleys of the terraced hills ? 

" Where are thy childhood*s blithesome ways ? 

The tales, the dances, and the sports ? 
The bards that sang thy beauty's praise 

Amid the hundred-columned courts ?" 

Love took from me all gifts save one : 
The veil that shrouds me is his gift : 

Love ! say to him I love, " Alone 
That veil of severance thou canst lift." 



voi. 



VI. 

On crimson silk, 'mid leaf and flower 
I traced thy name in golden thread ; 

A harper harped beneath my bower : 
I rose, and brought him wine and bread. 

He sang : methought he sang of thee! 

" My prince !" 1 cried — " how knew'st him thou ? 
His victories in the days to be ? 

His heaven-like eyes, and king-like brow ?" 

" O maid ! I have not seen thy prince : 

Old wars I sang ; old victories won 
In my far-distant land long since ; 
I sang the birth of moon and sun.'* 
X!X — 20. 



306 Antar and Zara. 

VII. 

He culled me grapes — the vintager ; 

In turn, for song the old man prayed ? 
I glanced around ; but none was near : 

With veil drawn tighter, I obeyed. 

" Were I a vine, and he were heaven," 
I sang, " I*d spread a vernal leaf 

To meet the beams of mom and even, 
And think the April day too brief. 

" Were he I love a cloud, not heaven, 
I'd spread my leaf and drink the rain ; 

Warm summer shower, and dews of even 
Alike I'd take, and think them gain." 

" I would not shrink from wintry rime 
Or echoes of the thunder-shock. 

But watch the advancing vintage-time, 
And meet it, reddening on my rock." 



VIII. 

I often say, now thou art gone, 

" How hard I seemed when he was here !'* 
I feared to seem too quickly won ; 

Love also came at ^rst with fear. 

I sang me dear old songs which proved 
That many a maid had loved ere I : 

No secret knew I till I loved : 
I loved, yet loved reluctantly. 

My heart with zeal more generous glowed 
When he I loved was Danger's mate. 

Great Love in this his greatness showed — 
He lifted thee to things more great 



IX. 



My childhood was a cloistered thing : 
No wish for human love was mine : 

I heard the hooded vestals sing 
The praises of their Love Divine. 



Antar and Zara. 307 

The village maids^with rival glee, 

Flower-fiUeting their unclipt hair, 
Sang thus, " The meadow flowers are we " : 

I thought the convent flowers more fair. 

Yet false I am not. Still I climb 

Through love to realms this earth above : 
And those whom most I loved that time 
, Only for love's sake fled from love. 



X. 



Dear tasks are mine that make the weeks 
Too swift in passing, not too slow : 

I nurse the rose on faded cheeks, 
Bring solace to the homes of woe. 

I hear the Vesper anthems swell ; 

I track the steps of Fast and Feast 
I read old legends treasured well 

Of Machabean chief or priest. 

I hear, on heights of song and psalm, 
The storm of God careering by : 

Beside His Deep, for ever calm. 
I kneel in caves of Prophecy. 

O Eastern Book ! It cannot change I 

Of books beside, the tjrpe, the mould- 
It stands like yon Carmelian range 
By our Elias trod of old J 



3o8 



The Farm of Muiccron. 



THE FARM OF MUICEROV. 



BY MARIE RHEIL. 



ntOM TKB REVUK DU MONDB CATHOUQUB. 



ONCLUDKD. 



XXII. 

During these terrible events, I 
dare say the combatants were not 
the most to be pitied. They, at 
least, were in dttion, in the midst 
of powder and noise ; and if they 
fell, wounded or dead, they scarce- 
ly had time to know it. But think 
of the poor friends and relatives 
who remained without news, and 
almost without strength to seek 
any information ! They were to be 
pitied. 

Perhaps you may live in a city, 
which does not prevent you from 
sometimes going to the country ; 
and so you can understand how 
certain villages are isolated from 
all daily communication. Our ham- 
let of Ordonniers, although near 
the large city of Issoudun, was, in 
this respect, worse off than many 
other places ; for when M. le Mar- 
quis was absent from the chiteau, 
there was no daily paper, none of 
the villagers being liberal enough 
to indulge in that luxury. The 
Perdreaux, in their time, subscrib- 
ed for a paper, which came every 
other day, and gave the market 
prices and a jumble of news of 
people and things here and there 
about a month old. Even this re- 
source no longer existed. M. le 
Cur6 was the only one who cared 
for what was going on ; but as his 
means were very limited, he con- 
tented himself with a little paper 
which only came every Sunday. 

Judge, then, of the terrible an- 



guish at Muiceron ; above all, when 
they saw all the able-bodied men 
of the commune leave; for you re- 
member that then, for the first 
time, the provinces showed their 
teeth at the news of the horrors 
in Paris, and rose en masse to go 
and punish the rebellious children 
of a city that, in her selfishness, 
disturbed the whole of France 
without any just right. 

The women displayed great bra- 
very. They fitted out their sons 
husbands, brothers, and betrothed, 
an*d let them leave for the dreadful 
struggle without wincing. But the 
next day — but the following days! 
What anxiety and what tears ! 

It was touching to see them each 
morning run before the country 
stage or speak to the letter-carrier, 
in hopes of hearing some words 
to reassure them. Generally, the 
stage drove rapidly on at a gallop; 
for stage-drivers are not patient, 
and the poor creatures* only in- 
formation was an oath or rough 
word. As for the letter-carrier, he 
knew nothing positive, and was 
content to give the flying reports, 
which were not enough to quiet 
those troubled souls. 

Jeanne and her mother kept at 
home. They prayed to God and 
wept, poor things! It was the 
best way to learn patience; but 
their hearts sank within them. ** 
was a hard blow to have been so 
near happiness, and then suddcflly 
to see it fly, perhaps for ever. 



Tke Farm of Muiceron. 



309 



igaud was miserable that 

not go off with the other 

le neighborhood. He was 

nd this only increased his 

as he was but three or 

» older than Michou, and 

the battle ! The sadness 

imor of the poor old fellow 

Muiceron still gloomier, 

romen neither dared stir 

lefore him. 

ttle they knew was very 
and when the private 
egan to arrive, all the 
vere plunged in despair 
w. Our commune alone 
men ; among them Coten- 
liller, an honest peasant, 
rr of four children. He 
dead, almost at the 
f his arrival ; and the next 
the news of the death of 
istiaud, son of the head- 
3ne of our bravest boys, 
trembled for his own at 
uncement of these mis- 
and at last silence was 
d a sure sign that mourn- 
1 be prepared, 
felt all her courage fail. 
I no longer either eat or 
. even feared to question 
s-by. Certainly the good 
) wished to sanctify the 
I, and make her a perfect 
id not spare her any suf- 
le acted with her like 
who is tender and se- 
he same time; who cor- 
'aults of his child, know- 
lat they are more hurtful 
h, and then recompenses 
. petting can no longer 

»re this little Jeannette 
to the end of her trial 
lief came and her tears 
d. And this happened 
that giddy, wild Pierre 
rho had left, like the 



others, singing and blustering, 
assuring the people around that he 
did not believe a word of the cur- 
rent rumors, and that, in one hour 
after his arrival in Paris, he would 
find out the whole truth, and send 
them all the news. But, behold ! as 
soon as he was in the midst of 
smoking and bleeding Paris, he 
lost his senses, imagined himself 
killed before he had fired a shot, 
and wrote in pencil, on a scrap of 
blood-stained paper, a letter to his 
parents, all sighs and tears. He 
bade them farewell, and begged them 
to pray for his soul, as he would be 
dead before night ; for no one could 
live in such a terrible conflict. If 
he had only spoken for himself, it 
might have passed ; but he added 
that M. le Marquis, Jean-Louis, and 
Michou were certainly dead. He 
had sought for them everywhere, 
asked everybody, and no one 
could give him good news. To 
crown his stupidity, he added that, 
among the great heaps of corpses 
that lay yet unburied, he had 
recognized Jean- Louis* blouse of 
gray linen bound with black ; and 
therefore they must weep for the 
death of that good, brave boy. 

Poor Mme. Luguet ran straight 
to Muiceron to show that foolish 
letter. If there had been the least 
degree of cool good sense among 
them, it would easily have been 
seen they were the words of a 
brain addled from fear ; but in the 
mortal anxiety of the poor Kagauds, 
they took it all for good coin. 
Jeanne fell on her knees, sobbing 
aloud, and, losing the little courage 
she still possessed, wrung her hands 
in despair. Pierrette threw herself 
beside her daughter, trying to 
comfort her; and Ragaud wept 
bitterly, although he had said a 
thousand times a man in tears 
is not worthy to wear breechev Iti 



310 



The Farm of Mutceron. 



the evening, the true religion which 
filled those poor hearts came to sup- 
port them and give them some 
strength. They lighted tapers be- 
fore the crucifix and around the 
Blessed Virgin, and all night this 
afflicted family prayed ardently for 
the repose of the souls of the sup- 
posed dead — who were never bet- 
ter. 

The next day you would have 
been shocked to have seen the 
ravages grief had made on their 
honest faces. Jeannette, wearied 
out with weeping and fatigue, slept 
in the arms of her mother, paler 
than a camomile-flower. Pierrette 
restrained her tears, from fear of 
awakening the child ; but her hol- 
low eyes and cheeks were pitiful to 
see ; and the sun shone brightly in 
the room, without any one taking 
the trouble to close the shutters. 

It was in this state that M. le 
Cur6 found the Ragaud family. 
His entrance at Muiceron renewed 
the lamentations ; but Jeannette 
was calm, which greatly pleased the 
good pastor, as he saw that his 
lessons, joined to those of divine 
Providence, had borne their fruit. 

He took the little thing aside, 
and, much aff*ected by her deathlike 
appearance, spoke gently to her, 
and asked her to walk with him on 
the bank of La Range. 

" My daughter," said he, ** it is 
not right to sink into such utter 
despair about news which is yet 
uncertain. Show a little more cour- 
age, for a while at least, until we 
hear something positive." 

" He is dead," said Jeannette. 
" May the will of God be done ! 
Alas ! I should have been too 
happy, if I had seen him again." 

" Why are you so certain ? As 
for me, I confess Pierre's letter 
would not make me lose all hope." 

" They were three together," said 



she. '' Pierre has written ; couldfl 
they not have written also V* 

This argument was not bad. Th^h 
£ur^ could not reply ; for, withoi 
acknowledging it, he did think tl 
silence very strange. He made thK . 
poor child sit down by the side o/ 
the swift-running stream that gl7r- 
tered in the bright sunshine, and 
spoke to her for a long time in 
such soothing, touching words, 
Jeanne listened with profound re- 
spect and piety. He spoke of the 
happiness of this world, which is 
but for a short time ; of the neces- 
sity of living and regaining her 
strength, that she might console 
her parents; of the beautiful day of 
eternity; of the heavenly home, 
where we will meet again the loved 
ones gone before us, never again to 
be separated. 

At another time, Jeannette would 
not have understood these words, 
and perhaps might have even found 
them out of place ; but now they 
fell upon her heart like soft ca- 
resses. 

"Oh !" said she, " it is only now 
I understand how dearly I loved 
him. Father, tell me, can he see 
us from above .^" 

" You will have it, then, that he 
is absolutely dead," said the cvr^i 
smiling. 

Jeannette, in spite of her grief, 
smiled in her tears. 

"That is true," she said; "per- 
haps he is not dead." 

Hope had re-entered her soul 
with the consolations of the holy 
priest. They walked down the 
road to the farm, and Jeannette 
thanked him with much tenderness, 
and remarked, as it was near sunset, | 
he must return home. j 

" One moment," said the good j 
cur^ ; " you are a little egotist. ^ 1 
can't go without saying a word to 
father and mother." 



The Farm of Muiccron. 



3it 



"Oh ! ycS|" said she, " of course 

you must; but, dear father, I will 

J^cmain here, and say my rosary in 

t he shade under the trees ; the air 

■•"ill completely restore me." 

" Very well, dear child," replied 
tlie cur/; "and may the Blessed 
V"irgin console you, my daughter!" 
Jeanne retired under the heavy 
Fohlige, and really took her little 
rosary out of her pocket. But this 
"wood recalled many sweet reminis- 
cences. It was there Jean- Lou is 
\iad found her and saved her life 
on that stormy night the year be- 
fore. She looked for the spot, near 
the woodman's cabin, where he 
had taken her in his arms with a 
father's care; and as the remem- 
brance of all this past happiness, 
which she had then slighted, came 
back to her heart, she leant against 
a tree, and hid her face in her 
bands. 

\Vhether they were tears of re- 
pentance, of regret, of love, or of 
prayer that fell from her eyes God 
only knows ; and surely, in his infi- 
nite goodness, he waited for this 
moment of supreme anguish, which 
could not have endured much lon- 
ger, to say to that heart-broken 
child, " You have suffered enough ; 
now be happy !" 

For in that same hour Jean- 
Ix)uis, wild with joy, leaped from * 
the imperial of the country stage 
on the highroad, and ran, without 
stopping to take breath, toward his 
beloved Muiceron. 

He also remembered the stormy 
night, and, from a sentiment you 
can well understand, wished to see 
again the little hut, if only to throw 
a passing glance. 

He reached the spot, and was 
won near the tree where Jeannette 
leant motionless. He recognized 
^. The beating of his heart almost 
Mfibcated him; for, with a lover's 



instinct, he immediately knew, if 
she had come to weep in that spot, 
it could only be on his account. 

He advanced until he stood close 
behind her. 

"Jeanne!" said he, so softly he 
scarcely heard his own voice. 

Jeannette turned, and gave one 
scream. Her eyes wandered a 
moment, as if she had seen a phan- 
tom, and she fell half-dead into his 
arms. 

" Jeanne ! dear, dear Jeanne ! 
don't you know me V* said he, press- 
ing her to his breast. " I have 
caused you much sorrow, but it is 
all over — oh! it is all over; tell 
me, is it not.^" 

The poor child could not speak ; 
her emotion and joy were too great. 
But such happiness don't kill ; and 
gradually she revived, although she 
still trembled like a leaf. 

" O Jeannet !" she said at 
last, "they wrote word you were 
dead." 

"And was that the reason you 
were weeping here all alone in this 
wood, my poor, dear darling.^" he 
tenderly asked. 

" Yes," said she, looking down ; 
" I could not be consoled. Why 
did you not send us some news.^" 

" I wished to surprise you," said 
he, with simplicity ; " and now I 
see I did wrong." 

" One day more, and I would 
have been dead also," said she, 
leaning on his arm. " Cruel bov, 

go!" 

She looked so lovely, still pale 
with grief, and yet as lively and 
coquettish as before, Jeannet was 
obliged to clasp her once again in 
his arms, and even kissed her, for 
which I hope you will pardon him, 
as I do. 

" How good God is," said he, " to 
permit us to meet again in this very 
place ! This is the second Xivm^ 



312 



The Farm of Muiccran. 



dear Jeannette, that I have saved 
you when in great trouble ; and I 
hope it is a sure sign that poor 
Jean-Louis will be able to comfort 
and assist you all the rest of his life." 

** You will never leave us again ; 
you will promise that ?*' she replied. 
** When you are away, all sorts 
of misfortunes happen. Oh! how 
much we have suffered." 

And as these words suddenly re- 
called the sad events of the last six 
months, her flirtation, her thought- 
less conduct, and the lamentable 
scenes that followed, she blushed, 
sighed, and leant her face, down 
which the tears were streaming, 
against Jean-Louis' shoulder. 

" My own Jeannette," said he, 
"you must no longer think of all 
that sorrow, now that God has 
made us so happy again. There is 
no misfortune which does not carry 
with it a profitable lesson when we 
recognize in it the hand of the 
Lord; and, for my part, although 
I have been nearly dead with grief, 
I say that my present happiness 
has not been too dearly bought, 
and I would consent to pass again 
through the same trials, on condi- 
tion of possessing a second day 
like this." 

" Oh ! no," said Jeanne, " I have 
had enough. I have not your cour- 
age, and I will pray to God that I 
may be spared from such great 
trials. Come," added she, taking 
Jeannet's arm, "we must go and 
surprise our parents. And the dear 
€uri is just now with them ! He 
told me so — the good, holy man 
told me you were not dead." 

"But who set such a report 
afloat ?" asked Jeannet. " For really 
I was not even in danger." 

" Oh ! what a story," cried Jeanne. 
■^^You were in the fight; it could 
oot be otherwise." 

Certainly," said Jeannet, "I 



" r^. 



fought, and did my best; 
never for an instant imagii 
good God would let me die 
seeing you again." 

" It is very well to ha\ 
happy thoughts," said Jean 
fully ; " if I could have had 
would not have been near) 
with anxiety, and hopeles 
such great fear. Now I re^ 
tears, and would like to tal 
back." 

" You would not be the ric 
it," said he, laughing; "bui 
nette, don't laugh at me. 
neither presumption nor c; 
ness made me think so. Tl 
God put the faith in my hea 
then, didn't I have round n 
the silver medal you gave me 
of your first communion } 
the image of the Blessed 
powerful enough to turn as 
balls.?" 

"What!" said Jeannett 
emotion, " have you still my 
Is it the very same one } 
you always worn it, in spite 
spite of all . . . Jeannet, sh- 
me; let me kiss it !" 

" No," said Jean-Louis, bl 
" not liow. I will show it 
later." 

" Right away ; I won't wai 
she in the peremptory : 
• which so well became her. 
to be obeved." 

" But," said Jeannet, mu 
barrassed, " I can't, because 

" Because what t " she \ 
" Don't think you are goinj 
master here ! No, no, no 
now than before, when, you i 
ber, my mother said, *Jei 
is the boy. . . .' " 

"Really," answered Jean 
" you have a good memory, 
then, since Jeannette is tl 
and I am the girl, I must su 
her wishes." 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



3^3 



And as, in spite of all this talk, 
he made no attempt to show her 
the medal, another idea entered 
her head. 

"You are wounded," said she, 
"and you don't wish me to see it." 

"That is not the reason," he re- 
plied, unbuttoning his vest. " I 
don't wish you to believe any such 
thing." 

On opening his shirt, he showed 
the medal on his breast, and then 
the curious Jeannette understood 
his resistance; for, near the blessed 
image of our dear Mother, she re- 
cognized the long tress of blonde 
hair which had been cut off during 
her illness. 

"It has never left me," said he; 
"but I dared not let you see it. 
Do you forgive me.^ Your poor 
hair! I said to myself, While it rests 
upon my heart, it is as though my 
little sister were watching over me. 
And in the fight, I thought that, as 
the medal of the Blessed Virgin 
and your precious souvenir were 
also exposed to the fire, I could 
not be killed ; and you see I was 
not mistaken." 

" Oh !" cried Jeannet'te, with tears 
in her eyes, "my dear Jeannet, I 
do not deserve such love." 

They reached Muiceron, arm-in- 
arm. Oh ! how refreshing was the 
shaded court-yard and the fra- 
grant hedges ! And then, the dear 
house looked so gay in its new 
white coat, its green shutters, the 
fresh young vines that hung from 
the trellis, and its slate roof newly 
repaired, all shining in the soft 
rays of the sinking sun. The songs 
of the bulfinch and robin were 
more joyous than the trumpets and 
horns on a patronal feast ; and it 
*ccmed as though the good God in 
l^cavcn were well pleased, so beau- 
tiful was the blue sky, flecked with 
Kolden*edged clouds ! Was it real- 



ly the house we saw six months ago ? 
Jeannet, 'who had long loved it, 
scarcely recognized it; he was 
mute with admiration, and, although 
he had left it in despair, he ac- 
cused himself of having neglected 
to look at it until now; for surelv 
his memory did not recall anything 
as joyous and beautiful as he now 
beheld in his beloved Muiceron. 

Shall we ask the reason } There 
is a great artist who can paint, with 
colors of unparalleled brilliancy, 
whatever he chooses to place before 
our eyes. He is called happiness ; 
and God wishes him to walk beside 
us, both in this world and the 
other. 

The two dear children began to 
run as soon as they entered the 
court-yard of Muiceron. Jean- 
nette was the first to spring across 
the threshold, and fell speechless 
into her mother's arms. Jean- 
Louis quickly followed her, and 
stood in the door-way, holding out 
his hands to his parents. Then 
there were cries, and tears, and 
confusion of kisses, and questions 
without end and without reason. 
Their hearts overflowed. The little 
one, as they always called the tall, 
handsome boy, was covered with 
caresses, stifled with embraces 
quite overpowering; for country- 
people drink in joy by the bucket- 
ful and don't put on gloves when 
they wish to show their love. But 
you can imagine Jean-Louis did 
not complain. M. le Cure alone 
kept aside, with clasped hands, 
from time to time putting his 
handkerchief to his eyes, and 
thanking God, while he waited his 
turn. 

Gradually their happiness toned 
down a little; but the excitement 
was so great, each one showed his joy 
in some particular manner. Old 
Ragaud whirled aioutid XYi^ loom, 



3H 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



took off his cap to smooth his hair, 
and replaced it, all the .while laugh- 
ing as though he did not know pre- 
cisely what he was about; and 
Pierrette forgot to ask the children 
what they wished to eat, which was 
a sure sign her head was completely 
turned. As for Jeannette, I must 
tell you that, like all innocent, 
warm-hearted young girls, she 
dared act, in presence of her pa- 
rents and M. le Cur^, as she would 
not have done alone with her 
brother; she threw her arms around 
his neck every half-second, and 
clung to him so closely he could 
not stir an inch. Jeannet did not 
show greater timidity; seeing her 
act with such naiveUj he neither 
frowned nor looked sour, but ac- 
cepted willingly what was so sweet- 
ly offered him. 

Fortunately, Marion, whom no 
one thought of, and who bellowed 
with joy in chorus with the others, 
came to her senses sooner than any 
of them, and thought of the supper. 
Jeannet smelt the butter frying on 
the stove, and acknowledged he 
was very hungry. This covered Pier- 
rette with confusion. She felt very 
guilty that she had so neglected 
her duties, and asked a thousand 
pardons; but Jeannet laughed, as 
he kissed her, and told her not to 
be excited, as he could easily wait 
until the next day, being only really 
hungry to see and kiss her. 

Ragaud would not let the dear 
curS go home. It was right that 
he should wait until the end of the 
feast ; and as the good pastor, who 
always thought of everything, ex- 
pressed a fear that old Germain e 
might be anxious about him, they 
despatched a stable-boy, with the 
wagon and quickest mare at Muice- 
ron, to fetch her. 

What a fine supper that was! 
AU these good people recovered 



their appetites, and ate and dranl^ 
as they had not done for a lon^ 
while. I leave you to imagine th-^ 
stories that were told of the revolu:::: 
tion. But Jeannet, not wishing '"^ 
cloud their present joy, was carefc« 
to relate events as though all K^d 
been a kind of child's play. Jeaw- 
nette, however, paused more than 
once as she was about to take a 
mouthful. She felt that Jean-Louis 
stretched a point now and then for 
love of her, and she showed her 
gratitude by looking tenderly al 
him, while she pressed his hand un- 
der the table. 

At the dessert, they formed plans. 
They talked of re-establishing the 
old order of things, of living to- 
gether again in peace and harmony, 
and that there should be no more 
separations. Ragaud, especially, 
dwelt at length, and very particu- 
larly, upon the happy future in 
store for all of them ; threw mean- 
ing glances right and left, in which 
could be remarked much hidden 
meaning and not a little white 
wine. Jeannette smiled, blushed, 
looked down ; and, I fancy, Jean- 
Louis' heart beat high with hope 
and expectation of what was to fol- 
low. 

The good man ended by being 
much affected, though he endea- 
vored to pass it all off as a joke ; for 
it was his wish always to appear 
deaf to any kind of sentiment. 

"After all,*' said he, tapping 
Jean- Louis on the shoulder, " here 
is a boy upon whom we cannot 
depend. He is here now at this 
very moment ; but who knows if 
to-morrow he will not be out of 
sight as quickly as the stars &U 
from the sky on an August night .^ 
Isn't it so, M. leCur^.^" 

" It is just as you say, Ragaodt" 
replied the cur/, "*He who btf 
drunk will drink again,' says the 



Tbi Farm of Muiceron. 



315 



»verb ; and as this little one went 

once without giving warning, 

r can we know but he will do it 



in.' 



>" 



Oh ! what nonsense/' said Jean- 
" My dear parents, I will never 
'c you again !" 

Hum!" replied Ragaud, " you 
. that a hundred times before, 
then, what did we see? One 
morning, no Jeannet !" 
We must tie him," said old 
maine, laughing ; " when Jean- 
le misbehaved in school, I used 
ie her by the arm to an end of 
bench." 

I remember it well," said Jean- 
te ; *^ and more than once I broke 
string." 

*Then we must find some other 
ans, if that will not do; think 
something, Germaine," replied 
igaud, winking over at the chil- 
tn. 

•*Think yourself, M. Ragaud," 
id she. "Are you not master 
re ?" 



U 1« 



That depends," replied Ragaud. 
f I were master, I would say to 
an-Louis, Marry, my boy ; when 
tt will have a wife and children, 
ry will keep you in the country 
•re than all the ropes, even that 
our well. But Jeannet has de- 
red he will not hear of marriage ; 
i here is Jeanne, who can't be 
led upon for advice, as she said 

same thing not more than a 
nth ago, in presence of M. le 
r^; so we can't sing that tune 
r longer." 

' But how do you know ? Per- 
)s by this time they have both 
mged their minds," said the cure^ 
iling. 

^ Let them say so, then," replied 
Lgaud, his eyes beaming with pa- 
nal tenderness that was delight- 
i to see. 
"0 Cather!" said Jean-Louis, 



rising, "if I dared to understand 
you, I would be wild with joy !" 

"If you can't understand me, 
little one, Jeannette perhaps can 
be a little quicker. Speak, Jean- 
neton!" 

The child instantly understood 
his meaning. In a second she 
was beside Jeannet, took his hand, 
and both knelt down before their 
father. 

" My children, ask M. le Curb's 
blessing before mine," said Ragaud 
solemnly. " He is the representa- 
tive of the good God, and it is God 
who has conducted all." 

It was a touching scene. The 
good curd extended his trembling 
hands over Jean-Louis and Jean- 
nette, who bent low before him, 
weeping; then Ragaud did the 
same with great simplicity, which is 
the sign of true piety, and then 
Pierrette took each of their dear 
heads in her arms, kissed them, and 
said : 

" My poor darlings ! May God 
protect you all the days of your life ! 
You have wept so much, you de- 
serve to be happy together." 

The poor children were over- 
whelmed with joy so deep and 
tranquil they could neither move 
nor speak. They kept close to- 
gether, and looked tenderly at each 
other with eyes that said much. 
M. le Cur^ left them for awhile to 
themselves and their new-found 
happiness. He knew enough of the 
human heart to understand that 
great display of affection, loud 
weeping, and noisy parade of words 
and actions are often marks of a 
very little fire in the soul; while 
love which has been proved by 
deeds, and which is scarcely seen, 
is always very ardent. As he had 
never doubted that Jeannet, hither- 
to so perfect, would show and feel 
sincere affection as a lover> he was 



3i6 



The Farm of Muiccron. 



glad to see he was not mistaken, 
and regarded with much pleasure 
this young couple, who were so well 
matched. 

However, it was very easy to see 
our curi had something to say. 
Jean-Louis and Jeannette had soft- 
ly retreated to the corner near the 
sideboard, a little out of sight of 
the parents ; and we must imagine 
that, feeling themselves a little 
more at ease thus sheltered from 
observation, the faculty of speech 
returned to them, as they could be 
heard whispering and laughing like 
children at recreation. It was so 
charming to see them thus relieved 
from all their difficulties, and swim- 
ming in the full tide of happiness, 
like fish in the river, no one had the 
courage to disturb them. 

But our curi had his own idea, 
and would not leave until he had 
made it known ; so, as he saw Jean- 
Louis and Jeannette might chatter 
away a long while, he rose, as if to 
say good-night, which made all the 
rest rise; for, although intensely 
happy, they did not forget to be 
civil. 

" My children," said the pastor, 
addressing the old as well as the 
young, " I will go to sleep to-night 
very happy. For forty years, come 
next All-Saints, that I have been 
your r//r/, never have I assisted at 
a betrothal as consoling as yours, 
for which I will return thanks to 
God all my life. You are going to 
marry as is seldom done in the 
world nowadays; that is to say, 
with hearts even more full of esteem 
than of love, which enables me, in 
the name of the Lord, to promise 
you as much happiness as can fall 
to the lot of mortals here below. 
You know already that a house 
built without foundation cannot 
stand, and that the grain sown in 
had so\\ bears no fruit. It is the 



same with the sacrament of mar- 
riage, when it is received by a soul 
that is frivolous and vain, and feels , 
neither regret for the past nort: 
makes good resolutions for the fu^ — 
ture. Oh ! how happy I am I can 
not say this about you ; and ho^t^^ 
my old heart, which has pitied a. ^ 
your sufferings, now is gladdene<:f 
at your happiness, well deserved hi-^ 
the piety and resignation of the one 
and the sincere repentance of the 
other — this is for our betrothec/. 
Great disinterestedness, and all the 
domestic virtues of a Christian 
life is the praise I unhesitatingly 
bestow upon you, the good parents! 
But if this reward is beautiful, if 
nothing can exceed it, since it is the 
pledge of a whole life of peace and 
happiness, know that the Lord will 
not be surpassed in generosity, and 
that he has prepared a delightful 
surprise by my mouth, which will 
be like the crowning bouquet on 
the summit of an edifice just com- 
pleted. 

" My dear Ragaud, I speak now to 
you. Twenty years ago, when your 
generous heart received, without the 
slightest hesitation, a poor, abandon" 
ed child, it was an honorable and 
religious act, which deserved the 
warmest praise; but to-day, when 
you give your only daughter to this 
same child, from pure esteem of his 
noble qualities, without regard to 
the gossip of the people around, 
this second action surpasses the 
first in excellence, and deserves a 
special recompense from our good 
God. 

" Well ! you will soon have it. 
Jean- Louis, my child, as it is general- 
ly said, there is no sky without 
clouds. Perhaps even at this mo- 
ment your heart may have a little 
secret grief; for it is not forbidden 
to feel an honest wish to give the 
woman you love all possible honor : 




I for the name. I cannot re- 
; misfortune; but for the 
;now, my friends, that the 

him whom you call son 
her is equal to yours. In 
! of my conscience, I here 
;hal Jeanoet is the son of 
e Luguet, who died in my 
ccrely repentatit, and most 
iving me perfect license to 
lis secret, confided in con- 
when I should judge it 
r- I have waited a long 
1 1 do not regret it. At 

time, I think, could you 
m happier to hear me tell 
id news. So, Ragaud, em- 
ur nephew; and you, my 

Jcannette, in taking a 
lusband, you gain, at the 
ne, a good cousin. Too 
ippiness never hurts any 

said Germaine, wiping 

" it was worth while stay- 
tc to-night. I have been 
half a dozen times to tell 

Ic Cur£ has just made 
for I also received the 
om poor dear Catharine, 
n before my master, al- 

do not pretend to inter- 

his rights." 

Cure," said Rag.iud, " if 
y happy to learn that our 
d belongs to us by nature 
IS by friendship, believe me 
ly that 1 am most grateful 
;hal, without my knowing 
iwed mc to repair the too 
Srily with which 1 formerly 
ly niece. Alas ! I well re- 
It, and most sincerely do I 
; and If she gave us this 
B boy a little too soon, ac- 
to the laws of God and 
hv^orijiht to blame her, 



from want of 
id kindness! Come, 
my son," added the good Christian, 
extending his arms to Jeannet — 
"come, that I may ask your pardon 
in memory of your poor mother." 

Jean-Louis threw himself on his 
father's breast, whom he could not 
yet call liear unc/c, while Jeannelte 
added her embrace, giving herself 
up lo the full joy of cousiiiiag her 
future husband. Pierrette had her 
full share of kisses, you can well 
fancy. It was so delightful to feel 
that he really had a family, and was 
bound to the country by ties of 
flesh and blood, and also to know 
that he belonged to the best people 
in the neighborhood, the Lugucts 
and Ragauds, that Jeannet, who in 
his whole life never had a spark of 
vanity, felt a little glow of excite- 
ment and satisfaction, perfectly na- 
tural, flame up in his heart. But 
his beautiful soul quickly drove out 
such a feeling, to which he al- 
ready reproached himself for hav- 
ing listened, even for a moment, al- 
though it could be easily under- 
stood, and was honorable in itself. 
The remembrance of his unknown 
mother, dying in sorrow and want, 
and who would have been so happy 
could she have witnessed his pre- 
sent joy, surmounted any personal 
satisfaction. He questioned M. le 
Cur^, and spoke in the most tender 
and respectful manner in memory 
of his poor mother, and wished to 
know every detail of her death, 
which was sad, but very consoling 
at tile same time. 

Every one listened with much 
emotion lo poor Catharine's story. 
1 doubt not that God then permit- 
ted her to know something of the 
loving sympathy and compassion 
that filled those kind, good hearts, 
which most certainly must have 
added to her happiness ; for, sinc« 



318 



The Farm of Muicfton. 



the church commands us to believe 
that souls cannot die, can it be 
wrong to think that they see and 
hear us, when the Lord allows 
them ? 

Jeannette, while the curd spoke, 
was often much confused when she 
thought of the dangerous result of 
coquetry, wilfulness, and too great 
love of one's own pretty face and 
fine dresses. She felt how kind 
God had been to her, that she had 
not gone the same way as Catha- 
rine Luguet; for she had walked 
down the same path, and had nearly 
fallen as low as she. 

By way of recovering her spirits, 
she embraced Jeannet, and pro- 
mised she would be a good house- 
keeper, and nothing else. 

"And also a pretty little wife, 
that will make me very happy," re- 
plied Jeannet, pressing her to his 
heart. 

" Now," said Pierrette, who for 
several moments had been very si- 
lent and thoughtful, "I have just 
found out something that makes 
me feel how stupid I am. I never 
before noticed that Jeannet is the 
living image of his dear departed 
mother." 

** It is fortunate, Mme. Ragaud," 
said Germaine, " that you have just 
perceived it, after seeing him twen- 
ty years ; for, in truth, the likeness 
is so striking it has caused M. le 
Cur^ and me much embarrassment. 
It was so easily seen that I prayed 
God would protect him in case of 
discovery ; and if there is one mira- 
cle in the whole story, it is that 
such a strong resemblance did not 
sooner strike you." 

As it had just been mentioned, in 
the course of the story, that Catha- 
rine Luguet, in her day, was the 
most beautiful girl in the coun- 
try, this declaration made Jeannet 
blush, and I dare not affirm it was 



not from pleasure. They discov- 
ered, also, that Solan ge had a strong 
family likeness, and Pierrette, more 
and more astonished, acknowledged 
it was true, and that she was as 
stupid as an owl. 

They had to separate at last, al 
though no one felt the least fa- 
tigued; but they had had enough 
for one day, and a little sleep after 
these heavy showers of happiness 
would injure none of them. 

As the surprises were not yet 
over, Jeannet had another charm- 
ing one when he saw his room 
newly painted and papered, and his 
bed, with white curtains, p)erfume(l 
with the iris-root that our house- 
keepers love to use in the wash. 
They installed him like a prefect 
on a tour of inspection, with a 
procession of lights, and wishes of 
good-night, and what do you want, 
and there it was, and here it is ; and 
if he slept quietly is something I 
cannot say positively ; but, at any 
rate, you needn't worry about his 
eyes, whether they were open or 
shut. What I can swear to is 
that his good angel watched joyful- 
ly by his bedside, and took care to 
drive off all bad dreams. 

XXIII. 

Now, I might make my bow, and 
wish you good-night in my turn ; 
for I think you are satisfied with 
the fate of the little ones, and need 
have no further anxiety on their 
account. But just as two beautiful 
roses in a bouquet appear still 
more beautiful when they arc 
surrounded by other flowers and 
green leaves that rejoice the eye, 
so our friends will lose nothing if 
I represent them to you for the last 
time among the companions of 
their adventures who have served 
as an escort during the whole re- 
cital. Consequently, if you will be 



The Far> 

a moment and listen tome, 
pU you what became of the 
l«nd things ihat have re- 
in the background for 
be. 

Ite first place, according to 
herb, "Give every man his 

k will commence with our 
lastcr, M. le Marquis, whom 
]if you remember, wounded 
laiin and seated on a log 
le barricade in the bloody 
Ijune. 

'wound, which was believed 
'nothing, became inflamed 
(ry dangerous, owing to the 
tXcilement of the patient 
hcxlreme heat of the sum- 
rhc poor marquis was obltg- 
Kp his bed for a long time, 
ty even feared they would 
Igcd to amputate the arm. 
Ithc physicians made the 
Won, he sprang up with a 
I his couch, and, weak and 
I as he was, did not hcsilate 
^em. in the most emphatic 
L that the first one who 
led it again would go out 
rindow with one turn of the 
lat was still sound. They 
fhim to be quiet and calm 
I all the while giving him to 
IKid ihere was no hope for 

Eich, in my opinion, was not 
means of soothing him ; 
tors never wish to be 
^in the wrong, and, without 
i to oflend any one, I may 
f many of us are doctors on 

bt. 

brave. He con- 

mseif with saying: 

Ijtfer to be buried with two 

Bicr than to live with one-" 

K depend*: on laste." replied 

who nursed his master 

(.fidelity ; " but he must 



■\VlK-n the doctors left, M. le 
Marquis said to Michou t 

" Come here, old fellow ; these 
idiots of Parisians know as much 
about revolutions and medicine as 
planting cabbages. Send for Dr. 
Aubry. 1 can getalongwilh him." 

M. Aubry was summoned by 
telegraph, and God so willed it 
that scarcely had he seen the 
wound of M. le Marquis than he 
shrugged his shoulders, and said 
he would answer for him ; and 
added, with much satisfaction, that 
one had to come to Paris to find 
doctors that talked like asses and 
acted like butchers. 

He made them bring him a 
quantity of pounded ice, which he 
applied to the wounded arm, and 
look care that our mastei always 
kept a piece in his mouth In that 
way hts blood was refreshed, and 
there was no longer danger of the 
flesh mortifying. He added to 
this remedy another potion not 
less wonderful, which was lo dis- 
tract the mind of the marquis by 
telling him night and day — for he 
never slept — all kinds of stories. 
sometimes lively, sometimes serious, 
but always suitable to his state; and 
so kept him constantly amused and 
interested, which prevented him 
from thinking of his poor arm. At 
the end of a week, he was out of 
danger, and he could get up, eat 
the breast of a chicken, and think 
of going out in a few days. If 1 
would be a little malicious, I could 
tell you that the Parisian doctors 
were not very well pleased at the 
triumph of their country colleague, 
and perhaps would have been more 
content to sec our master dead than 
their prophecies frustrated ; but 
I had better be silent than wanting 
in charity, and therefore I prefer 
to let you think what you pleasf 
about them. 



320 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



Poor mademoiselle and Dame 
Berthe, during this painful time 
of anxiety, acted admirably and 
showed great devotion and love. 
It was then seen that, although 
they had their little defects on the 
surface, their souls were generous 
and good. The old governess for- 
got her scarfs and embroideries, 
and devoted herself to making lint, 
and no longer indulged in dreams 
of the king's entrance into Pa- 
ris, but constantly recited fervent 
prayers, which had not, I assure 
you, " the cause" in view. Mademoi- 
selle received a salutary blow. 
She became, through this trouble, 
serious and recollected ; began to 
see that in Paris nothing is 
thought of but pleasure and fine 
toilets, and that, after all, at Val- 
Saint there were a thousand ways 
of passing her life in a pleasant way 
worthy of a Christian whom God 
had so liberally endowed with 
riches. 

One day, when she had gone out 
to pray and weep in a neighboring 
church, she returned with her eyes 
radiant with joy, and said to Dame 
Berthe : 

" All will be right. My father will 
be cured. I cannot explain to you 
why I am so confident, but I am 
sure of it. When I was in the 
church before the altar of the 
Blessed Virgin, the idea entered 
into my head to make a vow ; and I 
have promised to return to the 
country, and remain there the rest 
of my life, to work for the poor, 
and to occupy myself with all other 
kinds of good works, as my mother 
used to. I have too long neglect- 
ed to follow her example, and 
henceforth I will act differently. I 
depend upon your assistance." 

Dame Berthe nearly fainted with 
admiration of her pupil's saintli- 
ness. As she was naturally very 



good, she was impressed with the^ 
beauty of the project, and promised4[ 
to do all in her power to aid her. 

After that, mademoiselle lookc<^ 
liked another person. She yisitec:: 
churches and chapels, conferrec^ 
with pious priests; and as moi^ 
sieur improved every day, he coul— *i 
accompany her in the carriag^^ 
and she took great pleasure i^^ 
confiding to him her new plaiKs^ 
proving to him that he could b>c 
much more useful to "the cause " 
by instructing the peasants in poZi* 
tics than by fighting the rabble in 
Paris; that, by his great wealth and 
the high esteem in which he was 
held, he could make himself still 
more beloved ; and that, when they 
loved him, they would love the no- 
bility which he represented ; so that 
when the time came — and it would 
not be far off — for the triumph of 
his hopes, he could offer to the 
king a faithful population devoted to 
good principles, which was scarcely 
possible in the present state of 
affairs. 

As she was in this happy frame 
of mind, you can imagine with 
what joy mademoiselle received the 
news of the engagement of Jean- 
Louis and Jeanne. She immedi- 
ately wrote a letter on the subject 
which deserved to be put under 
glass and framed in gold ; for not 
only did she congratulate the Ra- 
gauds with the greatest affection, 
but she humbly accused herself of 
having nearly ruined the happiness 
of her god-daughter, and thanked 
God he had directed all in a man- 
ner so contrary to her wishes. 
When you think that this high-bom 
young lady spoke thus to the little 
daughter of a farmer on her estate, 
we must admire the miracles of the 
religion which teaches us that those 
who humble themselves shall be ex- 
alted ; and I add, for the benefit of 



The Farm of Mvicerm 



those who fsncy themselves lovers 
c^ equality, and talk all l^nd of 
Kionsense about it, that there never 
^rould have been the slightest 
^rhanceofplantingasecdof it in the 
licarts of men, even though it were 
mo bigger than a grain of millet, if 
«hey had not beforehand received 
iastruciions on that virtue from our 
dear mother, the church. 

About a month afterwards, M. le 
Uarquis being perfectly cured, they 
all returned to Val-Saint; and it is 
\innecessary to say how universal 
was the joy. It is equally useless 
to tell you that their first occupa- 
tion was the marriage of our chil- 
Ircn, which was so beatiliful, so 
'"vous, so enlivened with the 
ijusic of violins and songs, it re- 

^kimbied that of a prince and prin- 
VK '\a Mother Goose. During a 
»hoIc week, the boys of Ihe neigh- 
borhood beat tin pans and fired off 
pns under the windows of Mui- 
'^™n, as signs of honor and re- 
i"i(ing. With us peasants, joy is 
ilways rather noisy, but, at least, it 
w be heard very far; and, besides, 
ii He don't often have a chance of 
tmusing ourselves, it is best to let 
«t have our own way. 
Thtte remains very little more 
I for me to say, except that made- 
■MBiulle persevered in her laudable 
^^Muiions, and became ihc angel 
^■Val-Saint. One of her first good 
^^n was to buy the house of the 
' vnferlnnatc Pcrdreaux, which, since 
Ihe ud end of its masters, had re- 
mained deserted and shut up, no 
unc daring to put it up at auction. 
Mademoiselle sent for workmen, 
*hn soon transformed it into a 
fine school-house, divided into two 
l-iru by a garden, where nothing 
"M tpared in fruit-trees, flowers, 
wd vegetables. The following 
fear the school was ready for occu- 
pation, and the Sisters were placed 
TOL. xtx. — ai 



in charge of the girls, and a good 
teacher over the boys. By good 
luck, they were able to obtain So- 
lange, who came among the first. 
Thus all our friends met again, and 
formed one family, of which the 
good God was the true father. 

M. le Cur^ was very old when he 
died, and Germaine soon followed 
him. This good pastor left many 
regrets which are not yet assuaged; 
but he departed from this world 
happy that he saw all his children 
around him leading good, holy 
lives; and at the moment he expir- 
ed, they heard him softly repeat 
the Munc dimittis servum ttium, 
Domini, secundum verbinn tuiim in 
pace — which is aprayer of compline, 
printed in all the Breviaries. 

Muiceron continued to prosper 
tinder the management of good 
Jcannet and his dear wife. The 
Ragauds passed their old age in 
a dream of happiness, free from 
clouds, amidst the love and respect 
of the community. Pierrette, who 
had never sinned but from weak- 
ness of heart, was never cured of 
this defect. On the contrary, it in- 
creased; and she devoted herself so 
completely to spoiling the beaiiliful 
children that Jeanne gave her, that 
more than once the parents had to 
cry. Slop ! But aside from these lit- 
tle troubles, which did not cause 
much difficulty, peace and concord 
never ceased to reign in this house 
of benediction. 

As the last (lower in the crown, 
I will teil you that M. Aubry, who 
was not remarkable for devotion, 
was taken in hand by Sister Solange, 
and quietly converted. He swore 
a little at first, as might have been 
expected, and said it was a shame, 
at his age, to fall into the net of a 
doctor in cornetie and petticoats, 
at whose birth he had been present, 
and whom he had vaccinated ; but 



322 



Public Worship. 



the end of all was, the cornette led 
him by the nose to Mass and con- 
fession, where he was seen to weep, 
although he tried to be very firm. 
As he was a good man, frank and 
open in all he did, once the step 
was taken, he did not go back ; and 
I knew him a long while, and never 



saw him act but like a perfecrr: 
Christian. 

And now, at this late hour, 
pray that God may send doi^u 
upon you, as well as myself, b.mi 
choicest blessings, without whic:^, 
you may truly believe, there is no. 
thing worth living for here below. 



PUBLIC WORSHIP. 



Few observing persons have 
failed to remark the great change 
which within a few years has been 
wrought in the ideas of people at 
large in regard to public worship. 
It is not confined to any one of the 
religious denominations around us. 
It pervades all, from the High- 
Church Episcopalian to those who 
still cling to the law of Moses. In- 
sensibly, it may be, but surely, 
the growth has all been in one 
direction, as surely as the germ in 
the earth pushes towards the light. 

Time was when the plain, un- 
adorned meeting-house of the So- 
ciety of Friends seemed the type 
all sought to attain in architecture ; 
painting and decoration would have 
caused a thrill of horror; Gothic 
architecture, with groined roof and 
stained glass, were as far removed 
from the thoughts and ideas as the 
Crusades; and if the sister art of 
music was admitted within the 
portals of the room reserved for 
worship, the execution was of such 
a fearful character that Old Folks' 
Concerts make it a sure guide to 
success, to mimic, for the amuse- 
ment of this generation, the strange 
religious music of half a century 
ago. 



Then religion, as expressed in 
public worship, was plain, stem, 
hard, unsympathetic, responsive to 
none of the finer feelings, the loftier 
aspirations, the panting hopes of 
human nature feeling its misery, but 
still looking heavenward. 

Now the change has come. In- 
sensibly, almost unconsciously, they 
have all more or less come to con- 
fess their error. Just as they ar-* 
returning to the genuine Lord's 
Prayer, after inflicting a spurious 
one on their votaries for three cen- 
turies ; just as they are returning to 
the true reading of the Greek Tes- 
tament, after three centuries' bond- 
age to the Received Text, so they 
are returning, after three centuries 
of dry, hard, formal worship, to 
something more in unison with 
man's nature, man's soul, and man's 
heart. 

But how .' The Reformation, that 
stem, matter-of-fact revolt, not only 
stripped religion of all its poetry, 
whether manifested in the carven 
stone, the painted glass or canvas, 
the strains of more than earthly 
music, but it did more : it struck rt 
the life of worship ; and the present 
movement which has made syna- 
gogues into temples and meeting- 



Public Worship. 



323 



ito churches — the work of 
) " builded better than they 
-yet is but a factitious life ; 
icing artificial fruit and 
id flowers on a dead trunk 
no vivifying sap to send 
all the full, gushing tide of 

is public worship ? 
re really a question of the 
can be brought home to 
men like our American 
aen more distinctly than 
x>ng creeds and the discus- 
their various points, the 
roversies and chopping of 
;m to have become singular- 
:eful to the men of our day. 
divine worship is a point 
sented squarely and plain- 
»ily grasped, and really in- 
1 itself everything. It is 
rating principle, the foun- 
lith and works, 
a century ago, in London, 
tion of worship was debat- 
me of the leading ministers 
ly, and the pamphlets form 

A more vague series of 
ts on all sides can scarcely 
I ; all seemed to turn round 
id the text that men were 
rship God in spirit and 
but in -what precise way 
itter none seemed able to 
1, even in the most remote 

What constituted prac- 
he public worship of the 
Y seemed to be a point that 
rly indefinite and indefina- 

»se, now, we were to ask the 
*n or laymen of the de- 
ions around us. What is 
;ntial element of public 

as distinguished, on the 
d, from preaching, and on 
rr from family worship of 

What would the answer 



Public worship has, in common 
ideas, come to be almost identical 
with preaching. The preacher 
makes the church ; his popularity is 
its success; with his decline in 
health, vigor, or voice, the church 
begins to melt away, and a new 
preacher has to be evoked to give 
it life. But oral instruction of the 
people, laudable as it may be, is not 
public worship ; it is addressed to 
the people, while worship is address- 
ed to God.' The prevailing con- 
fusion of ideas on this point has 
turned the extemporaneous prayers 
which in form are still addressed 
to the Deity really into appeals to 
the people ; so that the reporter 
who spoke of a prayer as being the 
most eloquent ever addressed to 
a Boston congregation was correct 
in fact, though the form was against 
him. 

Preaching does not constitute 
public worship. The object of 
preaching is the people ; the object 
of worship is God. 

What, then, is the essential ele- 
ment } Prayer recited or chanted — 
prayer extemporaneous or in forms 
grown venerable by use, is com- 
mon alike to public and private 
worship, to the worship of the in- 
dividual in his closet, the family, or 
the gathering of families. It can- 
not be the essential element of 
public worship. What, then, is the 
essential element, or, if there be 
none, how can this public worship 
have any claim on the individual 
that may not be satisfied by him 
alone, as in the case of Dr. Bellows* 
preferring isolation on the steamer's 
deck to joining in the religious 
exercises carried on below } 

But there is certainly an obliga- 
tion to render public worship to the 
Almighty. The Sabbath rest pre- 
scribed by the Mosaic law was ne- 
gative and subsidiary to l\vet po?.\Uv^ 



324 



Public Warship. 



command to worship God. It did 
not tell what was to be done ; that 
was provided elsewhere with the 
most detailed injunctions. 

Even as ideas have changed on 
one point, so they have on an- 
other. 

With the Reformers of the XVIth 
century, faith was all and every- 
thing. Now we have reached a 
time when faith has lost its ground ; 
and, in the thousands around us, 
nine out of ten will tell you that 
it makes no difference what a 
man believes ; if his life is right, 
he is safe. But yet they make 
a distinction in works. It is not 
all works that have value in the 
eyes of the world; it is those of 
benevolence — the corporal works 
of mercy. They will shrug their 
shoulders and allow some little 
value to the spiritual works of 
mercy, but it will not be much. 
Yet these works of mercy, whether 
corporal or spiritual, have for their 
object our neighbor. There is, 
however, a higher class of works — 
those which have God for their ob- 
ject. 

Good works towards God ! some 
will exclaim; what need has God 
of our good works .^ The need 
may be on our side, and the ques- 
tion is not one of need, but of duty 
on our part. 

Love is the fulfilling of the law — 
••he that loveth me keepeth my 
commandments." The Command- 
ments to be kept, the works to be 
done, are written on the two tables 
of the law; and the works to be 
done towards God form the first 
and greater Commandment, and 
foremost on it — first of the good 
works of which God is the object — 
is worship, public and private. 

Have not common ideas, then, 
perverted the whole order ? With 
the higher appreciation of good 



works that is growing so visibly 
will come a logical placing of thei^ 
The first table will reassert ^g 
rights ; the great good work towai^ ^ 
God, public worship, will take //j 
rightful place, and be regarded ^5 
the great, imperative act on the 
part of man. 

If so important, it must have its 
distinctive characteristics, its essen- 
tial elements — some thymiama ex- 
clusively assigned to it, never given, 
we say, not to any mean use, but to 
high or holy use or honor of anything 
that is not God. 

Should no one around us teU 
what this element is, we must go 
back to the past. The first Com- 
mandment, in its positive form, is: 
"The Lord thy God thou shalt 
adore, and him only shalt thoa 
serve." In what essentially docs 
this adoration and service consist ? 

If we open the two oldest boob 
we have — the Bible, record of a peo- 
ple who preserved their faith in 
God ; Homer, describing the life of 
a nation fallen so early into idola- 
try that it preserved no tradition 
of the time when the unity of God 
was acknowledged — if we open 
these to see what in the earliest 
ages constituted divine worship, wc 
find the answer clear and plain- 
Sacrifice. 

Leave the shores of the Mediter- 
ranean, strike to India, China, the 
islands of the Pacific, and ask what 
constitutes public worship, the an- 
swer still is, Sacrifice. Reach the 
western shores of America, ques- 
tion every tribe, from the more 
savage nomads of the north and 
south to the more cultured Aztecs, 
to the subjects of the Incas, and 
the answer never varies ; it is, Sac- 
rifice. 

Cross the Atlantic as you crossed 
the Pacific, the Celts of the Isles 
and of Gaul, Scandinarian and 



^NBW-YORK 



Public Worship. 



2lETi 



I 



\^ 



repeat the burden, Sac- 
I you come again to the 
the patriarchs on the plains 
iiphrates or Jordan, 
hat was sacrifice ? A rite 
3ugnant to all our ideas — 
could not spring from man 

It was the offering of an 
life to the offended Deity 
stitute for man's life for- 

sin — a substitute deriving 
from a human life that was 
to appease the Almighty 

y- 

hole system is strange, yet 
•le is universal. Before 
' the beasts of the field for 

slew them on the altar. 
I, unaccepted of God, offers 
dy sacrifice. Doubly the 
jinful man — sinful by de- 
i by act — Cain offers the 
he earth — ^badge of sin and 
weat of brow ; while Abel, 

gentle, slays the lamb that 
affectionately around him 

to find favor with a God 
It could not have entered 
heart of man to conceive 
»thing less than a primi- 
ation and command can 
acrifice — that offering of 

animals as a type of the 
ling sacrifice of the Lamb 
n the foundation of the 

tter how widely removed 

original seat of the race, 

• how low in the grade of 

n, every known tribe on 

a worship and has sacri- 

le red men of our own 

long considered as an 

in this respect; but they 

I the whole idea of sacri- 

e example will show it. 

Jogues, the pioneer priest 

York, was taken by the 

in 1642, and reduced to 

ition of a slave, he at- 



tended a hunting party of the tribe. 
Ill success in war and hunt had 
befallen the Mohawks, and, ascrib- 
ing it to their offended deity, they 
offered to this demon Aireskoi two 
bears with this prayer : " Justly dost 
thou punish us, O demon Aires- 
koi ! . . . We have sinned against 
thee, in that we ate not the last cap- 
tives thrown into our hands ; but 
if we shall ever again capture 
any, we promise to devour them as 
we now consume these two bears " 
— recognizing the idea of sub- 
stitution and the efficacy of hu- 
man blood as the great means of 
reconciliation. And the mission- 
ary, to his horror, saw two women 
sacrificed and eaten in fulfilment 
of this vow. 

While the temple of Jerusalem 
stood, the Greek, the Roman, the 
Egyptian, the Gaul, and the Ger- 
man would, on entering, have seen 
naught removed from their ideas in 
the sacrifice offered. They might 
have wondered at the size and beau- 
ty of the temple, the rich vestments 
of the sons of Aaron ; they might 
have been filled with awe at the 
absence of the image of the deity 
worshipped there so grandly ; but 
in the great rite of sacrifice, there 
was nothing that was not familiar 
to them.* In this the pagan na- 
tions were still in harmony with 
the divine institution ; and in de- 
fault of the Mosaic revelation, its 
appositeness could be proved by 
the common consent of mankind 
in a matter inexplicable except 
on the supposition of a primitive 
revelation. 

The nearer and more striking 
the resemblance between the pagan 
sacrifices and those of the people 
of God, the greater the evidence 
they bear to corroborate it. Error 
may be old, but truth is older. 

What, then, is the meaning of 



326 



Public Worship. 



this ancient worship? The an- 
swer is plain : " Jesus Christ, yester- 
day and to-day and for ever** — 
" the Lamb slain from the founda- 
tion of the world,** whose death 
was, when once accomplished in 
act, to be thenceforward shown 
forth until he came. 

The offering on Calvary alone 
gave life and efficacy to all the 
sacrifices of Adam, of the patriarchs 
before and after the Flood, of the 
sacrifices of Abraham, and those 
who, in his day, still believed in the 
true God, in the sacrifices of the 
law promulgated by Moses. 

Their sacrifices were but types 
and figures — substitutes for that 
which was to be accomplished in 
the person of the Messias; when 
that was once accomplished, it be- 
came the act of public worship, to 
be offered by man to the end of 
time. 

The public worship of the new 
law is the sacrifice of Calvary, not 
renewed, not repeated — for " Christ 
dieth now no more " — but " shown 
forth,'* made sensible. 

The essential element of public 
worship is the death of the Man- 
God on Calvary; and under the 
new law, this must be shown in 
something higher and nobler than 
the types and animal sacrifices of 
the old law. It is the one suf- 
ficient act of worship, fulfilling all 
the intentions and designs of the 
ancient typical sacrifices — adora- 
tion, praise, thanksgiving, propitia- 
tion, and impetration. No public 
worship that does not directly con- 
nect itself with this great sacrifice 
can be at all a public worship ac- 
ceptable to God. 

The Almighty has certainly insti- 
tuted a worship showing forth this 
death, and that alone will he accept. 

Man cannot set up a public wor- 
ship for himself. Worship is a 



debt which man owes to the 
High, and it is not for the d 
to fix the mode of paying 
debt. In the discussion allud 
already, they frequently quote 
words of Jesus to the Sam« 
woman, but overlooked the 
lesson of that whole inc: 
When that erring woman, pr 
hard on her moral delinqu 
changed the subject, with woi 
adroitness, to the great rel 
division between the Jews 
Samaritans, she asked : " Our 
ers adored on this mountain 
you say that at Jerusalem i 
place that men must adore *' — i 
ing, evidently, "offer the sac 
of the law.'* 

Christ answered: "Salvat 
with the Jews." The ^. 
church was the ark, and out 
there was no salvation. An 
the Samaritans had, accordi 
modern ideas, every requisite, 
had the law of Moses, and re 
and followed it closely ; the) 
priests of the sons of Aaron 
to their side ; they offered a 
sacrifices commanded by th< 
and as the law commanded 
they had and exercised the 
of private judgment in the i 
of the place. And preciscl 
last point vitiated the whole 
made their sacrifices utterly \ 
less in the eyes of God. Th< 
not conduce to salvation, 
in the way of salvation, they 
be in communion with the 
priest at Jerusalem, and their 
fices could not be vivified b3 
or angel. They were won 
" Salvation was with the Jews 

The essential element of ] 
worship is, then, the sacrifi< 
Calvary ; and the public worsl 
the new law must be cont 
with that act by divine instit 
No institution devised by p 



Pkilfc Worship. 



t, however seemingly fit to 
fyes, can have any real 
t is not for man lo make, 
irivate judgment, a form 
\ worship that will avoid 
Mcc, "Salvation is not in 
the figurative sacrifices of 
.w derived their value from 
nitution as typical of Cal- 
the public worship of the 
must be connected with 
rf divine institution. 
n the popular forms of 
irship in oiir days, there is 
tial element, either of di- 
uman creation, to connect 
dvary. It is inferior even 
iamaritan worship, which 

decisively condemned. 
iins, then, can it have? 
atholic who is asked why 
t attend a Protestant wor- 

1 his answer here. "Why," 
e said, "there can be no 
it, Reading the Scrip- 
iging psalms out of Holy 
1 a moral estplanalion of 
lof Scripture cannot but he 
Even supposing the expla- 

contain nothing contrary 
A Catholic cannot accept 

not of God's institution, 
inauthorized and human, 
rejected of God. There 
[tail in the Samaritan wor- 
; a Jew could condemn, 
lad to condemn it as a 
V, by God's institution, all 
! on Mount Sion, was ac- 
to him and contributed to 
; done elsewhere, was re- 
ind availed not. 
olute is the necessity of 

to divine institution to 
value lo our religious acts 
«ee in the Acts that the 
ricsts, whose authority hiid 
lully sustained, were, by the 

Ericsthood of the 
i; and when they 



attempted to exercise functions un- 
der the new law, the very deviis 
laughed them to scorn. If men of 
a prii-slhood instituted by God had 
thus lost power, how could men 
self-constituted make themselves 
more acceptable, or create a form 
of worship that could be accept- 
able, to God ? 

Nor can any such power exist 
in the civil authority, be it empe- 
ror, king, parliament, or congress, 
Saul, usurping the headship of the 
church and the functions of the 
priesthood, only drew down judg- 
ment on himself, and his race 
ceased lo rule over the people. 

The only example in the old law 
that even remotely resembles the 
liberty assumed in the last centu- 
ries by men to form modes of wor- 
ship is that of Michas in the Book 
of Judges, who made his own god, 
his own temple, his worship, and 



priest till he was able to obtain an 
apostate Levite. 

Man, of himself, would have as 
much right to make his god like 
Michas as to make his worship. 
He can make neither, and cannot 
give saving power to his form of 
worship any more than he can di- 
vinity lo the deity his brain may 
devise. 

Let lis, then, see whether there 
exists tinder the new law an insti- 
tution in which the one great sacri- 
fice of Calvary is made perpetually 
present to the end of time. The 
Reformers, before introducing their 
own experimental forms of public 
worship, since so varied — now re- 
duced to the plainest form, then 
more cheering, but all based on the 
synagogue service of the Jews, 
which was not divine worship, as 
the temple service was — rejected a 
form of public worship coeval and 
coextensive with Chriatetidom, (uW 



328 



Public Worship. 



of the spirit and echo of the temple 
service of Jerusalem, that was real- 
ly and solely divine worship — they 
rejected the Mass. 

The Jews even now recognize that 
their synagogue service is not wor- 
ship ; they still admit the necessity 
of a sacrifice, as witness one of the 
most common forms of prayer of- 
fered up in the synagogue : " O Lord, 
in the time when the temple stood, 
when a sin was committed the guilty 
one brought sacrifices, and it was 
atoned unto him ; but now, through 
our sins, we have no temple, no al- 
tar, no priests to offer up sacrifices 
which shall atone for our sins. Let 
the remembrance of our prayers, of 
the many prayers we offer up, O 
Lord, be acceptable in the place of 
sacrifices." 

There had been heresies and 
schisms before the XVIth century. 
They had been almost countless; 
but Arian and Pelagian, Donatist 
and Nestorian, all retained the 
Mass, the authority of all tradition, 
. in Asia, Europe, and Africa, making 
it too daring an attempt for any to 
endeavor to modify or abolish it. 
By the concurrent testimony of all 
Christians of ^very tongue and land 
the Mass was the public worship 
of God, instituted by the apostles 
under the command of Jesus Christ 
and the direction of the Holy 
Ghost ; and to this day i^is retained 
in the Oriental lands, where the 
apostles and their immediate suc- 
cessors preached, although many 
of those countries have for centu- 
ries rejected the spiritual authority 
of Rome, and would not adopt the 
slightest form or ceremony peculiar 
to the Latin Church. 

A movement against the Mass 
could not arise in any of these lands. 
It could arise only in nations just 
emerged from the darkness of pa- 
ganism, with its spirit still strong 



within them, and with no apostoHe 
tradition to inspire them with reT* 
erence. 

The German race, last to accept 
the Gospel, was the first to reject it. 
The Real Presence was denied, and 
with that dogma they cast aside the 
Mass as the great act of public wor- 
ship, and the whole theory of the 
Christian priesthood. In England 
alone an attempt was made to keep 
a hollow form and a compromise 
which James I. sneeringly styled an 
ill-said Mass. 

In each country, government or 
individuals then attempted to get 
up something to take the place of 
the public worship which had for 
fifteen centuries gathered Christians 
around the altar of God, and, 
while all cried for liberty, made tht 
new forms obligatory by civil law; 
and in England, the government, by 
fine and imprisonment, compelled 
men to go to the churches torn 
from Catholic worship, in order to 
follow the newly-devised common 
prayer ; and in New England, men 
who turned with loathing from this, 
punished just as stringently all 
who dissented from the standing 
order or refused to attend the 
congregational form of worship. 
Yet both were confessedly mere 
human inventions, to which no 
more divine sanction could be 
ascribed than to the form of open- 
ing a court of justice. 

Of course the first generation of 
the Reformed recollected the old 
Catholic worship, and kept up some 
resemblance to it ; but as the memory 
died away, one point after another 
was cast aside, till every original 
trace was lost, and everything was 
made as bald and plain as possible. 

Then a new great discovery was 
made. Satisfied with their own 
position, they looked at the Catholic 
worship, now become strange and 



Public Worship. 



3>9 



wjndfrfnl in their eyes, and ihey 
distoveied a sinking analogy be- 
Iwcen il and pagan worship. Mid- 
ilaan, in ihe last century, expatiat- 
ed wonderfully on the point; and 
out readers know how offensively 
mif fluent, superficial Prescott, in 
his Con<fueit of Mexico, draws the 
comparison. Bui these men never 
i«m lo have thought that God 
might have his own views of his 
oirn worship, and that he could not 
We left the world without a guide 
ffli this point ; they forgot that one 
(uIIt explained type of worship of 
ihe ante-Christian era was before us 
to guide us in our search. 

Tike oneof ouraveragecoiinlry- 
iMti, from Prescott's own State, and 
w him down in the temple of 
jcnisalem while Ihe high-priest 
T« Still offering the sacrifices of 
ilic l»w. What would his impres- 
sions be? He would certainly 
dttm it a very pagan affair; the 
Kcliitcclurc would, in his eyes, be 
wunited to a meeting-house; the 
SMintnts heathenish or — what to 
■would perhaps be synonymous — 
; the incense clearly so; and 
idical defect in the whole would 
in his eyes, that the congregation 
kno part, and that the building 
■ not adapted to preaching. 
%a the morning hour of prayer, 
fc^hcn ihc shitdow of Mount Sion 
B lengthening towards ihc Medi- 
Wncan, he entered the sacred 
dosure. and beheld the priest, in 
ih robe, enter, incense in hand, to 
r it on the gulden altar, while 
( people were kept rigorously 
le would have found it 
idlj at variance with his ideas. 
f, aatliesuR began In gild the 
D face of the tower, he saw a 
Mit Jew coming with his wife 
e ones, bearing in his arms 
mb, to have it offered in sacrifice 
I or some sick child at 



hotne, and taking back part to eat 
as pari of the religious rile, he 
would think all this needed reform- 
ing, and that it was very nearly as 
bad as the popish way of having 
Masses said. 

The only question would he 
whether the Almighty was wrong, 
or whether his own stand-point was 
utterly wrong. 

Certainly, neither in the Jewish 
temple service nor in the worship 
of any pagan nation could he find 
the type of his own. The pagan 
had strong and striking resem- 
blances with the Jewish; the wor- 
ship of Christendom grew out of the 
Jewish temple service. 

To this day chants echo through 
Catholic aisles that were first heard 
on Mount Sion. To the Catholic 
the old lempie service would be 
intelligible; the edifice, the vest- 
ments, the incense, the priestly 
performing of a great act, would all 
be in harmony with ideas with 
which he had been imbued from 
yoTith ; to him there would be the 
most natural of natural things in 
having sacrifice offered for him or 
his; he would kneel without in the 
crowd, offering, through the jiriest 
within, the smoking incense— offer- 
ing it, as each one around him did, 
for his own wants of soul or body. 
In all the ideas of worship of the 
Je-w he would be at home, and 
could join in the same spirit in 
every religious act that marked life 
from circumcision li!l the Kadisch, 
or prayer for the dead, poured 
forth beside the grave in the valley 
of Josaphat. 

Those who find the Catholic 
worship loo like the pagan would 
have condemned the divinely-in- 
stituted worship of the Mosaic law 
as still more like it, That pagan- 
ism bears its testimony lo the 
Catholic worship is an argument 



S30 



Public Worship. 



in its favor, not against it ; for the 
pagan worship was a divine in- 
stitution, perverted more in its ob- 
ject than in its form. Had it been 
purely the coinage of man's brain, 
of man's private judgment — one of 
those ways that seem right unto a 
man, though the ends thereof lead 
to death — there would be no such 
resemblance. 

Is it not a striking fact that the 
Catholic, trained to the worship of 
his church, would be at home in the 
temple of Jerusalem during that 
divinely-instituted worship, while 
to the Protestant it would be utter- 
ly repugnant ? 

The Mass in Latin, Greek, Cop- 
tic, Armenian, Abyssinian, Sclavo- 
nic, is almost identical, and in all 
rites claims to have been institut- 
ed by the apostles by divine au- 
thority. The form is the same, 
though varying parts have varied. 
The Jewish worship was simply ac- 
tion ; the Christian worship has, 
from the earliest period, combined 
action and a form of words. The 
language of the Mass is older than 
any of the books of the New Testa- 
ment. Is it unworthy of the great 
act.^ The answer will best be a 
challenge to produce anything, from 
the days of the Reformation, which 
can at all approach it in grandeur ; 
in its recognition of all the attributes 
of God and of the nothingness of man 
in his sight ; in all and everything 
that could embody the idea of wor- 
ship. It has, perhaps, the most sub- 
lime thought ever written. Longi- 
nus quoted the " Let there be light, 
and there was light," as a sublime 
thought that paganism admired. Yet 
this record of the creative act is less 
sublime than " We thank thee for thy 
great glory.*' That man, the creature 
of God, should thank him for exist- 
ence, for his intellect and body, 
for truth imparted, for life, health. 



happiness, for loved ones and their 
love, for all the blessings ever be- 
stowed on him, or, soaring higher, 
ever bestowed on men and angels, 
might be admirable ; but when man, 
losing sight entirely of himself and 
of all created things, looks up to 
God, and, overwhelmed with love, 
thanks him for his great glory, for 
his attributes, for being what he \%y 
he soars from the depths of nothing- 
ness to the height of sublimity. One 
of the modem objections to religion 
is its selfish character; the Mass 
answers this by its utter abnegation 
of self, just as it formally disavows 
the sufficiency of human works. 

The action is worthy of divine 
worship. A man stands at the 
altar, not self-instituted, but called 
as Aaron and his race were — stands 
there with powers traced back 
through the apostles to Christ. He 
approaches as a sinner among sin- 
ners, acknowledging his unworthi- 
ness, striking his breast with the 
publican, not vaunting himself with 
the Pharisee. Then follow soon 
the glorious canticle, in which the 
sinner rises, in thought and hope, 
to God, prayer, lessons from the 
Old Testament or the New, a por- 
tion of the gospels, a solemn profes- 
sion of faith. Then properly begins 
the Sacrifice, at which, in early days, 
only the baptized could be present, 
and not even such of them as were 
subjects of public penance. 

Bread and wine appear on the 
altar. Even among the pagans, 
fruits of the earth were offered to 
inferior deities alone. In the Bible, 
they mark the sinful race, like Cain, 
or men without the chosen peopl^t 
like Melchisedec. It is in itself -"i" 
inferior offering, and bears the 
stamp of man's fall. Bread and 
wine are doubly suggestive. It '^ 
not merely fruits of the earth rais^ 
ed by man's toil and the sweat of 



Public Worship. 



331 



his brow ; it is food prepared by 
tdll further toil. 

The priest stands there as the 
type of fallen man, with such offer- 
ing as fallen man can give ; but if 
this were all, his sacrifice would be 
but that of Melchisedec. His lan- 
guage shows that the sacrifice has, 
so to speak, no beginning or end ; 
that it is one act, and that time is 
not regarded. The bread and wine 
tre treated, not as what they are, 
but what they are to become. It is 
not that the sacrifice of guilty Cain 
may become that of the pious Abel, 
the sacrifice of the uncalled Mel- 
Aiscdec become that of Abraham 
the elect ; not that this sacrifice of 
fallen man may become the Pas- 
chal lamb, but Christ our Pasch 
himself; and such it is in thought 
I already when the priest offers the 
! bread as an immaculate host, and 
the wine as the chalice of salvation — 
offers them for his own sins and 
those of all Christians ; for the sal- 
vation of those present and that 
of the whole world. He offers it 
again in memory of the passion, 
resurrection, and ascension of our 
Lord, and in honor of all who have 
faithfully served him on earth. 

He never separates himself from 
the people for whom he offers it. 
From the commencement to the 
end, it is their sacrifice and his ; in 
fact, as if to prevent any forgetful- 
ness of this, he turns, as the awful 
moment of consecration approach- 
es, to say : " Brethren, pray that 
my sacrifice and yours may be ac- 
ceptable to God, the Father Al- 
mighty." 

Then, with the Preface that 
sounds like the triumphant march 
of an approaching monarch, comes 
the consecration. The types of 
sinful man disappear, and Jesus 
Christ is all. He is the priest ; he is 
the victim. He makes the only ob- 



lation that can take ^way sin. He 
offers the only victim which can 
render his Eternal Father due ador- 
ation, homage, and honor; which 
can alone call down graces and 
blessings. 

The priest and people, adoring 
the divine High-Priest and Victim, 
offer through him that sacrifice of 
Calvary for all mankind, for the 
living and the dead, for the church 
and all its members. Then, re- 
peating the prayer he himself en- 
joined, the divine Victim is con- 
sumed, and the solemn rite hastens 
to a close. 

Sublime in its conception, sub- 
lime in all its parts, sublime alike 
in action and in words, the world 
has never beheld a more adequate 
public worship of God. In itself, 
in its antiquity, its wide extent, it is 
one of the strongest arguments in 
favor of the church. Its wonderful 
adaptability to all nations and all 
conditions of social elevation are 
no less striking. A public worship, 
in which the most polished and cul- 
tivated minds of civilized nations 
can join, absorbed and taking part, 
while the poor peasant enters as 
well into its spirit, and offers it for 
all his wants; a sacrifice that can 
come home to the savage and the 
sage, to men of the frozen North 
and the parching tropics, which 
makes the church a home in all 
lands where not a syllable uttered 
in the streets falls familiar on the 
ear — ^such is the Holy Sacrifice of 
the Mass of the Catholic Church — 
a worship distinct from any other 
ser\uce, offered to God alone, and 
combining in the highest degree 
everything that can be conceived 
as fitting in that great act — divine 
institution, the character of sacri- 
fice, identity with the oblation of 
Calvary — the only adequate wor- 
ship ever offered to God. 



333 The Answered Prayer. 



THE ANSWERED PRAYER. 



** Mortal cmnnot make 
Cooditions with the Creator."— ^MtVZ^. 



Into my broken heart 

Pour gracious balm, 
Where the deep waters start 

Breathe holy calm ; 
Over my weary life 

Shed deep repose, 
Shelter me from the strife, 

Baffle my foes ! 



I have not shunned my task 

Early or late ; 
I have not turned to ask 
"Wherefore?" of fate. 
Only one cry went up, 
Hopeless at length — 
" Father ! to drink thy cup 
Grant me thy strength. 



>> 



Now at the last I stand 

Waiting from heaven. 
Patient, with outstretched hand, 

Alms never given ! 
Grant me, O God ! I pray. 

One answ'ring sign 
Ere I withdraw for aye ! 

Speak! Am I thine? 

Cometh the sign at last — 

Bolt hot and red. 
Falling to crush and blast 

Desolate head ; 
Driving the cowering form 

Wildly across 
Life's heath, through flood and storm, 

On — to the cross ! 



The Veil Withdrawn, 



333 



THE VEIL WITHDRAWN. 



it J 



, by rbsmusion, pkom thb fkbnch of madamb ckavbn, authob of "a bbtbx^s btokt,** 

flburancb/' btc. 



IV. 



that day I resumed my 
abits, and, except the live- 

my childhood, which had 
red never to return, I be- 
nost the same as before. 
Iden and unhoped-for re- 
brought cheerfulness once 
our gloomy house, and a 
y to the sad, anxious face 
her. I say anxious ; for it 
s so, if possible, than sad. 
as an anxiety in his look, 
• he turned towards me, 
quite inexpressible. Had 
embled for my life, and 
Is for my reason, as hardly 

I was restored to him ? 
>o ; but if his anxiety had 
itlived its cause, though 
ht explain his profound 
J, it could not account for 
ness of manner he now 
:d, instead of the warm af- 
I which he had accustomed 
infancy. And when I en- 

to fathom the cause of 
ige, only one reason oc- 
I me, which I repelled with 
id on which my mind ut- 
sed to dwell ! . . . 
not seen my brother (the 
the two children by my fa- 
st marriage) since my ill- 
^hen I went to the supper- 

the first time, he was not 
Jut this did not cause me 
t regret, for I feared Mario 
an I loved him. I was 
refore, to find no one pre- 



sent but my father, my sister Livia, 
and Ottavia, who, from a waiting- 
maid, had merited, from her long ser- 
vices, to be promoted to a duenna. I 
say duenna^ and not governess ; for 
she would scarcely have been able 
to teach us to read and write. But 
she knew many things much more 
important. She was one of those 
good, simple souls, so frequently 
met with in Italy among people of 
her station, uncultivated from a 
human point of view, but wonder- 
fully conversant with everything 
relating to the principles of the 
Christian religion, the practice of 
charity, and the grandeur of the 
Christian's hopes. Sometimes 
thoughts came spontaneously from 
her heart and lips which were far 
more admirable than are to be found 
in any book. Therefore my father, 
notwithstanding her undeniable ig- 
norance in many respects, did not 
consider her useless in the training 
of his children, but treated her 
with a consideration bordering on 
respect. 

Hitherto my life had been sur- 
rounded by, and, so to speak, per- 
meated with a mother's love; and 
when I was suddenly deprived of 
this light and warmth, an overpow- 
ering grief, as has been related, 
took possession of my soul, which 
at first it seemed impossible I could 
survive. Now I was calmer; but 
there was still a void, a wretched- 
ness, a grief in my heart, vfVvvcK, 



334 



Ttu Veil Withdrawn. 



though not as violent as at first, had 
become fixed and permanent. I 
thought sometimes of young birds, 
whose mothers had been caught in 
the fowler's net, left pining alone in 
their nests, or of poor little fish 
drawn out of the water and left on 
the shore in the heat of the sun. I 
seemed to be like them : my heart 
and soul were out of their element 
and deprived of their necessary 
food. 

In this state, Ottavia and my 
kind sister Livia were the only per- 
sons in the house who afTorcled 
me any comfort. I always sought 
shelter beside them; for the sight 
of my father increased my depres- 
sion, and I was afraid of my broth- 
er's stern and penetrating eye. 

Mario, at this time, was twenty- 
seven years of age. He was re- 
markably handsome at first sight; 
but his stem, gloomy face, seldom 
expressive of kindness, and never 
of affection, greatly modified this 
first impression, and it was nearly 
impossible to feel entirely at ease 
with him. Nevertheless, he had 
many noble qualities, and in some 
respects resembled my father; but 
he had not inherited his kiifdness 
of heart. . . . My brother was un- 
yielding and jealous, and, if not 
bad at heart, at least had an un- 
pleasant disposition, and was often 
in an insupportable humor. He 
made me habitually feel that he re- 
garded me as the child of a differ- 
ent mother, and could not forgive 
Livia, who was his own sister, for 
loving one who, according to him, 
had come to rob them of the full 
share of their father's love. 

At the time of Fabrizio dei Mon- 
ti's second marriage, Mario, then 
only twelve years old, had mani- 
fested so great a repugnance to it, 
and so much ill-will towards her 
who was about to take his mother's 



place at their fireside, that Fabrizio 
decided to send him away ; and for 
several years Mario lived away 
from home, only returning from 
time to time for an occasional visit. 
It was only within a year he had 
become a permanent member of 
the household. At that time the 
malady that was to prove fatal to 
my mother had begun its ravages, 
and the remaining days of her life 
were already numbered. Whether 
it was this knowledge, or because 
he was softened and disarmed by 
the charm of her beauty ajid the 
angelic sweetness of her manner, 
it is certain he became quite a dif- 
ferent person, and, in her presence 
at least, was never harsh or severe 
towards us. Perhaps this change 
would have been complete could 
he have remained longer under the 
sweet influence we were all so un- 
happily deprived of! 

On the 15th of July — the day 
that ended so fatally — Mario was 
absent. He had left home the 
evening before, and, when he re- 
turned, he learned, at the same 
time, the calamity that had occur- 
red and that which so speedily 
threatened to follow. I have been 
assured that he manifested a lively 
grief at my mother's death, and 
had inquired about me, not only 
with interest, but even with anx- 
iety. But the recollections of the 
past were still vividly impressed on 
my memory, and it was not to him 
my heavy, bleeding heart turned 
for consolation at such a time. 

At the end of our gloomy repast, 
my sister was informed that there 
were several visitors in the draw- 
ing-room. It was the hour when 
my father received his friends and 
the clients he had not been able to 
see in the morning. Livia imme- 
diately left the table, and I was 
about to follow her, when my father 



i 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



335 



stopped me, and kept me beside 
him till he had looked over some 
documents which had just been 
brought him. He then gave me 
his arm to the salon. This was 
certainly done with kindness and 
an air of affection, but with a kind 
of gravity constantly perceptible as 
he kept me beside him the remain- 
der of the evening. How gladly I 
would have exchanged this affec- 
tionate solicitude, that could not 
lose sight of me, for one such look 
as I used to receive ! . . . 

It was strange ! but when I 
thought of my mother, no remorse 
was mingled with so affecting a re- 
membrance. I felt as if a constant 
communication was maintained be- 
tween her soul and mine; that she 
mo my repentance, was aware of 
my resolutions, and, to sum up my 
impressions — childish, perhaps, but 
so lively and * profound that they 
have never been effaced — that 
^ace had been made between us. 
But the thought that my father 
might be aware of all that took 
place during that hour of fearful 
memory, or the possibility of his 
knowing the foolish act I commit- 
ted in my mother's presence, alas ! 
while she was dying, and that he 
might attribute the dreadful catas- 
trophe that followed to that act, 
inspired me with genuine terror, 
which was only checked by a secret, 
constant conviction that my mother 
had not been able, during the few 
short hours of the following night, 
to divulge my secret to any one, 
even to him. But then, who could 
^ave told him, or what other reas6n 
could there be for the change that 
njade me feel as if I had lost my 
'ather as well as my mother, and 
^hat the heavens were darkened on 
^hat side also ? 

The next day I was alone in 
Day chamber, collecting my books 



in order to resume my studies, as 
if my mother were still alive to 
direct me, when my sister came in 
breathless, as if from running. She 
stopped to take breath, and locked 
the door before speaking. 

Livia was two years younger than 
her brother. She was not hand- 
some ; but her form was noble and 
graceful, her eyes were strikingly 
beautiful, and her smile, though 
somewhat sad, was incomparably 
sweet. But a nose somewhat too 
long, a chin a little too short, and 
thick hair parted on a forehead a 
little too low, made her rather un- 
attractive at the first glance, and 
perhaps caused the absurd notion I 
shall soon have occasion to refer to. 
But all who knew Livia regarded 
her as an angel of goodness, and 
forgot the defects of her face. 

" Gina !" she hurriedly exclaimed, 
as soon as she could speak, " my 
dear little Gina ! Mario has returned, 
and is coming up to see you. Lis- 
ten to me,*' embracing me as she 
continued. "I think he means to 
tell you something that will dis- 
tress you — something I wish you 
could remain for ever ignorant of. 
But it is useless. He is determin- 
ed you shall know it, and, after all, 
it may be as well. Only, carina, 
promise to be calm. If he scolds 
you, or speaks in his usual severe 
way, do not answer him. Control 
yourself Let him go on, Gina 
mia ! I beg of you. No matter if 
he distresses you for a moment ; he 
will soon go away, and I will con- 
sole you. ..." 

I had no time to answer these in- 
coherent supplications, for at that 
very instant 1 heard my brother's 
steps in the gallery. He stopped 
at my door, and, finding it fastened, 
gave a low knock. 

" You need not worry," I whis- 
pered to Livia. " Remain here, 



336 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



and I will do as you wish, I assure 
you." 

Livia embraced me once more, 
and then opened the door. Mario 
entered. I advanced to greet him, 
and then stopped with surprise at 
seeing him so pale and altered. 
He looked as if he had been ill 
also. Neither of us spoke for a mo- 
ment, for he likewise seemed to be 
astonished at my appearance. He 
must, indeed, have found me greatly 
changed since he last saw me. I 
had grown so tall during my illness 
that my face was nearly on a level 
with his, and the long black dress 
I wore made me appear even taller 
than I really was. I had lost the 
freshness of my complexion. The 
thick, fair hair of which I had been 
so proud no longer shaded my face, 
but was drawn back from my fore- 
head, and confined under a black 
net. He had no reason now to 
chide me for too much attention 
to my appearance. He could not 
make any cutting jests about my 
hair, as he used to when I arranged 
it like a crown on my brow, or left 
it in long curls at the caprice of the 
wind, according to the whim of my 
vanity. He had left me a child — 
a child wilful and full of freaks, 
whom he only noticed in order to 
correct for some fault. He found 
me a young lady, whose sad, dis- 
tressed, and somewhat austere look 
seemed the very reverse of the pic- 
ture left in his memory. He seem- 
ed affected to find me so changed, 
and held out his hand with a cor- 
diality much more affectionate than 
usual. Then, after a moment's si- 
lence, he said with a kindness he 
had never before manifested : 

" You have passed through a 
great trial, my poor Ginevra. I 
have felt for you, and participated 
in your grief, I assure you." 

I was touched by these words. 



and was about to reply, wh( 
sumed : 

" Yes, you have suffered 
but it seems also to have 
great benefit to you." 

My heart was ready to bi 
I at once drew myself up : 
fit to lose my mother ! O 
how can you say so ?" 

He frowned. " I do n< 
in that sense, Ginevra, as y 
be aware. But perhaps I 
taken," he continued, resui 
ordinary tone, which I only 
bered too well. " It may 
have only changed exteri 
hope it is otherwise, my ( 
ter, and that your childish 
and foolish coquetry ..." 

" Mario !" murmured 1 
a beseeching tone, scarcel) 
her eyes from her work, 
exclamation escaped her 
involuntarily ; for she kne^ 
than any one else that the I 
ply only acted as a stimular 
he was inclined to be ill-h 
or angry. Therefore thi 
interruption only served t 
him continue in a louder to 

** Yes, it is possible her co 
disposition may not be ov 
and it would not be right t 
it. I am only acting as a fi 
speaking plainly about the 
tunes it has caused." 

O merciful heavens ! 
Did he know my fearful sec 
was he about to tell me 
dreaded more than anythi 
in the world to hear.^ M 
throbbed violently, but I I 
oAce more when he added : 

"Thank God, Ginevra, 
midst of your tears, for 
taken your mother out of W 
without the least suspicion 
behavior." 

Though these words alh 
chief anxiety, they seemed ) 



Tbi Veil Wiibdrawn. 



337 



jpg than I merited. A flush 

I my checks, and I haughtily 
|ip my head, as I replied : 
ler concealed anything in niy 
pn my mother, Mario. And 
te is gone, who alone had the 
b admonish me, it belongs to 
per, and not to youi I beg 
remember, my dear brother." 
t down and leaned my head 
i 4iiy hand, that he might not 
[e the heart-felt anguish he 
psed me. I was by no means 
id for what followed. 

|l are mistaken, my charming 
Jter," he said in a cool, ironi- 
ff, "and it is well to tell you, 
peem lo be ignorant of it, 
ihca young ladies play a 
|iat endangers their reputa- 
pd the honor of the name 
pa.r, they often oblige their 
p to take a part in it." 
Hthstanding my folly and 

I I was really nothing but a 
K that time, and his words 
Bd no definite meaning to 
■d. I turned around and 
nim in the face with an air 
■rise that showed I did not 
■end him. The eyes that 
nc were no longer full of 
w, but sad and stern. 

tk at that, sister," he said 
pre tone, throwing on the 
t small paper package that 
led. "The contents of that 
nay recall a circumstance 
rm to have forgotten, and 
I make you understand my 



jtated a moment. I was 
fitbout knowing why. But 
i look up the paper, and 
pn the wrapper. A wither- 
Er fell out, which I gazed 
surprise, but without the 
I recollection, 
jrou not recognize it?" 
Bfc my head. 

I VOt, XIX. — 33 



" Nevertheless, that flower came 
from your hands." 

I shuddered. He continued ia 
the bitterest tone : 

" It is true it was then red, . . , 
red as the blood that had to be 
shed to restore it to yovi." 

The horror with which I was 
filled at these words struck me 
dumb. I clasped my icy hands, 
and turned deadly pale, without 
the power of uttering a word 1 
Livia sprang from her seat. 

" Mario, you have no heart, or 
soul, or mercy ! Go away. It was 
not your place to tell her about this 
misfortune." 

But Mario, excited as usual by 
contradiction, continued without 
any circumlocution, and even more 
violently than before. 

" No, no. It is better for 
Ginevra to learn the truth from my 
iips; for I am the only person, 
that dares tell her the real state of 
the case. And I will do it without 
any disguise, for it may cure her. 
She shall listen to what I have to. 
say. It will do her good. And I 
shall conceal nothing. . . ." 

I will not repeat the words that 
feli from his lips like a torrent of 
fire! . . . Besides, I can only recaili 
their import. All I can remember 
is that they met the very evening, 
of that fatal day — where and how 1 
do not recollect. Flavio was talk- 
ing to several other young men, and, 
without observing Mario's presence, 
insolently mentioned my name. 
My brother snatched the carnation 
from his button-hole. The next 
day the encounter, took place. . . . 
I felt ready to drop with fright 
and horror. "Oh!" I said in a 
sti9ed voice, "can it be that my 
brother has killed Flavio Aldini 
with his own hand? O my God . 
my God ! My punishment is 
greater than I deserve !" 



338 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



"No, no/' he eagerly replied, 
"it was not I who . . ." He stop- 
ped, . . . and then continued in a 
calmer tone, but somewhat bit- 
terly : 

" Compose yourself, dear sister ; 
it was my blood alone that was 
shed in this encounter." 

" May God forgive me !" I shud- 
•deringly exclaimed with the fervent, 
.i5incere piety I always manifested 
with the simplicity of childhood. 
" And may he forgive you, too, 
Mario ; for you likewise have com- 
mitted a deed forbidden by God." 

A faint smile hovered on Mario's 
lips, but it immediately gave .way 
•to a graver expression ; for notwith- 
standing his defects, he was by no 
means disposed to be impious. 

" Forbidden by God ! That is 
true, Ginevra; but it is, I would 
hope, a deed he sometimes excuses, 
especially when the person insulted 
gets the worst of the encounter." 

As he said this, he put his hand 
to his breast, as if suffering from pain. 
I was again struck with his extreme 
•paleness, as well as other traces of 
illness in his altered appearance, 
.and was penetrated with shame and 



remorse. A feeling more ak 
affection than I had ever fe 
him sprang up in my heart, i 
said to him humbly : 

" Mario, you have done rig 
be plain with me, and I thank 
What you have said will, I 
effect my entire cure. At any 
you have done your duty." 

He had never known me to 
to him before. I had alwa) 
volted against his ill-humor 
harshness, whether just or not 
sometimes replied with an ii 
tinence that justified his re 
ment. He was touched at.s 
me in this new attitude, an( 
the first time in his life, cli 
me in his arms and kissed me 
real affection. He then lef 
room, making a sign for Liv 
follow him. She did so, but r< 
ed in a few minutes. Tears 
in her eyes, and her lips 
slightly tremulous — a sure ir 
tion in her of some suddei 
profound emotion. 

Mario had not told me € 
thing. His anger had died 
and he left it for kinder lips 
his to communicate the rest. 



V. 



The affliction and repentance 
ihat so speedily followed the brief 
moment when I saw Flavio Aldini 
for the last time seemed to have 
effaced the transient impression 
produced at our only meeting, as 
a stream, suddenly swelled by a 
storm, washes away every trace left 
on the sand. I 'should have met 
him again with indifference, and 
perhaps even with aversion ; for he 
would have been always associated 
with the first misfortune and first 
remorse of my life. Nevertheless, 
when Livia, after considerable hesi- 
tation^ uttered the words, " Flavio 



Aldini is dead,** a cry almo 
despair escaped from my lips 
the horrible thought at once c 
red to me that Mario had dec 
me — that he was the mur 
and that this flower, a tho 
times abhorred, had cost th 
of him who had obtained it th 
my vanity and thoughtlessness 
The terrible lesson I had al 
received was not, however, 
carried to such an extent; 1 
was some minutes before I 
be convinced of it. Livia h 
had some difficulty in clearly 
ing the account she was ch 



The Veil Wilhtirazun. 



I length I comprehended 
io, while pursuing a sue- 
Ireer of pleasure, was no 
ul to improve every op- 

of repairing the inroads 
k his fortune. Among 
I the proposal to marry a 
leiress, which he acceded 
I any scruple. But though 
triumphed over a large 
f suitors by means of his 
fcs and captivating man- 
»as, in his eyes, only a 
rgain and another light 
t had been engaged only 
js, and the marriage was 

be publicly announced, 
»ct me at the ball. The 
' new young face, and es- 
hc nah-f inexperience of 
irould be easy to dazzle, 
be wish lo try his power 
B. But he had been fol- 
Ihe ball-room, and watch- 
( of the unsuccessful stiit- 
E beautiful heiress. His 

with Mario a few days 
Srmcd his rival's suspi- 
l afforded hira a prele.xt 
ing his hatred and jea- 
Hiscquently, when Flavio, 
Ing Mario wounded on 
Returned to the villa he 
at a short distance from 
ic found a new opponent 
lim to an account for his 
iss to his betrothed, on 
(f a distant relationship 
tim the right to declare 
ler champion. In this 
icit fortune was adverse 
' He lived several weeks, 
knd had only died that 
ling from the effects of 
Bsl . . . The news had 
red . . . And this was 
k had been commissioned 

bf. . . . 

be that our souls are like 
tones that only reveal all 



their brilliancy after much cutting 
and polishing, it is certain that for 
both the first blow must be the 
most trying. . . . My soul, over 
which my mother had watched, and 
which she said was dearer to her 
than her own Hfe, or even than 
mine, was now undergoing this pain- 
ful process; or, rather, had under- 
gone it. But during the last hour, 
it was no longer the knife, but fire, 
that had been applied to my bleed- 
ing heart ! 

Though I had no direct cause for 
self-reproach concerning this new 
catastrophe, as I at first feared, 1 
did not feel myself wholly irrespon- 
sible. This was sufficient to deepen 
the solemn gravity of my reflections, 
in which I remained absorbed so 
long — motionless and silent — that 
poor Livia was seriously alarmed. 

"Speak to me, Gina, I implore 
you. Oil! why, tell me why, (riirwa, 
you have kept all this secret from 
your poor sister P Whocould have 
dreamed you loved this unfortunate 
man ; that you loved any one un- 
beknown to us all.' Could we im- 
agine such a thing possible ? You 
know, dear child, I have never 
found fault with you, and I will not 
now. So tell me if it is true that 
you eluded the vigilance of your 
mother and Ottavia, in order to 
meet Flavio in the garden? Was 
it there you gave him the flower 
you wore in your hair ? And is it 
true that more than once . , ." 

Excessive surprise completely 
roused me from my stupor, and I 
eagerly interrupted her with a face 
as red as fire : 

"Never! never! never! ..." I 
exclaimed in a tone that would have 
convinced the most incredulous, for 
it had the indubitable accent of 
truth. " 1 did not love Flavio Aldi- 
ni, and I never met him alone in 
my life." 



A 



340 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



Livia, in her turn, looked at me 
with astonishment. " Did not love 
him ? Never met him alone ? 
Never gave him a bouquet or a 
single flower ?" 

" I will tell you the truth, Livia : 
once, and then I did not speak to 
him, I threw him from a distance 
the carnation I wore in my hair." 

" Once ? From a distance ? Ah ! 
then tell me when and where you 
did it ?" 

I made no reply. A thousand 
thoughts flashed across my mind 
with the rapidity of lightning. . . • 
It was evident that, by some won- 
derful chance, no one knew exactly 
what had taken place. A vague 
storv had been circulated, founded 
on Flavio*s exaggerated boasts. 
My father, brother, and sister had 
accepted this version — so far from 
the truth — without understanding 
the real extent of that which had 
been alleged against me. I felt 
that they considered me guiltier 
than I really was. And yet I would 
not have undeceived them for any- 
thing in the world. They judged 
me more severely than I deserved,' 
but of what consequence was it ? 
Was I not sufficiently culpable to 
accept this injustice with humility } 
Was it not enough, without com- 
])laining of anything else, to be at 
last assured that my secret was 
.Hufo with my mother in heaven } 
(^ught I not rather to bear all their 
reproaches without a murmur? 
There was only one that would 
have overwhelmed me, and that I 
was spared. All others were easy 
to boar, and, moreover, were merit- 
eil l^y what they were ignorant of, 
if not by what they supjwsed true. 

l.ivia i^atiently waited for me to 
break my long silence. 

•• Vou know I am incapable of 
telling you an untruth/' I said to 
her tit hur. 



" Yes, and therefore I always be- 
lieve you." 

"Well, then, I implore you to 
believe me now, Livia, without 
asking me anything more. And, 
moreover," I added in a supplicat- 
ing tone, " do not repeat what I 
have just told you, and make no ef- 
fort to justify me to any one." 

My good sister looked at me at- 
tentively for a moment, and then 
gently drew my head against her 
shoulder. 

"Poor Gina!" she said. "It 
shall be as you wish. I believe 
everything you say, and love you 
too well to annoy you with any 
more questions." 

Livia knew me thoroughly; for, 
notwithstanding her apparent sim- 
plicity, she had an eye that could 
read one's soul. She saw the sin- 
cerity and repentance of mine, and 
read in my pale face and distressed 
look the extent of my sufferings, 
and her kind heart melted. ... I 
was, indeed, very young to experi- 
ence such a variety of emotions, 
and was still too weak to endoie 
them. The habit of duelling, so 
unfortunately prevalent in Sicilf» 
had, of course, accustomed me rooie 
than would have been the case any- 
where else to occurrences similar 
to that I had just heard about. 
But to have my name connected 
with so fatal an affair; to feel that I 
was the cause of the blood shed in 
one of these encounters, and that the 
other had resulted in the tragical end 
of one who had flashed for an instant 
across my path, like one of those 
meteors that are the ominous fore- 
runners of misfortune and death, 
• • . was more than my young 
heart and feeble frame could en- 
dure. Livia perceived it. 

" Come, carifia,** she said, " lean 
against me. You need rest.*' 

I attempted to make iny way to 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



341 



>fa, covered with red da- 
the other end of the vast 
ily-furnished room ; but I 

sooner risen than my 
failed me, and I was 
o lean against a table to 
lelf from falling. Livia 

to procure some cold 
:h which she sprinkled my 
soon recovered, but was 
amd agitated when Otta- 
! in. She had left me 
11 an hour before, and, 
[ie now in such a state, 
imed with mingled impa- 
i alarm as she advanced : 
leavens! what has hap- 
her ? She was so well this 
' . . . And giving Livia 
distrustful glance, she ex- 
le index and little finger 



of her hand, closing all the others ; 
turning around as she made this 
gesture, the meaning of which is 
only too well known in our coun- 
try. * This was done so quickly 
that I hoped I was the only one to 
perceive it. 

"How foolish!" I angrily ex- 
claimed to Ottavia, seizing her hand 
and covering it with mine. " Are 
you going to treat me always as if 
I were an invalid or an old woman ? 
Thanks to Livia " — and I emphasiz- 
ed these words — " I have entirely 
recovered." 

Ottavia, half angry, half sorry, 
was about to go away; but Livia 
made a sign for her to remain, and, 
pressing my hand as she embraced 
me once more, left the room with- 
out uttering a word. 



VI. 



ttle incident I have just 
ill doubtless excite some 
lent, and be regarded as 
confirming what I have 
►re about Ottavia's piety 
sense. But whoever has 
the southern part of Italy 
?re are hundreds of people 
gion whose education, and 
gious instruction, are in 
leficient, and who, never- 
re not exempt from the 
superstition I have just 
:o. 

I it to the erudite to prove 
na Graecia derived it from 
Greece, the mother coun- 

remote antiquity made 
e same absurd gesture to 
effects of what it was still 
urd to believe; and that 
lays, as well as now, people 
1 this very sign under the 

protective amulets — not 
ewels to be worn, but in 
:ts that surrounded them. 



I likewise leave to them the task 
of explaining why this evil has re- 
sisted the influence of time and the 
progress of civilization, as well as 
the spirit of Christianity. All that 
can be said, it seems to me, is that 
in those regions this superstition 
takes the place of all those that 
abound in the North of Europe, 
and from which Italy is exempt. 
For instance, we do not hear people 
there, as in Ireland, Scotland, and 
Sweden, talk of strange, weird ap- 
paritions, fairies, or malign spirits, 
under the name of bogies or ban- 
shees. They are not afraid, as in 
Russia, of meeting people clothed 
in black, of the number thirteen, 
and a thousand other absurd no- 
tions which Catholicism has con- 
demned without being able to erad- 
icate, and which Protestantism has 



^ It is well known that the people of Southern 
Italy think they can, by this fjresture, evert the 
effects of iht jf/taturat or evil eye, which they 
ftttribute to some peraont. 



The Veil Withdrawn, 



"been much more powerless against. 
Nor are the ruins, as in Germany, 
associated with wild legends or 
Haunted by spirits. But, to make 
up for all this, the jettatura holds 
there its baleful sway. Though 
frequently ridiculed, it is feared 
more than any one is willing to ad- 
mit; and there is no one, even 
among the most reasonable, who 
would suffer this dreaded epithet 
to be applied to himself, or any one 
he loved, without manifesting his 
displeasure. It would be impossi- 
ble to account for the cause of this, 
prejudicial notion in individual 
cases, or explain why this fearful 
term is sometimes applied to men 
of special merit, and women who 
are young, lovely, and amiable, as 
well as to those whom a pretext is 
wanted to avoid, or whose appear- 
ance has something repugnant. 
Sometimes it is sufficient that a 
person has accidentally witnessed 
some misfortune, and, if the same 
thing is known to occur again, the 
word escapes from the lips, flies 
from mouth to mouth, and the fool- 
ish prejudice is established. This 
had been the case with poor Livia. 
An accident once happened to me 
in my childhood when she was with 
me ; shortly after, she was present 
when another occurred to one of 
our young friends; and a third 
time, she happened, in one of her 
charitable rounds, to be in the 
house of a poor man at the time of 
his death. This was spoken of at 
first as a mere jest ; but it gradually 
became a source of mortification 
and humiliation to her, though 
none of us were ever allowed to 
make the least allusion to it in her 
presence. The repeated troubles 
of the past few weeks had disturbed 
the faithful Ottavia's equilibrium 
and good sense to such an unusual 
degree that when she found me. pale 



and agitated, leaning on my s 
shoulder, the first thought in 
by her terror caused her ins 
to make this involuntary gest 

I was so vexed at this occui 
that for a moment I forgot i 
thing else. I felt angry with 
via, and threw myself on tl 
sofa without speaking, in a 
mingled sorrow and displeasi 

I had always been fond of 
and now all the repressed and 
up tenderness of my heai 
poured out on her. She scei 
be the only person in the 
that still loved me — the on 
that stood between me and 
appeared like a great void, 
my mother was right in wh 
said about the great necess 
my nature. As a flower di 
prived of the sun, so without 
tion I should soon cease to 
I placed no reliance on the 
bility of that which my broth 
just manifested. As to my 
his love seemed extinct in co: 
son with that of former times, 
now that I knew the reason 
coldness and severity, I h 
hope of overcoming them ; fo 
sure he would less readily < 
the truth, were it revealed t< 
than the error which had < 
such a change in his manner. 

Therefore for any one to 
the feelings of Livia, my c 
sister, my indulgent and f 
friend, was at this time like 
ing my very heart. I rer 
with my head on the cushic 
the old sofa, while Ottavi 
bustling about the chamber, 
trying to divert my attentioi 
what had taken place. At la 
approached and tried to ge 
of my hand. I withdrew it. 

** Come, dear signorina,' 
said, "forgive your poor ol 
tavia. I did wrong." 



The Veil Withdrawn, 



343 



ery wrong, Gttavia," I 
a tone almost severe, 
r it, and feel as if I were 
o the blessed spirit of 
nca herself when I hear 
«e you! You resemble 
:h, signorina ! . . ." 
)ttavia, what would she 
1, if she had been pre- 

mid tell me that my fear 
Ltura is both foolish and 
d that is only what I 
elf, what I believe and 
:n I am on my knees be- 
. . . Oh ! at such times 
il that his will alone is 
\ accomplished; I only 
oly will ; I am afraid of 
ecause I am convinced 
nust prevail. And yet, 
. . when my dear sig- 
ns to be in danger, or I 
me one is going to bring 



>> 



l! . . . Ottavia!" ... I 
denly interrupting her 
tburst that almost fright- 
**it is I, it is I, and 
lo bring ill-luck to all I 



91 



• • • 



into tears as I spoke, 
en return upon myself 
;h the mobility of youth, 
iion previously received, 
It back, to my confusion 
se, all the reality of the 

like the rest, had been 
supposed fault, and was 
what I had really done ; 
as by no means in a 
to add any reproaches 
\ had already received 
brother. On the con- 
tried to soothe me, not 
ect reply, but by speak- 
t which she could talk 
;, I had always been 
ss piously inclined from 



my earliest childhood. How could 
it be otherwise under the excellent 
influence that had hitherto been 
the life of my life ? • . . This piety 
did not obliterate my faults, but it 
existed in spite of them, and was 
to exist through all the perils re- 
served for me in the future. But 
it was, if I may so speak, intermit- 
tent. Sometimes it grew dormant, 
if not absolutely extinct; at other 
times it was kindled to a lively and 
ardent degree. Therefore I fre- 
quently recited my catechism with 
indifference and ennui ; but when it 
was explained by Ottavia in her 
peculiar way; when she spoke of 
the sacraments, or dwelt on the life 
and sufferings of our Saviour, and 
more especially on the life to come, 
I was filled with delight. The 
loveliness of the natural world 
around me seemed to assume an 
additional charm ; and when I con- 
sidered that this was only a faint 
image of a far more beautiful realm, 
I longed at once to exchange this 
life for the other. . . . 

It was by such means the good 
Ottavia now gently endeavored to 
divert me, by speaking of God, of 
heaven, and various other sacred 
topics. By degrees she came 
back to more indifferent subjects, 
and finally to Livia, promising to 
make her forget the mortification 
she had experienced, and almost 
persuading me she had not per- 
ceived what had taken place. 

I allowed her to talk on in this 
way without interruption until her 
somewhat monotonous tone pro- 
duced a drowsiness that was bene-^ 
ficial to my over-excited nerves. 
As soon as she saw my eyes grow 
heavy, she placed one of the large 
sofa-cushions under my head, closed 
the window-shutters to exclude the 
dazzling light, and then, after re- 
maining beside me till she was per-> 



344 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



£Uaded I was fast asleep, softly left 
the chamber. 

I was not, however, asleep. But 
my attitude and the profound si- 
lence and solitude of the room were 
very soothing, and I remained a 
long time absorbed in a thousand 
complex thoughts. Long years 
have passed away since that day, 
and other and more dangerous 
temptations have assailed me, but I 
have never forgotten the reflections 
of that hour. My vanity had been 
for ever shattered like the congealed 
surface of some deep lake by some 
sudden blow. It had not really 
been a part of my inner nature, but 
rather on the surface, and therefore 
not the most dangerous trait of my 
character. During the remainder 
of my life, I can only recall a single 
hour — and only one! . . . when it 
again blinded me. . . . But that 
hour was long after the one of which 
I have been speaking. At this time 
I could say with assurance that 
Mario's wish was fulfilled — that I 
was effectually and radically cured 
of my vanity. Associated with so 
many poignant recollections, it had 
become horrible in my eyes. 

My health was somewhat affected 
by the agitation I had undergone, 
and I took advantage of this to re- 
main several days in my room, only 
leaving it to take the air on the tei"- 
race. I only saw my father for a 
moment, morning and night. The 
remainder of the day I passed with 
Livia. Whether she had forgotten 
what had distressed me so much, or 
it was owing to her self-control, or 
she really had not noticed it, it was 
impossible to tell from her manner, 
and I finally persuaded myself it 
was as I hoped. 

Livia, in spite of her amiable 
dispK)sition, had great firmness of 
■character. She never allowed her- 
self Xo be induced to tell anything 



she wished .o coticeal, or 
what was forbidden by other 
her own judgment. But wl 
pecially characterized her n 
self-forgetfulness. This di 
strike me at that time. Wh 
is only fifteen years of age, ( 
ceives impressions without d 
them : one is repelled or ati 
by certain natures without 
able to analyze them. But i 
ing back, not only over the 
of my past life, but what trai 
in the inner folds of my cons 
I clearly see the difference b 
my sister's nature and mine, 
her very childhood she had 
life of self-forgetfulness (s 
and simple way to heights bi 
known !), regardless of he 
tastes and inclinations, an< 
of her own sufferings. Wh< 
was constantly endeavoring 
thom the workings of my 
and soul and mind, and to fii 
for them, as one tries to a 
one's hunger and thirst wh 
portunate. Not but that I i 
pable of forgetting myself, \ 
to speak, of being absorbed 
heart of another, as I had 1 
that of my mother, but solely 
condition of being to that o\ 
return, the object of an infini 
dilection ; . . . for this word < 
vast import does not seem to < 
more than my heart craved 
in spite of this difference, or 
on the very account of it, Li^ 
I were always at ease wit 
other, and it was not without 
I was at last obliged to resu 
usual life. I regretted this th 
because it had been regula 
my father in a way that in< 
only too plainly how much 1 
trusted me. Nevertheless, 
mitted with humility and cj 
to this unaccustomed surve 
the cause of which was so e' 



The X'cil IVilMraje 



I was only released from it during 
iJie early hours of the day, which I 
speni in my chamber with Livia. 
[I was not allowed to go into the 
Jlrden, except under Ottavia's es- 
; and I was not permitted to 
■e the house, unless accompanied 
^ my farher or Mario All the 
U of tny time I passed in my fa- 
's cabinet, where he had a table 
kcd for me near his own. There, 
X hours together, I read, wrote, 
Pfworkec), varj'ing my occupations 
to my own tastes, but 
«iihout any other liberty. To have 
plised my days in this way beside 
my Ltther would have been de- 
lightful once; but now, though he 
»M often kind and affectionate, 
_ there was a certain gravity in his 
^H|Scclion that made me feel I was 
^^H object of unjust suspicion, and 
^pKtured me beyond expression. 
KIh I submitted to this torture 
I tiltiout a murmur, acknowledging, 
u 1 (lid so, that it was only a. merit- 
■ cd ch.istiscment. 

^v This cabinet was like a vast hall 
^K^form, and, like all the other 
^^^ms of that old palace, grand in 
^Hk |iroponions, hut only furnished 
I *ilh what was absolutely essential. 
One side of the apartment was 
eotia-ly lined with shelves filled 
" b books and papers, and at each 
iremity stood a row of arm-chairs, 
the middle of the room, opposite 
b)ai£e windows, was my father's 
Iting-table, near which was mine, 
areen the windows hung a large 
biting, which was the onlyorna- 
tnt in the room; but, to com- 
Mte for Ihis, the garden could 
\ seen, and further off, beyond 
( verdure of the orangc-lrees, 
etched the blue outline of the 

My father received many of his 
ends uid clients in the morning, 
I seldom admitted any of them 



into the room we occnpicd. 
servant half opened the door 
announce the visitors' names, s 
my father went into the adjoin 
room lo receive them. It was only j 
on special occasions he gave orders 
ftir any one to be admitted where I 
we were. 

During the long hours I was 
thus left alone, I sometimes 
busily employed my time, but more I 
frequently remained with my amis* 
folded, plunged in a profound 
reverie. At such times I always ' 
avoided looking at the large paint- 
ing that hung on the opposite pa- 
nel between the two windows. 
Tliis was a fine copy of Herodias' 
Daughter, by Guido, the original 
of which I afterwards saw in the 
Palazzo Corsini, at Rome. The 
sweet, charming face of the girl ' 
who is holding with a smile the 
bleeding head of S. John had a 
kind of fascination for me. , It 
seemed like the personification of 
vanity in a new form, giddy and 
thoughtless in its course and fatal 
in its results, and often inspired me 
with many silent, gloomy reflec- 
tions. ... I preferred looking at the 
foliage of the orange- trees in the gar- 
den below, or gazing into the blue, 
illimitable heavens above. I often 
amused myself, likewise, before it 
cage, prettily painted and gilded, 
that hung inoneof the windows, and, 
contained abird whose company was 
a great diversion in the life of disguis- 
ed punishment I was condemned to. 
This bird, whose melody surpassed 
that of the nightingale in sweetness 
and power, was one of those called 
at Sorrento, where they are chiefly 
fo-\iad,\'s\e fassero solilario. I was 
so fond of its sweet music that my 
father had allowed me to hang the 
cage here, and more than once in 
the day 1 climbed up on a bench 
in the embrasure of the '«\ti4q.'« \o 



346 



The Veil Witlidrawn. 



see there was no lack of the singu- 
larly copious and solid food which 
this bird of angelic notes daily re- 
quires. 

One day, while I was thus perch- 
ed at a considerable height from 
the floor, the door opened much 
wider than usual, and the old 
servant that announced the visitors 
said with a certain emphasis : " His 
Excellency the Duca di Valen- 
yzano." 

My first thought was to descend 
from the post I occupied ; but before 
I had time to do so, the visitor en- 
tered the room, and stood regarding 
me with an air of surprise. My 
father rose to meet so unexpected 
a client ; but the latter held out his 
hand to aid me in my descent, and 
followed me with his eyes, without 
speaking, as I hastily regained my 
usual seat, blushing with confusion. 
My father conducted him to the 
other end of thq room, where stood 
the 'row of arm-chairs, and both 
took seats. During the long con- 
versation that followed, I could 
only hear the tones of their voices 
as they rose and fell. Sometimes my 
father's predominated, and at other 
times the deep, sonorous voice of 
his visitor. I saw it was a ques- 
tion of business, for my father rose 
several times to search for differ- 
ent papers among the books arrang- 
ed on the shelves of the library. 
Finally the conversation ended, 
and the new client proceeded to- 



wards the door. But when h 
ed opposite the cage wh( 
bird was singing, he said : " 
one's ears are charmed here 
than one's eyes. It seemj 
like a palace of fairies than 
dezvous for all the content! 
Sicily. . . ." 

He was then standing ( 
before me. 

" Don Fabrizio," contini 
" is not this your daughter, 
Ginevra, of whom I have s« 
heard ? Do me the favor 
senting me to her." 

My father's face assumed a 
dissatisfied expression, and 
was covered with a livelie: 
than before. " Heard of 
often V* Alas ! he had pi 
heard me spoken unfavora 
Perhaps this was the very t 
that clouded my father's 
Nevertheless, after a mc 
hesitation, he said : " Ri: 
nevra, and pay your respect j 
Duca di Valenzano." 

I rose, but without utte 
word ; for I was disconcertec 
fixed, scrutinizing eye that i 
trying to read my face. I 1 
my eyes, without being able 
tinguish the features of th 
acquaintance. I only rer 
that he was tall, and had a 
air, in spite of his peculiai 
that made him look more 
travelling artist than a per: 
high rank. 



TO BB CONTINUBD. 



On the Wing. 



347 



ON THE WING. 



A SOUTHERN FLIGHT. 



III. 



Vedi Napoli, e poi mori.'* • 



We left Rome in a storm of thun- 
der and lightning. The rain pour- 
ed in large, cold drops, pattering 
against the windows of the railway 
carriage, and adding considerably 
to the feelings of gloom and appre- 
beosion with which we thought of 
Rome — as Rome is now. When 
should we visit the Eternal City 
again } And would the veil of sad- 
ness which now falls on all that is 
dear and sacred to the Catholic be 
raised once more in our time.^ 
Mary was very silent for some 
hours of our long journey ; and 
while I, with my habitual curiosity, 
was peering through the rain-wash- 
ed window to discover the beau- 
tics of the glorious country through 
which we were rushing, she lay 
hack with closed eyes, absorbed in 
thought ; while Frank, with a fixed 
frown on his face, was reading and 
rustling, and finally crumpling up, 
in paroxysms of anger, the numer- 
ous Italian papers that he had 
Iwught by handfuls at the station. 
Presently Mary opened her eyes 
once more, and condescended to 
recognize the great fact that we 
were travelling further and further 
to the glorious South. I do not 
think I felt less intensely than my 
sister the sorrow that attends all 
reflection on the present condition 
^f the great centre of Christendom 
and the position of the Father of 

^ Sm Naples, md thea dl«. 



the faithful. But my grief is apt to 
take another form from that of 
Mary's or Frank's. Mary grows 
silent and outwardly calm. Frank 
' becomes gloomy. I am more irri- 
table ; and irritability leads to ac- 
tivity. My mind was working with 
an incessant rapidity, and the im- 
pulse to catch sight once more of 
every shred that could carry me 
back to happier times, and recall 
once more the memories of the 
past, kept me straining my eyes to 
get a glimpse of Albano, where we 
had spent a long, happy summer 
when the Holy Father was at Castel 
Gandolfo. Should I catch sight of 
Lavinia, Eneas' own city, the ob- 
ject of so many excursions in those 
happy days.^ Should I see those 
hills covered with chestnuts, bare 
of leaves now, beneath whose shade 
I had so often rested } Even Vel- 
letri, though not in itself a special- 
ly interesting place, had the charm 
of association. I remembered how 
I had gone to spend a long day 
there, and had wandered to the 
gates of some private house with a 
large garden. I had stood looking 
through the iron bars on a little 
paradise, but, as usual in Italy, a 
paradise in disorder. Stone vases 
stood on a balustrade, filled with 
bright flowers, but also with weeds. 
The fertile valley lay below, and 
beyond the blue and purple moun- 
tains rose in tiers one above 
another, with soft, violet shadows 



348 



On the Wing. 



and dim blue mists; and here and 
there a peak of rugged rock, on 
which the sun struck bright and 
keen. A long avenue of shady 
plane-trees was to my right. A 
solitary peasant drove his mule, 
with balanced panniers and pointed 
ears like two notes of admiration 
against the sky, far as my eye could 
reach down the green distance. I 
longed to wander on ; to follow the 
flickering lights along that silent 
road, and know that it would lead 
me out to the Pontine Marshes, 
with the rugged Abruzzi beyond. 
Here, too, rests the body of 
Hyacinthe Mariscotti, a Franciscan 
nun, who died in 1640, and whose 
life, less known out of Italy than it 
deserves, is one of the most marvel- 
lous in its union of great graces and 
great sufferings. 

The rain pelted hard ; the light- 
ning made me, from time to time, 
shrink back suddenly; but still I 
strained my eyes to catch sight of 
the shifting scene, and allowed me- 
mories to reawaken and imagina- 
tion td' throw its glamour over the 
past and the future. 

Many of the stations along this 
road are at some distance from the 
towns whose name they bear; 
and this, of course, diminishes a 
little the interest of the journey. 
For instance, Aquino, the birthplace 
of the great father of the church, 
S. Thomas Aquinas, is about a 
mile off. Near here we were, for a 
time, to take leave of Frank. He 
had made up his mind to visit the 
cradle of the great saint before 
proceeding to Monte Casino, where 
he had made arrangements to 
spend at least a week. Our read- 
ers are no doubt well aware that 
Monte Casino is no longer what it 
was. Its glories have been shorn 
by, the present government, as the 
rays of the sun are shorn by the 



twilight. There are comparatively 
very few monks of the order of 
S. Benedict still allowed to reside 
there. Amongst them, however, 
Frank had formed a real friend- 
ship; and for a month previous, at 
least, Mary and I had heard him 
descanting upon all the charms 
that he was to find in that wonder- 
ful retreat of learning and sanctity* 
Partly to tease him, and partly to 
be revenged for the fact that I 
must be for ever excluded, I gen- 
erally replied to his enthusiasm by 
« making a wry face and uttering the- 
words, ''Kid, rancid oil, and gar* 
lie." Then he would toss back 
that tiresome stray lock which is 
always trying to shade his beauti- 
ful violet eyes, and reply, with a 
smile, " Oh ! I shall not mind." The 
train stops a very short time at San 
Germano, the station for the Monas- 
tery of Monte Casino, and we had a 
hurried leave-taking. I was en- 
deavoring to collect a few of his 
newspapers, which I thought he 
had not half read, and put them 
into his hand as he left the car- 
riage. " No, no, dear Jane. Do 
you think I would pollute those 
sacred walls by carrying there all that 
blasphemous stuff." And he leapt 
out just as we began to move on. 

"O Mary!" I exclaimed, "how 
dreadful it would be, if Frank were 
to become a Benedictine monk." 

" What else do you want him to 
do?" 

" Why, live at home, of course, 
as an English country gentleman 
should do, marry, and bring up a 
son to rule after him." 

"What a thorough conservative 
you are, Jane!" said Mary with 
a smile. 

"I am not so sure of that. I 
have a dash of the liberal in 
me at times. But I do love the 
dirty acres ; and I like to see them 



On the Wing. 



349 



»ing down from father to son 
'ithout a break." 
"You are right there. It is 
^liat permanence which is the 
^^^ck-bone of England. I do not 
^Delieve m the lasting stability 
^Df any country where there is 
« perpetual and ever-recurring 
<livision of property. What a 
man h4is should always survive 
what a man />, in a sufficiently 
substantial form to make the cra- 
dle of a future destiny. And 
where no one is sure of inheriting 
a large fortune with the large lei- 
sure that it secures, it tends to make 
all men equally mercenary. There 
should always be a class apart who 
have no need to fret about making 
money, but can afford to spend it." 
*' But what if they do not spend 
it well ?" 

"That is an answer which in 
one shape or another you may 
make to the laying down of 
any principle. What if it be abus- 
ed? It does not prove the falsity 
of the principle, but only once 
more calls to mind the truism that 
everything is open to abuse." 

^ I suppose you think there are so 
many objects on which wealth may 
be advantageously expended that it 
is well to have an hereditary body 
whose business it is to do so." 

** Yes ; and I would certainly in- 
clude the cultivation of hot-house 
giapes, and the elysium of fat pork- 
ers who are washed and combed 
tvice a week. It is every man's 
bnsiness to produce the best he can 
of whatever he has in hand, includ- 
ing pineapples and pigs." 

"Well done, Mary. You are a 
worse conservative than I am. But 
do you really think that modem 
civilisation, as it is called, has its 



>»» 



''By modem civilixation, Jane, 
I conclude you really mean ma- 



terial improvements. Civilization 
is a term which is so misused 
that it has become hardly safe to 
use it at all. It ought to mean 
something much higher than in- 
creased railway facilities, more look- 
ing-glasses and buhl, hundreds of 
daily newspapers, and a French 
cook." 

" Oh ! of course. Civilization 
ought to mean the intellectual 
and spiritual development of man- 
kind from out of the rough block 
of his animal nature and his uned- 
ucated mind. If you add to this 
the refinement which self-respect 
and a perpetual inner consciousness 
of a Being greater and higher than 
ourselves, keeping all the man's 
actions in harmony with himself 
and with a higher law, you have a 
really civilized man as distinct 
from a savage." 

"That is not a bad description 
of what civilization ought to be. 
But that is very different from 
the idea most people have in their 
minds when they use the term." 

" In point of fact, Mary, I mean 
material progress. How far is it use- 
ful ?" 

"How people would stare at 
you, Jane, for that query ! — ^people 
who think there is nothing more glo- 
rious than to have invented a new 
machine or a fresh adjunct to lux- 
ury. " 

"Yes, those are just the peo- 
ple who would not the least 
know what I meant by my implied 
doubts about the value of material 
progress. But you know what I 
mean and why I question its nature 
and deprecate its increase." 

" It is a difficult question to solve. 
But I have long since come to the 
conclusion that there is never any 
very great and generally diffused 
advance made by mankind in any 
one direction without its having 



350 



On the Wing. 



some definite purpose in the Eter- 
nal Mind for the ultimate good 
of his creation. The progress of 
science is only second in import- 
ance to the progress of religion ; 
and after these two comes the pro- 
gress of the useful arts, which are 
the offspring of science, and often 
seem only to pander to luxury, but 
are really subsidiary aids in that 
march, in the accomplishment of 
which man is to fulfil his destiny of 
possessing the earth and filling it 
Mankind is in no way benefited by 
the discovery, for instance, of a 
new perfume, whereby some silly 
woman may add to the already 
exaggerated expenses of her toi- 
let ; but the process by which that 
perfume has been produced is, in 
itself, of the utmost value, and 
exhibits mechanical invention and 
scientific principles that are of the 
last importance to mankind. The 
perfume is an accident — a little of 
the golden dust scattered by the 
wheels of material progress." 

** Just so ; and dust, albeit golden, 
is not a good atmosphere to breathe 



m. 



ft 



" Decidedly not." 

** Then do you think, dear Mary, 
that material progress, or what we 
generally call improvements, con- 
duces, on the whole, to human hap- 
piness ? " 

" Ah ! there lies the really difficult 
question, and one which I have 
again and again striven to answer 
satisfactorily to myself. Happiness 
is a term generally used to cover 
more than it has any ri&;ht to do. 
There is only one real happiness, 
and that is what man finds in him- 
self, in union with his God. That 
happiness is positive, and there is 
no other positive. We begin it 
here, but with great drawbacks 
and frequent interruptions. We 
complete it in the light of glory. 




But outside that, hanging on to 
skirts and fringes of real happii 
there are contentment, plea^^ure 
ease, and last, but not least, c^ onj. 
fort. No one can impart happier ess 
pure and simple, to another. The 
nearest approach to doing so is in 
2l reciprocal affection. But God 
alone can satisfy the soul of man. 
What we can confer on others and 
on ourselves are various degrees 
of those lesser goods which I have 
enumerated. Now, all these enter 
into the general plan of God's deal- 
ings with his creatures. The ani- 
mal world is susceptible of them 
in its degree, and we ourselves 
in a far higher degree. As they 
enter into the general scheme, I am 
at liberty to conclude, not only 
from my own sensations, which 
might delude me, but from that 
very fact, that they are of very 
great importance, and that every- 
thing which augments the sum of 
them is a blessing. They are the 
ore out of which we coin our char- 
ities to others. They are therefore 
essentially God's gifts, to bai^ given 
by us again." 

" I know what you mean, Mary. 
I shall never forget the pleasure I 
had in taking one of your air-cush- 
ions to that poor woman at T , 

who was dying of cancer, and to 
whom the slightest pressure of even 
an ordinary pillow was so painful. 
Now, air-cushions are a compara- 
tively modern invention. Dear mo- 
ther used to say no one ever heard 
of mackintoshes and gutta-percha 
in her day." 

"No, Jane, nor yet of lucifer 
matches. It was terrible work to 
have to nurse the sick through the 
night, with a flint and steel and tin- 
der as the only way of striking a 
light. I think I see now my old 
nurse, with her large frilled night- 
cap, hammering away for what 



On the Wing. 



351 



^^^mcd to us children a good three 

^inutes, because the rush-light had 

ne out, and baby was crying. I 

«m remember I had for that flint 

nd steel very much the same 

^^elings an Indian has for his fetish. 

X used to wonder how the flint hid 

^he Are in its cold bosom, and why 

sometimes it seemed to require so 

many more persuasive knocks than 

at others before it gave out its 

sparks. But for the matter of that, 

as a child I had secretly embraced 

the earliest form of religion, the 

animism of the lower races of 

savages — and I lent a soul to all 

inanimate, and even all inorganic, 

matter, I believe, if we could but 

find it out, all children do so more 

or less. The external world is so 

wonderful to them that they vaguely 

imagine a personality and a con- 

; sciousness to exist in everything. 

\ There is not a little girl who does 

J not, in her heart, believe that her 

[ doll is something more than wax. 

^d sawdust ; and I would not 

give much for her, if she did not. 

Ilie ex^uberance of faith leads to 

an exuberance of tenderness; and 

^^e girl who believes in her doll has 

the genn of a good mother in her." 

"^ You seemed just now to attach 

^ great importance to comfort, 

Mary. I am surprised at that." 

'^ It arises, in a measure, from my 
Own personal experience. Besides 
^hich, comfort may mean almost 
^ything ; for it is generally what- 
ever we are used to. I remember 
^ well, years ago, when the sorrows 
of my life first threatened to over- 
power me, how thankfully I felt the 
^arm, soft arms of mere outward 
velUbeing so closely round me. 
To me they were no more than 
comforts, because all my life I had 
been used to them. To others 
they would have seemed luxuries. 
When I used to go up to London 



alone to my father's house, and 
find all ready to my hand — well- 
appointed servants, large, warm 
rooms, and a good table, with 
nothing of meanness, or sparing, or 
pinching in the unextravagant but 
perfectly organized home that was 
open to me — I used often to lean 
back in my easy-chair, and say to 
myself, * I am very unhappy ; 
but, thank God, I am not uncom- 
fortable !' Later on, you know, it 
was not so. I was a Catholic, and 
doors that had been open to me 
before were closed for ever. Then 
came the time for discomfort. If I 
wanted to go to London, I had to 
go to a lodging. The furniture 
was shabby and dirty ; the fires 
smoked; the food was badly 
cooked. I drove about in hired 
vehicles, perished with cold, and 
shaken to death. I knew I was in 
no way degraded by it all ; but it 
was new and painfully strange to 
me, and I felt degraded by an 
amount of discomforts which in my 
youth I had never approached. It 
did not, in itself, make me unhappy, 
but it added a thousandfold to the 
suffering from real causes for un- 
happiness. I used to say they were 
the splinters of my cross, though 
not my cross itself. Ever since 
then, I never see a person in sorrow 
without being anxious to make 
them at least comfortable. There 
is nothing, you see, approaching to 
asceticism in my view, dear Jane ; 
but, at any rate, one is not bound to 
be ascetic for others." 

Mary and I were sitting side by 
side in the railway-carriage, I hav- 
ing cdhie from my seat opposite in 
order the better to hear. But now 
I returned to my old place, just as 
we paused at the station of Caserta, 
and saw the largest palace in Eu- 
rope, now empty and almost desert- 
ed, not far off". 



3S2 



0« Ihr Wing, 



I 



The great object in our visit to 
Naples was lo be as near as possi- 
ble to our friends, the Vemons. 
We were to go first to a hotel, and 
then look out for a villa at Posilip- 
po, near the one occupied by them- 
selves, which was called Casiaelli, 
from the family of that name lo 
whom it belonged. We had writ- 
ten lo Ida Vernon to beg she would 
choose our hotel and our rooms. 
She had lodged us at a very com- 
fortable pension on the Chiaja, and 
wrote us word we must, on reaching 
the station at lo o'clock at night, 
look out for their servant, Monica; 
and that she would wear a red 
handkerchief pinned across, gold 
earrings, and a blue skirt. We 
were not to expect the universal 
black hair and eyes of the Italian 
woman, as hers were soft brown. 
The station is very large and very 
badly lighted. But as soon as I 
got out, I ran to the grating — a 
high iron railing, behind which 
stood the crowd of people, frie^nds, 
servants, porters, and mere looljers- 
on, all pushing and squeezing to 
catch sight of those they expected 
by the train. I soon made out the 
blue skirt, and red kerchief, and the 
amiable, smiling face of Monica. 
She welcomed us exactly as if we 
had been old friends, and that it 
was a personal pleasure to herself 
that we had arrived. She had 
brought a carriage for us the size 
of a small house, but which refused 
{through the coachman) to lake lug- 
gage. That was to follow in an- 
other kind of conveyance immedi- 
ately after us. Every sort of in- 
junction was given as to its destina- 
tion, and, persuaded all was right, 
we rumbled over the large flags of 
the streets of Naples to the far end 
of the Chiaja, where we were to 
lodge. There were flowers in our 
room and a note from Ida; ajid 



the next morning we yt 
af\er a separation of i 
Meanwhile, our impt 
slowly grinding its v 
door, up the steep hiffl 
Nuova, on to Posilippt 
friends reside — 
uies from our abode — d<rf 
through the vineyard, ai 
the door of the Villa 
where, arriving about raidi 
thundered and thumped 
tired Monica had d<M| 
more the blue skirt, vfl 
was screaming that theiff 
bers. Ida came forth ii 
wrapper ; Elizabeth's t; 
was draped in white; Hel 
out of the half-open dooc 
good Padre Cataldo, th^ 
in berclla and soutane, haa 
from his little sanctafl 
furthest end of the Ion 
house, before peace cou 
stored, and our mounlaii 
black trunks, portmant 
leather b.-igs could be ir 
retrace their needless ste 
again that zig-zag road ui 
tufa rock, and reach ut 
with waiting and feveridi 
patience for night-geai^ 
one o'clock in the momiil 
Brilliant sunshine, strea 
the room the next day, w 
to the sense of the joyov 
ing life of these delicW 
noisy Naples ! whati 
cries, what vibrating \ 
shrill feminine voices, fiUl 
streets through the liw 
and far into the unre 
The horses neigh as t 
neigh in any more tran 
The usually silent ass nl 
rulous animal. The d 
snarl in a dialect specif 
The women scream lilu 
and never address c 
lower toaes tlum ; 



On the Wing. 



353 



a word of command on board a 
man-of-war in a gale of wind. 
Their habits are not conversational, 
bat jrr^tfMational ; and the most cor- 
dial civility is communicated like a 
threat, while an affectionate com- 
pliment is conveyed in sounds suffi- 
cient to startle the most supine into 
lively attention. Young girls hiss 
and squeal; infants bellow and 
roar. It is noise, noise, all day 
ioDg; and over all a remorseless 
sunshine on white, glaring pave- 
ments of flag-stones a quarter of a 
yard square and more, like the 
pavement of the ancient Romans, 
such as we still see it in the Via 
Sacra near the Colosseum, and 
which resounds to the metallic 
tread of donkey, mule, and horse, 
or to the softer, shuffling pit-a-pat 
of the herds of bearded goats that 
traverse the city at early morn and 
eventide. 

Mary's bed-room opened into a 
large l^gia full of flowers — gera- 
niums, petunias, and carnations in 
full blossom, though it was only 
the month of March ; but so had 
they blossomed more or less all 
through the winter. A few orange- 
trees in tubs were there with golden 
fruit and star-like flowers. Then 
the blue sky and the bluer bay ! 
Ves, it was the plenitude of life 
that one only knows in the £outh, 
vith the delicious sense of the 
pleasure of mere existence, which 
tempts one to adopt the dolce far 
nienie^ and makes living and breath- 
ing se^m a full accomplishment of 
the day's duties. 

Ida and Elizabeth Vernon came 
early to carry us off to Posilippo ; 
first to call on Mrs. Vernon at Vil- 
la Casinelli, and then to decide on 
a lodging as near to them as possi- 
ble. We found them living in a 
house whose foundations are wash- 
ed by the sea, and commanding a 

VOL. XIX. — 23 



view of wonderful beauty. The 
descent from the main road was too 
steep for any carriage, winding in 
and out through vines and fig-trees, 
oranges and Japanese medlars, end- 
ing in a closely-knit avenue of the 
white mulberry, which in the sum- 
mer makes a dense shade. 

Our friends wanted us to take 
the villa next to theirs, if only the 
proprietor, a poor and proud mar- 
chesey would let it to us. We went 
over to look at it, but came away 
in disgust. There was scarcely 
any furniture, and none that would 
have satisfied even the most modest 
requirements. I do not remember 
seeing any beds, although it is cer- 
tain the family come there from 
time to time for a few days. I 
asked Ida where they slept, and 
she pointed to some roomy sofas 
and wide divans, on which had 
been flung the ashes and the ends of 
cigars, as the probable resting-place 
of the proprietors. We could only 
shake our heads in horrified aston- 
ishment, and think what a lovely 
place might be made of this quaint 
old house. It stands partly on 
the rock and partly on arcades, 
through which the sea comes rush- 
ing when the waves are high, but 
where, when it is calm, you may sit 
on silver sands or on the stone 
steps that lead down from the 
house and the upper terraced gar- 
dens. We had been so fascinated 
by the appearance of this residence, 
which looks outside like the frag- 
ment of an old feudal castle, and 
inside is bright with sunshine and 
the glorious view it commands, that 
we had requested Padre Cataldo 
to write and ask the terms before 
we had gone over it. On our e- 
tum from doing so, shocked at the 
dirt and disorder we had wit- 
nessed, we were amused to find a 
magniloquent reply to the effect 



354 



On the Wing. 



that the titled owner would ** con- 
descend " to let us his dwelling for 
(and here he named an exorbitant 
price), solely out of an amiable de- 
sire to make himself agreeable ; and 
that he would call the following 
morning to receive the ten weeks* 
rent in advance ! We finally decided 
on the villa next but one to that of 

our friends — the Villa R R . 

We did not require more than one 
floor of the house. The rest was 
occupied by the family, and had a 
second entrance. We came into 
our part straight from the Strada 
Nuova, down a few steps, and in at 
a large folding door flanked by a 
stone seat and two vases with 
huge aloes. We had a lovely view 
of the bay in front, a little garden 
on a sloping bank on one side, full 
of oranges and lemons, now in 
full fruit and flower; o, loggia — that 
great desideratum of an Italian 
house — and a view of Naples and 
Mount Vesuvius. On our return to 
our apartments, we were met by the 
woman who attends upon us, tell- 
ing us that Ann was in her room 
with a bad headache. Little did 
we guess what had befallen her! 
We went in to see what was the 
matter, and found her flung upon 
the bed, with her clothes on, in 
a profound stupor. In vain we 
called her and shook her; we could 
not rouse her. The landlady pre- 
sently came and told us that an hour 
previous poor Ann had been brought 
home by a gendarme in a carriage ; 
that she was unable to walk up- 
stairs without assistance, and seemed 
completely dazed when spoken to. 
The gendarme said he had noticed 
a young person sitting on a bench 
in the Villa Reale, the long, nar- 
row garden which runs for a mile 
along the Chiaja by the sea-shore ; 
that she looked extremely ill ; and 
that, noticing she had valuables 



about her (alluding to her witch and 
chain), he had asked her address, 
put her into a carriage^ and brought \ 
her home. It was a mercy he had 
done so. The Neapolitan police \ 
are not always so honest. But our 1 
dismay was increased when at ^ 
length, having awakened her, she 
did not know any of us. She kept 
entreating Mary, who held her in 
her arms, to take her back to her 
own Mrs. Gordon, her good Mrs. 
Gordon. In vain Mary replied, 
" But I am Mrs. Gordon, Ann. 
Look at me ; don't you know me ?" 

" No, no ; you look something like 
her, but you have not her voice. Oh! 
where is she. Where is Miss Jane, 
and where is Lulu ?" 

Fortunately, Lulu, Mary's dog, 
was in her room, apd the probability 
was that, though she failed to know 
us, she would recognize Mary's Lulu 
from anv other Lulu. I flew to fetch 
the little animal, and threw it into her 
arms, to poor Lulu's great astonish- 
ment. It succeeded perfectly. She 
knew the dog, and thus' recovered 
her memory of the faces around 
her, and her conviction that she 
was in her own room. Evidendy 
she had a vague horror that she 
might have been taken to the wrong 
house, and that she had awakened 
among strangers. When she had 
entirely recovered herself, we found 
that no trace of what had happened 
to her remained on her memory 
from the moment that she enter- 
ed the Villa Reale; yet she was 
found more than half way down it ! 
She must have wandered on par- 
tially insensible ; and it is a bless- 
ing that, when the gendarme found 
her, she had enough consciousness 
left to give the right address. She 
had already been out in the morn- 
ing, and a second walk in the hot 
sun had been too much for her. It 
was a sun-stroke ; and strangers 



Oh the Wing. 



35$ 



subject to such accidents 
RMPtts who have become 
d to the climate. It was, 

long before Ann really 
' the effects of gratifying 
:uriosity to visit the beau- 
pies on first arriving, 
y short time, we were corn- 
settled at Villa R 

The Vemons had arranged 
I for us with a forethought 
we could not be too grate- 
lent us the services of Mo- 
oky assuring us that, if we 
feapolitan, we should be 
nd tormented out of our 
onica was a Piedmontese, 
»d and simple-hearted a girl 
e could wish to find. Her 
nX scruples were positively 

We could hardly induce 
ly the particular articles 
i for our dinner, because, 
imation, they were at too 
ce in the market ; and she 
5 and entreat of us to wait 
a little longer until they 
ve gone down. If it had 
iwn money she was spend- 
/ould not have been so 
i\ ; for, as we found out 
vas always ready to lend to 
well off than herself, and 
rt away more than she 
brd. The name of the 
I whom the Vemons en- 
LCt as servant was Paolino, 

eighteen, with glorious, 
irn eyes and bright com- 
It was some time before 

him manners, as he had 
n in a gentleman's family 
iiis father was a vignaiuolo 
ame of Camerota. He 
ral sons and daughters, 
lem married. He rented 
^ards of the marchcse 
lapidated house we had 
to hire, and each of his 
narried from their home 



with a good substantial dower and 
a large trousseau. The eldest girl 
had not long been a bride when we 
arrived ; and, after making the 
acquaintance of the other members 
of the family, we one day called 
upon her. Their dwelling was 
built against the tufa rock which 
skirts the Strada Nuova. She 
had three rooms, nicely furnished^ 
with marble tops to the chest of 
drawers and the table, such as we 
in England should only expect to 
find in the houses of the rich,, but 
which here are common enough*. 
The bedstead was of walnut, and 
the sheets like the driven snow for 
whiteness. Ida, who had known 
the girl for years, told us that her 
trousseau contained a dozen of 
every necessary article of dress and 
house-linen, even to a dozen pairs 
of stays! — enough to last a life- 
time. There hung a crucifix at 
the head of the bed, and a few 
colored engravings ornamented the 
walls of the sitting-room, in which 
also there stood a tiny altar with a 
statue of the Mater Dolorosa and 
a few flowers. 

The lower classes here have 
what we should call strange notions 
with respect to the sacrament of 
marriage. It is treated as a deed 
of darkness. The bride is convey- 
ed late in the evening, or by cock- 
crowing, to church, by her mother 
and a few respectable matrons. 
No young girl, not even a sister, is 
allowed to be present, and would 
endanger her reputation were she 
to appear on such an occasion. 
A few days later, the bride once 
more puts on her wreath, and her 
veil, and her wedding-dress. All the 
family and friends of both sexes 
are gathered together, and the 
women and men, in separate car- 
riages, drive fast and furious' along 
the Chiaja up the Strada Nuova, 



M« 



On the Wing. 



past Posilippo, by the hour, and 
finally pause at the Taberna del 
Capo di Posilippo, or some other 
house of entertainment, and have a 
merry feast. We held this said 
Taberna somewhat in horror. On 
Sundays — the day on which every- 
body seems to think his honor and 
reputation are engaged in gallop- 
ing up hill and down dale at a 
break-neck pace for the whole 
afternoon — ^this was the chief place 
of meeting; and in the lovely 
starlight evenings, the returning 
guests would come back with a 
sadly rollicking air, hat on one side, 
a long cigar in the mouth, and a leg 
hanging over the side of the frail 
vehicle, while the spirited little 
Sardinian horse, all blood and 
sinew, would fly along, with jingling 
bells and bright brass harness, as 
if his hoofs hardly struck the earth. 
The drivers of these cittadine^ as 
the little hired open carriages are 
called, take great pride in their 
harness. The horse-collar more 
resembles a yoke ; and where it 
meets over the horse's neck, there is 
often a little brass image of the 
angel guardian — a very necessary 
angel, indeed, considering the pace 
they go, and whose guardianship 
must be severely put to the test by 
the mad risks of the half-inebriated 
coachmen. It is very rare to see 
a Neapolitan really drunk. The 
wine they take produces a light, 
joyous, but brief intoxication, 
which makes dare-devils of them 
for the time, but soon loses its 
effects, and is rarely stupefying. 
It is the divine inflatus of the 
Bacchus of old, and not the coarse, 
heavy incapacity of the snoring 
* Silenus. Nevertheless, though 1 
have spoken so indulgently of the 
Taberna del Capo di Posilippo, it 
formed a not unfrequent subject 
of grave rebuke and expostulation 



in the discourses of our goo 
Cataldo to his little group 
teners in the chapel in tl 
belonging to Villa Casinelli 
probably he knew more of 
influences than we did. I 
ber, one Sunday afternoon 
particularly struck by a < 
full of merry-makers, drawr 
most miserably thin gray ni 
eyes had ever beheld. S 
nothing but a bag of bon 
must have reached the utra 
that horse ever attains, 
horrified to see so old and 
an object driven so hard ai 
and could only console mj 
thinking the gallop I then wi 
must surely be the last. Bu 
not so ; far from it. Day af 
but on Sundays especially, n 
nante might be seen fling 
wild hoofs into space, amid 
of dust, and generally in c 
tion with a beautiful, wicke 
ing black horse, sleek ar 
cared for, in dazzling hame 
red ribbons in his mane — a 
little devil, as he took the 
tween his teeth, and seeme( 
joy the eagerness of his dr 
beit the lash fell often on 1: 
and steaming flanks. I d< 
in that little black horse, 
the last Sunday of our al 
Posilippo poor Rosinante h 
ground. And I can see h 
awful to behold, neither fa 
thinner — that she could hare 
than the first day, devour 
ground beneath her, and 
out her skeleton leg straig 
the shoulder, so that I coulc 
see she touched the ground. 
The chief amusement c 
day afternoons of our own \ 
friends and neighbors, the \ 
oli* was a game of bowls by 

^ Vine-drea8«n. 



On iht Wing. 



357 



road, and in front of the 
iping wooden doors of the 

dwellings cut in the rock 
the inhabitants of Posilippo 

Many of these are restau- 
nd taverns on a small and 

scale; and Padre Cataldo 
en making vigorous efforts^ 

discourage the game of 
but to induce the men to 

an open space near the 
!asinelli, and consequently 
: distance from the taverns. 

Italians, and chief amongst 
1, the Neapolitans are great 
rs. The tavern-keepers cn- 
'. this, because it promotes 
ade; and the games being 
on in front of their caverns 
:h they really are) leads to 
It " treating," In this way, 
between entertaining his 
and losing his money at 
often happens that the ill- 

vi^naiuolo returns to his 
with his pockets empty; 
I next day the wife would 
I tears to tell her sorrows to 
k1 father. Even our Pao- 
is never contented without 
• or two at bowls on Sunday 
yci. And we did not like to 
lim, for we were obliged to 
im somewhat on his own 
and these involved a very 
mse of servitude, and a very 
le. that he had put us under 
ing of an obligation by com- 
us at all. Had he been a 
two older, his parents would 
'e allowed him to enter ser- 
inking it a degradation. But 
»ras very young, and rather 
and wanting change, it was 
I that he might be allowed to 
ff a little of the exuberance 
lood in our service. Even 
iild not have been allowed 
» not been friends of the 
s; but as they are adored 



by all the rignaiuoli zxi6, the inhabi- 
tants of Posilippo generally, their 
request could not be overlooked. 
Accordingly, Paolino, blushing and 
grinning, was admitted to form one 
of our household. His father told 
us exactly what his son's labor was ; 
worth to himself, and that we were , 
to hand over to him. It was all to ' 
go to the making-up of Paolino *s 
marriage- portion. We were then 
to pay the lad a little over for him- 
self, as pocket money. And this 
was to be done with discretion; 
not to prove a temptation to lavish 
expenditure. This is the way in 
which the marriage-portions of both 
boys and girls' are made up. They 
work for their own parents, and the 
latter put by the wages for them. 
When old enough, they are at liberty 
to undertake other and more profit- 
able work. And from time to time 
there comes a windfall — a little 
work to be done in addition ; or a 
specially good harvest, when the 
parents add something of the sur- 
plus to the portion of the girl or 
boy then marriageable. There was 
a deep, dark-eyed maiden, of the 
ripe age of fifteen, with wayward 
black locks and a furtive glance in 
her li<iuid eyes like a startled fawn, 
about whose conduct there was a 
slight demur. Venturella (for such 
was her name, and it struck me at the 
time as of evil omen) was at heart 
as innocent as a child of five. But 
there wds something in her shy yet 
daring nature which caused a cer- 
tain uneasiness as to the fate of the 
timid, impulsive girl in this evil 
world. Venturella was fond of 
leaning over the low parapet which 
divided her father's vineyard from 
the highroad; and when the brief 
Italian twilight had sunk in the 
shades of night, and the bril- 
liant stars, that seem so near in 
those southern lands, had ^^atv^'t^ 



358 



On the Wing. 



the depse blue heavens with their 
myriad fires, Venturella would pre- 
tend she did not hear her moth- 
er's voice calling her to come 
home. With arms crossed, she 
would lean on the wall, just breast 
high, and her star-like eyes would 
seek their sister-stars above with 
a vague, dream-like wonder. What 
the stars — and perhaps even more 
the moon — said to Venturella we 
shall never know; but one of 
them must have carried a message 
to a certain youthful Franceschino, 
whose hyacinthine locks clustered 
low over a brow of ivory, beneath 
which lay two eyes like the eve- 
ning sky Venturella was so fond of; 
and whose teeth gleamed in the 
soft light like the white sea-foam. 
Nobody knew; and as the birds 
had all long ago gone to bed, none 
of them were there to whisper 
tales. 

Franceschino was the son of a 
vignaiuolo who lived on the Vo- 
mero, the heights above Posilip- 
po ; and the little stolen interviews 
took place as he came back from 
the city, whither he had been sent 
on his father's business. From 
time to time the mother wondered 
what made her son so late in com- 
ing home ; and one night she 
thought she would find out for her- 
self whether the dry bush hanging 
out before the wide doors of one 
of those cavernous taverns had 
tempted Franceschino to try the 
red wine within, and perhaps take 
a hand at cards with some other 
loiterers. Alas! for Venturella 
when the indignant matron found 
out the charm which had led to 
the boy's delay. She was not like- 
ly to hold her tongue about it. 
Nor was his father, who beat and 
cufied him well; for boys of nine- 
teen at Posilippo will meekly bear 
a cuffing from a parent, when they 



would not tolerate a finger's weight 
from any one else. Then came 
the rage of Venturella's mother; 
and spite of Padre Cataldo's har-^ 
ing elicited the fact that no great^^ 
er wrong had been done than a f< 
silly promises and one shy 
all Posilippo was loud in cryiD^ 
Fie for shame! on the fawn-eyec/ 
Venturella. At length those older 
than herself and wiser than ber 
mother took the matter in hand. 
Could nothing be done.' Stem 
fortune answered, Nothing. Ven- 
turella's marriage-portion was far 
from being made up. She was an 
idle hussy, and only worked when 
she could not help it. The rest 
of the time she paddled with nak- 
ed feet in the silver sands, tempt- 
ing the tiny waves to kiss them, 
or gathered scarlet poppies from 
among the green com and twisted 
them in her raven hair. Worse 
than all, Franceschino was equal- 
ly behindhand with his fortune ; 
and nineteen was too young for a 
lad to marry, though fifteen was 
none too soon for a Neapolitan 
maiden. 

There was, however, something in 
the silent sauvagerie of the strange 
girl which made it evident to her bet- 
ters that she could not be thwarted 
with safety. There was something 
deeper than words in the sudden flash 
of those wild eyes when they looked 
up fiercely, and then fell beneath the 
long, fringed lids, and lay in shadow 
like pools in some dense forest. 
Venturella shrank, half angry, half 
ashamed, at every breath of blame ; 
while her eyes grew larger and 
deeper, and the round, full cheeks 
became pallid and sunken. 

^^What is to be done with that 
wayward girl ?" was the ever-recur- 
ring question among the Vemons, 
who seemed to take upon their 
own charitable shoulders eveiy 



Oh the Wing. 



3S9 



^Urd«a that weighed upon their 
Numerous friends, the Posilippians. 
At length a suggestion was made 
that Venturella should be sent to 
school far away from present as- 
sociatioDSy where she would have 
numerous girls of her own age to 
divert her, and where she might 
lean) fine needle-work and em- 
broidery — the only thing, besides 
paddling in the sea and weaving 
vreaths of wild flowers, for which 
she had ever shown any disposi- 
tion. Meanwhile, a dot was to be 
thought of for her; not so very 
much was wanted to maka up the 
necessary sum — about 4,500 francs. 
And then, when Venturella should 
be wiser and Franceschino older, 
who knows but what love's young 
dream may turn out true at last } 

It did not take us long to get in- 
timate with the names and habits 
of the rural population around us. 
They were quite willing to receive 
as as friends, and seemed to expect 
I ready sympathy from us in all 
their concerns. Unlike the pea- 
sants of an English village, the best 
of whom, at least amongst the wo- 
men, cultivate so little acquaintance 
with each other, here everybody 
knew everybody else; and though 
I do not pretend to say there was 
less gossiping among them, it al- 
ways struck me that there was less 
of that sour ill-nature which is apt 
to characterize the English cotta- 
ger's comments on her neighbors. 
No doubt this arises in a greater 
degree from the nature of the peo- 
ple than from acquired virtue. It 
is only in northern, damp climes, 
like the English, that the necessary 
ills of life are so heightened and 
intensified by the general sense 
of moral and physical discomfort 
which a heavy atmosphere and a 
gray sky produce. We all know 
what it is to wake in the morning 



with a vague sense of apprehension, 
as if the post were about to bring 
us a distressing letter which our im- 
agination fofesaw. We all know 
the ceaseless and unreasoning feel- 
ing of being out of spirits which 
also tempts us to be out of temper. 
We are acquainted with the blue- 
devils, and we are generally taci- 
turn and inclined to gloom. The 
Italian knows nothing of this. The 
very great and constantly-pervad-* 
ing influence these feelings have 
over our daily life is absolutely be- 
yond the limits of his experience, 
unless, of course, he is suffering from 
a deep sorrow or a real physical 
malady. To the age of eighty, he 
wakes in the morning with the 
same sensation of joyous energy 
or placid pleasure which we were 
beginning to lose before we were 
eight. He is passionate ; but 
he is not irritable. He has parox- 
ysms of despair, but he knows no 
constant gloom. Our impatience, 
our tendency to being "put out," 
are enigmas to him. The small 
hindrances of every day and every 
hour are less a great deal to him 
than the swarms of his pestering 
southern flies are to us. Pazienza 
(patience) is for ever on his lips; 
and it is no vain word, for patient 
he is to a degree which is exasper- 
ating to behold. When he is wait- 
ing, he is not gnawing an invisible 
bit, as we are doing, and grinding 
his teeth to powder. He is simply 
enjoying the being alive ; and it 
docs not much matter to him 
whether he chews the delicious cud 
of existence waiting at your door 
or sitting in his own home. You 
may make him furiously angry; 
and as likely as not he will stab 
you in the back and in the dark. 
But you cannot make him cross, or 
fretful, or peevish, or low-spirited. 
Depend upon it, if he is tvtt axv^ 



3fit> 



On tke Wing, 



one of these things, it is high time 
to call in the doctor, who probably 
will declare his case already hope- 
less. On the other hand, if any- 
thing — and it may often be a trifle — 
thoroughly rouses a Neapolitan, it 
is fearful. It becomes a rabhia (a 
I'ftge), as they themselves express it ; 
and then they are blind* and deaf 
to reason and expostulation, and 
run amuck of all that comes in 
their way. It is possible that the 
extraordinary violence which seises 
them is, in a measure, purely physi- 
cal, and that that also in a mea- 
sure diminishes their responsibility. 
Evidently, they think so themselves. 
Era una rabbia* is considered al- 
most an excuse for the worst crimes, 
80 long as these were committed in 
the heat of passion. And pro- 
bably, in the long run, this has se- 
riously affected the moral sense; 
so that good and reasoning people 
fail to be as much horrified at some 
murder committed in a brawl as 
we should be. They look upon an 
event of the kind almost in the 
light of a mutual misfortune be- 
tween the murdered and the mur- 
derer. It is at least certain that the 
line of demarcation which separates 
inward resentment from the out- 
ward act of guilt is more easily 
crossed by these children of the 
sun, and does not presume the ex* 
istence of so much previous de- 
moralization as it would do with 
us. Yet I am far from intending 
to write an apology for the Neapo- 
litan character. There is a great 
deal about them which is very 
graceful and very attractive; and 
when they are really good and re- 
fined, they are most lovable. But 
this is exceedingly rare. As a i>eo- 
pk, they are venal, deceitful, mer- 
cenary, and treacherous. But with 

* It wu a fit of nga. 



it all, they are exactly HI 
good or naughty, as tli 
be, but always children. 
Frank not being with 
nons had undertaken 
for us a carriage and 
horses, with a well 
coachman, to hire by 
Indeed, had Frank bee 
could not have done it 1 
as they did ; for all the 
tions require you to be 
with the current charge 
the character of the p< 
Frank had no experienc 
The Vemons concluded 
for us with Pascarillo, th 
whom they always hirec 
when they wanted one ; 
handsome-looking fello 
with the reputation of b 
a gay Lothario, but, on 
an honest man as Neap 
Our carriage was delightf 
It held four with admi 
and five cit a pinch, to| 
cloaks and cushions, lui 
drawing materials, wh< 
went on an excursion 
evening, we could clos 
had two very fleet hor 
all flne-looking, and rat 
sized for the carriage, bi 
little beasts to go I ever 
coachman was a verita' 
Jehu. He was a misera 
mean and despicable t 
diminutive, with blean 
beardless chin, and the 
of a low coward. But n« 
sat behind such a coachn 
I believe he would hav 
up the wall of a house 
the other side in perfect 
did not signify what his 
or what evident peril w 
he always managed quite 
bring us right again w 
expression of vehemence 
Suddenly, one day, our 



On the Wing. 



361 



y^nished. An old man appeared 
"^^ liis stead, and a pair of grays, 
^^I'ger than the little brown horses. 
^Vemade no remark, supposing it 
'^'as an accident, and that our for- 
nier equipage would return in time. 
That day we set out for the Vomero 
— ^the height above Posilippo, cover- 
ed with beautiful villas, and com- 
manding a superb view, or rather 
many views. The horses jibbed. 
We were greatly alarmed. They 
could not be got up the hill, and 
we had to go home. We sent an 
indignant message to Pascarillo, and 
hoped it would never happen again. 
But it did happen ; not once nor 
twice only. And then Pascarillo was 
sent for in person to render an ac- 
count of himself. There he stood, six 
foot two, with broad chest, a forest of 
hair, and an august presence. Ida, 
the universal spokeswoman, with 
her fluent Italian and her deter- 
mined energy, left him in no doubt 
as to her opinion of his conduct. 
He heard her out silently and 
calmly, and then replied that the 
iisnonna was quite right; he was 
conscious that his conduct had 
been inexcusable, and that we had 
serious cause for displeasure. He 
had not kept to his bargain, and 
he was aware of it. It should not 



happen again; and with a polite 
bow, he retired. It did not happen 
again. He had tried to take us in, 
and he had not succeeded — ^just a 
little speculation that had failed, 
and that was all ! As for any ran- 
cor at being scolded, or any hu- 
miliation at having to make an 
apology, such sentiments did not 
trouble the breast of Pascarillo for 
a second. He probably only said 
to himself, " Better luck next time." 
Our little horses came back, and 
our impish young coachman with 
them. We had never again to 
complain. But the impression 
made on Mary's imagination by 
our coachman's face was such that 
she had scruples of conscience 
about Paolino being allowed to 
converse with him on the coach- 
box. Paolino was, therefore, se- 
riously informed that for a footman 
to talk to the coachman when the 
ladies were in the carriage was not 
good manners. And from that 
moment silence was maintained ; 
and Paolino *s morals were left un- 
tainted, as he sat, radiant in clean 
white cotton gloves and a new 
necktie, enjoying the delights of 
drives and picnics at least as much 
as the persons on whose account 
they were undertaken. 



36i 



The Female Religious df America. 



THE FEMALE RELIGIOUS OF AMERICA. 



In this busy world of labor, 
where mankind seems exclusively 
bent on the acquisition of wealth, 
fame, or power, on fashion, folly, 
and empty pleasures, how seldom 
we pause to consider seriously the 
diversity and multiplicity of the 
elements of humanity by which wc 
are surrounded ! How few, in 
their headlong career after vain 
desires, ask themselves if this 
world were made for them alone; 
if the end and object of life, the 
first gift of a merciful Creator, is 
merely selfish enjoyment, or wheth- 
er the social compact, as well as 
the laws of God, do not require of 
us to assist in every way possible 
our less fortunate or more afflicted 
fellow-creatures. 

It requires little reflection or ef- 
fort to distinguish the favorites of 
fortune — those whose lot having 
been cast in pleasant places, shine 
in the public regard like beings of 
a superior order. Worldly success 
is ever prominent, and its devotees 
are always ready to court its notice 
and extol its merits. To be fash- 
ionable is to be fawned upon ; to 
be influential, sought after; to 
wield power is to be placated. 
Not so with the humble, the poor, 
the ignorant, and the obscure; 
the victims of physical affliction or 
of moral degradation. They are 
usually shunned, often despised, 
and, as far as possible, contemp- 
tuously ignored. They constitute 
the outcasts of "society," and, 
when they come betwixt the wind 
and its nobility, are merely objects 
of contempt, barren pity, or down- 



right loathing. Yet these very on- 
fbrtunates comprise, even in our 
own favored land, a very large and, 
in an indirect sense, a potent con- 
stituent of our population. Al* 
ways with us, no matter how much 
we may attempt to separate our- 
selves from them, they appeal to 
us for help in the name of all we hold 
sacred ; and their supplications, no 
matter how mutely made, if un- 
heeded, are certain to be followed, 
even in this life, by a blight on our 
souls as well as a curse to our bo- 
dies. The heart of man becomes 
hardened, the fine perception of 
fraternal love and charity with 
which he is naturally blessed with- 
ers and shrivels up, and he becomes 
a mere embodiment of self, an arid 
isolation, in proportion as he steels 
himself against the cries and suf^e^ 
ings of his kind. The very igno- 
rance he will not help to remove, 
the want and squalor he refuses to 
alleviate, rise up in judgment 
against him, and, developing into 
crimes against life and property, 
haunt his footsteps, and but too 
often mark him for their prey. 

As in all things else, if we want 
an exemplar for our conduct in 
relation to our fellow-beings, we 
must look to the church. Follow- 
ing the teachings of her divine 
Founder, from the earliest ages she 
has recognized the existence of the 
vast amount of misery, poverty, 
vice, and ignorance which underlies 
the surface of civilization, ancient 
and modem, and has used every 
effort to mitigate it. While yet 
the successors of S. Peter were 



The Female Religious of America. 



365 



g with the effete though 
paganism of the dismem- 
man Empire, and the great- 
•f Europe was enshrouded 
xkness of barbarism, socie- 
oly men and pious women 
ablished and sustained by 
s and the fathers of the 
o mitigate in some degree, 
prayers and good works, 
which beset society in its 
ransition state. The prin- 
Is to be combated at that 
e the ferocity of heathen- 
ide the confined limits of 
lorn, and, within, the men- 
rrity of the barbaric cate- 
and neophytes. Physical 
m, in our signification of 
, was but little known be- 
* limits of a few great 
>r men's wants were few 
ly supplied before the in- 
f population and the un- 
jtribution of property be- 
neral in the Old World, 
e we find that the monks 
» of the IVth century, and 
' hundreds of years after- 
cvoted themselves mainly 
[ling and teaching, to the 
ation of copies of the Holy 
ts, and to praying for the 
)n of mankind. Thus the 
unded by S. Basil, Arch- 
f Csesarea, in Cappadocia, 
lor, A.D. 362, and that of 
lict, Abbot of Norcia, in 
539, and the numerous 
: communites which sprang 
tn, all more or less strict- 
ving the rules laid down 
great lights of the church, 
id prayer, humility, and 
e the essential principles 
bundarion. 

sgations of women devoted 
^rship of God, prayer, and 
ircre coeval with, if not ante- 
tose of men ; for we find that 



S. Anthony, in the latter part of the 
II Id century, placed his sister in a 
" house of virgins," of which she 
afterwards became abbess ; and that 
on Christmas day, 352, in S. Peter's 
Church in Rome, Pope Liberius con- 
ferred the habit and veil on Mar- 
cellina, enjoining on her a life of 
mortification and prayer. A little 
later, mention is made of SS. Mar- 
cella. Lea, and Paula as distinguish- 
ed Roman women who forsook the 
world, and spent their remaining 
life in prayer and good works ; the 
latter especially, who, with her 
daughter, built a hospital at Beth- 
lehem, erected a monastery for S. 
Jerome and his monks, and founded 
in Palestine three convents for 
female recluses, of which she took 
personal charge. S. Basil found 
many such convents in existence^ 
and established several more with- 
in his jurisdiction, one of which was 
presided over by his sister Macrina, 
at Pontus. S. Chrysostom, Arch- 
bishop of Constantinople, up to 
407, writes that in Egypt the con- 
gregations of women were as nu- 
merous as the monasteries ; and S. 
Augustine, Bishop of Hippo (396- 
430), built a convent of nuns, of 
which his sister was superior, giving 
it, in 423, a written rule, still followed 
by the religious who bear his name. 
Four years after, S. Benedict found- 
ed his monastery at Monte Casino, 
the rules of which, having been 
approved by Gregory the Great, in 
595, have been very generally 
adopted by many religious bodies 
of men and women in Europe and 
America. 

At first these religious institu- 
tions were confined to Italy and 
the East; but as the light of the 
faith gradually extended over Eu- 
rope, religious houses were multipli- 
ed ; and though for a long time each 
convent was governed b^ vt^ ^^^^ti 



3^4 



The Female Religious of America. 



inmates, and followed the ancient 
rules, modified in many instances 
by peculiar circumstances, it was 
eventually found judicious to form 
them into distinct orders or con- 
gregations, in which all the estab- 
lishments of a particular founda- 
tion were governed by a general 
head or superior. The strict re- 
quirements of prayer, humility, and 
obedience were still observed ; but 
to these were added the education 
of the children of the poor, alms- 
giving, and other acts of external 
devotion. Wherever a church was 
built, a monastery planted, pr a 
number of people gathered together 
to worship God, there was general- 
ly to be found a convent, wherein 
the ailing might find relief; the 
afflicted, consolation; and the 
ignorant of the female sex, enlight- 
enment. There the young whose 
parents were scarcely out of the 
slough of barbarism were taught 
their catechism and the beautiful 
prayers and litanies of the church, 
as well as to weave, spin, and all 
the other duties of a civilized house- 
wife. While the clergy, secular 
and regular, went among the adults, 
preaching, instructing, and baptiz- 
ing, holy women were near at hand 
to pray for the success of their 
efforts, and to show, by their gentle 
charities and meek demeanor, the 
loveliness and beneficence of the 
Christian religion. 

One of the greatest glories of the 
Catholic Church is that she, and 
she alone, freed woman from the 
grossest slavery, and placed her in 
her proper sphere of usefulness 
and influence. By the sacrament 
of marriage, woman was made the 
honored equal of man ; by her 
commandments and precepts, the 
church guarded her liberty and her 
purity, exalted her authority in the 
family, and recognized in her, even 



in death, the loving protectress of ^ 
her offspring. But the church difj 
more than all this. She gave t^^ 

woman a part in her divine missioi 

a share in the most glorious 
ever allotted to humanity — the pr« 
pagation of the law of the M(^.v/ 
High ; and the dispensation of his 
mercies and benevolence. We are 
not surprised, then, to learn that m 
past ages, " when faith was young/' 
the most gifted and high-born of their 
sex in every Christian land, daugh- 
ters of nobles and princes, abandon- 
ing all the fascinations of the world, 
even those of royalty itself, were to 
be found eager to take part in the 
great work of religion, and con- 
secrate their lives to prayer, pen- 
nance, and charity, for the sake of 
the poor and helpless. 

Such humility and implicit faith 
in the goodness of God could not 
have been unavailing; and we who 
now enjoy the blessings of true mo- 
rality, with the refinements anil 
graces of true civilization, seldoir. 
cast a thought back to the days ol 
semi-barbarism among our forefa- 
thers, when the only light that il- 
lumined the gloom of the outec 
world i)roceeded from the lamp of 
the sanctuary, and the only asyluinp 
open to the affectionate and modes c 
soul of woman was the humble? 
convent, where she could surround 
herself with the innocent and un - 
stained children of both sexe$« 
and teach them the way of salva- 
tion. Beyond those sacred en- 
closures, in bygone days, were lit- 
tle but passion, grossness, and self- 
indulgence; while within reigned 
peace, delicacy, and that knowledge 
which is justly called the beginning 
of wisdom. ' The world at length 
commences to acknowledge the in- 
comparable services of the monks 
and doctors, the penmen and 
preachers of the so -called dark ages ; 



The Female Religions of America. 



365 



but who shall count up the debt of 
gratitude we owe to the thousands 
Ufion thousands of holy women who, 
spuming every earthly allurement, 
abandoning home, friends, and 
toimtry, have sought, generation 
nfter generation, to win an eternal 
reward by unceasing prayer and 
I'ontinuous acts of benevolence? 
Curope is still, as in the past, en- 
joying the benefits of the labors of 
her pious daughters ; India, China, 
and the furthest confines of the 
eastern hemisphere are reaping the 
advantages of the missionary efforts 
of the good nuns and Sisters ; but 
America seems destined to be in 
the future the field whereon the full 
effulgence of God's goodness is to 
be made manifest in the persons 
ofhis chosen handmaids. 

To us esp)ecially the presence of 
so many pious and educated wo- 
men is of incalculable advantage. 
The Catholic body in the United 
5^t.itcs has to combat a much more 
insidious and dangerous foe than 
was ever arrayed against the 
thurch, even in her darkest days 
of persecution. Then Christianity 
had only to shatter the idol of im- 
perial Rome, already tottering to 
its base; now we have to fight 
^inst what may be termed civil- 
ised paganism, energetic, unscru- 
pulous, and worldly-wise, which 
aims at mere sensuous enjoyments, 
cultivates the intellect at the ex- 
pense of the soul, and even attempts 
^0 use the very evidences of God's 
^orks as a justification for their 
contempt of his law, and as an ar- 
gument against his existence itself. 
At the worst, the rude pagan of 
Northern and Western Europe had 
a belief in a superior Being, and an 
acknowledged, innate dependence 
, on his will ; but the fashionable 
iceptic of to-day, the learned 
doubter of our schools and acade- 



mies, believes in nothing but him- 
self, and obeys his own whims as 
his highest rule of morality. It is 
a melancholy fact, but none the 
less true, that, according to official 
authority, nearly one-half of the 
people of this countr)', male and 
female, practically believe in no 
form of religion whatever. Dis- 
gusted at the perpetual wranglings 
and disagreements of the sects in 
the name of Christianity; trained 
into mere cultivated animals by a 
system of public tuition which ig- 
nores God, or recognizes his exis- 
tence only to ridicule and travesty 
his word ; and freed from all the 
restraints which the church so 
wisely throws around her children 
from their earliest infancy, is it 
wonderful that the majority of the 
youth of this nation should grow 
up in the actual deification of their 
own prejudices and passions } 
With so many instances daily and 
hourly presented to our eyes, are 
we to be surprised that persons 
thus reared should be so active in 
creating a public opinion among us 
which is not Catholic, nor even 
Protestant, but simply and abso- 
lutely heathenish, without the re- 
finement of the ancient Greeks to 
soften its grossness, or the pride 
of the Roman to save it from cu- 
pidity and dishonor } 

How all-important is it, then, to 
parents to be able to find schools 
wherein their children — those loved 
ones whom they have been instru- 
mental in bringing into the world, 
and for whose eternal welfare they 
are responsible — will be cared for 
and instructed, taught habits of in- 
dustry as well as accomplishments, 
and in which bands of zealous, 
educated, and religious women are 
ever ready to plant and nurture 
the seeds of virtue in their hearts, 
while shielding their young minds 



366 



The Female Religious of America. 



from even the shadow of contami- 
nation. Such guardians of the 
female youth can only be found 
in the nunneries, convents, and 
schools of the Catholic Church. 
There their lives are wholly and 
exclusively devoted to works of 
benevolence, of which the religious 
instruction of the ignorant is by no 
means the least. The world for 
them has neither cares nor attrac- 
tions; they move, live, and have 
their being in an atmosphere of 
order, prayer, and tranquillity, their 
very appearance being in itself a 
homily of obedience and cheerful 
reliance on the goodness of their 
Maker. 

Even though the educational es- 
tablishments of the nuns and Sisters 
are in their infancy, there are few 
parents who need deprive their 
children of the advantages to be 
gained only in them. A quarter 
of a century ago, we could only 
boast of sixty-six such institutions, 
while now we have nearly four hun- 
dred academies alone. What ex- 
cuse, therefore, is there for a piously- 
inclined mother or a discriminating 
father to imperil the happiness and 
faith of her or his children by send- 
ing them to secular schools where 
the training they receive is worse 
than artificial? In the convents 
they can be taught every accom- 
plishment that befits a young lady, 
no matter how high her station in 
life, without being made the shal- 
low creature, the mere puppet of 
fashion, which we find so often 
" turned out " by the modem secu- 
lar school-mistresses of our time ; 
without heart, feeling, and, we 
might almost say, with no fixed per- 
ception of right and wrong. 

Then we have two hundred and 
forty select schools, or an average 
of four for each diocese, attended 
by boarders or those living with their 



relations. These differ fn 
academies only in degree, b< 
tended for the benefit of c 
whose position in life does 
mand the same elaborate 
culture, or whose school-d: 
necessarily short. Still, tli 
ceive the same attention, a 
subjected to precisely similai 
influences, as the others. I 
poor — those whose parents 
able to pay for their educatio 
they to have none of the 
tages so freely accorded 
wealthy neighbors ? Must t 
thrust into the tainted atmc 
of our public schools, and 
shift for themselves? N< 
The poor have ever been tl 
mary objects of the good 5 
solicitude; and though they 
their academies by hundred 
number of their free schools, 
orphan, and industrial, m 
reckoned by thousands, an 
pupils by myriads. 

In the Diocese of New Yor 
are forty-six of these female s< 
with over twenty thousan< 
dren, whose tuition is gratuitc 
sides some three thousand i: 
of orphan asylums and other 
table institutions for juvenih 
the Philadelphia diocese th( 
thirty-five Sisters* free school 
taining nearly ten thousand 
lars, in addition to the orphat 
Cincinnati, where the scho 
tem has been brought to a si 
great efficiency, the proport 
the attendants to the Catholi 
ulation is much greater. W 
no means of ascertaining th 
number of pupils in the 
country; but if we take the 
dioceses above mentioned 
criterion, it will be found thai 
United States there are 
three hundred thousand girl 
receiving at the hands of tl 



The Female Religious of America. 



367 



i^rs of various congregations a 
r'^c, thorough, and practical Ca- 
tholic education. The expense 
^IcDne of this great work of charity, 
f not performed without compen- 
;si.tion, would be, judging from the 
rost of the public schools of New 
Vorky at least eight millions of 
d.ollar5 annually. If we add to the 
number of girls in the free schools 
tlie fifty or sixty thousand pupils 
in the six hundred and forty acade- 
mies and select schools, we will 
find that about three hundred and 
fifty thousand female children are, 
m this year of grace 1874, under 
the more than maternal care of the 
religious of the Catholic Church. 

Who can estimate the immense 
amount of good which is accom- 
plished in this manner? Who 
can measure the beneficent ef- 
fects to the country produced by 
these institutions of learning, which 
annually send to their homes so 
many thousands of children to 
gladden the hearts of fond pa- 
fWits, not so much by their vari- 
ed acquirements, as by their gentle- 
ness of disposition and unaffected 
piety? If we cannot gauge the 
Merits of the Sisters by what we 
see before us, how much less capa- 
ble are we of estimating the reward 
^ich their long years of devotion 
*ill receive from Him who said of 
'ittle children, " Of such is the king- 
dom of heaven." 

As to the efficiency of the nuns 
^nd Sisters as teachers of the young 
people of their own sex, there is 
scarcely a second opinion, even 
among non-Catholics. Many Pro- 
testants and unbelievers, while pro- 
fessing little or no religion them- 
selves, but who would not see their 
fair daughters follow their example, 
are careful to place them under the 
charge of the daughters of the 
church, well knowing that, while 



their minds will be amply stored 
with useful and elegant knowledge, 
their impressionable hearts will be 
guarded against the follies and sins 
of the world. If all the communi- 
ties in the country — in number 
about forty-five — were to devote 
their entire labor alone to this 
great work of education, what a 
benediction would they deserve 
from untold millions ! 

But they do not stop here. 
They go much further, and, with 
some few exceptions, their charity 
takes a far wider range. There are 
the poor waifs, left deserted on the 
highways, to be rescued from im- 
pending death and nursed into 
consciousness ; the orphan, who 
has been deprived of its natural 
guardians, to be cared for ; the un- 
fortunate pariah of her sex, to be 
consoled and encouraged to resume 
the path of virtue ; the jails, where 
lie the agents of passion and crime, 
to be visited ; the aged and infirm 
to be taken by the hand, and led 
down the slope of life with tender 
solicitude. Again, thedeaf, the blind, 
the insane, the wounded, the sick, 
and even the incurable, are, accord- 
ing to their several needs, objects of 
unremitting attention. No evil is so 
deep-seated, no affliction so bitter, 
no disease, whether of the mind or 
of the body, so loathsome, that the 
holy women of the church, with 
God*s assistance, cannot assuage or 
cure. 

To teach children is doubtless 
a responsible and laborious occupa- 
tion, but nevertheless not without 
attractions ; but to walk day and 
night the wards of a hospital, and 
breathe the dire contagion of dis- 
ease, or, in the reformatory, to have 
the ear filled with the blasphemies 
and ribaldries learned in the low- 
est dens of vice, are surely trials to 
appall the stoutest heart, and to 



363 



The Female Religious of America. 



test to the very utmost the con- 
stancy and zeal of delicately-nur- 
tured women. Yet the capacious 
bosom of the church has room 
enough, has rest and shelter, for all 
classes of unfortunates. In the six- 
ty-two dioceses and vicariates into 
which the United States is divided, 
there are nearly three hundred 
foundling, orphan, deaf, blind, and 
insane asylums, reformatories, pro- 
tectories, industrial institutions, 
homes for the aged, houses of the Sis- 
ters of the Poor, as well as infirmaries 
and hospitals ; the former number- 
ing over two hundred, and the latter 
about ninety, or, collectively, an av- 
erage of ^wt. charitable institutions 
for each ecclesiastical division. 

What a load of human misery is 
thus presented to the eye and 
committed to the relief of the in- 
defatigable followers of Christ! 
Who can imagine that has not ex- 
perienced it the daily round of 
toil, of watching, and solicitude 
which constantly awaits the foot- 
.steps of the gentle Sister, as she goes 
among her helpless clients in the 
foundling asylum, listens to the 
tale of woe and crime from the 
still youthful lips of the repentant 
Magdalene, or comforts the outcast 
of his kind at the very foot of the 
scaffold. Watch how lovingly she 
hushes the deserted babe or the 
scarcely less pitiable orphan to 
sleep ; how kindly Ihe takes the hand 
so long stained by contact with the 
vicious and the guilty into her 
own soft palm, and breathes words 
of comfort and encouragement 
into ears long used only to curses 
and vile speech ; how deftly she 
smoothes the pillow of the sick, and 
smiles on the second childishness 
of her proi/g/Sj the aged and in- 
firm poor. At her approach, the 
suffering child forgets its pains and 
stretches forth its little arms for 



her aid ; the ho.spital loses h 
ennui and gloom, and even th 
demned cell is illumined by 
of sunlight when she enters i 
fact, wherever there is pc 
sickness, or suffering of any 
there is the place for the d< 
Sister, and there, in trutl 
becomes " a ministering ange 
The distribution of these as 
and hospitals is another inter 
feature in their capacity for g( 
usefulness. In dioceses havi 
estimated Catholic populate 
over one hundred thousand, 
may be thus classified : In 
falo there is one to every 
Catholics; in Cleveland, St. \ 
and Louisville, one to 13,0c 
San Francisco, one to 15,00c 
bany, one to 18,000 ; in Pitti 
Cincinnati, New York, Bro( 
and Philadelphia, one to 2^ 
Newark, Alton, and St. Paul, ( 
25,000 ; Boston, one to 3< 
Milwaukee, one to 40,000 ; Ch 
one to 45,000; Galveston 
Providence, one to 60,000 ; 
ford, one to 80,000 ; and in Sj 
field, one to every 150,000. C 
less populous dioceses, Orego 

1, Burlington i, Columbus 2 
vington 3, Erie i. Fort Way 
Grass Valley 3, Mobile 3, 
tereyand Los Angeles 5, Nas 

2, Natchez 2, Natchitoch 
Nesqually 4, Portland 2, 
mond 3, Rochester 5, Santa 
Savannah 3, Vincennes 4, V\ 
ing 2, Wilmington i, Kans 
Nebraska i, Charleston 2. ( 
Bay, Harrisburg, La Crosse, 
Rock, Ogdensburg, Arizona, 
rado, Idaho, and North Cai 
all small dioceses or sparse) 
tied vicariates, have none. 

It is impossible to give an; 
like an approximate report c 
vast number of persons of al 
and sexes who find relief, a 



The Female Religious of America. 



369 



and protection in these asylums 
and hospitals ; for we are not aware 
that there is in existence any 
general or full returns from one- 
half of the charitable institutions 
scattered so broadcast over the 
country. We can therefore only 
attempt to form an estimate of the 
whole by taking the statistics 
nearest us. For example, in this 
diocese there are 572 girls and 
very young boys in the female 
protectory, 1,297 in seven orphan 
asylums, 546 penitents in the House 
of the Good Shepherd ; while in one 
of the four city hospitals, S. Vin- 
cent's, 950 patients were received 
during last year. In Brooklyn 
there are 1,041 orphans, 208 peni- 
tents, 420 patients in two hospitals, 
in addition to nearly 3,000 externs 
who received medical and surgical 
tttendance, and 229 old men and 
tomen under the charge of the 
Little Sisters of the Poor. 

The care of these charitable in- 
stitutions is not confined to any 
particular community, but, accord- 
ing to locality or peculiar circum- 
stances, falls to the lot of different 
congregations. Thus of the asy- 
lums, 5 per cent, are under the 
charge of the Sisters of Notre 
I^ame; 14 per cent, under the Sis- 
ters of Mercy; 34 per cent, un- 
der the Sisters of Charity; 8J^ 
per cent, under the Sisters of the 
Good Shepherd; 6 per cent, under 
the Little Sisters of the Poor; 2}^ 
per cent, each under the Sisters 
of Providence, Holy Cross, Sacred 
Heart, S. Teresa, and S. Dominic ; 
SK per cent, under the Sisters of 
S. Francis ; 10 per cent, under the 
Sisters of S. Joseph; i>^ per cent, 
under the Sisters of the Holy 
Name, S. Benedict, and the School 
Sisters of Notre Dame, besides a 
few others belonging to different 
communities. Of hospitals, the 

VOL. XIX. — 24 



Sisters of Mercy have 18 per cent., 
the Sisters of Charity 37, Provi- 
dence 2, Holy Cross i, S. Francis 
7, Little Sisters of the Poor 2, 
S. Dominic 5, S. Joseph 11, Soeur 
Hospitali^res 2, Nazareth 5, and of 
all others 20 per cent. 

Of the teaching orders and com- 
munities in the United States who 
devote themselves solely to the 
higher branches of education and, 
when possible, to the gratuitous 
instruction of poor children, we 
have the Ladies of the Sacred 
Heart, the Ursulines, the Visita- 
tion, the Immaculate Conception, 
Presentation, and the Sisters of 
the Precious Blood, Loretto, S. 
Clare, Qur Lady of Angels, S. Ann, 
S, Mary, Sacred Heart of Mary, 
Poor Handmaids of Jesus Christ, 
Humility of Mary, S. Agnes, In- 
carnate Word, Holy Child, and 
Daughters of the Cross. The 
Carmelites, Servite Nuns, and Sis- 
ters of S. Anthony are contempla- 
tive communities, though, in some 
special instances, the poor are 
taught and assisted in their con- 
vents. 

A short account of the origin 
and growth in this country of some 
of the most prominent orders and 
communities may be found accep- 
table to those who take an interest 
in the successive developments in 
the church of works of education 
and charity. 

The first convent established 
within the present limits of the 
United States — if we except some, 
perhaps, that might have existed 
long years since in New Mexico 
and California — was that of the 
Ursulines, opened at New Orleans 
in 1727, when that city was a por- 
tion of French territory. For 
about sixty years, the nuns were 
either natives of France or of 
French descent, till 179I1 when,. 



370 



The Female Religious of America, 



on the occasion of the revolt of the 
French colonists in the West In- 
dies, the convent, with its aca- 
demy, hospital, and asylum, received 
large accessions from San Domingo. 
This house still exists, with an affilia- 
tion at Opelousas, and has branches 
in Pittsburg, Cincinnati, St. Louis, 
Alton, Cleveland, Galveston, Green 
Bay, Mobile, and several other dio- 
ceses ; that of New York, situated 
in what was formerly a portion of 
Westchester County, being the prin- 
cipal, containing forty-seven mem- 
bers. The Ursuline Order was 
founded in 1532, at Brescia, Italy, 
by S. Angela of Merici, and was 
approved by Pope Paul III., in 
1544, as a religious congregation 
under the name of S. Ursula. Eigh- 
teen years after, at the request of 
S. Charles Borromeo, Archbishop 
of Milan, it was obliged to enclo- 
sure, created an order, and placed 
under the rule of S. Augustine by 
Pope Gregory XIII. Its special 
duty is the education of young 
ladies ; but a poor school is, when 
necessary, attached to each house. 
Next in point of time was the 
Carmelite Nunnery, erected in 1790, 
near Port Tobacco, Maryland, 
through the exertions of the Rev. 
Charles Neale. That zealous cler- 
gyman, having visited Europe in 
that year, returned with four nuns, 
of whom three are said to have 
been Americans and one English. 
On account of the difficulties sur- 
rounding their locality, the com- 
munity was afterwards transferred 
to Baltimore, in 1831, and permit- 
ted to open a school, which, however, 
was soon after discontinued. There 
are now in all eight houses of this 
order in America, of which two — 
the mother-house and one in St. 
Louis — are of the reform of S. Te- 
resa; the others, following the less 
strict rule, add the care of outside 



schools, asylums, and hospit 
their other duties. The Car 
order of monks was found 
the early part of the Xllltl 
tury under the rule of S. 
which was exceedingly strict 
gards mortification, prayer, 
fasting. The order of nunj 
not created for two centuries 
when John Lorett, twenty 
general, founded a female ins 
under the rule of his orderj 
established several convent 
France. In 1452, Pope Nic 
V. approved the foundation; 
in 1457 Fran9oise d'Amboisc 
widowed Duchess of Brittany, 
the house at Vannes, in hex 
possessions, taking the veil 
habit at the same time. A hui 
years later, S. Teresa of Castile, 
ing that many innovations an 
taxations had crept in, unde 
the work of reform, and her < 
were eventually approved by 
Pius IV. in 1562. Thus ther 
came two branches of the or 
the Mitigated Carmelites, whos 
is not so austere as those c 
Discalceated, who follow the r 
of S. Teresa. The latter are ol 
to observe perpetual silence 
stain from the use of flesh- 
sleep on straw, and wear hab 
coarse serge and sandals inste 
shoes. Their habit is a I 
gown, scapular, and hood, ai 
choir a white cloak and black 
Soon after the arrival of the 
melites in Maryland, an effoi 
made by a few Catholic youi 
dies in Philadelphia to estab 
religious community. The p 
pal movers were Miss Alice 
and a couple of friends. Hei 
panions, however, having die 
fore anything tangible could 
fected, Miss Lalor left Philadt 
for Georgetown, D. C, in 179 
established herself there as a te^ 



Tke Female Religious of America. 



37f 



Df she drew around her 
persons of similar views 
ites, and a community was 
at first simply for the pur- 
prayer and education ; but 
n 1816, their rules had 
proved by the Most Rev. 
. Neale, Archbishop of Bal- 
tnd recognized by the Holy 

they became a regular 
>f the Visitation Order, and 
d to solemn vows and en- 

Their houses now number 
-enty, and are to be found 
nore, Brooklyn, St. Louis, 
Covington, Dubuque, and 
iioceses in the South and 
St. The order dates back 

when it was founded by 
:i8 de Sales and S. Jane 
Baronne de Chantal. 
It first merely a congrega- 
t by permission of Pope 
it was changed into a regu- 
r, the essential principles 
,le being the education of 
dren of the rich, though 
te schools for the poor are 
tached to its convents. 

Miss Lalor was working 
n the District of Columbia, 
LS another pious woman — 
»e name is destined to be for 
itrious in the annals of the 
n America — nobly strug- 
inst innumerable difficulties 
me holy cause. This was 
ca A. Seton, the foundress, 
lited States, of the glorious 
)d of Charity. Like all men 
1 whom Providence selects 

ends, Mrs. Seton passed 
a long novitiate of sorrow 
Is before she was found 
to lay the corner-stone of 
tution which, above all 
as made Catholic charity 
nanly self-sacrifice most 
ost respected and beloved 

us. Born in New York 



on the 28th of August, 1774, of 
wealthy Protestant parents, her 
infancy and girlhood were passed 
amid all the scenes of pleasure and 
luxury that family position and 
affluence could command; and it 
was not till she had married and 
entered upon matronhood that she 
experienced her first great grief. 
This arose out of the death of her 
father. Dr. Bayley, who, in his de- 
votion to the sick immigrants, at 
that time very numerous, fell a vic- 
tim to ship-fever. His daughter, it 
would appear, felt for him even 
more than filial affection and re- 
spect, and his sudden death made 
such an impression on her spirits 
and such inroads on her health that 
she was obliged to make a tour in 
Europe in company with her hus- 
band, also an invalid. Her mind 
had early been imbued with 
strong religious impressions, as well 
as cultivated by careful study and 
extensive reading; and during her 
stay in Southern Europe, where she 
had ample opportunities of visiting 
the churches and convents, and of 
seeing for herself the beauties and 
glories of Catholicity, she first be- 
gan to long for that rest for the 
weary and doubt-distracted soul 
which is only found in the bosom 
of the church. Her husband, dying 
in December, 1802, was buried in 
Italy; and she, now left the sole 
guardian of her children, returned 
to America. But the thoughts that 
had come to her in the solemn basili- 
cas of the Old World followed her to 
the New, and would not be dismiss- 
ed. She struggled much with them, 
prayed fervently, sought the spiritu- 
al advice of many pious friends, and 
finally, in 1805, entered the church. 
We of this generation can hardly 
conceive the sacrifices Mrs. Seton 
made in thus becoming a Catholic. 
So rife and uncompromising^ yfa"^ 



:372 



The Female Religious of America. 



the spirit of Protestant bigotry in 
those days that the moment it was 
known that she had become a con- 
vert, every friend and relative, the 
companions of her youth and the 
sharers of her blood, shrank from 
her with positive loathing, as if her 
touch was infectious. All forsook 
her except her children. But she 
was a woman of undaunted courage 
as well as of implicit faith. She re- 
solved to leave New York, and take 
up her residence in Baltimore, then 
the only city in the country where 
Catholics had either influence or 
social standing. Here, by the ad- 
vice of the archbishop, she de- 
termined to devote herself to 
teaching, and, to carry out her idea 
more fully, to establish a community. 
Accordingly, in May, 1809, we find 
her, with four companions, setting 
out for Emmittsburg to take pos- 
session of a log house and com- 
mence her grand enterprise. On 
the first of June, these pioneers of 
the Sisters of Charity in the United 
States arrived at their destination, 
and on the day following, the Feast 
of Corpus Christi, they appeared in 
the little church of the college in 
their habits — " white muslin caps 
with crimpt borders, black crape 
bands round the head and fastened 
under the chin, black dresses, and 
short capes similar to those of the 
religious of Italy." 

At first the community was 
called the Sisters of S. Joseph ; but 
in 18 10, it was agreed to assimilate 
it to the Congregation of Charity in 
Europe, and, through the influence 
of the Rev. F. Flaget, it was hoped 
that some Sisters might be induced 
to come from France to take charge 
of the little community. Owing to 
the disturbed state of the times, 
F, Flaget failed to procure the 
desired aid ; but he brought 
with him the rule of the Sisters, 



which, having been adop 
the community, was appro 
Archbishop Neale, Janus 
1812. 

The growth of the new 
gation was slow, for many 
seen difficulties had to be < 
tered ; but having been 
deep in the soil, it gradual 
strong and vigorous, and, 
once commenced to throw 
shoots in every direction, th 
root and flourished with wc 
vitality. In 1814, some 
were sent to Philadelphia 
charge of the new Catholic 
asylum ; and in 18 17, Mothe 
with Sisters Cecilia 0*Coni 
Felicity Brady, came to Ne^ 
at the request of Bishop C( 
to superintend a similar ins 
established by the New Y< 
tholic Benevolent Society, 
selected a small frame h( 
Prince Street, where now 
their noble asylum. H( 
houses of this illustrious co 
ty have multiplied during 
half-century is truly astoi 
and can only be attributed 
help of a Power more th 
man. Nearly one hundn 
lums and hospitals are nov 
their charge ; about the san 
ber of academies and select 
claim their care ; free schc 
scholars beyond computatio 
the blessings of their pious 
tion ; and their convents an< 
lishments dot the country i 
direction. In New York 
where the mother-house 
province is situated at Fo: 
Yonkers, there are attache 
409 professed Sisters, 92 i 
and 13 i>ostulants, who con 
different establishments ii 
York, Jersey City, Brookly 
Haven, Providence, and Co 
In Newark, in the mother-h 



The Femak Religious of America. 



373 



the diocese, at Madison, N. J., there 
are 190 members; and in almost 
every section of the country where 
Catholicity is at all known, the 
simple black dress and cape, and 
the small white collar, of the daugh- 
ters of S. Vincent de Paul are fa- 
miliar objects. This congregation, 
though dating only from March 
*5> i634» when Louise de Maril- 
lac, widow of Antoine Le Gras, 
secretary to Marie de Medicis, the 
first mother of the Daughters of 
Charity, consecrated her life to God, 
hasliow, it is said, more than twenty 
thousand members throughout the 
worid, all, like their sainted founder, 
Vincent, unremittingly employed 
in works of divine charity. 

Next in order of usefulness, 
though not in age, come the Sisters 
of Mercy. This congregation is of 
Irish origin, having been founded 
in Dublin, as late as 1827, by Ca- 
tharine McAuley, a native of that 
county. Miss McAuley was born 
September 17, 1787, of Catholic 
parents ; but they dying when she 
was quite young,^ her guardianship 
»as assumed by a Protestant family, 
who brought her up in their own 
faith — ^if faith it may be called ; but 
the girl early developed a remark- 
able inclination towards Catholicity, 
and, when of proper age, reunited 
herself to the church of her fathers. 
At thirty-four she found herself the 
possessor of a large fortune be- 
queathed to her by her adopted fa- 
ther, who had become a Catholic on 
his death-bed ; and this, with all her 
subsequent life, she resolved to dedi- 
cate to the service of the Almighty. 
She therefore built at her own ex- 
pense, in the most fashionable part 
of the city, a magnificent convent, 
and, associating with herself several 
other ladies, commenced the work 
of instruction and the visitation of 
the sick poor in their homes and 



in the public hospitals. The Most 
Rev. Dr. Murray, Archbishop of 
Dublin, gave her all the assistance 
in his power, and, after consulting 
with the Holy See, approved the 
new foundation. In 1841, Pope 
Gregory XVI. confirmed the con- 
gregation, which is now so strong in 
the United Kingdom that it num- 
bers 133 convents, besides numer- 
ous charitable institutions. Un- 
like the Sisters of Charity, this con- 
gregation has no superior-general, 
each convent being independent 
and self-governing. 

Though introduced into this 
country by the late Bishop O'Con- 
nor, of Pittsburg, about thirty years 
ago, the Sisters of Mercy have 
spread rapidly over the United 
States. They have already nearly 
50 asylums and hospitals, 80 aca- 
demies and select schools, an im- 
mense number of free schools, con- 
vents almost as numerous as those 
of the Sisters of Charity, and consid- 
erably over 1,300 members. They 
are to be found in New York, the 
New England dioceses, Albany, 
Philadelphia, Louisville, Pittsburg, 
most of the old dioceses, and many 
of the newer ones. 

There are other orders and con- 
gregations among us, if not so nu- 
merous, equally meritorious ; for in- 
stance, the Ladies of the Sacred 
Heart, who conduct about 30 aca- 
demies and select schools, in which 
the very highest order of educa- 
tion is imparted; the Sisters of 
Notre Dame, also a teaching order, 
having the care of 20 houses, in 
which there are 431 boarders 
and over 1,200 day scholars, be- 
sides about 14,000 pupils attending 
the free schools, half that num- 
ber in the Sunday-schools, in 
addition to those taught in even- 
ing schools and instructed in va- 
rious other ways. This congrega- 



374 



The Female Religious of America. 



tion, though founded in 1804, by 
Mother. Julia Billiart, assisted by 
Marie - Louise - Franfoise, Vicom- 
tesse Blin de Bourbon, and Catha- 
rine Duchatel, at Amiens, has so 
extended its labors that it now 
counts in Belgium, England, and 
Central America 6Z establish- 
ments, 12,000 scholars in its board- 
ing and day schools, and over 
32,000 children gratuitously taught 
in its free schools. It was in- 
troduced into the United States, 
in 1840, by the Most Rev. Dr. Pur- 
cell, Archbishop of Cincinnati, and, 
in connection with its convents 
and academies, has charge of 70 
asylums. The Sisters of S. Joseph, 
numbering about sixty communities, 
have, by the latest returns, 42 aca- 
demies, 20 select schools, 20 asy- 
lums, and 9 hospitals. These latter 
are specially charged with the in- 
struction of the colored children of 
the South. Then there are the 
congregations of the Third Order 
of S. Francis and of S. Dominic, 
whose duties are equally multifari- 
ous ; the Sisters of the Good Shep- 
herd, whose mission it is to receive 
and reform the very outcasts of fe- 
male society, and to " save young 
women from lives of vice and 
crime ; and the meek Little Sisters 
of the Poor, who actually go about 
from door to door, from store to 
market-place, begging, in the name 
of holy charity, for the crumbs of 
our tables to feed their aged and 
decrepit dependents who are totter- 
ing on the verge of the grave. Be- 
sides these, there are many other 
communities of pious women in 
our midst, quietly and unostenta- 
tiously pursuing their career of 
goodness, the history of whose 
foundation the limits of an arti- 
cle will not allow us to descant 
upon. Their actions are doubt- 
less recorded in another world, 



where lie their trust and 
reward. 

Thus we have seen how 
rious land is twice blesse 
presence of those pure 
zealous, and meek follower: 
Saviour. We are blessed 
prayers and in their active 
No one is so rich as to 
pendent of their good off 
one so poor, afflicted, or ( 
that they cannot succor and 
The vilest dens of infam 
crowded cities are made al 
cred by their tread ; the 
prairies and forests resou 
their chants and songs of 
while the daintily-nurture< 
ter of the aristocracy is t 
some convent of the Sacre 
or of the Ursulines, to shin 
adorn her social sphere 
forgetting that she is a C 
the poor little negro chil 
the everglades of Florida 
savage Indian babes of th< 
slope, are kneeling at the 
some Sister of S. Joseph c 
Holy Names of Jesus an 
lisping their first prayer, 
exaggeration, it may be s 
there is no ignorance s 
that they will not succeec 
pelling; none of the man 
which flesh is heir that the 
assuage ; and that they, z 
alone, of all their sex, " ca 
ter to a mind diseased, ar 
from the heart a deep-roc 
row." 

And yet all this toil a 
and solicitude bring wit 
even in this world, abun< 
wards. Who that has i 
tered a convent or a 
house has not been impre 
the gentle air of cheerful 
inward peace that sits on t 
of its inmates? We look 
for the anxious, glance tha 



Switzerland in 1873. 



375 



10 ansatisfied mind, or the deep- 
drawn lines that tell a tale of world- 
ly struggle and discontent. No; 
c?erycountenance is serene, placid, 
and healthful. This is the reward 
of noble works well performed, the 
luxury of doing good, to which the 
women of the outer world are for 
the most part strangers. But what 
shall be the eternal recompense for 
tiiose who thus abandon kindred 
and home, friends and companions, 
the pleasures of the world and the 
passions of the heart, to follow in 
the footsteps of the Saviour who 
was crucified for us, and to carry 
out his precepts, regardless of all 
consequences, to the end ? Such is 



the holy nun who storms heaven 
with her prayers for the salvation 
of mankind and the pardon of na- 
tional crimes; such the humble 
Sister who devotes the energies of 
her mind, the years of her life, nay, 
her very life itself, to the service 
of God's poor, helpless, and sinful 
creatures. Can a nobler ambition 
than this find place in the human 
mind? Can the glory, the charity, 
and the all-absorbing beneficence 
of the Christian faith find brighter 
examples and purer exponents than 
within the convents which so nu- 
merously overspread and are con- 
tinuing to increase on the soil of 
our young republic ? 



SWITZERLAND IN 1873. 



" Going to Lyons to-morrow ! 

Impossible !" exclaimed Mrs. C , 

whom my friend and I accidental- 
ly met in the hall of the Bemer Hof 
Hotel at Berne this autumn. " You 
cannot surely go without seeing the 
Lake of Lucerne ! I should be 
<)Qite ashamed to confess that I 
lud been so long in Switzerland 
uid was leaving without having been 
op the Rigi. In fact, if you per- 
sist in this resolution, you will have 
to come back again next summer 
expressly for that, and for nothing 
else. Think what trouble that may 
be! And all from want of a little 
energy now ; for I feel quite certain 
you have no appointment to take 
you to Lyons in such a hurry. I 
know you cannot have," she added 
smiling, and noticing some hesita- 
tion on our part, ''so you must 



just change your plans again and 
come off to Lucerne with our party 
this afternoon ! You may go to 
Lyons later, if you like, but there 
will be time enough to think about 
that!" 

It was quite true. There was 
no special reason for our start- 
ing for Lyons that day, no pressing 
necessity for our leaving Switzer- 
land just then. The Lake of 
Lucerne, moreover, had originally 
a prominent place in our itinerary, 
and the weather was so fine that there 
seemed fair hope of the prescribed 
sunrise from the Rigi. But, if the 
truth were told, we were weary- 
weary not in body but in soul ; and 
had taken such an aversion to the 
country, from a spiritual point of 
view, that a strong antidote — such 
as Lyons with its Notre Dame de 



376 



Switzerland in 1S73. 



Fourvi^res and general Catholic life 
would afford — had become to us 
absolutely essential. 

Six weeks previously we entered 
Switzerland — two ladies overflow- 
ing with enthusiasm. The pictu- 
resque was certainly a main object 
in our journey ; for where else can 
it be equalled, or found in such 
variety } Still, we had no intention 
whatever of leaving religion and de- 
votion behind us, and never doubted 
for a moment that we should suc- 
ceed in finding means of satisfying 
our desires. 

It was our first visit to this re- 
gion, and our knowledge of it, we 
are bound to confess, was most 
superficial. But how little does 
one know of a foreign country 
until either long residence or some 
special circumstance excites the 
curiosity or rouses the attention ! 
Catholics even, who as a rule inter- 
est themselves more than all others 
about the religious state of coun- 
tries outside their own — instigated 
by that principle of universal bro- 
therhood, that bond of spiritual 
union, which the church so effectual- 
ly promotes — seldom know, notwith- 
standing, the details of current eccle- 
siastical foreign events, unless acci- 
dent brings them to the spot. A great 
commotion like the warfare going 
on in Geneva, and the fact that the 
attitude of the Catholic community 
in that town was most noble, and 
those willing " to suffer persecution 
for justice' sake " neither few nor 
faint-hearted, had of course a large 
place in our view of the case. But 
except this, and the broad facts 
that Geneva, Berne, and Zurich 
were Protestant, Lucerne and its 
neighborhood Catholic, we are con- 
strained to admit that our acquaint- 
ance with Swiss matters, geographi- 
cal, historical, or ecclesiastical, was 
very limited. It is little wonder. 



therefore, that we lent a willing ear 
to the thoughtless assertions of 
fellow-travellers, who told us we 
should find Catholic €:hurches 
scattered all over these districts^ 
Without further questioning, then, 
we proceeded, commencing by ;e 
few days at Lausanne and alon^ 
the shores of the lovely Lake 01 
Geneva. Thence we made our way 
to Bellalp, Zermatt, the Eichhoni, 
and, finally, passing round to the 
northern side of the great moun- 
tains, wandered on from the Faul- 
hom, Scheideck, and Wengem Alps 
to MUrren, where we rested for seve- 
ral days, having "done" sunsets 
and sunrises; peaks and glaciers, un- 
til our minds were filled with the 
most magnificent images. Still, des- 
pite all these wonderful beauties of 
nature, which seemed every day to 
draw us more closely and more 
humbly towards the Creator, an 
irrepressible dreariness had crept 
over us, from the absence of all 
visible signs of union with him or 
of grateful worship on the part of 
man. Certain it is that the result 
our present wanderings had pro- 
duced by the time we reached Berne 
was a longing for a Catholic land 
and Catholic churches, where wc 
might pour forth our praises, and 
give utterance to our thanks- 
givings for the glorious sights wc 
had seen ; a longing that had 
grown stronger than the mere love 
of the sublime and beautiful, for its 
own sake, of which we were, never- 
theless, most ardent votaries. 

It may be said that, coming to 
Protestant cantons as we did, we 
ought not to have expected a pro- 
fusion of Catholic churches; the 
Catholic population is small, esper 
cially in the highland districts, and 
labors under many disadvantages. 
True, and after the first disappoint- 
ment was over, we were ready to 



ttudy our exeureions, and often to 
shorten ihem, in order to hear 
Aiass on Sundays. Yet even so, 
■lore than once we could not even 
ecompiish (his; and the difficulty 
I approaching the sacraments un- 
' these circumstances is most 
Itre&sing lo travellers. Besides, 
pan outside observer, piety does 
t seem to flourish ; or, where it 
Catholic congregations 
' that subdued look peculiar 
ball persecuted communities, so 
lely depressing to witness. 
Msny Ifclievc that, for this and 
other reasons, the battle now rag- 
ing in Geneva and elsewhere will 
be productive of great gain, and 
thji Switzerland and Germany will 
(merge from a life resembling that 
of the early Christians in the Cata- 
rumbs, only with tenfold power and 
rigor. At the present moment, 
unci* chiefly led to reflect on the 
'list mtcr|irctatian of that freedom 
•" much boasted of by the Swiss 
Prole Stan ts-^if one may so style the 
wivanccd liberals and free-thinkers 
*ho come lo the surface nowa- 
%*— and remember how easily an 
American CatlioHc could make 
lliem blush by his report of how 
tliffcrcntly these matters are treated 
«roM liic Atlantic. 
r-Our path had nowhere, as yet, it 
"rue, touched on a Catholic can- 
; and there ail mi/;/il be differ- 
'erything we could 
It led us to a contrary expecta- 
German who had 
n coming to Switzerland for the 
It Ihirty years, and whom we met 
I nulf, told us it was all the 
religion anywhere. 
(Ithing ean be more uninteresting 
the people," he asserted. 
t only on money-making and 
j^iing about religion — religion, 
'^ i> la say, in name, but not in 
'; the disputes are purely party 




i in i873i' 

questions, and have no real, snb" 
stantial foundation. Peaks and 
passes are alone worth a thought," 
he added. On thes 
hanstible, but always dismissed the 
other subject with contempt. La- 
ter, when our own observations in 
the Catholic cantons completely al- 
tered our opinions, we also ascer- 
tained that he, like so many of the 
summer tourists one encounters 
nowadays, was perfectly indiffer- 
ent to all forms of worship, and 
bhnd to those signs and manifesta- 
tions of the inner being which still 
abound in all that region. Mean- 
while, however, his report, coming 
from one familiar with every part ' 
of Switzerland, carried conviction 
to our untutored minds, as, no 
doubt, happens in similar cases 
every day. 

But it was not, perhaps, the diffi- 
culty about, and paucity of, Catho- 
lic service which so much roused 
our indignation, once we saw the 
small number of our co-religionists, 
as the universal aridity, tepidity, 
nay, coldness, of all the inhabitants 
of these favored regions. Nor 
could we gain much knowledge 
about them. The ordinary tourist 
never meets a Swiss above the class 
of guides and hotel-keepers; the 
former, in the Protestant cantons, 
are a stolid, uncommunicative race 
of men, with all their intellects ap- 
parently given to their horses and 
Trinkgeld ; the latter too much en- 
grossed in the feverish anxiety of 
drawing up large bills and provid- 
ing for the passing crowd to give 
attention to any other matter dur- 
ing the summer season. Besides, 
the line of interest does not run in 
the direction of the "people"; if 
it did, these men would no doubt 
also labor to supply the demand; 
as it is, few have time, or, having 
time, inclination, for anything but 



378 



Switzerland in 1873. 



scenery, and next to scenery — some- 
times first — come food and lodging. 

It was unreasonable, many ob- 
served, to aspire to more. "A 
thorough knowledge of a nation is 
not to be picked up in passing " ; 
" One comes to Switzerland for the 
scenery only"; "The people can- 
not be judged by outward appear- 
ances," were phrases which met us 
at every turn whenever we ven- 
tured to make a remark. " Doubt- 
less the people may be excellent," 
was our reply; "but outward ap- 
pearances are an index to their 
minds. In the Tyrol, Bohemia, 
Brittany, and other Catholic lands, 
all who * run may read.' " Mountain 
chapels, wayside crosses, holy pic- 
tures inside and outside their dwell- 
ings, speak a language common to 
all Christian hearts ; and the indiffer- 
entism and dryness of soul which 
their absence betokens in the Ber- 
nese Oberland, especially amidst 
its grandest scenes and greatest 
dangers, cannot fail to leave a 
most painful impression on every 
thoughtful traveller. 

The only information we found 
it easy to gather related to every- 
thing connected with material sub- 
jects. In a surprisingly short 
space of time, we knew, from our 
guides, the names of all the peaks, 
and many, too, of the smaller sum- 
mits, and, above all, could speak in 
an authoritative tone of the best 
hotels in different places, the price 
oi pension in each, whether the Kell- 
ners were civil, the living better in 
one than another, Cook's tickets an 
advantage or not, where the car- 
riage-roads ended and the riding 
or walking began — in fine, became 
very clever on all those points 
which form the staple of conversa- 
tion at all Swiss hotels and halting- 
places. Yet we conscientiously 
employed our eyes and ears, so as 



to come to no wrong conclusion. 
The more one travels in Switzer^ 
land, the more necessary this pre-*^ 
caution seems. Whatever efibits w^ 
made, however, brought about th^ 
same unfavorable result. The whole 
aspect of the country we travers- 
ed justified our German acqnainf- 
ance's harsh criticisms. Even the 
Protestant churches, which, if only 
from a pure spirit of opposition, one 
might expect to show a flourishing 
exterior, are in Switzerland more 
than usually bald and cheerless. 
Unlike English churches of the 
present day, they are completely 
innocent of the slightest approach 
to decoration, and very often with- 
out sign of communion-table or 
anything even representing it. 
Sometimes a bare slab of marble, 
without altar-cloth or covering, 
stands in the middle; but often 
this is brought out only at stated 
periods for the administration of 
the Lord's Supper, and, as a rule, 
the seats are ranged round the pul- 
pit — the only centre of attraction in 
these buildings. Of all nations, 
the English show the most tangible 
signs of life. They, at least, bring 
themselves more prominently for- 
ward ; for the first paper that strikes 
the eye on entering every Swiss inn 
is the list of services and chaplains 
supplied to Switzerland for the 
season by the English Church Co- 
lonial Society. Churches they do 
not possess, except in a few favor- 
ed spots ; and many are the la- 
mentations amongst the wandering 
Britons at being obliged to content 
themselves with the drawing-room 
or billiard-room of a large hotel, 
where probably the evening before 
they had assembled amidst gaiety 
and laughter. It is an arrangement, 
too, often complained of by the 
other inmates — one which led to a 
serious dispute in one place^ where 



Switzerland i 



1873. 



(he Gennan visitors claimed their 
right to the billiard-table at the 
htm apjKiinted by the English 
chaplain for his service. Still, 
there they are, mindfu!, at least, of 
"Sabbath worship," when the ma- 
jority of their co-religionists see 
no necessity for remembering it. 

Crowds of Anglican clergymen 
were also found travelling, on their 
o«n account, in the Protestant 
canloos. Five-and-twenty were to- 
gether one day at Milrren, of all 
shades and hues, too; from my Lord 
Bishop, with his wife and daughters, 
lu ihe young Ritualist curate, in his 
Ruman collar and otherwise Cath- 
olic dress, the highest ambition 
of iihose heart is to be taken — or 
niher miitakeit — for a true Catho- 
lic priest. And very hard it is to 
diiiingulsh him, at first sight, from 
lilt genuine character, so exact has 
k nude the superficial copy. Af- 
l« a little conversation, however, 
ii if easy to know that such unmit- 
^Wed abuse of the Episcopal digni- 
'iry who sits at the other end of 
itie room, and of the whole bench 
of bishops, cannot belong to the 
Inic church, which not only enjoins 
liui practises submission to author- 
ilj. Intellectual these High-Church- 
iwn always are, and would make 
I'leaiant company but for the 
crookedness of their " opinions,"and 
•heir unconcealed exultation, too, 
U the assumed progress of the so- 
" Old-Catholic" movement, 
ihcy represent as undermin- 
thewholeof Switzerland. Cath- 
Switzerland they always meant ; 
lor even they could not blind 
theniMlvcs to the fact that in the 
/wtMiant districts there is little 



than ever strengthened our con- 
viction {though nothing offendi 
them more than such a suggestion] 
that the sole binding link between 
these English High-Churchmen 
and the miscellaneous companies 
which assemble at the " Old-Cath- 
olic " meetings is their common 
ground of rebellion to mother 
church — which, as daily experience 
infallibly proves, gathers together 
all grades of belief and unbelief 
outside the Catholic fold, and 
induces ihem to ignore all their 
important differences in the bond 
of a hatred which is truly pre- 
ternatural to the spouse of Christ 1 
Wet days at Swiss hotels are 
proverbially fruitful of talk and 
discussion ; and nowadays these 
religious subjects are certain to be 
started by some new Ritualistic ac- 
quaintance, who evidently presum- 
es on sympathy from English-speak- 
ing travellers. Above all, should 
he or she discover that you are a 
"Romanist," as they choose to 
call us children of the true church, 
it is most curious to observe 
what an irresistible secret attrac- 
tion impels them to follow you, 
from morning to night, with their 
arguments and spiritual " views," 
Oh! what days of annoyance con- 
tinued rain has cost us on those 
mountain-tops — days of true an- 
noyance unmixed with good; for 
in no single instance did we find 
any permanent impression made 
on these Ritualists, who, of all Pro- 
testants, are the most hopelessly 
blinded and obstinate, And most 
fully do we agree with a high eccle- 
siastical authority who recently 



:on- ^^^H 
^nds ^^^1 
ion) ^H 
i-een 1 



4 



larked to us that all other 
(.)ne could only shades of churchmen, Including the 
ider how, with their hanker- evangelical or Low Church, re- 
after Catholic things, they spond to the call of grace more 
iW in any way feci drawn to- readily than these men and women, 
those cantons; and it more whose stand-point is that pride 



38o 



Switzerland in 1873. 



which obscures their spiritual vi- 
sion. After two or three such dis- 
cussions, we foresaw the point ex- 
actly when they would dogmatical- 
ly assert that they, " too, are Catho- 
lics," and that an irreparable breach 
was to be the immediate consequence 
of the solemn protest which it be- 
came our duty to make on each 
similar occasion. Before we reach- 
ed Mlirren, therefore, we had 
learnt to avoid them. By that 
time, too, we found that all their 
information about " Old Catholics " 
was derived either from the Eng- 
lish newspapers or those foreign 
ones which, in rainy, stay-at-home 
weather, are studied in those places 
with persevering assiduity. 

We ourselves endeavored to gath- 
er from this source some of that 
information unattainable elsewhere, 
but very soon indignantly threw 
aside these tainted productions. 
Our German friend was right on 
this point, certainly; for any- 
thing more shameful and less re- 
ligious than the attacks on the 
priesthood in general, the false 
statements put forward, and the 
undisguised rationalism — not to give 
it a worse name — of most of these 
foreign newspapers which flood 
the reading-rooms of Switzerland, 
it would be difficult to imagine. 
Not a single Catholic newspaper 
came under our eye in Xht pensions 
and hotels. If they were taken 
in, they were certainly hidden away ; 
and the tone of the German 
press, in particular, perfectly justi- 
fied the assertion which has been 
hazarded — namely, that it has al- 
together fallen into the hands of the 
once-despised Jews. Alas! alas! 
the " Israelites *' of the present day 
may well exult and lift up their 
heads in the remarkable and daily- 
increasing manner so noticeable all 
over Europe, where the faith of 



Christians is so tepid and their 
sight so weak as no longer to dis- 
tinguish the true from the false 
in these proud and "enlightened" 
days! 

Disheartened by all we saw and 
heard, we frequently turned to the * 
poor, in the hope of better feelings ; * 
and although no outward token of 
man's habitual remembrance of 
his Maker met our observation, we 
tried to lead the guides and pea^ 
sants to speak, now and then, on 
these subjects. In vain, however. 
They appeared to have no thoughts 
to communicate, no familiarity with 
the supernatural, nor other answer 
but the dry, curt one to give : Wir 
sind alle Reformirten im Canton 
Berne — "We are all Reformed in 
the Canton of Berne.** 

This hard, unsympathetic tone of 
mind jarred on our highest and 
tenderest feelings ; and the grander 
the surrounding scenery, the more 
painful its impression. It had 
reached its climax a few days be- 
fore we met Mrs. C at Berne. 

Having slept one night at Lauter- 
brunnen, and the next morning 
proving lovely, we determined to go 
on at once to Grindelwald. There 
had been no service of any kind at 
the village of MUrren; but here a 
bell rang early, and we had thus 
begun the day by lamenting that it 
did not summon us to Mass before 
starting on our journey. But this 
being a strictly " Reformed ** neigh- 
borhood, it was foolish to nourish 
any such hope. The sparkling rays 
of sunlight on the Staabbart, how- 
ever, the drive through the magnifi- 
cent valley, the rushing torrent, and 
opening views of our favorite moun- 
tains, free from the veil of mist that 
had covered them on the previous 
day, the exhilarating air, and gene- 
ral brightness of a grand nature, 
gradually restored us to more con- 



Switzerland i 



iS73- 



tented dispositions. The day was 
5|ilendid. The Wetlerhorn, Finster- 
&arhurn, Eiger, and Jungrrau stood 
erect licfore and above us, as we 
drove u|) to the hotel, in all their 
grandeur, sternness, and soft beauty 
wiilml; their spotless snows and 
blue glaciers running down amongst 
aad fringing the green, placid pas- 
tes below, whilst Grtndelwald 
itself, the pretty village of scattered 
chilcU, lay bathed in sunshine at 
tiicir feet, It was the beginning of 
September; yet the visitors were 
w few and imperceptible that me 
(tit as if we alone had possession 
ofthis wonderful scene. Nor was 
(tiere a breath of wind or a cloud 
in the sky, in an atmosphere of 
trinsparent brilliancy — one of 
ihose rare days which seem lent to 
« from Paradise, when one's only 
thought can be that of thankfulness ; 
one's only sigh, " Lord ! it is good 
iorusio be here." We had been 
lining for some time on a grassy 
*lope, drinking in all thfs ethereal 
linoty. and gazing silently on those 
"jrcat apostles of nature, those 
rtiurth-lowers of the mountains," as 
Uingfellow so beautifully calls them, 
heaour thoughts wandered on to 
e perils peculiar to such a spot, 
I the two glaciers right before 
' — the smaller one, it is true 
all but disappeared within 
K last four years. It had melted 
hay gradually during an unusually 
Ttiummcr, the guide had told us, 
Dtigb fortunately without causing 
Kl)' considerable damage in the 
wicy underneath. Very different 
" *ould be if the larger one were 
[Ovani»h ; and we naturally reverted 
> a descri|«ion we had recently 
fed. by a well-known dignitary of 
VEnglish Church, of the appalling 
"astrophcncar Martigny, in iSi8, 
Aen the whole district was made 
Kilaie and villages swept away, in 



consequence of the breaking-up of 
a similar glacier under the Lake of 
Mauvoisin. We had just said that 
if any people should " stand ready " 
it certainly was the Swiss, when 
suddenly, as if in response to our 
meditations, the silvery sound of a 
church-bell came wafted to us 
through the balmy air. The build- 
ing itself was out of sight, hidden 
behind a small knoll ; so we hasten- 
ed at once on a voyage of discov- 
ery in search of it. The day and hour 
were so unusual that a faint hope 
arose of finding some out-of-the- 
way Catholic convent, forgotten, 
perhaps, by the old " Reformers." 
It was only the small church of the 
village, however. The bell was 
still ringing, and the door open, but 
no one near ; and, entering in, no- 
thing was to be seen save an empty 
interior with whitewashed walls, 
where a few benches alone indicat- 
ed that it served any purpose or 
ever emerged from its present for- 
lorn and desolate condition. Per- 
plexed for an explanation, we ap- 
pealed to some villagers in the 
vicinity — old women who, had it 
been a Catholic church, were 
just the sort of bodies one would 
have found telling their beads in 
some comer of it at every hour of 
the day; but blank countenances 
were all we elicited by our first 
question of why the bell was ring- 
ing or what service was about to 
begin. " Seri'ice ! What service ?" 
they answered inquiringly. " Di- 
vi ne serv ice " — GotUsiUeml — we 
replied, making the question more 
explicit, the better to suit their 
ciiiacities. " Divine service ? Oh ! 
that is only on Sundays, of course," 
was their answer; and it never 
seemed to cross their minds that 
people ought also to pray on other 
days. In fact, no single person in 
the place could give any reason for 



I 



I 



382 



Switzerland in 1873. 



the tolling of this bell (evidently 
the Vesper-bell of old Catholic 
times), except that it rung regularly 
on every afternoon at 3 o'clock. A 
poverty-stricken, unhealthy-looking 
population they were, too — ^just 
the class that stand much in need 
of spiritual comforts — of those aids 
from heaven which the poor need 
more palpably even than the pos- 
sessors of material wealth, in order 
to bring them through the troubles 
of this weary world, and to sustain 
their courage at every step. Both 
here and at Lauterbrunnen, de- 
spite all police prohibitions, our 
carriage was followed by numbers 
of sickly and deformed children, 
whose monotonous drone was un- 
enlivened by one bright look, by 
any petition " for the love of God," 
or any of those touching variations 
of the Catholic beggar in every part 
of the world, which, no matter what 
one may say at the time, do appeal 
to a Christian heart more than any 
one is aware of until made sensi- 
ble of their impression by the chilly 
effects of their absence on such oc- 
casions. 

But our spirits revived, as we re- 
turned to Interlachen, at sight of 
the old Franciscan convent standing 
embosomed in its stately trees. 
Hitherto we had only passed 
through the place on our way to 
and from the mountain excursions ; 
but to-morrow would be Sunday, and 
the Catholic service, we had ascer- 
tained, was in the convent church. 
Away, therefore, with our saddened 
hearts and dismal musings ! The 
plain would evidently treat us more 
charitably than the highland coun- 
try had hitherto done ! Beautiful, 
lovely Interlachen ! lying amidst its 
brown, flowery meadows, under its 
stately walnut-trees ; the white- 
robed Jungfrau rising opposite in 
all her dignified beauty, unaccom- 



panied by Monk or Eiger, or any of 
her snowy compeers. The sun was 
setting as we drove up to the hotel 
Victoria just in time to see its 
deep-red, crimson farewell, thrown 
across the brow of the grand moun- 
tain, melt gradually into the most 
tender violet, as if in mourning for 
his departure. And as we sat on 
the balcony all that evening in the 
stillness of the autumnal air, watch- 
ing the full moon shining on the 
"pale Virgin," making her glitter 
like silver, and stand out, in all her 
majesty, from the dark, enclosing 
line of intervening hills, we felt once 
more how glorious is God's creation 
in all its simple magnificence! 
How grand, how awful it can be! 
And again, at dawn, we beheld the 
same spotless peak receive with a 
tender, pink blush the first rays of 
the returning sun, to dazzle us 
henceforward during all that day by 
her transcendent loveliness through 
an ethereal veil of transparent deli- 
cacy, and* to draw our ^ thoughts 
heavenward, pointing upwards like 
a faithful angel guardian anxious 
to remind us that all this earthly 
beauty is as naught compared to 
the bright visions which await us 
beyond ! 

It was nine o'clock that morning 
before the church-bell sounded; 
but then we sallied forth with full 
hearts, and made our way along the 
beautiful avenue of walnut-trees 
towards the old convent. With 
elastic gait we ascended the ancient 
steps of the ivy-mantled church, 
rejoicing in the sign-post which 
boastfully pointed "^ TEglise 
Catholiquc " ! But vain were our 
illusions ! How could we have 
been so sanguine ! This fine old 
convent, as perfect as at the time 
of its suppression in 1527, is far too 
valuable, think the authorities, to 
be given up by an antagonistic gov- 



SwitxfrlaHd in 1873. 



383 



lent to the successors of its 
faal owners. A large part of 
idirelling portion, therefore, is 
I by the commune of Inter- 
en for its public offices, whilst the 
lindcr'is divided between thedif- 

i foreign "persuasions " that vis- 
rlachen every summer. That 
Junding title, " I'Eglise Catho- 
' belonged only to a small 
; constructed out of one end 
: church — the smaller end — 
foored, moreover, up to half its 
pL The other and larger por- 
|vss given up for the English 
Ml service, whilst the Free Kirk 
■dand and "I'Eglise Evang^li- 
p France," were installed here 
lueTe amongst the cloisters. 
t correctly, then, did an old 
(who was found sweeping out 
Sitssages, describe himself as 
Med by tous Its culta. 
Hwas the Catholic congrega- 
UBiore permanent than the 
K It appeared to consist 
fi of strangers, and the priest, 
Mchraan, who spoke in feel- 
■CccQU of the persecution 
gon throughout the country, 
■need that although the follow- 
by would be a holiday, there 
I be no Mass; for he had to 
lerlachen on that same even- 



Sbterl: 



E[ came out from the convent, 
d gloomy, a pretty sight 
i: hundreds of boys and 
\ all siies and ages, marching 
strains of a band towards a 
eadow hard by, where gym- 
>nd other games were about 
rcnce. Orderly and bright- 
ihey all were, accom pa- 
ly half ihe population of 
n and neighborhood, chiefly 
in the picturesque Bernese 
c, and including, evidently, 
liters and mothers of Ihe 
generation. It was a most 



briUiajit yet soothing picture, as we 
beheld them passing on under the 
shade of the wide-spreading, lofty 
walnut-trees; the little maidens in 
their fresh summer dresses, embroi- 
dered muslin aprons, and hats 
crowned with masses of flowers, 
standing out against the green back- 
ground of the nearer mountains, 
whilst the lovely Jungfrau beyond 
shone out resplendent beneath the 
rays of a dazzling sun. Long stood 
we watching them ; for it was a scene 
to enjoy and treasure up in one's 
memory. What a pity that the re- 
collection should be darkened by 
the after-knowledge that none of 
this merry crowd had begun the day 
by divine worship! And notewor- 
thy was this fact, making all the 
difference between this and the Ca- 
tholic practice in such matters. Nor 
shall we fail to remember, if ever 
again taunted by those Protestants 
who consider it a sin to be light- 
hearted on the Sabbath, that this 
mode of keeping Sunday is not 
sanctioned by a Catholic, but by 
one of their owr. cherished " Re- 
formed " cantons. Catholic the 
proceedings truly were, in being 
orderly, innocent, healthful, and ra- 
tional ; but most K»cathoIic in not 
having even allowed the time ne- 
cessary for religion. No Catholic 
ecclesiastical authority sanctions 
such amusements on Sundays with- 
out the whole population h.iving 
had the opportunity of hearing Mass 
first — a matter that is not left op- 
tional, but made obligatory on every 
member of the church. Here, on 
the contrary, there is only one ser- 
vice in the Protestant church, and 
that at 10 o'clock a.m.; so that, 
even had they wished it, none of 
these merry-makers could have 
been present. Nor, during the 
whole of that day, did we heor any 
neighboring village-bells s 



J 



384 



Switzerland in 1873. 



ing their flocks to prayer. Indeed, 
many of the villages are without 
any churches. There is none, for 
instance, at MUrren, nor in many of 
the hamlets along the Lake of 
Brienz, nor in various other spots 
which might easily be named. One 
hears a vast deal about Swiss " pas- 
teurs," and pretty stories are writ- 
ten wherein they figure largely ; but 
it is only natural to conclude that 
if there are numberless villages 
without churches, they are equally 
without " pasteurs " ; and one can- 
not help wondering how the sick 
poor fare in these distant parts in 
the ice-bound winter weather, nor 
avoid fearing that there is much 
truth in the dreary suggestions we 
often heard expressed, that they 
constantly die and are buried with- 
out any spiritual ministrations what- 
soever. 

And yet the Swiss, and especially 
the people of this neighborhood, 
did not always voluntarily abandon 
the ancient church, nor lapse of a 
sudden into the indifferentism now 
so general. But no doubt the 
present apathy is the inherited re- 
sult of the mixed notions which 
actuated their forefathers, and the 
absence amongst them of that pure 
attachment to their faith and the un- 
conquerable steadiness and manli- 
ness by which the adjoining cantons 
of Unterwalden and Uri have so 
eminently distinguished themselves 
up to the present hour. 

Whilst meditating over all we 
had seen and heard, we accidental- 
ly opened Zschokke's History of 
Switzerland 2X the page where he 
speaks of those mixed feelings 
which were perceptible in all the 
religious divisions between 1527 
and 1528. The writer is a Protest- 
ant, and therefore his version is all 
the more interesting, as admitting 
the coercion it was necessary to 



use for the introduction 
new doctrines — doubly inte 
too, as read here, at Inter 
on the spot and by the light 
similar system — for there is r 
new under the sun — at pre: 
full operation in so many o 
same cantons. 

After speaking of varioi 
putes, he says : " For of tho 
raised their voices against t 
creed, thousands upon tho 
were actuated, not by piety < 
of the good and true, but b} 
ested motives under pretei 
religion. Amongst the c 
people, many expected | 
liberties and rights by the int 
tion of the recent doctrine: 
when these were not gran 
them, they returned to the 
lie faith. The moment the 
council of Berne suppress^ 
convent at Interlachen, and a) 
ed preachers of the rei 
church, the peasants, highly p 
thought and said : * No c 
mesnes, no taxes, no feudal s( 
But when the town only tran 
the taxes and service to itse 
peasants, through pure ang 
came Catholic again, drove 
the Protestant preachers 
marched in armed bodies to 
Berne hereupon appealed 
other subjects, offering to le^ 
matter to their arbitration ; 
town desired peace, knowir 
that neither quick nor effici< 
could be counted on by then 
the neighboring cantons, 
were all Catholic. These si 
of Berne, flattered by the 
dence reposed in them 1 
authorities, decided in their 
saying : * The worldly rigl 
the convent go to the worh 
thorities, and are in no wi 
property of the peasants, 
hearing this, the rebellious cc 



Switzerland in 1873. 



385 



(olkof Grindelwald returned to their 
Viomes, but in no contented mood, 
although the town had relieved 
ibcm from many burdens, in favor 
of their suffering poor." And 
curious it was to note the tight 
hold still retained on these same 
worldly goods by the commune of 
Interlachen, and to see, after a 
lapse of three centuries, tlieir bu- 
rtaux adminisiratifs still located in 
the cloisters ; nor can it be suppos- 
ed that the " suffering poor " of Grin- 
delwald have reaped much benefit 
from their three centuries of secular 
masters, if we may judge by the 
numberless beggars who now over- 
run that whole district. 

Having then related that much 
discontent at the state of affairs 
was felt by the monks of Interlach- 
cn, the abbot of Engelberg, and 
the inhabitants of Oberhasli — a dis- 
trict which, though under the 
protection of Berne, held many 
rights and privileges independent 
of that town — Zschokke proceeds : 
'*When the commune of Oberhasli, 
encouraged by the monks of Engel- 
berg and their neighbors of Unter- 
walden, likewise drove away the 
Protestant parsons, and sent to Uri 
and Unterwalden for Catholic 
priests, those of Grindelwald did 
the same ; Aeschi, Frutigen, Ober- 
simmel, and other villages followed 
their example, and the Unterwal- 
deners even sent them military as- 
sistance across the Brunig. But 
^me flew to arms at once, and 
her army marched on rapidly, be- 
fore the secession had time to in- 
crease. The timid and discontent- 
ed peasants fled in a panic, and 
*-*ven the Unterwaldeners retreated 
over the mountain. Berne then 
punished Oberhasli severely — took 
^^ay its public seal and many 
other privileges for a long period ; 
for ever deprived the valley of 

VOL. X7X. — 2$ 



the right to elect its own landam- 
man ; had the ringleaders of the 
movement executed, and forced the 
others to plead for pardon on their 
knees, surrounded by a circle of 
armed soldiers. Frutigen, the Sim- 
menthal, and others were also 
brought back by main force to the 
Protestant faith "—if " faith " that 
can be called, we may add, which 
shows no sign of life in all these 
places. 

In no happy frame of mind we 
pushed on next day to Berne, half 
inclined to abandon the remainder 
of our Swiss tour — an inclination 
which had ripened to a determina- 
tion by the time we met our friend 
in the hall of the Berner Hof on the 
following morning. 

In Berne, as in other of the 
large Swiss towns, Catholicity has 
made itself both seen and felt of 
late years, and a handsome church 
has recently been built there, in 
place of the one which was formerly 
shared with the Lutherans in that 
extraordinary manner still in oper- 
ation in one or two Protestant parts 
of Germany. Some friends of ours, 
who had passed through Berne 
about fifteen years ago, had been at 
Mass early one Sunday morning, 
and, returning at a later hour, found 
the same church in possession of 
the Protestants, the only difference 
observable being the " comnuinion- 
table,"then placed at the end oppo- 
site to the Catholic altar, and the 
chairs turned round in that direction. 
This anomalous state of things has 
now ceased, and the new Catholic 
church is both pretty and well serv- 
ed. But the week-day congregation 
is very small, and the half-past seven 
o'clock Mass we found but thinly 
attended. Still, there it is, even so, 
in striking contrast to the Protest- 
ant cathedral. In pleasing con- 
trast, were more truly ^3Ad\ iot 



386 



Switzerland in 1873. 



this beautiful pre- Reformation ca- 
thedral, with its splendid porch 
of the Wise and Foolish Virgins, 
its elaborately-carved choir, and its 
old stained-glass History of the 
Blessed Eucharist, is lifeless and 
colorless in its present aspect. 
Though we went there at an early 
hour, every door was closed, except 
one at the side, jealously guarded 
by a cross old woman, who hinder- 
ed all entrance until we had each 
paid thirty centimes. Then we were 
handed on to another woman — 
between them they had charge of 
the church — who ran from one' 
party of sight-seers to another, 
showing off the different points in a 
loud voice, just as if it were a mu- 
seum or any other secular building ! 
Had it been an English cathedral 
church even, there would probably 
have been a daily service ; but then 
such a pious practice seemed quite 
as unfamiliar as to the peasants of 
Grindelwald. The old guardian 
stared at us in blank surprise on 
our asking the question, and — 
seeming to imply that she detected 
we were " Papists " — proudly an- 
swered, " Certainly not ! Only on 
Sundays, and then at nine o'clock." 
As usual, no communion-table 
stood in the place of the high altar, 
but here, as in many other Swiss 
churches, a large black marble table 
which serves for this purpose stands 
right in front of the choir and pul- 
pit, and the stalls immediately near 
were assigned to the " Guardian of 
the Holy Supper " and one or two 
other of the church functionaries. 
In the cathedral square outside, the 
town has recently placed the beau- 
tiful statue of Rudolf von Erlach, 
the great hero of Laupen, one of 
the starting-points of its history, in 
1339. It was impossible, as we 
passed it, not to remember that the 
most glorious victories of Berne 



were fought and won in those 
olden days of the true faith, when 
her sons knew how to unite the 
love of freedom with devotion to 
the church and obedience to her 
authority, and that one of the 
prominent caused of that great and 
victorious battle was their refusal 
to recognize the Emperor Louis of 
Germany, simply because the pope 
had recently excommunicated him. 
Those golden days of Bernese his- 
tory ! of which her Protestant histo- 
rian, Zschokke, is constrained to say 
that " the town, which was threaten- 
ed with entire destruction, became 
so victorious as henceforward to 
threaten destruction to all her ene- 
mies. Her citizens had fought with 
one thousand iron arms against ten 
thousand; all with one mind and 
one heart ; no one for himself, but 
all for the good of the town. In 
this manner alone can wonders be 
effected." 

Fuirt)f sad thoughts on the de- 
generacy of her present children, 
who strive to use their powerful in- 
fluence over the rest of their 
confederates for the persecution 
and suppression of their former 
faith, we turned to seek informa- 
tion at the railway station about the 
trains to Lyons or Micon, persuad- 
ed that a further stay on Swiss 
ground would only increase our 
discontent; and, truly, our wrath 
grew to fever heat when, passing by 
the book-stall, we found it filled with 
the most shocking caricatures — and 
worse — of everything Catholic, nay, 
everything religious. Illustrated 
Lives of the faints. Of the Pious He- 
leny and such like titles, got up in 
the most attractive form, first caught 
our eyes and rejoiced our heart'i 
with the hope of better things ; but 
anything more scandalous than the 
scenes there depicted, the low, dis- 
graceful ideas put forward, in the 



Epigram on Abraham Lincoln. 



387 



coarsest style, by both pen and 
pencil, we, never before beheld ex- 
posed in any civilized community. 
In England the police would at 
once have interfered and seized 
the whole establishment. Here 
they covered the book-stall ; and the 
woman who presided showed us 
undisguisedly that they were writ- 
ten and printed in Germany, and 
sent here for sale. What hope is 
there for populations who, in the 
name of religion, can countenance 
such wickedness } 

It was at this stage of our per- 
ambulations and in this condition of 
mind that, on returning to the hotel, 

we had encountered Mrs. C . 

She was no Catholic, but, entering 
into all our feelings, she protested 
that we should find everything quite 
different in the Catholic cantons, 
if we only would make the experi- 
ment. She had been there often, 
and knew that we should be de- 
lighted with them. To every ob- 
jection we made she had a ready 
answer. Besides, what is more 
magical than the bright faces and 



kind looks of friends — above all, 
of old friends, when met abroad? 
As a natural consequence, therefore, 
it was not surprising to us to find 
ourselves, after all, seated with this 
pleasant party in the train which 
that afternoon was leaving for 
Lucerne. Our equanimity, it is 
true, was disturbed at the junction 
at Olten — by the sight of that manu- 
facturing town full of the "free 
thought " and advanced liberals of 
modem society, the head-quar- 
ters of Old-Catholic meetings, and 
the only place where, at that date, 
the parish church had been given 
up to one of the few rebellious 
priests, whilst its true pastor was 
obliged to live in a small private 
house, where he still ministered to 
his old flock as in the days of 
early Christian persecution. But 
we soon reached Lucerne and a 
Catholic atmosphere, and what be- 
fell us in that quarter, what we 
saw and heard from its people, 
shall be related in the following 
chapters to our kind and indulgent 
readers. 



EPIGRAM ON ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

Scivit in extremis statuum defendere foedus ; 
Reddidit optatam collecto milite pacem. 



388 



Grapes and Thorns, 



GRAPES AND THORNS. 



BY THE AUTHOR OP " THE H0U9B OF YORKB." 



CHAPTER XII. 



A TAPER LIGHTED, AND A TAPER BLOWN OUT. 



Our two travellers did not know 
how far removed they were from 
the common ways of life till they 
were again on land. The strange- 
ness of a sea-voyage had made their 
own strangeness less apparent ; but 
when they saw homes, and all the 
daily interests of life moving on as 
once they had moved for them, 
familiar things assumed in their 
eyes a certain grotesque appear- 
ance, and they scarcely knew them- 
selves or each other. How hol- 
low sounded the careless laugh they 
heard, how terrible the jest ! How 
impossible they found it to compre- 
hend how business and pleasure 
could absorb men's souls ! To 
them this gay and busy world was 
wandering recklessly on the brink 
of an unseen precipice which they 
alone could see. 

Annette Gerald had adopted her 
husband's inner, as well as his outer, 
life — had, as it were, stepped inside 
his guilt, and wrapped it round her, 
and his world was henceforth her 
world. With his eyes she saw a 
leafless and flowerless England 
sweep behind her as they sped on- 
ward to London ; and she shrank, 
even as he did, when the thick fog 
of the great city took them in and 
shut them as if in walls of stone. 

" We cannot stay here," her hus- 
band said. " I should lose my 
senses in twenty-four hours. This 
fog makes me feel like a smoky 
house. Are you too tired to go on ? 
J>o Jet us have sunshine, at least." 



No, she was never too tired to go 
on with him. 

They had a compartment to 
themselves, and, weary as they 
were, started on again, a little re- 
lieved in mind. No one had ac- 
costed them in either of the great 
cities, and there seemed to be no 
immediate danger. Overcome with 
fatigue and loss of sleep, they both 
leaned back in the soft cushions, 
and slept soundly till some sound 
or a slackening of their speed 
awakened them. 

The London fog was far away, 
and they found themselves passing 
slowly and smoothly through a 
cloud-world of blue and silver. 
There was no land in sight. The 
window at one side showed them a 
cliff that might be alabaster, and 
might be an illuminated cloud. At 
the other side, a deep-blue sea, 
foam-flecked, and a deep blue sky 
half-veiled in silvery mists, were so 
entangled with each other that only 
where the full moon rode could 
they be sure that it was sky, and 
only where the wave ran up and 
curled over in foam almost within 
tJieir reach could they be sure that 
it was water. 

" The fairies have taken posses- 
sion of Dover," Annette said. " ^ 
hope they have not whisked the 
steamer away. No ; here it is. 
We will stay on deck, Lawrence- 
It is not cold." 

As they steamed out into the 
channel, another scene of enchant- 



Grapes and Thorns. 



389 



ok the place of the ordinary 
\s they withdrew from the 
showed only a crescent of 
ights clustered all over the 
ater, and stars clustered in 
» of the fleecy clouds above, 
hey moved as if swimming 
constellations, 
rdly know which is up and 
5 down," Lawrence said. 
>pe made of clay and rock, 
;rica.>" 

[fe was leaning on his arm, 
y stood looking over the 
the little steamer. "We 
3me this way a hundred 
d not see such a sight," she 
"But there is land be- 
That is France — that low, 
!. In a few hours we shall 
ris. I shall be glad to rest 
get there." 

len they reached it, Paris 
nuch too light as London 
n too dark. In the one 
oe might stumble upon 
my moment ; in the other, 
see them from afar. They 
a dingy little hotel in the 
of Paris, and stayed there 
trying to find rest, but in 
very sound made their 
eat more quickly ; every 
nd sudden step near them 
blood to their faces. Be- 
\ quiet of the place afford- 
no distraction from their 
The noises in the nar- 
it on which the hotel was 
e all shut out by the heavy 
id the quadrangle was as 
forest solitude. Ivy climb- 
the windows, a tiny foun- 
flowcd and ran in a stream 
e pavement, and the only 
who appeared were the 
n who were the chief pa- 
the house, and now and 
universal waiter and ser- 
servants, Frangois, who 



shuffled across the view, a napkin 
over his arm, and his heavy head 
dropped forward, so that only a 
great ball of frowzy dark hair was 
visible. 

" We cannot stay here," Annette 
said, as they stood by the window 
the first evening after their arrival. 
" It is too much like a prison." 
She felt her husband start, and 
made haste to add : " It is stupid, 
and I fancy the air is not good. 
Besides, Paris is too gay, if we go 
out into the city. AVe do not want 
gaiety, Lawrence. We want some 
earnest employment for our time." 

" We will go to Rome," he said. 

"Rome!" she hesitated. "One 
meets everybody there," she said ; 
" and there are so many idlers, too, 
who have nothing to do but talk 
of other people's affairs. Are you 
sure you wish to go to Rome, 
dear.?" 

"I must go! I have an object 
in going there," he exclaimed, ex- 
cited by the first show of even 
slight opposition. " I stake all on 
Rome. Whatever happens to me, 
let it happen there." 

" We will go, then," she answer- 
ed soothingly. " And we may as 
well set out to-night. Nothing is 
unpacked, and we have three hours 
before the train starts." 

He walked to and fro over the 
stone floor of their little sitting- 
room, which allowed only half a 
dozen paces, so narrow was it. 
"Three hours!" he muttered. "It 
is too much ! Cannot we go out } 
There must be a church near." 

" Yes ; in France and in Italy 
there is always a church near." 

They went into the fading sunset, 
and soon found themselves enter- 
ing the old church of S. Etienne du 
Mont. Inside, the pale gloaming 
was changed to a richly-tinted 
gloom that grew every momciU 



390 



Grapes and Thorns, 



deeper. Here and there a lamp 
marked some picture or shrine held 
in special veneration, and far away 
in the apse of the church, where the 
shadows stretched off till they seem- 
ed reaching out to eternity, burned 
a single point of light, as small as 
a star. 

Annette clasped her hands over 
her husband's arm, and leaned her 
cheek close to his shoulder, as they 
stood near the door and looked 
at this little beacon. "O Law- 
rence !" she whispered, " it is like 
the light the mother sets in the 
window to guide her children home 
at night. O me! O me!'* she 
cried pitifully. " What is to be- 
come of us!" 

A crown of tapers burned about 
the shrine where the body of S. 
Genevieve had once lain, and an 
old woman sat near by with her 
prayer-book, presiding over a table 
piled with tapers of different 
lengths, her white cap showing like 
a little heap of snow in the place. 

" People buy tapers for a sou or 
two, and set them by the shrine to 
honor S. Genevieve and remind 
her of their needs," Annette said 
softly as they approached this illu- 
minated space. "Would you Jike 
to offer one.^" 

Lawrence Gerald had been wont 
to mock somewhat at such obser- 
vances in the old time before life 
had been shattered about him and 
shown eternity between its gaps. 
Now he went eagerly forward, se- 
lected a taper, lighted it, and placed 
it, whispering a prayer while his 
fingers lingered on it. Annette 
followed his example, placing her 
offering beside his, and making her 
request also. 

As they were turning away, a 
sacristan approached them from the 
next chapel, and asked if they had 
any article they would like to have 



touched to the inside of the shrine. 
Annette immediately gave him her 
rosary, which he laid an instant 
where the saint's body had lain. 

" Ask him if I can put my hands 
in," Lawrence whispered. 

" Certainly you can !" she answer- 
ed with dignity, seeing the man 
look rather curiously at him. 

She held the lid open, and her 
husband put both his hands in, and 
instantly drew them back, his eyes 
dilating and his color rising, as if 
he had put them into fire. 

They walked on past the grand 
altar, and knelt in a nook by a con- 
fessional. The daylight faded, and 
the smouldering fires of the win- 
dows went out in black and ashen 
gray. But when no outer bright- 
ness was left to enter and show the 
glories of that house of God, the 
lamps and tapers inside burned with 
a clearer fiame. They shed a faint 
illumination through the vast twi- 
light ; they spread a soft gilding up 
the height of the clustered pillars, 
and made tender the gloom brood- 
ing in the roof that arched over their 
capitals; they sparkled on the 
crowns of the saints, and touched 
marble faces with such a holy radi- 
ance that a soul seemed to shine 
through them. 

A slight stir in the confessional 
near them showed that a priest was 
there. "Lawrence," said Annette 
suddenly, " may I go to confes- 
sion r 

"Wait a minute," he answered. 
" I will go first, and then you will 
only need to say that you are mv 
wife." 

His tone revealed a bitter pain; 
for unconsciously her question had 
shown that there was no weight on 
her conscience save that which he 
had placed there, and that she was 
more in need of consolation than 
of forgiveness. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



391 



She sank on to her knees again. 

** O mj God !** she murmured, ** has 

\ come to this, that I must enter 

thy house without being able to 

6nd comfort there ?" 

It was nearly half an hour before 
Lawrence joined her, and they went 
out together. " I have no wish to 
go DOW,'* she said when he offered 
to wait while she went to confes- 
sion. '' Besides, there is no time, if 
we are to start to-night." 

" Do you know, Annette, what I 
prayed for when I put the taper up 
in honor of S. Genevieve .^" her 
husband asked when they were 
again in the street. " I asked that 
my mother may die in peace before 
the month is out. That will be in 
less than two weeks.'* 

"My poor Lawrence !'* she sigh- 
ed. 

**And can you guess the reason 
why I wish, above all things, to go 
to Rome, and don't much care what 
may happen after?" he went on. 
'*0f course you cannot. Well, I 
want to receive absolution from the 
Pope. I go to confession, and pour 
out my story there, and I feel no 
hetter for it; or, if I feel better 
than I should without confes- 
sion, I am still not at peace. I 
don't feel absolved. Yet I want to 
go to confession every hour of the 
day. I am like the Ancient Mariner, 
who had to tell his story to every 
one he met. I want to tell mine 
to every priest in the world.** 

"But, dear Lawrence," she said, 
"that will not be so easy to compass. 
Don't expect such a privilege too 
confidently. You know we cannot 
have an audience, because we can- 
not go to him under false names. 
If we could, his blessing would 
satisfy you, would it not.? But I 
sec no way, dear, though I would 
not discourage you." 

For once her objections did not 



irritate him. " I have been think- 
ing of it ever since we left America," 
he said ; " and in one way or another 
I shall succeed. Yes, his blessing 
would be enough ; and if there were 
no other way, I could tell him my 
real name. Now, we must make 
haste. We have just time to reach 
the station.** 

How many hearts have quicken- 
ed in their beating as they travelled 
that road, drawing near to Italy ! 
iJow many eyes have gazed eagerly 
at that first cross, set aloft on the 
mountain side, at the first shrine 
of the Virgin Mother ! And then 
come the armies of poplars and 
solemn cypresses. 

" They look as if the dead war- 
riors, and prelates, and poets had 
risen from their graves, and were 
staring out over Italy to see 
what their degenerate sons were 
doing," Annette said. "See how 
tightly they hold their' cold green 
robes about them!" 

Our travellers slept a few hours 
at Turin, and, resuming their jour- 
ney before daylight, reached Flor- 
ence in the evening. And here, 
having some time to wait, they 
wandered out, hoping to find a 
church open ; but all were closed 
at this hour. Presently they found 
themselves standing on the bridge 
of the Holy Trinity, listening to a 
burst of wild music from many 
bugles, played by some unseen 
band. So loud and piercing was 
the strain, the very stars appeared 
to tremble as it went up. Then, 
as suddenly as it rose, it dropped 
again, and all was silent. The 
city was quiet, and the Arno 
gleamed across it like a jewelled 
cestus across a sleeping breast. 
Its waters seemed to have crystalliz- 
ed into a purple enamel about the 
golden reflections of the lights 
along its banks, not a ripple show- 



392 



Grapes and Tharns. 



ing which way they flowed. Not 
far away, another bridge spanned 
the tide, its soft and dreamlike 
arches set roundly over the an- 
swering arches in the deeps below. 
A small boat, faintly seen, shot un- 
derneath this bridge, and disap- 
peared. It was a vision of Flor- 
ence as one sees it in history and 
poetry. 

The two strangers leaned on the 
balustrade of the bridge, and, as 
they gazed, felt the curse upon 
them grow less sharp, as though 
they were ghosts, and their crime 
some old, old story, touched with 
a sad splendor by poet and painter, 
and half washed away by the tears 
of pitying generations. 

Standing there, silent and half 
comforted, they became aware of 
a low, murmurous sound of many 
feet and voices; and then a long 
line of white-robed figures appear- 
ed, carrying torches. A bier was 
borne aloft in their midst, what it 
held covered with an embroidered 
pall that glistened with gold. These 
men recited prayers together as 
they went, and the river and 
bridge were for a moment bright 
with the glare of their torches. 
Then they disappeared, and a star- 
lighted quiet reigned again over 
the city of flowers. 

Annette touched her husband's 
arm, and they reluctantly turned 
away from that spot where first 
they had experienced a feeling of 
peace. 

And then, all night they plunged 
deeper and deeper into Italy, till 
morning and the Eternal City met 
their fiices, and dazzled them. 

** Thank God ! I am in Rome at 
3ast/* exclaimed Lawrence. ** Now 
nothing but death shall tear me 
away from it.** 

Yes, there it was! the crum- 
bling, stately city of the past, look- 



ing as if it had just risen fi 
bottom of the sea, after 
been submerged for centur: 
was all a faded gold cole 
autumn leaves, and its 
streets were chilly, as thougl 
had breathed through them 
its heights were warm and 
and its dusky trees and 
were steeped in warmth, an 
its magnificent decay the si 
fresh and blue, and the m 
sunshine flowed bountifully. 

"Now," said Mrs. Geral 
coming business-like at one 
must first engage an apai 
and get our luggage into 
think I know Italian enou 
that, thanks to the songs J 
learned." 

" Do you propose singi 
aria to call a cab.?" her hi 
asked. "And will you eng 
apartment to the tune of 
me, Norma '?" 

He smiled, and for a breat 
ed like his old self. But tt 
instant his face changed, 
thought of his mother was < 
to banish the smile for ever. 

That thought had taken fi 
session of him, filling him 
terror, sorrow, and longing 
burned in his heart like con< 
fire. His flight had been 
with no feeling but fear fo 
self; but with the first breath 
air of the city of saints, he i 
a penitence which was ¥ 
taint of weakness.. 

While his wife, then, ar 
their aflairs, and attended 
preparation of their little ^ 
he took in hand the one woi 
sible for him — the study of h 
soul. This anguish for his 
er, whom he loved deeply, 
as he had wronged her, w; 
a sword that cleft the selfisl 
of his nature. His who! 



Grapes and Thorns. 



393 



came up before him with merciless 
distinctness — all its ingratitude, its 
pettishness, its littleness, its sinful 
waste, its many downward steps 
leading to the final plunge to ruin. 
He saw, as if it were before him, 
his mother's loving, patient face; 
he heard, as if she were speaking 
at his side, her sad and tremulous 
voice ; and more pathetic even 
than her sorrow were the brief 
moments of happiness he had giv- 
en her, her smile of pride in him, 
her delight when he showed her 
some mark of affection, her eager 
anticipation of his wishes. As he 
went back over this past, the self- 
pity, the blindness, the false shame, 
were stripped away from him, and 
He saw himself as he was. 

"Nothing but utter ruin could 
have brought me to my senses," 
he said to his wife one day, when 
^e had been sitting for a long while 
silent, gazing out at a little foun- 
tain that sprang into air in a vain 
effort to reach the laden orange- 
^^^ that overshadowed it. 

She made no reply, and he need- 
*^ none. She had let him go his 
own ways, keeping watch, but nev- 
^^ interfering. She had nothing 
^0 do for him now but wait and 
*^ what sort of call he would 
n^c on her. 

He wandered from church to 

church, and knelt at every shrine 

^^ the city of shrines. Wherever 

^^ signal lamp told that there 

^^c troubled soul had found help, 

^^ Sent up his petition. He glanced 

^th indifferent eyes past the rich 

™^fbles and gilding; but when a 

^*5^e looked from marble or canvas 

^Uh an expression that touched 

^is heart, there he made his appeal. 

^he luxuries of life grew loathsome 

^^ him ; fashion and gaiety were to 

^im like a taunt of the evil one, 

^ho had used them as lures for his 



destruction. He hated the fine- 
ness of his own clothes, the dainti- 
ness of his food. None of the peo- 
ple he saw seemed to him enviable, 
save the poor monks in their coarse 
brown robes, with their bare feet 
thrust into rough sandals. In his 
own house he lived like an ascetic. 

Now and then he would rouse 
himself from this stern and pro- 
longed examen to think of his wife. 
She had claims on him which, per- 
haps, he was forgetting. 

*' You poor child !" he said, " we 
are not in India, that you should 
immolate yourself over my dead 
hopes. What can I do for you. I 
would free you, if I could." 

"You are not to think of me," 
she replied quietly. "It is God 
who now commands you to think 
of yourself." v 

"Yes!" he exclaimed, "I have 
made my own instruments of tor- 
ture. Having thought of myself 
when it was a sin, I am forced to 
think of myself when it is a tor- 
ment. And I escape that thought 
only to remember my victims. 
Annette, but one day is left of the 
four weeks. O my mother ! if 
space could be annihilated, and I 
could be with you till it is over! 
If I could but know what has hap- 
pened, what will happen, to her !" 

He had spent the whole day in a 
church near by, sometime&^raying 
before an altar, sometimes gazing 
at the pictures, in search of a divine 
meaning that might be hidden in 
them ; but oftener, withdrawn to a 
dusky nook where only a single 
lamp burned before a head crowned 
with thorns, he gave himself up to 
grief. 

"It is useless to wish and re- 
pine," his wife replied sadly. 
" That is one of the weaknesses we 
must cure ourselves of. Since it is 
only a torment to imagihe what 



Grapes and Thorns. 



394 



may be taking place at home, let 
us try to banish the thought, leav- 
ing all in the hands of God. And 
now, Lawrence, do you know that 
you have eaten nothing to-day? 
When you stay so long again, I 
shall go after you. In Rome, at this 
season, it is dangerous to allow the 
strength to fail. You will soon be 
ill, if you go on fasting so." 

"And what matter if I should?" 
he asked. 

The wife waited till the servant 
had placed the dinner on the table 
and gone out before she spoke, and 
the moment of consideration had 
made her resolve on a stem an- 
swer, however willingly she would 
have given a tender one. She had 
long since discovered that her hus- 
band was one of those whom the 
flatteries of affection enervate in- 
stead of stimulating, and she was 
not sure enough of a radical change 
having taken place in him to yield 
to her own impulse to soothe and 
persuade when reproof might be 
more effectual. 

" Of all the gifts which God has 
bestowed on you," she said, " you 
have cast away every one but life ; 
but with that life you may yet 
atone, and become a blessing to 
the world. It is your duty to 
watch over the only means left you 
of making reparation." 

He did not show the slightest 
displeasure at her reproof. On the 
contrary, there seemed to be some- 
thing in it almost pleasant to him. 
Perhaps the suggestion that he 
might yet be a blessing in the 
world, incredible as that appeared, 
inspired him with an undefined 
hope. He dwelt thoughtfully on 
her words in a way that was be- 
coming habitual to him whenever 
she spoke with peculiar seriousness, 
and Annette, seeing his humility, 
was half sorry for having put it to 



the test. With a confused impulse 
to give him at least some pitiful 
and perilous comfort, she poured a 
glass of wine, and placed it by him, 
well aware that for weeks he had 
not drunk any. 

He put it away decidedly. " I 
would as soon drink poison, An- 
nette," he said reproachfully. *' I 
did not think that you would offer 
it to me." 

She withdrew the glass immedi- 
ately, ash^ed of her weakness, 
and making a hasty apology. '* If 
I had known you had made any 
resolution on the subject, I would 
not have offered it," she said. 
" Forgive me ! I never will again." 

"Oh! there was no resolution 
needed," he said. "If you had 
been burned almost to death once, 
would you need to resolve not to 
go into the fire again ? I fancy the 
sight of it would be enough. But 
I think I may promise never again 
to take wine, unless I should be 
commanded to by some one who 
knows better than I." 

His wife did not reply. This 
was a degree of asceticism which 
she had not expected and was 
afraid to trust. She had expected 
him to refuse indulgences, but not 
consolations. Indeed, she did not 
now understand her husband, and 
her hope of his redemption was but 
a trembling one. This self-denial 
might be only another illustration 
of that instability which rushes 
from one extreme to the other, 
only to return to its first excess. 

We all know how to rely on that 
natural firmness, which the sad ex- 
perience of mankind has shown to 
be never so strong but it may fail 
at any hour; but the supernatural 
strength of the naturally weak who 
have cast themselves on God often 
finds no doubting. We miss the 
firm lips, the steady eyes, the un- 



Grapes and Thorns. 



^"Ty uBi^^ 



daunted brow — ^those signs of a 
resolute soul which the pagan shares 
with the Christian — and we for- 
get that the tremulous mouth we 
distrust has sighed out its prayer 
to Him who is mighty, the shrink- 
ing eyes have looked upon the hills 
whence help cometh, the timid 
brow has been hidden beneath the 
wing of an angel guardian, and 
that, faltering though the soul may 
have been, and may be again, the 
shield of God is before it, and it 
can be conquered by no human 
strength. 

This soul had made such an ad- 
vance as to be conscious of some 
snch fortitude infused into it. 
Lawrence Gerald had no fear of 
falling into his former sins. He 
might have the misery of seeing the 
destruction he had brought on 
others, might be himself destroyed 
by a sorrow and remorse too great 
to bear; but he had an immovable 
conviction that he could never 
again return to his old ways nor 
commit any grave transgression. 
It was this conviction which had 
roade him say that nothing but de- 
struction could have brought him 
to his senses. 

" I like that church you took me 
to this morning," he said, walking 
slowly up and down the room. 
**The others, many of them, seem 
to me fit only for the happy. They 
are all display and confusion and 
sight-seers, with scarcely a nook in 
them where a person in trouble can 
hide. They do not give me any 
impression of sacredness. But this 
one is so quiet and sober, and there 
are no people standing about with 
guide-books, talking aloud while 
you are praying or trying to pray. 
Then there is a little place, half 
chapel, half vestibule, between the 
church and the sacristy, where a 
^ide door enters the church, with 



an Ecce Homo in a little shrine; 
ard there, you can be quite private, 
without any one staring at you. I 
shall go to that church altogether." 

The church he spoke of was San- 
ta Maria della Pace. 

"It is Our Lady of Peace," his 
wife said, " and was built to com- 
memorate the peace of Christen- 
dom. I thought it would please 
you. Surely some special consola- 
tion and tranquillity should linger 
about a temple built and cemented 
with such an intention. I like it, 
too, better than most others we 
have visited, though it is not so 
splendid as many." 

She did not tell him that, after 
having left his side, when the early 
Mass was over, she had lingered in 
the church till it was closed at 
noon, not to watch him, but to be 
near him. Requesting the sacris- 
tan to withdraw the curtain cover- 
ing the Four Sibyls of Raphael, she 
had seated herself before the chapel 
opposite, and divided her attention 
between that matchless vision and 
the unquiet figure that moved about 
the church. Once he had come 
near, but without seeming aware of 
her presence, and, standing at her 
side, had gazed with her. And 
while he gazed, she had seen the 
trouble in his face grow still for a mo- 
ment. The noble serenity of that 
composition, so soothing to eyes 
wearied by the sprawling magnifi- 
cence of Michael Angelo and the 
ever-present, dishevelled, wind-toss- 
ed figures of Bernini, lifted his soul 
to a higher plane. Even when he 
sighed and turned away, as if not 
willing to allow himself the pleasure 
of looking at so much beauty, he 
carried something of that spirit of 
harmony with him. 

" Lawrence," his wife said pre- 
sently, when she had borne his rest- 
less promenade as lorv^ as ^Vv^ 



396 



Grapes and Thorns. 



could, " I know that you did not 
sleep any last night. I wish that 
you would take a powder that I will 
give you, and try to sleep now. 
You look worn out. Lie down on 
the sofa here, and I will keep every- 
thing quiet." 

He shook his head. "I would 
rather not take anything to make 
me sleep, Ninon. And to-night I 
would not sleep, if I could. But I 
will lie down here a little while ; for 
I am tired, now I think of it." 

He threw himself on the sofa, 
and she placed a screen before him, 
and closed the window near his 
head, so that even the soft plash- 
ing of the fountain was shut out, 
and the small notes of birds that 
twittered in the great pine-tree in 
the garden. And after a little while, 
finding him still restless, §he went 
to the piano, and sang how God 
sent Elias to reassure and comfort 
a doubting and tempted soul. The 
notes flowed with a soothing mur- 
mur from under her fingers, and 
her voice, no longer the brilliant, 
ringing tones he had taken such 
pride in, was so low it might be a 
spirit singing : 

*^ *Tell him that his very longingf 

!s itself an answerUiff cry ; 
That his prayer, ^* Come, gracious Alia !*' 

Is my answer, ^* Here am I ! " ' 
Bvery inmost aspiration 

Is God*s angel undefiled ; 
And in e^ery * O my Father !* 

Slumbers deep a * Here, my child !* ** 

Ending, she listened a moment, 
then stole across the room, and 
looked behind the screen. Law- 
rence was sleeping, with his head 
thrown back, his beautiful profile 
and moist, dark curls thrown out 
strongly by the garnet cushions and 
pillow. 

She went to the window, and 
seated herself on a footstool near 
it, wrapping the long red curtains 
about her, and leaning against the 
wall. The sculptured marble of 



that stately salon was cold against 
her cheek ; a flock of doves wheel- 
ing about over the garden caught 
some last rays of the sun on their 
wings, and threw them down over 
her, so that little white wings seem- 
ed to be fluttering all around the 
room; the casement slipped open, 
and the sound of tossing waters 
and twittering birds again became 
audible; but the watcher there 
took no note of these things. She 
was looking at the figure stretched 
on the sofa^ and thinking that in all 
Rome there was no ruin so mourn- 
ful and so terrible. He was like 
some fair column stricken from out 
a temple and cast aside into the 
dust ; not touched by the hand of 
time, that, with its 'slow to-and-fro 
of days and nights, and seasons and 
years, lulls all the pain of decay to 
sleep, but broken and scathed, as 
if by lightning. 

While she looked, he stirred, and 
opened his eyes; and the sympa- 
thetic pain with which she saw how 
he came back to a consciousness of 
his position almost drew an outcry 
from her. The first tranquil, half- 
wondering glance which saw, in- 
stead of the familiar surroundings 
of his childhood and youth, that 
immense room, with its profuse 
hangings and painted ceiling, and 
the long windows opening like 
doors ; then the brief flash of star- 
tled questioning; lastly, the an- 
guish of full recollection. 

"O my God! my God!" he 
exclaimed, and hid his face in the 
cushions again. 

She was at his side in a moment. 

" Let us go out for a long drive, 
Lawrence," she said. "There will 
be a bright moonlight to-night, and 
we can see so many places by it. 
Come ! I will send for a carriage at 
once. There is nothing else for 
either of us to do." 



Grapes and Thorns. 



397 



Nothing could have shown more 
X early the change in Lawrence 
!Vcrald than his manner of receiving 
"His proposal. Instead of express- 
rig at once his aversion, and re- 
proaching his wife that she could 
believe it possible for him to go 
sight-seeing at such a time, he stop- 
ped to consider if what she thought 
best might not be best, however it 
should seem to him. 

"You must think for me now, 
Annette,*' he said with a sort of 
despair. " You know I do not wish 
to seek pleasure nor distraction ; 
but I suppose I must live." 

She sent for a carriage at once, 
and they went out under the full 
moon that was beginning to replace, 
with its pearly southern lights and 
northern shadows, the fading cross- 
lights of the sun. They drove to 
the Colosseum, not yet despoiled of 
its sacred emblems, and, kneeling 
there in the dust, made the stations 
in their own way. Annette named 
each one as they reached it, then 
left her husband to make his medi- 
tation, or to utter the ejaculation 
that started up from his tormented 
heart, as sharp as a blade from its 
sheath. 

At last they stood together by 
the crucifix, with the moonlight fall- 
ing on them and through the great 
arches in a silvery rain. 

Annette saw her husband wipe 
his forehead, though the night was 
cool. He breathed heavily, and 
looked at the earth beneath his 
f"tct, as if he saw through it, and 
beheld the martyr lying where he 
fell centuries before. 

'*0 my dear!" she said, "I 
know that there is no lion like re- 
morse. But is it no comfort to you 
that you are not alone V* 

"it is both a comfort and a 
P^Jn," he answered gently. " I 
should be desolate without you, and 



I should have done something des- 
perate, perhaps, if I had been alone. 
You must understand my gratitude 
and my regret without expecting 
me to express them. I cannot 
speak. I know I have wronged 
you bitterly, and that you are an 
angel of goodness to me ; but I can 
say no more about it. If I were at 
my mother's feet this moment, I 
should be speechless. I cannot 
pray even. I acknowledge the jus- 
tice of God, and will endure what- 
ever he sends. That is all I can 
say." 

He had forced himself to speak, 
she perceived, with a great effort. 
The season of complaints and out- 
cries had gone past, and he had en- 
tered on the way of silence. 

They went out, and left the ruin 
to its solemn tenants — the gliding 
shadows, which might be the troub- 
led ghosts of the slayers, and the 
floating lights, which might be the 
glorified souls of the slain, visiting 
the loved spot where they had seen 
the heavens open for them. 

The streets were nearly deserted 
when the two returned to them, their 
horses walking. They stopped at 
the fountain of Trevi, leaned awhile 
on the stone rail, and watched the 
streams that burst in snowy foam 
all along the front. 

" What a heap of coals and ashes 
Rome would be without her foun- 
tains !" Annette said. " It would 
be like a family of patriarchs where 
no children are seen. And yet the 
waters do not always seem to me 
so childish. Theirs is the youth 
and freshness of angels. See how 
triumphant they look ! They have 
been a long while in the dark, till 
they may have despaired of ever 
seeing the sun again. It is the way 
of souls, Lawrence. They walk in 
darkness and pain, they cannot see 
their way, and they someUwves 



398 



Grapes and Tkoms. 



doubt if light any longer exists. 
And at last they burst from their 
prison, and find themselves in the 
city of God." 

" Yes," he said, " but they have 
not sinned; they have only suf- 
fered. I have always thought, An- 
nette, that the saints have the 
easier life. You know we are told 
that the way of the transgressor is 
hard." 

"But the saints did not choose 
that life because it was the easier," 
she replied. ** They gave no 
thought to such a reward, but it 
was bestowed on them ; and pro- 
bably, when they chose, the other 
way seemed the easier, in spite of 
what the preacher says. The per- 
son who chooses a good life because 
it is the easier will never perse- 
vere in it ; for the devil will always 
persuade him that he has made a 
mistake, and, since he chose from 
a selfish motive, God will owe him 
no help. The saints took what 
was hard, and what seemed the 
hardest because it was right, and left 
the consequences with God ; and 
they had their reward. The sinner 
takes what seems the easiest, and 
thinks only of himself; and he, too, 
has his reward. Do not the waters 
look lovely ? They are so fresh and 
new ! How beautiful an image it is 
to compare divine grace to a foun- 
tain!" 

They drove on through the 
town, across the bridge of S. An- 
gelo, and saw the angel sheathing 
his sword — or was he unsheathing 
it? — against the sky, and, leaving 
their carriage at the entrance of 
the piazza of S. Peter's, walked 
across it to that majestic temple, 
which, more than any other, and at 
that hour more than ever, seemed 
worthy of the Spouse of the Spirit. 
Golden and white, the mystical 
flood of moonlight veiled it, rip- 



pling along its colonnades, glitter- 
ing in its fountains, setting a pave- 
ment of chalcedony across the pi- 
azza and up the wide ascent, and 
trembling round the dome that 
swelled upward like a breast full 
with the divine milk and honey 
with which the church nourishes 
her children. 

Lawrence stopped near the obe- 
lisk. 

"The first question the church 
asked of me when I was brought 
before her, an infant," he said, 
"was what I had come to ask of 
her, and my sponsors answered for 
me. Faith. Now once again she 
asks the same question." 

He was silent a moment, looking 
up at the church, but with eyes 
that saw only the sacred Mother. 
Tears rolled down his face, and his 
lips trembled; but there was no 
sign of that desperate passion which 
had so worn him. " I ask for for- 
giveness and perseverance," he said. 

She observed that he did not ask 
for peace. 

He went forward to the steps, 
and knelt there ; and as he wept 
and prayed, his wife heard ever the 
same petition that God would have 
mercy on his mother, that in some 
way he would spare her the blow 
that threatened to fall upon her, 
and that she might know how he 
loved her and mourned his ingrati- 
tude. 

Annette withdrew from her hus- 
band, and paced to and fro not far 
away. She, too, had a mother who 
was about to be stricken with grief 
on her account, and whom she 
might never again see in life. 

She had almost forgotten her 
husband and how time was flying, 
when she heard his voice at her side. 

" My poor Annette, I am killing 
you," he said. "Come home. 
See ! the day is breaking." 



Grapes and Thorns, 



399 



The east was, indeed, growing 
pale with the early dawn, and the 
western colonnade was throwing 
long shadows as the moon declined. 
It was time for them to return. 
Chilled and exhausted, they en- 
tered their carriage, and were driven 
home. 

The dawn of that same day, when 
in its course the sun rose from the 
Atlantic, and brightened the New 
England shore, saw Mrs. Gerald 
and Honora Pembroke go to early 
Mass together. 

F. Chevreuse had visited them 

the morning before, and requested 

I* them to go to communion that 

day, and pi:ay for themselves, their 

friends, and for his intention. 

**I have a difficult duty to per- 
fom," he said, " and I want all the 
i help I can get. So make your- 
I sehres as saintly as possible, my 
dear friends. Confess and prepare 
yourselves for holy communion as 
if it were to be your last, and pray 
with all your strength, and do not 
allow a single smallest venial sin to 
touch you all day." 

F. Chevreuse often asked them 
to pray for his intention, and all 
they observed in this was his unusual 
earnestness. It had the effect of 
peaking them also unusually earnest 
itt their devotion. Mrs. Gerald 
*as, indeed, so absorbed that she 
failed to notice that when Honora 
came from the priest's house, where 
she had been just before evening, 
she did not look quite well. F. 
Chevreuse had requested her to 
come there from her school, before 
going home, and she had been with 
him nearly an hour, 

" So you have been to confession," 
Mrs. Gerald said, arranging the 
tray for their tea. " I thought we 
*ould go there together this eve- 
ning." 

She spoke in a very gentle, al- 



most absent way ; for she had been 
saying, as she went about, all the 
short prayers she could remember 
to the Blessed Virgin, and would 
resume them presently. 

"So we will go together,'* Miss 
Pembroke replied. " But I wanted 
to see F. Chevreuse this after- 
noon." 

She seated herself in a shady 
comer of the room, and opened her 
prayer-book ; but it trembled so in 
her hand that she was forced to lay 
it aside, and pretend to be occupied 
with her rosary instead. Now and 
then she stole a glance at her com- 
panion, and saw with thankfulness 
that she was entirely occupied with 
her devotions. As she went about, 
preparing with dainty care their sim- 
ple meal, her lips were moving; 
and sometimes she would pause a 
moment to bless herself, or to kiss 
the crucifix suspended from her 
neck, or to dwell on some sweet 
thought she had found hidden in a 
little prayer, like a blossom under 
a leaf. 

And later in the evening, when 
the two returned from the priest's 
house, there was nothing to attract 
attention in Miss Pembroke's man- 
ner ; for they sat reading and medi- 
tating till it was bed-time. It was 
their custom, since they lived alone, 
to prepare thus strictly for the re- 
ception of the Holy Eucharist. 

Mrs. Gerald stood a minute be- 
fore the embers of the dying fire, 
when they were ready to go up- 
stairs, the hand she had stretched 
for the bed-candle resting on the 
edge of the mantel-piece near it. 
" How peaceful we are here, Ho- 
nora!" she said in her soft way. 
yet rather suddenly. 

Miss Pembroke was bending to 
push the few remaining coals back, 
and her reply was indistinct, yet 
sounded like an affirmative. 



400 



Grapes and Thorns. 



" We have so much to be grateful 
for," Mrs. Gerald went on. " I do 
not think that we could be more 
comfortable. I am sure that great- 
er riches would disturb me. Indeed, 
I never wanted riches, except for 
Lawrence; and now he does not 
need them. I can truly say that I 
have all I desire." 

Miss Pembroke did not reply 
nor look up. She only stooped 
lower, and stretched her hands out 
over the coals, as if to warm them. 
Yet the two had always been so in 
harmony that her silence seemed 
to be assent. 

" F. Chevreuse spoke beautifully 
to me to-night," Mrs. Gerald con- 
tinued, still lingering. " He kept 
me some time talking after I had 
made my confession ; and, what is 
unusual with him, he spoke of him- 
self. He said that all the favors 
he has to ask of God are for others ; 
but that when he comes to pray for 
himself, he can only say, *Amen.' 
Now and then, he said, he thinks to 
ask some special favor ; but when 
he lifts his eyes to heaven, only one 
word comes: 'Amen! amen!' I 
did not understand, while he spoke, 
how much it meant; but I have 
been thinking it over since I came 
home, and I see that the word may 
include all that a Christian need 
say." 

A murmured " Yes !" came from 
Honora, who turned her head aside 
that the candle might not shine in 
her face. " And now, dear Mrs. 
Gerald, since we are to rise early, 
we had better go to bed. Can I do 
anything for you.^ Is there any- 
thing to do to-night ? 

" Nothing, thank you, dear!" 

They went up stairs together, 
and, when they parted, Miss Pem- 
broke embraced her friend with un- 
usual tenderness. " May you have 
a good night's sleep!" she said; 



and, in the anguish of her heart, 
could almost have added, " And 
may you never wake I" 

For F. Chevreuse had msely 
judged it best to prepare her to 
sustain her friend when the hour of 
trial should come ; and Honora, 
better than any other perhaps, un- 
derstood what that shock would 
be. 

" Go out in the morning and dis- 
miss your school for the day," the 
priest had said to her. " Then re- 
turn home immediately, and make 
some excuse for it. You will 
easily be able to plead a headache, 
I fancy. Tell Mrs. Gerald that F. 
O'Donovan is coming to see her, so 
that she may not go out. And 
pray, my child, pray ! What else 
is there for any of us to do in this 
terrible world but pray ?" 

Honora was obliged to make her 
excuses before going to school, for 
Mrs. Gerald at length noticed her 
altered looks, and almost insisted 
on dismissing the school for her. 
But she would not allow that. 

" I shall feel better to go out 
than to sit in the house waiting," 
she said, quite truly. " But I will 
come back at once. Pray do not 
be anxious about me. You know 
I am strong and healthyj' 

When she returned, she found 
that Mrs. Gerald had, with motherly 
affection, made every preparation 
for her comfort. A deep sofa was 
pushed into a shady corner of the 
sitting-room, pillows and a shawl 
were laid ready, and, as she entered 
the room, she perceived the plea- 
sant odor of pennyroyal, their favor- 
ite remedy for colds and head- 
aches. 

Mrs. Gerald set down the steam- 
ing cup she held, and began to re- 
move her young friend's bonnet 
and shawl. ** I thought you would 
rather lie down here than go up 



Grapes and Tliorns. 



401 



stairs by yourself," she said. "I 
will keep everything quiet." 

Honora submitted to be made an 
invalid of, since this tender soul 
could have no greater pleasure than 
to relieve suffering ; allowed herself 
to be assisted to the sofa ; let Mrs. 
Gerald arrange the pillows under 
her head and cover her with the 
shawl; then drank obediently the 
remedy offered her. But all the 
while her heart was sinking with an 
agony of apprehension, and she lis- 
tened breathlessly for a step which 
was to bring doom to this uncon- 
scious victim. 

" Now what else can I do for 
you, dear?" her nurse asked, look- 
ing vainly to see what had not been 
done. 

Honora answered, ** Nothing " ; 
but, recollecting that something 
might be needed, if not for her, 
added, ''You might place a glass 
of water and the camphor-bottle 
here where I can reach them." 

Mrs. Gerald brought them, from 
the mere pleasure of serving. " But 
you must not drink the water, for 
you are to be kept warm," she said. 
"Your hands are quite cold now. 
And, you know, camphor never 
does you any good." 

She was about turning away 

when Honora took her hand, and 

detained her. She dared not look 

up, but she held the hand close to 

her cheek on the pillow. " Dear 

friend," she said in a stifled voice, 

**!( sometimes almost hurts me to 

remember how good and kind you 

have always been to me. I hope I 

have never seemed ungrateful; I 

have never felt so. But in future I 

want to be more than ever to you. 

1-et me be your daughter, and live 

•rith you always. I do not want to 

go away with any one else." 

" My daughter !" said Mrs. Ger- 
old, full of loving surprise and ple^*- 

VOL. XIX. — 26 



sure; and stooped to leave a kiss 
on the girl's forehead. 

"And now, dear mother," said 
Honora, " do not fancy that I am 
very sick. In an hour, all will be 
over." 

Mrs. Gerald smiled at this pro- 
mise of sudden cure. 

" Then I will leave you quiet a 
little while, and go out to water my 
plants. The seeds have come up 
which I sowed in the tracks my 
other tw^o children made ; and in a 
day or two, when Lawrence and 
Annette come home, their footprints 
will be quite green." 

She spoke with a gentle gaiety, for 
she was happy. So much affection 
had been shown her, she seemed to 
be of such help and value to those 
she loved best, that life assumed for 
her an aspect of spring and -youth, 
and a gladness long unknown to 
her rose up in her heart. 

As she left the room, Honora 
looked eagerly after her, raising 
herself on her elbow, as soon as 
she was out of sight, and listening 
toward the door. When she heard 
her step on the veranda, she start- 
ed off the sofa, and ran to look out 
through a blind into the garden. 
Mrs. Gerald was on her knees by 
the precious tracks, which she had 
carefully enclosed with slender 
pegs of wood, and was sprinkling 
with water the tiny blades of green 
that grew thickly inside. A soft 
and tender smile played round her 
lips, and the wrinkles that pain 
and anxiety sometimes drew in her 
face were all smoothed away. 
The spring morning hung over her 
like a benediction, silent and 
bright, not a breath of wind stir- 
ring ; and in that secluded street, 
with its cottages and embowering 
trees, she was as safe from public 
observation as she would have 
been in the country. 



402 



Grapes and Thorns. 



Honora glanced at the clock. 
It wanted five minutes of ten. 

"Five minutes more of happi- 
ness !'* she murmured, and, from 
faintness, sank on her knees before 
the window, looking out still with 
her eyes fixed on that quiet, bend- 
ing figure. 

Mrs. Gerald stretched her hand 
and slowly made the sign of the 
cross over each one of those pre- 
cious footprints. "May all their 
steps be toward heaven !" she 
whispered. "May angels guard 
them now and for ever, and may 
the blessings of the poor and the 
suffering spring up wherever they go, 
like these flowers, in their path." 

She rose and stood looking off 
into distance, tears of earnest feel- 
ing glistening in her eyes. 

"Two minutes longer!" mur- 
mured Honora, who felt as if the 
room were swimming around her, 
so that she had to grasp the win- 
dow-ledge for support. She could 
not see, but she heard a step on 
the sidewalk, and, though it was 
more measured than usual, there 
was no possibility of mistaking it. 
Only one step would come in that 
way and stop at their gate this 
morning. She heard F. O'Dono- 
van's voice, and presently the two 
came into the entry together. 

"Perhaps you had better come 
into the parlor," Mrs. Gerald was 
saying. " Honora is lying down 
in there. She has a bad head- 
ache this morning." 

" Nevertheless, we will go in and 
see her," was the reply. 

Miss Pembroke started up, frigh- 
tened at her own weakness. It 
would never do to fail now, when 
all the strength she could show 
would be needed. She had only 
time to seat herself on the sofa 
when they entered the room. 

" My dear child ! why did you 



not lie still .^" Mrs. Gerald exclaim- 
ed. " I am sure F. O 'Donovan 
would excuse you." 

" I would rather sit up, if you 
will come and sit by me," Honora 
answered; and, taking Mrs. Gerald's 
hands, drew her down to the sofa, 
and sat there holding her in a half 
embrace. 

The lady noticed with surprise 
that no greeting passed between 
the priest and Honora, and that he 
had not uttered a word of sym- 
pathy for her illness, nor, indeed, 
scarcely glanced at her. He went 
to the window, and opened one of 
the blinds. 

" Allow me to have a ray of sun- 
shine in the room," he said. " Why 
should we shut it out } It is like 
divine love in a sorrowful world." 

Mrs. Gerald had hardly time to 
notice this somewhat unusual free- 
dom of manner on the part of F. 
O'Donovan, for, as he came and 
seated himself near her, she was 
struck by the paleness and gravity 
of his face. 

" Are you ill } Has anything 
happened.^" she asked hastily ; but 
he saw that in her anxiety there 
was no thought of danger to herself. 
It was a friendly solicitude for him; 
and she instantly glanced at Ho- 
nora, as if connecting her illness 
with his altered appearance. That 
her'young friend might have some 
cause of trouble seemed to her 
quite possible; for she had never 
been able to disabuse her mind of 
the belief that Honora had become 
more interested in Mr. Schoninger 
than she would own, and that she 
had never recovered entirely from 
the shock of his disgrace. 

" I have great news to tell you," 
said F. O'Donovan, "Mr. Schon- 
inger is proved innocent, and will 
immediately be set at liberty." 

" How glad I am !" exclaimed 



Grapes and Thorns. 



403 



Mrs. Gerald, who immediately be- 
lieved that she understood all. 
" But how is it known ?" 

" The real criminal has confess- 
ed," the priest went on ; " and the 
confession and the circumstances 
are all of a sort to excite our deep- 
est compassion. For it was not a 
deliberate crime, but only one of 
those steps which a man who has 
once consented to walk in the 
wrong path seems compelled to 
take. The poor fellow was deceiv- 
ed, and led on as all sinners are. 
He was in pecuniary difficulties, 
and yielded to a temptation to take 
F. Chevreuse's money, intending to 
repay it The rest followed almost 
as a matter of course. Mother 
Chevreuse defended her son's pro- 
perty, and the poor sinner had to 
secure what he had risked so much 
to obtain, and escape the disgrace 
of detection. Others were ap- 
proaching, and he was desperate. 
He gave an unlucky push, with no 
intention but to free himself, and 
the devil looked out for the result. 
But, if you could know how entire- 
ly that poor soul has repented, not 
only the fatal step in which his 
errors ended, but every smallest 
fault that led to it, you would have 
only pity for him. Mother Che- 
vreuse died a good and holy woman, 
full of years and good works, and 
(>erhaps her death will be the cause 
of one man being a saint. He 
promises everything for the future, 
and that with a fervor which no 
one can doubt. He acknowledges 
the justice of any contumely and 
suffering and loss which may befall 
him. The only thought too hard 
for him to bear is that of the sor- 
row he has brought on his own fa- 
mily. If he could suffer alone, he 
would not complain; he would 
suffer tenfold, if it were possible, 
fo spare those he loves." 



Mrs. Gerald had listened with 
intense interest to this story, and 
when it was ended she drew a long 
breath. "Poor man!" she sighed. 
"Has he a wife?" 

"Yes; he has a wife who is all 
devotion to him, and who will fol- 
low him to the last. She will never 
be separated from him." 

" Will she go to prison with him ' 
Will she be allowed to do that.>" 
Mrs. Gerald asked in surprise. 

" Oh ! it is not a question of im- 
prisonment, " the priest replied. 
" He has escaped, and will proba- 
bly never be taken. His confession 
was written, sealed, and entrusted 
to a priest, to be opened at a cer- 
tain time. It was opened this 
morning." 

The two watched Mrs. Gerald 
with trembling anxiety as she sat 
a moment with downcast eyes, 
musing over this strange story. 
Honora did not dare to breathe or 
stir, lest she should loosen the 
thunderbolt that hung suspended 
over their heads, ready to drop, 
and the priest was inwardly pray- 
ing for wisdom to speak the right 
word. 

"I hope he has no mother,'* 
Mrs. Gerald said, without looking 
up. 

" That is the hardest part of all," 
said F. O'Donovan. "He has a 
mother. It is that which renders 
his remorse so terrible. But for- 
tunately she is a Christian woman, 
who will know how to bend to the 
will of God, and leave her afflic- 
tions at his feet. She will be com- 
forted by the thought that her son 
is a sincere penitent, and is by this 
awful lesson put for ever on his 
guard against sins which might 
otherwise have seemed to him 
trivial." 

"Oh! but think of her respon- 
sibility !" exclaimed Mrs. Gerald, 



404 



Grapes and Tliorns. 



raising her eyes quickly. " Think 
of her remorse and fear when she 
looks back on her training of that 
child, and thinks that all his faults 
and crimes may be laid at her door. 
I know a mother's heart, F. O'Do- 
novan, and I tell you there will 
be no comfort for that mother. 
You cannot have seen her. Where 
is she? I would like to go to 
her." 

"She does not yet know," re- 
plied the priest, almost in a whis- 
per, and stopped there, though 
other words seemed about to fol- 
low. 

She gazed at him in surprise, 
and her look began to grow strange. 
She only looked intently, but said 
nothing; and in that dreadful 
silence Honora Pembroke's arm 
closed tightly about her waist, and 
her breath trembled on the mo- 
ther's paling cheek. 

"Cast yourself into the arms 
of God !" exclaimed F. O'Donovan. 
" Do not think ! Do not fear nor 
look abroad. Hide yourself in the 
bosom of God ! Sin and sorrow 
are but passing clouds, but heaven 
and hope and peace are eternal !" 

Those beautiful violet eyes that 
had wept so many tears, now dry an3 
dilating, were fixed upon him, and 
the face changed slowly. One 
w^ave of deep red had flown over it 
and sunk, and from pale it had 
grown deathly white, and over that 
whiteness had stolen a faint gray 
shade. 

" Mother! mother ! speak !" cried 

Honora Pembroke, weeping; but 

the form she clasped was rigid, and 

the face was beginning to have a 

. blank, unnatural expression. 

" Live for your son's sake !" said 
- F. O'Donovan, taking in his her 
cold hands — " live to see his re- 
pentance, to see him win the for- 
giveness of the world and of God." 



But that blankness overspread 
her face, and the light in her fixed 
eyes grew more dim. 

The priest stood up, still holding 
strongly one of her hands, and with 
his other made the sign of the 
cross over her, giving with it the 
final absolution. Then he seated 
himself beside her, and, while Ho- 
nora fell at her feet^ put his arm 
around the rigid form, and touched 
the cheeks with his warm, magnetic 
hand, and pleaded tenderly and with 
tears, as if she had been his own 
mother, now a word of human love, 
now a word of divine hope; and 
suddenly he stopped, and Honora, 
with her face hidden in Mrs. Ger- 
ald's lap, heard him exclaim, " De- 
part, Christian soul, out of the 
body, in the name of the Father 
who created thee, in the name of 
the Son who redeemed thee, and in 
the name of the Holy Ghost who 
has sanctified thee." 

She started up with a faint cr}% 
and saw that Mrs. Gerald's head 
had dropped sideways on to her 
shoulder, her eyes were half-closed, 
and her relaxing form was sinking 
backward, supported by F. O'Do- 
novan. 

How it happened she did not 
know, but almost at the same in- 
stant Mrs. Macon entered the room 
follow by a doctor, and to Ho- 
nora's confused sense it seemed as 
though helpers were all about and 
she was separated from her friend. 
She heard F. O' Donovan's voice 
repeating the prayers for the dead, 
and presently the weeping re- 
sponses of the servant, but she was 
powerless to join them. 

She roused herself only when she 
heard the priest speak her name. 
" Did I make any mistake } Did I 
do well, do you think T* he asked 
anxiously. " I did not know any 
better way." 



Grapes and Thorns, 



405 



Honora opened her eyes and 
looked about. 

"There was no better way," she 
said. *'The result would have 
been the same in any case, and she 
suffered only a minute." 

Tears were swimming in his fine 
eves. 

" She has, indeed, hidden herself 
in the bosom of God, where no 
harm can reach her, and it is best 
so. We can see that it is most 
merciful for her. But for that un- 
happy son ..." 

**I)o not name him!" exclaimed 
Miss Pembroke, shuddering. "I 
cannot think of him without abhor- 
rence! See what ruin he has 
wrought wherever he has been. 
What has escaped him } Nothing ! 
Do you, can you, believe there is 
hope for one whose soul is such an 
abyss of weakness and selfishness } 
He has stripped from me my dear- 
est friends ; he has smitten those 
who loved him best ..." 

She stopped, half from the bitter 
weeping that choked her words, 
half because the priest had laid his 
checking hand on her arm. 

**The silence of death is in the 
house," he said gently. "Do not 
disturb it by anger. Leave Law- 
rence Gerald to the lashes of his 
piilty conscience. Believe me, it 
'^II be punishment enough. For- 
give him, and pray for him." 

"Not yet! I cannot yet!" she 
protested. "He has been forgiven 
loo much. But I will say no more. 
' am sorry I should have spoken 
soin A^r home." 

"Come out into the air of the 
garden a little while; it will re- 
fresh you," the priest urged. "I 
Jfiust go directly to F. Chevreuse, 
hut I will return. He went to 
Mrs. Fcrrier more than an hour 
*go, and was to wait there for me 
^r come this way to learn the re- 



sult. Poor F. Chevreuse ! he is 
sorely tried. Everything rests on 
him. Don't sit here in the dark 
any longer. Come!" 

" You had better go, Miss Pem- 
broke. You can do nothing here," 
Mrs. Macon said to her. 

She went out and hid herself 
in a little arbor that had been a 
favorite retreat of Mrs. Gerald's 
on warm summer days, and sitting 
there, too stunned for weeping, 
now that the first burst of tears 
was dried, tried to recollect and 
realize what had happened. 

As she sat there she heard 
presently the trampling of horses 
and the roll of a carriage, and 
mechanically leaned forward to see 
who was passing, but without in the 
least caring. The bright bays and 
the sparkling harness were very 
familiar to her eyes, and she saw 
that Mrs. Ferrier herself was in 
the carriage. The woman's face 
was red and swollen with weeping 
and excitement, and as she passed 
the cottage she put up her hand 
as if she would have shut it from 
her sight. Evidently her inter- 
view with F. Chevreuse had been 
a stormy one, and had left her in 
anything but a charitable frame of 
mind. 

Miss Pembroke looked indiifer- 
ently at first, but a moment after 
she rose and took a step forward 
to see better; for F. Chevreuse 
and F. O 'Donovan had appeared 
in the street in front of the car- 
riage and stopped it, and the elder 
priest was speaking sternly to Mrs. 
Ferrier. 

"Where are you going .>" he de- 
manded. 

" I am going to the prison to tell 
them to let Mr. Schoninger go 
free," she answered defiantly. " I 
am going to take him to my 
house." 



4o6 



Grapes and Thorns. 



"You are going to do nothing 
of the sort," said the priest. " You 
have no right to, and will only do 
harm, and disgrace yourself." 

"I couldn't be more disgraced 
than I am already, with that . . .'* 
she began in a loud voice, but F. 
Chevreuse stopped her. 

" Silence !" he said authoritative- 
ly. " You are insane." 

" John, drive on !" she called out 
of the window. 

" John, you will not drive a step 
further," said the priest in a low 
voice. 

" You'd better do what he says, 
ma'am," said John, leaning down 
from the box. "And you'd better 
not talk so loud. People are be- 
ginning to notice." 

" I should like to know what you 
think of yourself for a priest, mak- 
ing ray own servants disobey me," 
the poor woman cried, relapsing 
into tears. And then, instantly 
recovering her spirit, she added, 
** If I cannot go to the prison, I will 
know where my poor daughter is. 
I believe Mrs. Gerald could tell. 
She must know where they are hid. 
I will have Annette back again." 

" You had better come in and 
ask Mrs. Gerald," F. Chevreuse 
said calmly. " Do not hesitate ! 
It will, perhaps, be better for you 
to see her." 

She shrank a little, yet could not 
bear to remain inactive. To her 
mind, she had been hushed, and 
imposed on, and silenced by every- 
body, in order that this worthless 
criminal might ruin her daughter's 
happiness, and obtain possession 
of her money, and she was burning 
to pour her anger out on some one. 
F. Chevreuse 's authoritative inter- 
ference, while she yielded to it, 
only exasperated her more. " I 
will go in and find where Annette 



is," she said resolutely, and stepp 
out of her carriage, too much exc 
ed to stumble. 

Honora Pembroke came forw: 
and stood between her and t 
door, looking in astonishment 
the two priests who followed her 

" Let her go in !" F. O'Donov 
said. 

She was obliged to, indeed, i 
Mrs. Ferrier's strong hand set h 
aside as if she had been a feather 

The woman entered with 
haughty step and a high head, h 
silks rustling about her through tl 
solemn silence, and walked straigl 
to the sitting-room. Mrs. Maco 
met her at the door, but she pi 
her aside, and took a step into th 
room ; only one step, and then sh 
stopped short, and uttered a cry. 

" See how that mother heard th 
news !" said F. Chevreuse in alo^ 
voice at her side. " Have you an 
questions to ask her .^" 

Mrs. Ferrier retreated a step, an 
leaned against the door-fram 
They all drew back and left her 
full view of the silent form stretc 
ed on the sofa, and only Hone 
Pembroke's weeping disturbed t 
silence. 

"You don't say that it kill 
her !" she exclaimed in a lo 
frightened voice ; then, before th 
could answer, she threw up h 
arms, and ran across the roo 
"You poor dear!" she sobbc 
" You poor, broken-hearted dear 

She flung herself on her kn< 
beside the sofa, and embraced a 
wept over the motionless fo 
there, all her anger, all thought 
self, forgotten in a generous a 
loving pity and grief. 

F. Chevreuse glanced at his bi 
ther priest with a faint, sad smi 
" Her heart is right," he said. *' 
is always right." 



TO BK CONTINUSD. 



Material Faith. 407 



MATERIAL FAITH. 

Give me a God whom I can prove 

By certain academic rules, 

Approved by all the learned schools ; 
And if he fitteth not our groove, 

We'll leave him for unscienced fools 
To idolize. 
But if his attributes should be 

All classed within high Reason's bound — 

His origin and parts be found 
With analytics to agree — 

This God, whom we can solve and sound. 
We'll patronize. 

But still our right we will reserve — 
A sacred privilege of Science — 
To herald forth our non-compliance 

With Scriptural accounts that swerve 
From our grand basis ; such defiance 
We'll not endure. 

We'll rule out the creation chapter ; 
*Tis so absurd ! and lacks support 
Of brilliant sages in our court 

Whose own hypotheses are apter. 
So exit Moses' crude report 
For something newer. 

The Bible we will not reject 
In ioio ; no, we'll let it stand. 
Lest our fair fame should bear a brand ; 

But when we've banished ev'ry sect, 
Then forth we'll drag from Lethe's sand 
Our fossil link ! 

Completing the material chain 
By philosophic labor wrought. 
And beaten out by mighty thought ! 

Eureka! what a motley train 
Of dry bones, labelled to a jot, 
Round Learning's brink ! 

Such wondrous titles ne'er were heard 

In all the mythologic lore ! 

We'll drape in gloom of Stygian shore 
All held as truth ; and at our word 

Darkness, in cloak of Light, shall soar 
To Reason's throne ! 



4o8 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



Then, when this wheeling globe is ours, 
We'll send God forth a wandering myth 
Void, and bereft of son, or kith : 

And stone-eyed fossils, robed in flowers, 
From sea of spice to frozen frith, 
Shall teach alone. 



A GLIMPSE OF THE GREEN ISLE. 



" What the lady wants, sir, is 
hair," said Edward. 

"Hair!" I repeated scornfully, 
at the same time glancing at the 
wealth of dark-brown hair which 
fell dishevelled over the shoulders 
of the Lady from Idaho. " Hair r 

It was evident that no comb had 
touched that wonderful chevelure 
for several days. 

" I shall never be able to comb it 
out again," said the Lady from Idaho 
in a weak, despairing voice. She 
lay on a sofa in a state-room on 
board the transatlantic steamer 
Limay from New York to Liverpool, 
calling at Queenstown. She had 
been terribly sea-sick. During seven 
days she had not eaten enough to 
keep a buffalo-gnat alive. 

" I don't mean 'air, sir," said Ed- 
ward, raising his nose to an altitude 
of 45^, with the lofty dignity of your 
true English waiter. '* I means 
hair — wentilation. " 

" Ah ! yes. I believe you are 
right, Hedward." 

Hedward was a steward on board 
the Lima^ to whose fostering care 
the writer was entrusted. 

The Lady from Idaho had reach- 
ed that point of sea-sickness when 
one does not want the trouble even 
of getting better. We carried her 
on dcckf however, and laid her, 



well wrapped up, on oni 
cushioned seats. The 
horizon of many days w 
broken by the Irish coast j 
ing into view. The mere 
land seemed to revive the 
ho traveller. As we neared 1 
and the green of the fields 
could be seen, she said : 

" Oh ! what a goodl; 
What a beautiful country ! 
chant its praises with the 
thusiastic Irishman of ther 

We feasted our eyes on 1 
tiful coast until darkness 
it and its outline was ma 
us only by the lights whic 
the curves of the shore. 

We exchange rocket-sigi 
the shore and with other 
lying in the bay. The Ian 
has set the Lady from I 
her feet again. The tu 
alongside to take the m 
those passengers who wish 
at Queenstown. All is bi 
excitement. There are 
leave-takings between felloe 
gers whom the traditional 
offishness " of English-speal 
pie prevented from enjoy 
other's society until it wa 
time to part. Among th 
go on shore at Queenst 
the Lady from Idaho — p 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



409 



soul ! she would have gone on 
sl'^ore days ago, if she could have 
fc^xind any shore to go on ; a young 
I^^ishman bringing his American 
l>X"ide home for inspection by his 
fx-i^nds in "the Black North"; 
me American ladies and gentle- 
«n making their first European 
nr, evidently determined to be 
p>leased with everything they see; 
s<3roe specimens of young and in- 
fant America, and the writer. 

There's not much provision for 
t.lie comfort of passengers on board 
tVie tug. The night is rather moist, 
V)ut the cabin is " stuffy " and ill- 
ventilated, and we prefer remaining 
on deck. 

The ** Cove of Cork " is certainly 

^ beautiful place by day or night. 

^ut the night effect is the filler, me 

Mdt'ce, The rows of lights rising 

above each other, tier on tier, on 

^^^ heights, cast a magic glamour 

^^cr the scene. 

The tug has reached her dock. 
The custom-house officers have 
^^ncie on board. Horrid moment ! 
^^orse, however, in anticipation 
*»a.n in reality, everywhere except 
^'^ the trans- Atlantic docks of New 
^ork City. 

** Have you any cigars or tobac- 
co?- 

•*No/' 

*• Any firearms ?" 

** No, sir," I answer, and inward- 
ly bless my stars that my better and 
'^^rc sensible half has left behind, 
fer lack of room, the " six-shooter " 
^htch I carried for ten years in the 
^«;et land of the West. What a 
Pi^c of luck ! I have been assured 
^y Irish friends that had I brought 
that unhappy ** six-shooter " with 
***«» I should most undoubtedly 
"Ave been arrested for some unde- 
"'^cd bloody intentions with regard 
^u ^^^ most susceptible animal, 
^^^ lion of Great Britain. The 



lion would have been very much 
mistaken ; for never were the Irish 
shores visited by any one whose 
heart was more full of peace and 
good-will. 

Ireland is not a safe place for 
any one who has a trans-Atlantic 
odor about him during a Fenian 
paroxysm. The possession of a 
pocket derringer is sufficient evi- 
dence of belligerent intentions. 
New-York-made boots are objects 
of suspicion, and in times of excite- 
ment have been the cause of trouble 
to the wearer. As harmless and 
commercial an article as a wooden 
nytmeg, carried merely as a patriot- 
ic souvenir, may entail consider- 
able annoyance on its possessor, 
and perhaps necessitate the good 
offices of his consul to enable him 
to pursue his tourist path of plea- 
sure or business in peace. In such 
periods as anti-Fenian frenzy, Eng- 
lish ports are the safest and plea- 
santest; for in Ireland, then, the 
lion is rampant, roaring and seek- 
ing whom he may devour. -It is 
better to keep away from his super- 
serviceable retainers in Ireland. 

But the political horizon is un- 
clouded. The bloody-minded revo- 
lutionists of the pen and inkstand are 
quiescent for the nonce. We find 
the officials kind and polite. They 
opened only one of our trunks. 
They gave its contents merely a 
cursory inspection, and chalked ca- 
balistic characters on all our boxes, 
portmanteaus, satchels, etc. They 
fished for no fee, nor was any offer- 
ed them. 

It is nearly midnight when we 
leave the tug. We step ashore. 
After a quarter of a century of ab- 
sence, my foot is upon my native 
heath. My name is not MacGregor, 
dear reader, nor is it Micawber. 

I do not think people feel much 
at the moment that anything hap- 



4to 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle, 



pens to them. It is either before 
or after; in anticipation or retro- 
spection. In describing their sen- 
sations, they tell us what they sup- 
pose they are going to feel, or 
what they think they ought to have 
felt. I have stood bare-headed by 
the grave of Washington at Mount 
Vernon. I believe the man and 
his work to be among the greatest 
that ever blest the world. What 
did I feel.^ A kind of sorrowful, 
reverential, awe-struck mental 
numbness ; then a sad yet selfish 
pity for my kind, who, however 
good and great they be, e'en 
to this favor must they come at 
last. I could not have distinctly 
shaped a thought or given expres- 
sion to any of the ideas which a 
visit to the grave of Washington 
might be supposed to suggest to a 
conventionally susceptible imagina- 
tion. Yet my eyes were full of 
tears. In the evening, however, 
in a comfortable room at Willard's, 
in an easy-chair by a cheerful 
fire, in the pleasant ease of slippers 
and cigars, with a quire of thick, 
white, unglazed letter-paper be- 
fore me, any kind of steel pen (I 
hate a gold pen for literary work ; 
it has a counting-house suggestive- 
ness that seems to disagree with the 
muses), with mayhap a modicum 
of vin chaud at my elbow, what 
pages of " Thoughts suggested by a 
visit to the grave of Washington " 
I could have " knocked off"! But 
unluckily Jones rushed in with the 
sad news that poor Thompson had 
been killed on the other side of the 
river, and drove all the intended 
"Thoughts" out of my head. 
There is no real present. We have 
only the past and the future. 

The debarkation of a number of 
ladies, children, trunks, boxes, and 
<:arpet-bags is not generative of the 
softer emotions. The night is damp 



and chilly. It has reach 
sma' hours. There is n 
or hack to take us to 
Some night-birds, with lo 
andCorkonian accents, of 
our luggage and show us 
the hotel. It is " only a st< 
The cortege sets out for 
Corkonian youngsters — \ 
to have been in their be< 
had any beds to go to — 
denly out of the darknes 
with wonderful chroma 
tion, the privilege of cai 
satchels. It is useless tc 
we do not need their ; 
They will not be deni< 
keep up their chromatid 
succumb. Well, it is 
each for them — a treble, 
can, gratuity. An Americ 
or adopted, to whom, esj 
he have lived in the West 
ter " seems the lowest gn 
he can offer to the negro v 
his boots in a sleeping-ca 
impulse of lavishness on 
Irish ground. He "fee 
and wishes to make all ai 
partake of the feeling. K 
lar seems the least that he 
the waiter at the hotel wi 
to his own dignity and tl 
country he has the honor 
sent. He is not always 
oUs when he returns at the 
tour, and the gratuity s 
Britain has disgusted him 
ed to deplete his purse, 
comes down to the small 
coin in his portemom 
cannot offer coppers, a 
gets as low as the Eng 
"tuppence." 

The English and the 
Ireland inveigh bitterly a< 
American propensity to 
travagant douceurs. The 
Americans are spoiling t 
ers, porters, servants, et 



A Glimpst of the Green Isle. 



411 



liberality snobbishness, de- 
lisplay ! The fact is, it is 
matter of habit, partly a 
mowledge of the compara- 
es of "tips " at home and 
What American from the 
ide of the li^ississippi ex- 
get anything for a penny ? 
lis, what I before remarked, 
bnerican in Ireland " feels 
id wants to scatter around 
>od he can. 

here we are at the hotel, 
rhat stupefied porter re- 
He has to see somebody 
\ can inform us as to the 
\y of entertainment. He 
ndicated any room where 
3 and children can sit and 

night-chill off while we 
: result of his conference 

or Mrs. Boniface. We 
:anding in the entry, our 
gs and wraps in our 
At length the comatose 
turns, and says that bed- 
» ready for us ! 
ire have any supper?" 
r. The cook's gone home, 

L cup of tea ?** 

ir. It's too late, sir." 

ist, we can have some hot 

skey-punch V* 

ir. There's no hot wather 

use, sir." 

sre any cold water in the 

>orse there is, sir," replies 
live Amphitryon, slightly 
^ the question. 

bring me some Irish 
md r^A/ water." 
sir, I'll thry, sir. I'll see 
-maid isn't asleep, sir, and 
2y from her, sir." 
jre then presented with 

of a tallow candle each, 
shalled to our respective 
apartments. No chance 



of a little pleasant chatter and 
some gentle exhilaration on our 
first night on Irish soil. 

We sleep pretty well, however, 
and pretty long into the forenoon 
of the next day. Waiter comes to 
say that we can have breakfast in 
the coffee-room whenever we desire 
it. This is a delicate hint that we 
are not early risers. He wants to 
know when we wish breakfast and 
of what we wish it composed. 

"Chops and tomato-sauce, ham 
and eggs — " 

" Yes, sir. Rashers and eggs, sir/ 

"Beefsteak, tea, and coffee, in 
half an hour." 

Raining! The view of the bay 
is rather cheerless. Everything 
looks dankish, dingy, and dull. 

" Can you realize that you are in 
Ireland.^" I inquire of the Lady 
from Idaho. 

" Not in the least," responds the 
most amiable of her sex. " Can 
you ?" 

" No, indeed." 

It is not a good morning for the 
interchange of ideas. Misty morn- 
ings never are. As for certain pro- 
jected " Thoughts on touching Irish 
soil after twenty-five years* ab- 
sence," their suggesting themselves^ 
under such a murky sky is out of 
the question. They will have to 
wait for the bright, creative sun. 
Perhaps, after a good warm break- 
fast, one may be able to think some 
"Thoughts," if the railway time- 
tables will admit of it. 

The " coffee-room " of " the best 
hotel " is cold and cheerless. 
Smoke without fire is obtained from 
some wet coal-dust, economically 
caked, according to the mode of 
thrifty housekeepers in the British 
Isles, in an infinitesimal grate in a 
remote comer of the room. Im- 
possible to think any ** Thoughts ' 
here. Some solemn-looking men. 



412 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle, 



very particular about their chops — 
I mean their mutton-chops — are en- 
joying — or, more correctly, consum- 
ing, for there is no evidence of en- 
joyment — their morning meal. 

Our breakfast is not a bad one. 
The chops are excellent; the beef- 
steak, so-so. I have eaten- better 
beef in New York. The bread is 
hard and heavy, but white and not 
ill-tasted. I wish the Irish and 
English waiters would adopt the 
short alpaca jacket and long white 
apron of the waiters of Paris and 
New York. It is a much neater 
and cleaner costume. The greasy 
full-dress coat and limp, whity- 
brown neck-cloth are not only ab- 
surd ; they are often disgusting. 

Still raining! The sidewalks 
are hid from view by the thickly- 
passing umbrellas. Let us go and 
buy some umbrellas? Life seems 
to be impossible without them here. 
In the three kingdoms, umbrellas 
are indispensable to respectability. 

" I hate respectability," said the 
Lady from Idaho with a vicious 
emphasis. 

I was rather astonished by this 
outburst, but I reflected that allow- 
ance must be made for ladies' 
tempers on draggle-tail mornings. 

" Such weather," I remarked, " is 
enough to make one hate any- 
thing." 

"It is not that," she retorted. 
" I hate respectability, rain or shine." 

*'*' Des go^is et des couleurs — you 
know the old proverb." 

" There is nothing more selfish, 
more hypocritical, more cowardly, 
than * respectability.' " 

" My dear madam, I did not 
take the trouble of coming from 
the other side of the Rocky Moun- 
tains for the purpose of chopping 
logic. I must buy umbrellas." 

I bought me an umbrella. 
Thenceforward I was only separat- 



ed from it during sleep 
while I remained in tl 
Islands. It was almoj 
necessary. The wretch 
it to me, however, saw th 
overshoes, and charged 
three Irish prices. I fe 
that the day will come 
will be fitly punished, 
emigrate to the Unite 
sooner or later, and the 
or restaurateurs of New 
avenge me ! 

Steam is a wonderful 
It is destroying national 
and toning down national 
ties. The same round 1 
was worn in New York w 
is worn in Queenstown ; 
fashion of winter overco 
up-and-down-the-gamut ir 
of the Cork brogue, 
bring you to a conscioi 
your true latitude and 1 
The long, hooded cloth < 
the peasant women have ; 
gestions of nationality abc 
Occasionally, too, a girl 
teen or eighteen with bare 
short kirtle is seen. This 
teristic. 

" Buy a bunch of Irish s 
from me, sir } Now, do, 
plase. " 

We cannot refuse. We 
plentiful supply of the ch( 
of bard and chief. 

" Long life to you, sii 
the purty ladies and the 
childer, and all the blessin 
world on ye. May ye ne^ 
what it is to want anyt 
them !" 

The shamrocks alone 
dear ; but with such a pray< 
we felt as if we were ta 
poor woman's stock in t 
nothing. 

As a matter of course, I 
ed to find Ireland rath 



A Glimpse of tin Green Isle, 



413 



ward as regards women's rights 
and that sort of thing. I was 
somewhat surprised, therefore, on 
entering the telegraph office, to find 
a telegraphist of the gentler sex. 
She seemed to be quite a business 
young lady — quick, intelligent, and 
polite. With the least possible 
display of conscious superiority, 
she instructed me in the mode of 
filing those absurd British blanks 
for my first British telegrams. 
With the condescending gentleness 
of an amiable " school-marm " 
instructing a good boy of unfortu- 
nately limited knowledge and ca- 
pacity, she "posted" me in the 
names and location of streets in 
Dublin. She was. industrious as 
well as intelligent. She had 
brotight her knitting. During our 
conversation, she doubly improved 
^^e shining hour by rolling into a 
ball a skein of worsted which a 
"*c>st serious and attentive young 
'^^y o^ eight or nine summers held 
"*^ tended on her outstretched and 
"F* lifted hands. 

The hotel at which we stopped 

*'^s managed by women. I after- 

^^^Xids remarked, in my trip through 

^■'^ ^ island, that the internal economy 

^^ most of the hotels in Ireland is 

^^^der female direction. The post- 

^flfices and postal-telegraph oflices 

^^e very generally managed by 

^^omen. There are numerous 

^^stitutions for the care of aged, 

^ick, or destitute women, or for the 

^^scue and reformation of the poor 

erring sisters who have been led 

^^ay from the paths of purity and 

peace. 

"I really believe, after all," said 
^t Lady from Idaho to me one day, 
in conversation on this subject, 
*' that they take better care of their 
^'omen than we do." 

We take the cars for Cork. We 
ride to the "beautiful city " through 



the loveliest bit of landscape on 
which the sun ever shone, or, more 
appositely, on which the gentle rain 
from heaven ever fell. It is indeed 
a land of loveliness and song. The 
good-natured guard, having remark- 
ed our overshoes doubtless, puts 
his face to the car-window, and en- 
thusiastically asks : 

" Well, sir, an* isn't this a 
counthry worth fightin* for.^" 

Confound the fellow ! even 
though he be bright-faced and 
seems good-natured. I wish those 
people who are eternally talking 
about fighting and never doing it — 
except among themselves — would 
stop talking, or, if they cannot do 
anything better, go out, take a good 
" licking " manfully, and be done 
with it. Daring and doing, even 
if one gets the worst of it, is better 
than loud talking and nothing do- 
ing. I hate the vox ei pmterea 
nihil. We have had too much 
of it. 

" Faith," says the guard, " it's the 
fine, healthy-looking childer yeVe 
got. Shure, they don't look like 
Yankee childer at all, at all." 

" If by Yankee you mean Ameri- 
can^ my friend, that they undoubt- 
edly are," replies the gentleman 
responsible for the little responsi- 
bilities who are too healthy-look- 
ing to be like " Yankee childer " ; 
" but they come from ayont the Mis- 
sissippi, which may account in some 
degree for their hardy appearance." 

" What town is that on the other 
side of the water.'" 

** Passage, sir." 

Passage ! Shade of " Father 
Prout" ! How often have we rolled 
our tongues in luscious enjoyment 
around thy roaring lyric in praise 
of that wonderful borough ! 

'' The town of Passage 
Is larg;e aod spacious. 
And situated 

Upon the Lay ; 



414 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



Ifs luite and dAcent, 
And quite convanient 
To come from Cork 
On a summer's day. 

Unfortunately, it is not exactly 
the kind of a day that one would 
like 

" to slip in, 
To take a dippin' 
Fornint the shippin' 

Tliat at anchor ride ; 
Or in a wherry 
Cross o'er the ferry 
To Carrigaloe 

On the other side ;" 

for it still rains, and Carrigaloe is 
upon our side, as a sign-board and 
the voice of the guard informs us : 
"Carrigaloe!" 

We shall not have an opportuni- 
ty of testing the reliability of the 
poet's promise that 

*' land or deck on. 
You may surely reckon, 
Whatever country 

Vou come hither from, 
On an invitation 
To a jollification 
With a parish priest 

That's called * Father Tom.' " 

The guard blows his whistle. 
We leave Passage and its satellite, 
Carrigaloe, behind, and with them 
the pleasant vision of a cheerful 
evening with the hospitable and 
large-hearted ecclesiastic of the in- 
imitable song. ♦ 

Not in this wide world is there a 
lovelier piece of landscape than 
that between Queenstown and 
Cork. Here the Lee is bordered 
by lovely lawns of the freshest 
green, sloping gently to the water's 
edge. Further on it flows between 
verdurous walls of lofty trees. The 
leaves of their drooping branches 
kiss the rippling current as it pass- 
es. Yonder the Castle of Black- 
rock frowns over its gently-flowing 
tide. The grass and the leaves 
are green with a vivid greenness 
that justifies all that the poets have 
sung about the Emerald Island. 
What glory in thy long, green vis- 
tas, beautiful Glanmire ! 



Our road is bordered o 
side by the river ; on the 
rich demesnes, bounded by 
ivy-covered walls, and mos 
ered rocks, from which fall 
ture cascades and waves the 
and graceful fern. 

The landscape needs onl 
modest charm to make its 
ness complete. I miss the h 
cottage, lowly yet lovely, 
honest labor finds its comfo 
repose. There are rich ma 
and umbrageous groves and 
pastures, but no smoke ai 
from cheerful hearths of till 
the soil. The peasantry, 
cottages might grace these 
glades, are building themselv< 
homes on the broad prairies 
West. The humble wooden 
or the rough cabins on the 
and treeless plains, sacred 
Lares of independence an* 
reliance, are far lovelier 
eyes of the lover of his kinc 
thy greenest glades, beautiful 
mire ! 

"A bold peasantry, their country's pi 
If once destroyed, can never be suf 

Here is the beatitiful cii 
does not do itself justice t 
The rain, which softens and 
ens the beauties of the cc 
blackens and bedraggles the 
" God made the country, an 
made the town." 

But what are those dee] 
tones that reach us throu< 
humid air 1 Can it be .^ Yes 
is no doubt about it. We a 
tening to 

'' The bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee! 

" I've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's mole in. 
Their thunders rolling 

From the Vatican ; 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle, 



4IS 



'^ And cymlMls ffloriout 
Swlni^ng uproftrious 
From tlie gorgeous turrets 
Of Notre Dame ; 

'* But thy sonads are sweeter 
Than Uie dome of Peter 
Flings o*er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 

** Oh ! the Bells of Shandoo 
Sound fiu* more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Leer 

Cork, with its fine bridges cross- 
ing the branches of the Lee, might, 
under bright atmospheric effects, lay 
claim to its antique designation ; but, 
Amid mud and rain, the most en- 
thusiastic traveller can see no ex- 
traordinary beauty even in Paris 
itself. Church spires and build- 
ings darkened by the rain have a 
gloomy look. Even the church of 
S. Anne, which may fairly be said 
to have " two sides to it " — one be- 
I'^g of differently-colored stone from 
the other — has had its peculiar 
claims to the traveller's attention 
somewhat weakened by the effect 
of the rain. 

We have concluded to wend our 
]"^ay quietly toward Dublin, taking 
i'^ our route anything that may be 
of interest. The Great Southern 
and Western Railway runs through 
one of the most beautiful districts 
^^ Ireland. A long panorama of 
^^autiful and characteristic scenes 

• 

^^ unrolled as you steam along. 

^t*een hedges and slopes, furze- 

^overed fences, century-old trees 

covered with moss and ivy, rippling 

streams, a ruined abbey or disman- 

^^ed tower, bits of soft blue appear- 

**^g through slate-colored clouds — 

^he humid atmosphere toning down 

^n harsh lines, and yet spreading a 

*^eet though melancholy softness 

over all — this limited by the gentle 

undulations of the ground, whose 

^autiful curves give life to the 

^dscape, yet circumscribe its ho- 

^wn, and you have the peculiar 

characteristics of anlrish landscape. 



There is an air of solidity about 
the track and its accessories to 
an eye habituated to trans-Missis- 
sippi railroads. Very pretty are 
those stations of stone, covered 
with green ivy, every foot of space 
in front of them devoted to the 
culture of some sweet, simple 
flowers. The Lady from Idaho, 
who has recently been dipping her 
gentle nose into the cryptogamia, 
is in ecstasies over the magnificent 
ferns we have passed at various 
points of our route. 

For an excellent railway dinner, 
let me recommend Limerick sta- 
tion to the traveller. The best 
railway breakfast I have ever eat- 
en — and I have eaten not a few in 
both hemispheres — I ate at Al- 
toona, on the Pennsylvania Central. 
It was twelve years ago, however. 
The best railway dinner I have 
ever eaten I had at Limerick 
Junction. It would have done credit 
to many a pretentious hotel on 
either continent. It surpassed the 
menu of private hotels in London, 
"patronized by officers of both 
services and their families." It 
was a better meal than I have had 
at what is considered one of the 
best hotels in Northern Germany, 
and did not cost half so much. It 
was well and comfortably served, 
malgr/ the ponderous solemnity of 
the British style of hotel attend- 
ance, which to me is a terrible bore. 
Plenty of time was allowed us to 
eat and enjoy our meal. Some 
jovial young gentlemen at the ta- 
ble politely caused champagne to 
be offered us, in compliment to our 
trans- Atlantic character. They in- 
sisted, as far as politeness would 
admit, on regaling us ; but we de- 
clined indulgence in the lively 
beverage. Sparkling wines are 
not good to travel on. One of the 
gentlemen was fascinated by a 



4i6 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



specimen of infantine America — a 
member of our party, and one of 
its most important members, by 
the way. The champagne, proba- 
bly, had a softening effect on the 
gentleman. He lamented his child- 
less condition, and expressed his 
readiness to give fabulous amounts 
for the little Columbian stranger. 
The father of the latter good-hu- 
moredly told the gentleman that 
Young America, white or black, 
is out of the market, and has been 
so for some years. 

The bell rings. We resume our 
seats in the train. We have a car- 
riage to ourselves. The guard 
told us, on leaving Cork, that he 
would try to keep us alone. This 
means that he wants a gratuity at 
the journey's end; for your con- 
ductor, or "guard,*' on European 
railways is not above taking a 
shilling or a sixpence. He shall 
have it, so far as we are concerned. 

The manner of starting a train 
is good. The bell rings — signal to 
the passengers to take their seats. 
There are two guards, one in front 
and one in rear, each supplied 
with a whistle. They look along 
the train to see that the doors of 
all the compartments are closed. 
The forward guard, seeing all right 
at his end, blows his whistle. The 
rear guard, to make assurance 
doubly sure, glances along the 
entire train, and, finding everything 
in readiness, whistles. The second 
whistle is the signal to the engineer, 
who then sounds the steam-whistle, 
and the train starts. 

The trains generally exceed ours 
in rapidity, but are very much be- 
hind them in comfort and ele- 
gance. There is no drinking-water 
in the English or Irish carriages. 
There are no stoves to keep one warm 
in cold weather or during the chilly 
hours of the night. If the weather 



is cold, tin foot-warmers, fillc 
water which is not always wai 
furnished in the proportion 
to two first-class passengers, 
is no luxurious sleeping-car, 
you can sleep comfortably, 
refreshed, find your boots 
blacked when you get up, anc 
yourself at a marble wash- 
No comfortable hotel-car 
which you can step from the 
ing-car in your slippers, and 
your beef-steak and fried pel 
or your quail on toast, at th 
of thirty miles an hour. 

In consequence of the absei 
arrangements for personal c( 
on trains, the British travel 
obliged to weight himself dov 
half fill his compartment wit 
of railway rugs, bottles of 
and plethoric lunch-baskets, 
own great inconvenience, as v 
that of his fellow-travellers, 
trouble caused by the want 
proper system of baggage trai 
tation compels the traveil 
carry huge leather portmai 
about five times as large as ; 
dinary American travelling-sa 
As these are considered **p 
that can be carried in the h 
the traveller is allowed to take 
into the carriage with him 
this means he avoids the troU' 
watching the " luggage-van ** al 
tions, and the delay of waitii 
its unloading at the ten 
Then come bundles of uml 
and canes strapped togethei 
the leather hat-box — that in 
able adjunct of British respe 
ity. Behold the unprotecte< 
tron, surrounded by half a 
family jewels, with any quani 
wraps and lunch-baskets, an- 
ties and umbrellas, and band 
and multitudinous matters 
ped up in endless newspaper 
ages ! How she glares a 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



417 



^rlien you step as carefully as you 
ea.n among th/e fonnidable piles to 
t,l\ree square inches of a seat in the 
interior comer! Woe be to him 
'Who displaces one of the parcels 
sacred to family use. 1 might be 
able to stand a Gorgon, but I could 
not stand that. Please do not put 
me in the carriage with the ma- 
tron ! Rather in the van with the 
untamable hyena, Mr. Guard, if you 
please ! 

Imagine a succession of Broad- 
way omnibuses, with windows and 
doors at either end, placed laterally 
behind an engine, and you have an 
European railway train. Half the 
passengers necessarily sit with their 
backs to the engine. The first- 
class carriages are upholstered in 
cloth or plush like hackney coaches. 
The benches are divided into two 
double seats on each side, giving 
seats for eight passengers in each 
compartment. The compartment 
^s lighted by a small and generally 
dim and smoky oil-lamp placed in 
^*^e roof. 

In the second-class carriages the 
seats are not divided. Six persons 
^re supposed to be accommodated 
on each bench. On some lines the 
^ats are very thinly cushioned with 
leather; generally, they are not 
cushioned. In France and Belgium 
|he second-class carriages are cush- 
ioned and backed with gray cloth, 
^iid the difference in comfort be- 
tween them and the first-class car- 
^ges is not worth the difference 
of fare. This is about one-third 
greater for first-class tickets. 
Twelve persons, with a proportion- 
ate quantity of wraps, bundles, bas- 
kets, bottles, umbrellas, and port- 
manteaus, pack a compartment 
pretty closely. Your European 
traveller makes as much prepara- 
^on for a trip of sixty miles as an 
American would for an all-rail 
VOL. XIX. — 27 



journey from New York to San 
Francisco. An American railroad 
car is quite a cheerful " institution " ; 
whereas travelling seems to be a 
more serious business on the other 
side of the Atlantic. A compart- 
ment — first or second class — is a 
gloomy place. In first-class car- 
riages, the " swells " and snobs are 
afraid to imperil their dignity by 
risking intercourse with somebody 
who may be "nobody." The re- 
sult is silence and solemnity. In 
second-class carriages you often 
find very pleasant people — clergy- 
men, professional men, young tour- 
ists, artists, and students — who can 
talk pleasantly and well, and have 
no snobbish, conventional dread of 
doing so. 

It is a common saying in England 
that only fools and Americans 
travel first-class. I have heard of 
a crusty old Irish peer, who, being 
asked why he always travels third- 
class, replied that he does so be- 
cause " there is no fourth class." 
I think the venerable lord was 
rather ostentatious of his humility. 
I would not advise any of my 
American friends to try third-class 
travelling in England or Ireland. 
A third-class car is a cold, dirty, 
noisome place. It is full of tobac- 
co-smoke and the smell of strong 
drinks of various kinds. It is worse 
than the forward car on a prairie 
railroad, filled with immigrants and 
** railroad hands." 

Mail trains are generally compos- 
ed of first and second class carriages 
only. Class distinctions meet us 
everywhere. We find a first and se- 
cond class waiting-room, first and 
second class restaurant, third-class 
waiting-room and third-class restau- 
rant. The waiting-rooms are sepa- 
rate for each sex in each class. You 
arc parted from your wife, sister, or 
sweetheart. If you have some- 



4i8 Cora, 

thing of importance to communicate a broom, throws herself xnt< 

to your fair companion, and should breach, and fiercely demands 

appear near the door of the ladies* business, while she reduces 

waiting-room for that purpose, a almost to a jelly by a Gc 

pre-Raphaelite female, armed with glare. 

TO BB CONTIMUBO. 



CORA. 

A FLOWER of the pale, sad South : 

Yet pale nor sad is she ; 

For she blooms on a wonderful tree 
That knows not blight or drouth — 

A certain miraculous tree 
Our Lady has planted down South. 

A rose let me call you, dear girl — 
A fadeless and thornless rose ; 
So richly your modesty shows 
Its blushes bejeweird with pearl — 
And a dew-drop of grace every pearl- 
That I- think of the Mystical Rose. 

I have seen, and must needs pass on ; 

But this I bear with me away : 
A fragrance that will not be gone, 

But haunts me, and most when I pray. 

It comes like the memories of May 
From the pure, happy years that are gone. 

Then the Lord of the sweet and the fair 
(For whom is all beauty alone), 

I pray him that floweret so rare 

No hand may dare cull but his own ; 

That no other bosom may wear 
This rose of the South than his own. 



Charles X. at Holy rood. 



419 



CHARLES X. AT HOLYROOD.* 



BY THE COMTS ACHILLE DE JOUFFROY 



FBOM FAIUS OU LB UVRB DBS CBNT-BT-UN. 



friends of the exiled 
jr, having been led by 

their cause to visit 
lave published detailed 

the residence at Holy- 
se narratives have left 
untold concerning the 
cribed personages, their 
eir mode of life, and their 
uniformity of which no 
circumstance occurred 
luring the two years of 

1 in the ancient palace 
•ts. 

ler, therefore, must not 
meet in the following 
h descriptions which 
ly been given by others 

minuteness, and which 

repeated in various 

jre will be found merely 

imber of observations, 

collected, which may 
nbat prejudices of a di- 
e that have been called 
jU by the assertions of 
nd bitter hatred, as by 
Lous efforts of a flatter- 

• 

, any enemy of the royal 
2ss he were insane or 
I he been admitted into 
^ of Holyrood, must at 
ceased to regard them 
*. Their most preju- 
sary, no matter to what 
rd rank of society he 

r is Uken from a work published 
&te of the occurrences narnited, 
ous one (Catholic World, Dec, 
ot of the interest which recent 
» U.->Bd. C. W. 



might belong, could not have 
learned to know the domestic vir- 
tues displayed by these princes in 
adversity without wishing himself 
to have a father, a son, a wife, a 
sister, or children resembling them. 
On the other hand, those who, 
through attachment, duty, or inte- 
rest (for there are political situations 
which a well-comprehended interest 
forces some to retain, even after 
the occurrence of disasters) — those, 
I say, who have made themselves 
the noisy apologists of this family 
have carried exaggeration so far as 
to attribute to them qualities and 
talents which would have been 
more than sufficient for ruling even 
in these difficult times ; without re- 
flecting that this blindness of zeal 
in regard to princes who met with 
so sudden a downfall while sur- 
rounded by a faithful army, and in 
the midst of devoted provinces, 
must diminish the confidence due 
to that portion of the eulogium 
which is really just. As privatfe 
individuals, the Bourbons of the 
elder branch have never merited 
the smallest of the outrages which 
it has been their fate to endure ; as 
sovereigns, it is well known they 
have been great chiefly in their fall, 
and have shown their courage and 
resolution less in their lives than in 
their deaths. 

The writers of whom I speak, car- 
ried away by the feelings of their 
hearts, have poured them forth in 
eloquent descriptions. Identifying 
themselves, so to speak, wilVi \.Vv^ 



420 



Charles X. at Holyrood, 



misfortunes of which they have 
been witnesses, they have given us 
chiefly the recital of their own 
emotions. I shall not imitate 
them; the spectacle of an entire 
family, precipitated from the most 
brilliant of thrones into the miser- 
ies of exile, is of itself sufficiently 
touching; it has in it enough of sad 
sublimity to render it useless to 
overload the picture with the pre- 
tentious ornaments of the elegiac 
style. To put together sentimen- 
tal phrases for the purpose of de- 
scribing a misfortune like this is to 
place one's self, no matter what tal- 
ents one may possess or exhibit, 
very much beneath the level of the 
subject. 

I have* considered this preamble 
needful in order to avoid being tax- 
ed with ' coldness. To speak with 
a suitable calmness of the Bour- 
bons may perhaps lie permitted to 
one who for fifteen years has de- 
fended their cause, and who has 
followed them into banishment ; 
who has never obtained from them 
either favors or places, and who 
also has never betrayed them. 

In quitting France, Charles ' X. 
had only carried away with him, 
after so much splendor, a sum bare- 
ly sufficient for a modest subsist- 
ence during a few years. The 
abode at Lullworth was expensive ; 
its vicinity to France made it ac- 
cessible to a crowd of travellers, 
many of whom came only to solicit 
from the king, in return for services 
past, or in view of services offered, 
the assistance which the unfortunate 
monarch was no longer in a con- 
dition to grant without reducing 
himself to want. In order to escape 
from these importunities, and to 
withdraw himself from the painful 
necessity of refusing, he asked and 
obtained from the British govern- 
ment the enjoyment of the asylum 



which hje had already for a 
time inhabited during the i 
of his first exile. 

The capital of Scotland, in 
is situated the palace of Hoi) 
is in the same latitude as Mo 
but its vicinity to the sea re 
its temperature much more e 
able. Edinburgh is, in man 
spects, the most agreeable resi< 
which a stranger can sele< 
Great Britain. The liberal ar 
there cultivated with a parti 
devotion. It is a large town 
turesque in the extreme, and s 
tuously built. The seat o 
Edinburgh is worthy of remar 
seeking for . a comparison i 
may convey an idea of it, th 
vice of the arms of the kini 
naturally occurs to furnish mc 
one. Imagine, at the entranci 
deep and narrow valley fbrme 
the hills of Salisbury and C 
an enormous lion, half cou 
His head, which is turned toi 
the rising sun, and overlook 
plain, is a peaked rock, three 
dred feet in elevation, and i 
crowned by the old castle, 
the right and left, the house 
suspended from his flanks, lik 
waves of his mane. The ridj 
his spine is represented by a 
street, which, dividing the tw 
posite declivities, begins fron 
esplanade of the castle, and t 
nates at the Canongate in froi 
the portal of Holyrood. The 
town occupies the plateau of 
ton hill. Larger than the old 
it is also abetter built, and al 
streets are laid out in re 
squares. 

This city, take it altogethe 
sembles none other with whi< 
are acquainted. It is an aj 
blage of monuments of ever 
and in every style, built of b< 
ful stone, many of them very 



Charles X. at Holyrood. 



421 



fully constructed, and thrown, in 
the most picturesque manner, upon 
projections of rugged rocks, in the 
hollows of precipices, on the slopes 
of valleys. Magnificent bridges, gi- 
gantic causeways, unite the differ- 
ent parts of the city. The ancient 
and the modem are preserved with- 
out alteration of character. Here 
rise houses of eleven stories, the 
highest of which is on a level with 
the great street of which we have 
spoken. There, beside a Greek 
peristyle, the luxury of the boudoir 
is sheltered by embattled towers. 
At the sight of this singular town, 
of this variety of edifices, of these 
steep mountains, of the sea, and of 
the sky, we can more fully compre- 
hend the genius of Sir Walter Scott. 
Everything here seems created to 
clothe with form and substance the 
conceptions of romance. Here we 
can walk, if we like, under Athenian 
porticos or in Gothic cloisters, and 
can pass from the sombre tints of 
a feudal habitation to drawing- 
''ooms freshly decorated in the rao- 
<iem style of luxury ; we can leave 
the modest sidewalks of the bour- 
S^ois of the XVth century, above 
''Hich the projecting roofs and ga- 
Wesare still in good preservation, 
to enter upon railways, those mar- 
vels of modem invention. At 
every step our eyes are met by ob- 
jects less precious, perhaps, from 
the value they represent than from 
the associations they recall : the 
crown of gold enriched with jewels, 
the sceptre^ and the sword of the 
ancient kings of Scotland, discover- 
^ fifteen years ago, in a walled- 
up room of the old castle ; the fur- 
niturc used by Mary Stuart; the 
embroidery which occupied the 
^t happy leisure hours of this un- 
fortunate queen ; the tapestry rais- 
ed by the assassins of Rizzio when 
they entered her apartment ; the 



bed of crimson damask on which 
she used to sleep. Here we tread 
on the ashes of a long line of kings, 
of a multitude of celebrated person- 
ages ; and the last circumstance 
worthy of note, in this abode so 
suggestive of mysterious traditions 
and royal misfortunes, is that the 
wreck of the court of the Tuileries 
have taken refuge beneath the an- 
cient hereditary roof of James II. 

The palace of Holyrood is no- 
thing but a cold and gloomy cloister, 
flanked at the two extremities of 
its anterior front by towers. The 
apartments of Charles X., situated 
on the first floor, extend over one of 
the sides of the cloister, and over 
the angle opposite the principal en- 
trance. After crossing a vestibule 
leading to the chapel, an ante-cham- 
ber, an unfurnished gallery, a bil- 
liard-room, we enter the dining- 
room — a gloomy apartment with 
bare walls, containing only an oval 
table and chairs. From thence we 
pass into a drawing-room twenty- 
five feet square, opening upon a 
small, uncultivated enclosure called 
a garden, and furnished in the style 
of the drawing-room of a Parisian 
bourgeois. It was in this apartment 
that receptions for strangers were 
held from eleven to twelve o'clock 
in tlie morning ; and in the evening, 
all the royal family met here after 
dinner. The persons belonging to 
the household and the invited 
guests were admitted to these soi^ 
r<f€Sy which lasted until about ten 
o'clock. The Due de Bordeaux* 
and mademoiselle played games to- 
gether ; the king had a whist-table ; 
the dauphiness and her ladies work- 
ed at a round table. Frequently the 
conversation became general, and 
was almost always interesting. The 
French and English newspapers 

* Afterwards Comte ce C&ambord 



432 



Charles X. at Hoiyroodi^ 



were read and commented upon. 
Sometimes the king and the dau- 
phin would repair to the billiard- 
room, and play a few games togeth- 
er. In these soirdes^ there was no 
more etiquette observed than is 
usual in the house of a gentleman 
living on his estates. 

At the left of the drawing-room, 
a door led to an intermediate 
apartment, forming the private 
study of the king. Into this open- 
ed his bed-chamber. With the 
sleeping-room of the king communi- 
cated that of the Due de Bordeaux, 
situated on the same floor, and 
looking into the courtyard. The 
Baron de Saint Aubin occupied a 
room at the side ; the apartments of 
mademoiselle were on the upper 
floor. 

The Due de Blacas, when he was 
at Holyrood, had the superinten- 
dence of the household; when he 
was absent, the details of these 
functions were directed by the 
Baron de Saint Aubin. The suite 
was composed of about forty per- 
sons, lodged in the town in the 
vicinity of the palace. 

The equipages of the king were 
limited to one carriage, hired by the 
month. When this was not suffi- 
cient, another coach was sent for ; 
and three saddle-horses sufficed for 
the rides of the king and his family. 
Charles X., having given up the 
amusement of hunting, and needing 
exercise to maintain his health, was 
in the habit of walking every day 
three or four miles around Holy- 
rood. The table was supplied 
abundantly, but without luxury; 
the king usually invited two or 
three strangers, but the number of 
covers seldom exceeded fourteen or 
fifteen. 

Such was the mediocrity to which 
fate had reduced this family, so 
lately surrounded by the greatest 



possible luxury and splend 
sign of regret, no trace of \ 
could be perceived on the 
nance of Charles X. Nev 
word of bitterness escape f 
lips of these illustrious s 
The dauphiness, whom son 
dared to represent as a vi 
and fanatical woman , was 
ness itself. In vain would 
have sought, in the exprei 
her face, so full of goodn 
resignation, for even the 
ance of a pride which nev< 
her elevated rank would h 
ficiently justified. As to t 
phin, so far did he carry h 
gation of all personal res 
that he was more than one 
to recall with commenda 
talents and bravery of some 
whom he had overwhelm 
his favors, but who, neve 
had been the first to betray 
Every one admitted to Y. 
could not but recognize 
mire the presence of those 
which form the charm of i 
life. They doubtless do n( 
for those upon whom Hea 
imposed the terrible task of 
ing men. The most marl 
in the character of Charh 
indecision ; in that of the • 
a pretension to acutenes: 
has more than once disc 
his friends, without inspir 
fidence in his enemies. A 
dauphiness, the intensity 
misfortunes in this world 
her to ^Yi her hopes upon 
one. Pious, although tole 
herself feels that her 
would be of little avail in 
of incredulity. In what sh 
for France, she never can 
religion from legitimacy, 
at Holyrood, she heard ol 
lage of the archbishopri 
words fell from her lips : " i 



Charles X. at Holyrood, 



a;^i 



\i have cast off religion, and 
s;th I begin to comprehend 
is they hate us." 

Duchesse de Berri was a 
apart in the royal family. 
y animated, full of regrets, of 
, and of hopes, she could not 
I those who had prevented her 
presenting herself before the 
ns on the 30th of July, 1830, in 
o claim from them the crown 
son. Confident in her adven- 
courage and in her ability to 
for herself another future, her 
ycL for the past and the pro- 
(he still contemplated, little 
either with the calm resigna- 

the dauphiness or with the 
il prudence of the king. She 
>nly endure for a few weeks 
)notony of the residence at 
lod. Besides, the rigor of the 
\ appeared to affect her health, 
le repaired to the mineral 

of Bath. Here various 
itors came to surround her, 
lanner to take possession of 
of a pledge for their future 
rs, and induced her to borrow 
arable sums of money on the 
ty still remaining to her, in or- 
def»'ay the expenses of the 
ed exp^rdition. The duchess 
Dught to London, where the 
irrangements for this loan 
) be made. She was conceal- 

small house, and not a single 

man, excepting those com- 

the circle by whom she was 

ided, knew what had become 

until the day of the embark- 

announcement of the de- 
; of the duchess was received 
^ood with a species of con- 
ion. The expedition she 
)out to undertake was re- 

as an act of extreme impru- 

To throw herself into 

r, in order to create an insur- 



rection, without arms, without mo- 
ney, without the prospect of assist- 
ance from a^y European power ; to 
give herself up to the chances of 
inconsiderate promises made by a 
few men without influence and 
without resources; to calculate 
chiefly upon the defection of an 
army, recomposed in part, and still 
agitated by the preceding defection 
into which the sudden departure 
of the king had precipitated it — this 
was, in the eyes of the exiles of 
Holyrood, to attempt an enterprise 
of which the success would scarcely 
have justified the temerity, and of 
which the success itself was consid- 
ered impossible. Other reasons for 
fear, which we may now be permit- 
ted to recall, disturbed the heart of 
the old monarch. He distrusted 
the impetuosity of the duchess, her 
fiery temperament, her ardent and 
independent character, which, even 
should it not lead her to disregard 
conventionalities, might authorize 
those possessing her confidence 
and affection to overstep their lim- 
its in her affairs. He foresaw more 
than one disaster; he dreaded all 
sorts of misfortunes. The unfor- 
tunate princess was destined to ex- 
perience them all. The Due de 
Blacas was Commissioned to follow 
her, and to oppose, as far as it 
might be in his power, the danger- 
ous influence of her advisers ; but 
the -resolution of the duchess was 
too much in unison with her tastes 
and character. Soon the position^ 
of M. de Bl£\cas towards her be- 
came no longer tenable, and he re- 
turned without having accomplish- 
ed anything, to the great displea^ 
sure of the king. 

Charles X. never approved of 
the projects for civil war. When 
these were proposed to him, he did 
not manifest that aversion which 
has been attributed to him by his 



424 



Charles X, at Holyraod. 



flatterers ; he simply replied that, in 
the times in which we live, civil 
war is a thing difficult to undertake 
and impossible to sustain. He had 
been a king; he was acquainted 
with the secrets of the government ; 
he knew that all the forces of the 
kingdom being at the present day 
centralized, the provinces cannot 
withdraw themselves from the pow- 
er of the telegraph and of the bud- 
get; and that 'nothing but a signal 
disaffection on the part of the army 
would be likely to produce a se- 
cond 2oth of March. The riots 
which took place in the capital at 
first excited his attention ; but after 
the days of the 5th and 6th of 
June, he appeared to have ceased 
to fear, or rather to hope, for their 
success. 

As for foreign war, Charles X. 
never could endure the idea of it. 
Never did it enter his thoughts to 
implore the armed intervention of 
other sovereigns. He believed that 
a third invasion of France, were it 
to take place, would lead to incal- 
culable disasters; to the partition 
of the territory. Perhaps, also, he 
felt that he could not claim the 
assistance of his allies, in virtue of 
the treaties of 1815 ; since, during 
his reign, the government had al- 
ways been inclined to throw off the 
yoke of those treaties. The late 
ministry, in its endeavors to restore 
France to her natural limits, had 
excited distrust in the cabinets of 
London, the Hague, Berlin, Vien- 
na, and Turin. It was not, there- 
fore, probable that these powers 
would assist in restoring a govern- 
ment which had placed itself in a 
hostile position to them all, without 
demanding, in return, ruinous sacri- 
fices and humiliating guarantees. 

It is needful to look at things 
from this point of view, in order to 
appreciate the policy which was 



followed at Holy rood. ^ 
reign governments few or 
tions were maintained ; ' 
interior, various correspo 
the authors of which di) 
plans, in principles, and i 
All were received, all wen 
to, in accordance with thei 
ideas and modes of thinkii 
object was to offend no 
discourage no opinion, in 
certainty as to which opinic 
be the most useful. 

Many excellent royalists, 
most praiseworthy disin 
ness, wrote to place at the 
of the king their hearts, t 
tunes, and their lives. If ai 
were sought for to utili; 
generous offers, it was fr 
discovered that these worth 
possessed neither money n 
ence, and that many of th 
advanced in years. 

Others sent plans of con 
which included three-fou 
France, but with lists of n; 
the most part unknown. 1 
dertook, they said, to caus« 
V. to be proclaimed all \ 
kingdom, provided Charles \ 
send them in advance s 
sums of money. 

Some personages, who st 
on the theatre of politics, tc 
sures to remit, with great 
tion, their offers of servic 
worthy of remark that su( 
arrived each time there 
rumor of revolt or any pro 
war in foreign countries, 
offers were not expressed ii 
cise terms as the precedir 
they were always accompi 
conditions, of which the ] 
ones were that the directic 
movement in question sh 
confided to no one excep 
authors ; that a provision si 
made of entire approval 



Charles X. at Holyrood. 



425 



measures upon which they might 
decide; and, above ail, that the 
portfolios of the ministry of the 
restoration should be ensured to 
them. They alone, they asserted, 
understood the needs of France 
and the way to rule her. In a few 
missives of another kind, some old 
servants set forth the faults which, 
in their opinion, the king had com- 
mitted during his reign, and ended 
by offering him advice in case he 
should regain the throne. Some of 
these, irritated by what they con- 
sidered the oblivion of their former 
services, permitted themselves to 
utter bitter reproaches, without pity 
for misfortunes the sight of which 
should have been sufficient to dis- 
arm even a just resentment. These 
letters were received with perfect 
indifference. There were, however, 
demands which, by dint of their 
audacity, obtained greater success. 

A person wrote from Paris to one 
of the servants of the king : " I am 
about to publish a work which will 
contain the account of various acts 
of the government of Charles X. 
You know that the offices I held 
ffforded me opportunities of know- 
ing many things ; the revolution of 
July has deprived me of my situa- 
tion and my pension ; the public 
loves scandal; the publishers will 
pay a high price for it ; and I will 
furnish it to them unless I receive 
thirty thousand francs, which I 
cannot do without." 

If these are not the precise terms 
of the letter, at least I am sure that 
I have not altered the sense. The 
author of this letter had been em- 
ployed under the Restoration ; he 
"ad received many favors from 
both the last two monarchs ; a 
compromise was made with him. 
I do not know what was the sum 
'^t, but I do know that the person 
employed to mediate in this affair 



was successful ; the threatened work 
was never published. Among the 
offers of services which reached 
Hoiyrbod, some deserve particular 
mention for their singularity. 

A hero of July, famous during 
the fatal days, and furious at not 
having been able to obtain some 
office, proposed to rally all the re- 
publicans among his friends to the 
cause of Henry V., and concluded 
his epistle by announcing that he 
would repair in person to the sea- 
coast, and with his own hands 
place the plank of debarkation be- 
neath the feet of the legitimate 
heir to the crown. 

A personage who has for a long 
time figured under the Empire 
had despatched to England a very 
active agent, who offered, at the 
same time, his services to the prin- 
ces of Holyrood, to the Duchesse 
de Berri, and to the heirs of Napo- 
leon ; meanwhile, the personage in 
question was negotiating at Paris 
with the republicans. The result 
of this quadruple piece of diplo- 
macy was that he obtained employ- 
ment from the government of Louis 
Philippe. 

Already, during the period of 
their former exile, had the august 
occupants of Holyrood had but 
too many opportunities to estimate 
the real value of the offers, the 
schemes, the demands, the pretext 
for which was furnished by a pro- 
jected restoration, of a crowd 
of ambitious and intriguing men. 
Wearied, as it were, by the variety 
of sentiments expressed towards 
them, the obliging interest they 
manifested was merely the effect 
of an exquisite politeness. Un- 
happily, in this indifference they 
lost sight of real devotion to their 
cause; they did not appear to 
have made any very great progress 
in the art of estimating men — an 



426 



Charles X. at Hvlyrood. 



art the ignorance of which had 
been the cause of their second 
downfall. 

And, besides, in order to receive 
these propositions with profit, to 
give them a useful direction, it 
would, first of all, have been neces- 
sary that the most important poli- 
tical point — that of legitimacy — 
should be settled and proclaimed. 

Those who have asserted that 
there existed on this subject a 
perfect unanimity of opinion among 
the royal family and among their 
advisers as to the right to the crown 
in the present situation of affairs, 
either have not known all the 
truth, or else have concealed a por- 
tion of it, in conformity with their 
own political views. During his 
residence at Holyrood, Charles X. 
addressed to the principal courts 
of Europe a confirmation of his 
abdication at Rambouillet ; but, be- 
sides that this confirmation, being 
declared free^ indicates that the 
abdication was always considered as 
forced, and therefore null, Charles 
X., in this second instrument, ex- 
pressly reserves to himself the re- 
gency of the kingdom. 

The dauphin, on the other hand, 
positively refused to give a similar 
declaration. " I sign nothing," said 
he ; " not that I desire to dispute 
with my nephew a crown of which I 
am far from envying him the posses- 
sion, but, on the contrary, in order to 
preserve it for him, in case the fol- 
lies which are being committed in 
his name should render my reap- 
pearance necessary." 

Lastly, in regard to the Duchesse 
de Berri, no law, no historical pre- 
cedent, could have been found to 
authorize her to consider herself 
regent of the kingdom during the 
minority of her son. Had not the 
abdication of Charles X. been con- 
ditional, and, besides, where could 



there have been found a si 
eral legally convoked to : 
madame in this capacity } 

The uncertainty on tl 
became a source of discu 
the various members of 1 
The servants of the king, 
the dauphin, and those of 
de Bordeaux held many ( 
guments over their respec 
tensions to the title of t 
household; but we must 
these all ended in discussi( 
royal family, who lived to 
a sincere and patriarchal u 
peared to take but little ii 
these various opinions ; w 
were that these unfortunat 
believed it impossible for 
this time to recover the c 
whether they regarded th( 
sion of it as something lit 
rable, they frequently c 
upon this subject as if it I 
a question of historic righ 
to themselves. One opir 
feeling, however, united 
and this was that all righ 
crown must one day cen 
the head of Henry V., an 
was necessary to educate 
such a manner as to pre; 
worthily to sustain this hi 
ny in case Providence sh- 
him to it. 

Here we must speak of 
cation which is being giv 
young prince under the 
of the Baron de Dauias 
good, and also some evil, 
said of him. In the fir 
however, it appears to me 
great importance has been 
to his functions. In ordei 
character of the govemc 
have any decisive infiuei 
that of his pupil, it would 1 
sary for the two to live in < 
tive isolation. Perhaps, s 
ed by all the pomp of i 



Charles X. at Holyrood^ 



427 



:he fetters of etiquette might 
nded to produce such isola- 
mt in the greater freedom 
aent upon exile, interrup- 
f all kinds prevent this spe- 
influence. At all hours of 
y the Due de Bordeaux is 
ig new and varied impres- 
He receives them from his 
s, from his professors, from 
ants, from the strangers who 
:h him, from the paternal 
de of his grandfather, from 
itle piety of his aunt, from 
ipanionship of his young and 
ig sister ; he receives them 
s studies, from his exercises, 
is travels, from his recollec- 
in short, from his misfor- 
for he is of an age and of an 
:nce to understand and to feel 
We must take into account 
ibined influence of all these 
impressions, in order to 
robable deductions as to the 
e is one day to receive from 
ient education. 
11 events, if the Baron de 
does not possess very en- 
ideas, his character is firm 
right. For many things he 
s commendation: he en- 
} to prevent all flatterers 
pproaching his pupil; from 
y whom he is surrounded he 
nothing but sincerity and 
Iness. And then, he is care- 
idmit to the presence of the 
prince, in unrestrained con- 
, all strangers, and especially 
ichmen, who desire access to 
iless their request should be 
ed merely by the wish to 
an impertinent curiosity, 
office of M. de Damas has 
ivied, and even sought after, 
e of those persons who style 
Ives the courtiers of niisfor- 
ut who are perhaps merely 
irtiers of greatness expected, 



or at least hoped for. But it may 
reasonably be doubted whether this 
governor could be replaced in a 
manner advantageous to the young 
prince. Among the notabilities of 
the present epoch who might be 
designated for this imp>ortant posi- 
sition, is there one who combines the 
necessary qualifications } Would 
we seek among the number of those 
who, by their interested counsels 
or by their calculated disaffection, 
contributed to the overthrow of the 
fhrone of Charles X., for men to 
teach his grandson the art of re- 
storing and of preserving the 
throne? Can we confide in these 
system-mongers at a period like 
this, when all systems have made 
shipwreck? No; all that can be 
done is to make of the young 
prince a man of learning without 
pedantry, of sincerity without in- 
discretion, of courage without -te- 
merity. In the present age, in 
which everything indicates the 
necessity of a power strong enough 
to restrain the elements of anarchy 
introduced by sophists into society, 
in which the overthrow of ancient 
institutions leaves to power only 
the force it can obtain from armies, 
what is chiefly to be desired in the 
king of a nation like ours is mili- 
tary qualities combined with liber- 
ality, enlightenment, religion, pru- 
dence, and justice. Now, none of 
these conditions are wanting in the 
education which is now being 
given to the Due de Bordeaux — 
neither proper methods on the part 
of the preceptors, nor the disposi- 
tion to receive on the part of the 
pupil. 

M. Barande, one of the most 
learned men of our time, instructs 
the young prince, with admirable 
precision, in the facts of history, 
combined with chronology and 
geography. The Abbe de Mc- 



428 



Charles X. at Holyrood. 



ligny explains to him with simph'- 
city the doctrines of religion. M. 
d'Hardivilliers inspires him with a 
taste for, and a knowledge of, the 
fine arts. The first elements of the 
science of war form the subjects of 
his games and of his recreations. 
Young Henri rides on horseback, 
practises fencing, shoots with the 
pistol, speaks and writes several 
languages. His memory is unu- 
sually excellent ; his discernment is 
beyond his age. The regular dis- 
tribution of his time gives hin^ 
habits of order and of diligence. 
His health, watched over by Dr. 
Bougon, is robust ; his frame, forti- 
fied by exercise, is strong and agile. 
In a word, he is an intelligent, 
sprightly, vivacious child, and yet, 
withal, a reasonable one. There is 
no mother who would not be proud 
of him ; no father whose every wish 
would not be gratified by the pos- 
session of such a son. Having thus 
sketched his portrait, I do not in- 
tend to imitate the enthusiasm of 
those who have gathered up and 
published his most unimportant re- 
marks, and have even, in their ex- 
aggerated admiration, attributed to 
him, possibly, speeches of their own. 
At the sight of this royal child, 
proclaimed, at the hour of his birth, 
future monarch of a great empire, 
and now entering upon his adoles- 
cence in exile, this reflection natu- 
rally presents itself: How if he 
had never been bom } 



Had he not been bom, p 
France would not have be 
turbed. The partisans 
younger branch, certain of 
attaining to power, would h 
patience; the republicans 
would not have been able 
by the breach opened by th 
anists and the disaffected n 
His grandfather and his 
might have died upon the tl 

Had he not been born, j 
the double abdication still 
indispensable, Louis Philipp 
to-day be more firmly seatec 
throne than any monarch 
rope; for in him would b( 
resolved the great problem 
union of fact and of right, o 
macy and of force. 

Had he not been born, . 
he has been bora, he is gro 
manhood, and in him are be 
veloped all the characterist 
of the rejuvenescence of h 
In this age of tribulations 
wonders, who may venture t< 
the abyss of the future? 

This was what was said a: 
rood, and it was added : " i 
M. Odillon Barrot, when, 
drawing-room at Ramboui! 
executed the task assigned 
of announcing to Charles 
hard decree of exile, pronou 
memorable words : * Sire, 
well over this royal child ; ( 
he will be of importance to t 
tinies of France ? ' " 



New Publications. 



429 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



John of the Cross. By 
New York : The Cath- 
on Society. 1874. 

s certainly deserved well 
ts of Mount Carmel. His 
lat incomparable gem, S. 
ography ; his truly splen- 
ranslation of the writings 
; Cross, and now his Life 
int. make up a series of 
English Catholic litera- 
idebted to him. The de- 
usiastic interest which S. 
;n of Carmel, has inspired 
i is something wonderful, 
seem strange or surpris- 
who is acquainted with 
capable of appreciating 
Happily for the world, S. 
nd among her devotees 
le and willing to make 
rks known with an intel- 
•taking zeal for which we 
grateful. F. Bouix and 
are conspicuous among 
mirers of the modern glo* 
10 have labored so faith- 
o much pious and scho- 
ind taste to diffuse the 
nee of her sanctity and 
Lewis devotes himself 
to S.John of the Cross; 
lly only a part of the 
S. Teresa which S. John 
by his labors and his 
as her spiritual son, the 
t of carrying out the re- 
she was inspired among 
order of Carmel ; and in 
s, so to speak, S. Teresa's 
xpositor. Every one who 
jsted in S. Teresa's life 
icd for a good life of S. 
ross ; and whoever has 
icious fountain of divine 
eorks must have desired 
jch a life Mr. Lewis has 
ive us, compiling ii from 
nish biographies. Mr. 
hy of the saint is short 



and succinct, but very precise, accurate, 
and complete in its narrative of facts 
and events. 

So far, it is what was wanted ; and to 
one who has learned to know the interior 
life of S. John in his writings it is suffi- 
cient. It is not, however, in itself, by 
any means such a complete and adequate 
portraiture of S. Teresa's counterpart and 
compagiion as we possess of herself, 
thanks to the happy thought of her con- 
fessor, who obliged her to write her own 
life, and to the devoted and affectionate 
biographers who have supplied so fully 
all that she herself omitted. The num- 
ber of those who will read this Life with 
pleasure and profit must necessarily.be a 
comparatively small one. And We fore- 
warn all its readers, even devout Catho- 
lics accustomed to reading the lives of 
saints, that it requires a robust faith 
to avoid being scandalized or frightened 
by this one. S. John was most cruelly 
persecuted and maltreated by his own 
brethren and superiors of the Mitigated 
Rule, and even by one unworthy prior of 
the Reform. Moreover, the austerity of his 
life and the additional sufferings which 
God sent upon him may easily frighten 
and dismay most of us, soft and effemi- 
nate Christians as we are, when they are 
looked at as presented in a dry histori- 
cal narrative, and apart from the inward 
consolations, the supernatural graces, 
the high contemplation, which made 
trials and crosses sweet to this great and 
heroic soul. We cannot, therefore, ex- 
pect this book to be a favorite with the 
common run of even pious readers. But 
those who are capable of enjoying and 
profiting by it will be greatly rejoiced 
that it has been written and published. 

What is Darwinism ? By Charles 
Hodge, Princeton, N. J. New York: 
Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1874. 

There is a great deal of modest wisdom 
in this small volume from the pen of one 
of the most learned and accomplished of 



430 



New Publicatians. 



the Princeton gentlemen. Dr. Hodge 
chiefly aims at showing what the real 
virus of Darwinism consists in, and finds 
it to be the denial of final causes, or vir- 
tual atheism. There is also a very good 
summary of arguments against the theory 
of evolution, and there are careful,, well- 
studied criticisms upon various writers 
of distinction upon themes connected 
with the author's topic. We are glad to 
see that Dr. Hodge affirms the infallibility 
of reason — that is, its possession of first 
principles which are unerring, and its 
capacity of attaining to the knowledge of 
truth or true science. We do not ap- 
prove, however, of his definition of scien- 
tific evidence as that which is attained 
through the senses, or his distinction be- 
tween science and theology. It is most 
important to maintain the rights of philo- 
sophy and theology as the highest and 
most certain of sciences, having supre- 
macy over all others. We suppose that 
Dr. Hodge admits this in regard to the 
things themselves, but we consider it 
important to retain even the terms by 
which t^e things are properly designated, 
and to resist at all points the impertinent 
as well as futile attempts of modern 
scientists to dethrone the queen of the 
sciences. The style and tone adopted by 
Dr. Hodge in this volume are remarkably 
quiet and moderate, and we trust that 
this characteristic of his manner of argu- 
ing with persons who are disposed to 
lend an ear to the sophistry of modern 
infidels will give it a readier access to 
their minds. There is, however, an ex- 
cess of amiability in the praise which is 
awarded to Mathilde Blind's "excellent 
translation ** of Strauss. 

We recommend this book without hesi- 
tation as one which, so far as it goes, is 
satisfactory and likely to prove very 
useful. 



Madame Agnes. By Charles Dubois. 
Translated from the French by M. P. 
T. The Farm of Muiceron. By 
Marie Rheil. Translated from the 
French by Mrs. A. B. S. New York : 
The Catholic Publication Society. 
1874. 

This brace of French novels, under one 
cover, comes very opportunely at this 
time, when careful teachers are on the 
lookout for premiums which will be at 
once attractive and safe to put into the 



hands of their young charges, a 
mer tourists are in search of 
provender to stow away in their ] 
teaus and saddle-bags. Those ^ 
watched the progress ' of the 
through these pages are aware 
French literature which comes 
Catholic auspices is very differ 
that which reaches the public 
the secular press. 

We are inclined to look on 7 
of Muiceron as somewhat uniqu 
recent works of fiction. The v 
well as most of her characters 
the language of the French p< 
and, if a more learned interlocu 
troduced, the author frankly 
" not to expect her to explain tl 
ing of the big words he uses." 
the reader thence conclude that 
is weak, and its evolution moi 
fact, that he has taken up a goo< 
book — he will speedily get ri< 
absurd idea before he proce< 
far; and he will also be o 
that the translation of such a 
quires peculiar qualifications. . 
ledge of classical French will n 
suffice. An intimate acquainta 
provincial modes of thought an< 
sion, and of such English equiv: 
the idioms as will best preserve t 
flavor, are essential. This adva 
are satisfied the present vcrsioi 
the translator unites to a thorou{ 
ledge of her own tongue a pra 
miliarity with the dialect intend 
represented. Every linguist ki 
wonderful capabilities of the Fn 
guage in its delicate shades an 
lations of expression ; and if tl 
lation fails to reproduce them, 
must be laid at the door of our ur 
vernacular. 

We do not intend to antici 
pleasure of the reader by any al 
analyze the contents of either stoi 
of the scenes of the second ar 
the midst of the stormy days 
1848, and hence many of its des 
read like a page of contemporar 
and its pictures of rustic life ar 
simplicity and pathos. 

Madame Agnes will suit read 
more serious cast, or the same n 
a different mood ; and the two c 
may serve as light and sh.ide 
other. The solidity and gravit; 
one sets off" the vivacity and nam 
other. Madame Agues is deci 



New Publications. 



431 



stOT^r of real life in its lifeltkeness to 
everyday experience, and its lessons 
may, perhaps, the sooner find their way 
to the reader's heart and conscience for 
that reason. 



Tjik New Manual op the Sacred 
Hkart. Compiled and Translated 
from Approved Sources. Baltimore: 
Kelly & Piet. 1874. 

Oonfratemities of the Sacred Heart will 
welcome this additional manual. It con- 
tains every kind of devotion that lovers 
of tlie Sacred Heart can wish for. We 
hope it will have a wide sale. 



Sim and its Consequences. By Henry 
I^dward, Archbishop of Westminster. 

Wi^o IS Jesus Christ? Five Lectures. 
By the Right Rev. Bishop Hedley. 

Tir^ Pope and the Emperor. Nine Lec- 
t u res. By the Very Rev. J. N. Sweeney, 
O.S.B., D.D. London : Burns & Gates. 
1874. (New York: Sold by The Catho- 
lic Publication Society.) 

A^rchbishop Manning's sermons are 
pl3i.ln, practical discourses in his usual 
clear and masterly style. Bishop Hed- 
^cy*s lectures give an exposition of the 
Catholic doctrine of the Incarnation and 
tHc principal heresies which have sought 
^o corrupt and subvert it, with an expla- 
sution of redemption and the Real Pre- 
^nce. They are both theological and 
eloquent. Dr. Sweeney sketches gra- 
phically the contests between the head 
^ the church and the imperial power 
from Jesus Christ to Pius IX. Each of 
^ three volumes is of small size, but full 
of instruction. 



Thi French Prisoner in Russia. 
Translated from the French by P. S., 
^ Graduate of S. Joseph's Academy, 
Emroittsburg. New York : The Ca- 
tholic Publication Society. 1874. 

It has been said that a French novel is 
^ther very bad or very good, and we are 
S'^ to be able to place the one before us 
^n the latter categor}'. It is the story of a 
^fCQch family, the head of which, an 
oficcr in Napoleon's grand army, with 
^^' son, is taken prisoner during the 
Kosiian campaign, and sent to Siberia. 



No tidings having been heard from them 
after the disastrous retreat from Moscow, 
they are supposed to be dead, and the 
mother and only daughter, a most amiable 
and gentle girl, are thrown upon the 
world in poverty and sickness. When 
years have elapsed, and the ladies hare 
succeeded in winning an humble compe- 
tence, news arrives that the lost ones are 
alive ; so the mother and daughter set out 
on a long and dangerous journey to effect 
their release. How they fared in their 
noble mission, and what dangers they 
encountered on the way, wi!l be best 
learned from the book itself. The origi- 
nal tale is written in excellent French 
style, which is ever simple and fluent, 
and the translation appears to have been 
carefully made with proper regard to the 
idiom of our vernacular. 



S. Joseph's Ascetical Library. Edited 
by Fathers of the Society of Jesus. No. 
IX.: Meditations for Every Day in 
the Year and the Principal Festi- 
vals. By the Von. F. Lancicius, S. J. 
London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New 
York: Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society.) 

The fact that Jesuits edit this library is 
its best guarantee and recommendation 
in respect to the sound and solid chanc- 
ier of the works which will be included in 
its series. The well-known good taste 
and literary culture of the English fa- 
thers of the society is a ^varrant for the 
care and skill with which the editorial 
work is performed. The present volume 
is most carefully and tastefully published, 
and its contents are of the best quality. 
The work itself is an old and standard 
one by one of the best writers of the 
society. The volumes of this library 
cannot be too strongly recommended to 
all devout Catholics. 



The History of Greece. By Professor 
Dr. Ernst Curtius. Translated from 
the German by Adolphus Wm. Ward, 
M.A. Vol. IV. New York : Scribner, 
Armstrong & Co. 1874. 

We have already given an extended 
notice of the previous volumes of this 
work, .ind we now simply repeat the 
judgment previously expressed. It is 
the most complete, and, in many re- 



432 



New Publications. 



spects, i( is the best history ol Greece 
yet placed within the reach of the English 
reader. 



Glory and Sorrow ; and Selim, Pasha 
OF Salonica. Translated from the 
French by P. S. New York: The 
Catholic Publication Society. 1874. 

Here arc more stories for premiums. 
While the didactic purpose is not lost 
sight of, the narratives arc sufficiently 
enlivened to hold the reader's attention 
throughout. In the first tale the young 
student is warned against the conse- 
quences of an excessive ambition for 
wealth and power ; and contentment with 
his position in life is inculcated as a ne- 
cessary condition of happiness. Selim is 
a tale of the wars between the Christians 
and Turks in the East. 



Catherine Hamilton. A Tale for Little 
Girls. By M. F. S. New York : The 
Catholic Publication Society. 1874. 

Wo have no doubt this will prove a 
very attractive book to the little folks, 
and would be glad to see it widely cir- 
culated among them. 



May Paijers. By Edward Ignatius Pur- 
brick, S.J. London : Burns & Gates. 
1874. (New York : Sold by The Catho- 
lic Publication Society.) 

This pretty book, just received in this 
rountry, was prepared originally for the 
UHo of ihc boys at Stonyhurst College. 
It Ih the first attempt, we believe, in Eng- 
lUh to adapt the instructions for the 
month particularly to young people, and 
we therefore think it worthv of special 
mention. 



A CRITICISM. 



tion, the writer, at page si6, ma 
take in stating that S. Peter's 
Rome was "built from the d 
Bernini, and completed by M 
gelo." Bernini had nothing 1 
the edifice proper. He only 
baldacchino over the high alt: 
colonnade in the public square 
the church. Michael Angelo 
the piersof the dome, and mad( 
framework on which to constru 
but the dome was constructed b 
della Porta from designs of his 
edifice proper was finished by 
demo, and on the plan' of a L 
the suggestion of Bramante, 
Michael Angelo's suggestion c 
of a Greek cross. 

It is very seldom that The 
World is at fault, even in ec< 
but I think here is a plain cast 

Having made S. Peter's som 
study both in Rome and at h 
myself at liberty to make you 
ments. Yours very truly, 

J. A. W 



Lafayette, Ind., April 21, 1874. 
The article " On the Wing," in The 
t^ATiioMc World for May, is one of un- 
usual merit ; but in the haste of composi- 



The poem " For ever," orig 
to this magaiine, and publis 
May number, was also publisl 
pincettes of the same month, 
concluding, from its non-app 
The Catholic World, that ii 
declined. 



hints to contributc 

Write legibly (especially f 
proper names) on one side < 
Do not exceed 10 or 12 pages o 
each, in prose articles, or the 
sonnets in verse, unless by 
rangement. Do not expect a 
less than 60 days, and then not 
Send real name and add res: 
with a reference, if unknown 
tors. Prepay postage of MS 
close stamps for those to be 1 
full letter rates. Avoid the 
words commence, reliable, d 
transpire (in the sense of ' 
the phrases every confidence 

ENTED MAN. 



or THE 






THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XIX., No. 112.— JULY, 1874. 



A DISCU.SSION WITH AN INFIDEL. 



Dr. Louis Buchner's work, 
^rajt und Staffs first appeared in 
Germany in the year 1855, and met 
^vith such a favorable reception by 
^ numerous class of ignorant or 
wicked progressionists * that from 
that year up to the end of 1870 it 
passed through ten German editions, 
*^ithout counting the several trans- 
lations into other languages. The 
present writer had lately the fortune, 
^r the misfortune, to be presented 
*ith an English copy of this abom- 
inable work,f and was informed 
that the knights of the square and 
the trowel had taken a special in- 
^5irest in its propagation. It could 
'^ot be otherwise ; for the work it- 
self is a masonic work. No one 
*ho knows the true character of 
freemasonry, and has read the book, 
'-an have the least doubt of its ma- 
sonic origin. Only a mason of the 

Iq fdct, StuUorum infinitut tst numtrus. 
J floret and Matter: Empirico-philMophical 
"■*« intelligibly rendered by Dr. Louis BUck- 
Jf^» f^retident of the Medical Aesociation of 
^^fn^Darmttadt, etc., etc. Edited by J. Fred- 
p< CoUingwood. Second EngUfh edition. 
*^Won: Trttbner&Co. 1870. 



blackest dye could have displayed 
such a cool effrontery, artful dishon- 
esty, and diabolic malice as the 
author of Force and Matter did in 
almost every page of his little vol- 
ume. Dr. Blichner is one of those 
dangerous men who have a great 
talent for perverting truth. He 
knows how to dazzle the simple 
with brilliant quotations, how to 
perplex the acute with unanswer- 
able riddles, how to entangle the 
cautious in a web of plausible ob- 
jections. He knows how to sup- 
plant reason by rhetoric ; and the 
more embarrassing his case, the 
greater is his assurance and the 
higher his pretension. It is in the 
name of science that he pretends to 
speak. Such is the fashion just 
now. Secret societies began their 
open war against the church and 
against God in the name oi philoso- 
phy ; when beaten on this ground, 
they appealed to liberality^ then to 
progress^ then to civilization^ and now 
to science. All these words, on their 
lips, were lies. Freemasons and 
their cognate societies have never 



^>tttred aocordinc to Act of Congress in the year 1874, by Rev. I. T. Hbckbr, in the Office of 

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



434 



A Discussion with an Infidel, 



been fond of real " philosophy," and 
never had truly " liberal " views. 
The world never made any " pro- 
gress " in the right direction when 
it followed them ; their pretended 
" civilization " never meant any- 
thing else than the tyrannical subju- 
gation of the church by " civil " 
powers. And now their ** science," 
so far as it is theirs, is only a tra- 
vesty and prostitution of truth. The 
world owes nothing to them except 
the increase of crime, the loss of 
public honesty, and the threatened 
triumph of villany. 

With Dr. Buchner, as with many 
others of the same ilk, science is a 
mere pretext. His real object is to 
attack God's existence, a future life, 
human liberty, and all those truths 
which underlie sound philosophy, 
morality, and religious belief. A 
work so well calculated to do harm, 
and which has already infected with 
its poison a numerous class of read- 
ers, needs refutation, and we will 
engage in the unpleasant task. We 
hope we shall be able to show that 
Dr. BUchner*s Force and Mattery all 
its pretensions notwithstanding, is, 
in a philosophical point of view, a 
complete failure. One ounce of 
truth and a cartload of lies is just 
what the doctor dispenses to his 
benighted admirers throughout the 
pages of his baneful production. 

To make things clearer, and to 
give Dr. BUchner the best opportu- 
nity of speaking for himself, we 
have thought of putting the whole 
discussion in the form of a dialogue 
between the doctor and ourselves. 
We know that a lengthy conversa- 
tion with such a sworn enemy of 
truth may prove disgusting in a 
high degree, as he will utter nothing 
but sophisms or blasphemies. But 
the sophist must be unmasked and 
the blasphemer confounded. We 
hope our readers will excuse us for 



paying such attention to an infidel 
writer ; we would hare ignored him 
altogether, if his work were not as 
dangerous as it is unworthy of a 
doctor. 

I. 

FLIPPANCY AND SCHOLASTICISM 

Header, Indeed, doctor, I fear 
that your Force and Matter will 
make you a bad reputation. Our 
most esteemed philosophers say 
that you are a sophist, and that a 
man of your attainments cannot be 
a sophist but by deliberate choice. 
They evidently imply that you are a 
knave and an impostor. As for my- 
self, I confess that I do not see the 
cogency of your reasonings; but, 
before declaring you a knave and 
an impostor, I should like to hear 
from your own mouth what you 
may have to say in your behalf. 

Buchner. I am not surprised, sir, 
at anything said against me. When 
I published my work, " I knew that, 
my attempt was bold, and that E 
should have to sustain a fierce 
struggle with the prejudices of the 
age" (p. viii.) But "things can- 
not be represented different from 
what they are ; and nothing appears 
to me more perverse than the ef- 
forts of respectable naturalists to 
introduce orthodoxy in the natural 
sciences " (p. xvii.) You say that 
our most esteemed philosophers call 
me a sophist. You mean the school- 
men, of course ; in fact, ** the scho- 
lastic philosophy, still riding upon 
its high though terribly emaciated 
horse, conceives that it has long ago 
done with our theories, and has con- 
signed them, ticketed maierialism^ 
sensualism^ determinism^ etc., to the 
scientific lumber-room, or, as the 
phrase goes, has assigned them their 
historical value. But this philoso- 
phy, my dear sir, sinks daily in the 



A DiscussioH wiik an Infidel. 



435 



estimation of the public, and loses 
its ground " (p. xviii.) 

Re€uUr, I would remark, with 
your permission, that the public is 
not nowadays a very acute judge 
of these matters. For what does 
the public know of scholastic phi- 
losophy ? 

Buchner, By the public I mean 
the scientific world, sir. 

Reader. The scientific world, 
dear doctor, knows very little of 
scholastic philosophy. I am sure 
you will not deny the fact. Can 
you tell me where, when, for how 
many years, under what professors, 
and in what books, your scientific 
men had an opportunity of studying 
scholastic philosophy ? They have, 
mo doubt, heard something of it — 
just enough to realize the fact that 
there was a science in the world of 
"Which they wereprofoundly ignorant. 
But this gives them no right to pass 
a judgment. I venture to say that 
neither you nor Moleschott, Feuer- 
bach, Darwin, Tuttle, Huxley, or 
any of your school, have ever stu- 
died, or consulted, or perhaps even 
so much as touched with your 
hands, a single volume of scholastic 
philosophy. 

BUchner. This may be ; but it is 
quite enough for us to know that 
**the singular attempts of the old 
school to construe nature out of 
thought instead of from observation 
have failed, and brought the adhe- 
rents of that school into such dis- 
credit that the name of natural 
philosopher has become a byword 
and a nickname " (p. xix.) 

Reader, No, doctor. This is not 
true. The name of natural philoso- 
pher is still much respected and 
revered ; and I trust nothing will 
ever succeed in making it despica- 
ble, except, perhaps, the shameless 
usurpation of it made by your 
friends, the free-thinkers, whose 



philosophy is nothing but a mean 
conspiracy against truth. It is 
their fault, indeed, if the name of 
natural philosopher is sneered at 
when connected with their own per- 
sons. Why should they put on a 
garb which fits them not } If you 
call Moleschott or Darwin natural 
philosophers, every one certainly 
will smile ; but call Ampere or Far- 
aday by this name, and you will see 
every one take down his hat in 
sign of respect and approbation. 
Then, you should not imagine that 
because a few discoveries have been 
lately made by our men of science 
(I ssiyafeWy because most of them 
are only new applications of old 
theories, while many others are 
mere hypotheses), you should not 
imagine that we have acquired the 
right to despise the discoveries 
and the wisdom of all past ages. 
It was our forefathers who created 
modem science. Where would you 
be without a Kepler, a Galileo, a 
Newton, and scores of others, who 
laid down the ruling principles of 
all the branches of science? If 
they knew less than we do about 
empirical manipulations, they knew 
a great deal more about the con- 
ditions of legitimate speculation. 
To construe nature " out of thought 
instead of from observation ** has 
never been their method ; if I wish- 
ed to retaliate,. I could easily prove 
that it is yours. 

Buchner (defian^y). Try, sir. 

Reader, Well, since you challenge 
me, I shall ask you whether it is 
from observation, and not out of 
thought, that you have construed 
your " uncreated *' matter. I know, 
and you also know, that* it is only 
"out of thought." But we shall 
have time to do justice to this and 
other topics. The point I now in- 
sist on is, that what you say of the 
scholastic method of "construing 



436 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



nature" is a rank calumny. Un- 
derstand me, doctor. Natural 
science has two objects in view: 
the first is to ascertain the truth 
about natural facts; the second is 
to discover the nature of the princi- 
ples and causes to which such facts 
must be traced. As the first of 
these two objects is attained by ob- 
servation and experiments, so is the 
second by thought — that is, by rea- 
sonings based on the positive re- 
sults of observation and experiment. 
Now, you must admit that the duty 
of the metaphysician is not to make 
observations or experiments. This 
belongs to the physicist. The 
metaphysician accepts the facts as 
ascertained by the physicist; and 
it is from such facts, not from 
thoughts, that -he starts his specula- 
tion on the nature of things. Of 
course, if the physicist be wrong in 
his statement of facts, the metaphy- 
sician will be led astray and build 
a theory without foundation; yet 
the fault will not be his. And if the 
physicist be ignorant of some im- 
l>ortant law of nature, the metaphy- 
sician will be compelled to supply 
for the law with a guess at a proba- 
ble hypothesis. This is in the na- 
ture of things. With a mutton- 
chop you cannot make roast beef, 
can you ? 

Buchner, No, indeed. 

Reader, I mean that our fore- 
fathers had not at their disposal 
such an abundance of means for 
investigating the secrets of nature 
as we now possess. Certainly, the 
most important of such secrets, be- 
fore the time of Copernicus, were 
inaccessible to the metaphysicians. 
I allow, then, that the theory of the 
scholastics remained incomplete, 
and was most imperfect so long as 
universal attraction was unknown 
and chemistry undeveloped. But 
this proves nothing. The imper* 



fection of the old physics gives you 
no right to af)irm that the schoolmen 
construed nature out of thought. 
Speculation always implies thought ; 
but to start one's speculations from 
the data of observation, as it was 
customary with the scholastic phi- 
losophers, is not to reject observa- 
tion. 

Buchner, I demur to this state- 
ment, sir. It is well known that the 
old school was all grounded on the 
h priori method. 

Reader, Certainly not, my dear 
doctor. One cannot reason with- 
out abstract principles; but when 
such principles are the result of ex- 
perimental knowledge, it would be 
folly to pretend that they constitute 
an ^ priori method of construing 
nature out of thought instead of 
from observation. Do you demur 
to this also } 

Buchrur, What I assert, sir, is 
that "the times of the scholastic 
bombast, of philosophical charla- 
tanism, or, as Cotta says, of intel- 
lectual jugglery, are passing away " 
(p. xix.) 

Reader, You are not serious, 
doctor. First of all, you know no- 
thing about scholastic bombast. 
Were you to read one page of. any 
of our great scholastic doctors, you 
would be amazed at the simplicity 
of their style, and at the utter reck- 
lessness of your allegation. In the 
second place, the times of bombast 
and charlatanism are not . passing 
away. Read Huxley. Can you 
find anything more bombastic than 
his Lay Sermons ? Read Darwiu. 
Is he not a philosophical charla- 
tan.^ Read your own Kraft und 
Sioff, . . . 

Buchner. Brilliancy is not char- 
latanism, sir. It is a fact that 
while the pretended high specula- 
tions of the old school are hope- 
lessly unintelligible, our discov* 



A Discussion with an InfideL 



437 



cries, ^by directing investigation to 
facts, have compelled thought to 
leave the misty and sterile regions 
of speculative dreams, and to de- 
scend to real life " (p. xxii.) Can 
you condemn us for this ? ** It lies 
in the nature of philosophy that it 
should be common property. Ex- 
positions which are not intelligible 
to an educated man are scarcely 
worth the ink they are printed with. 
The philosophical mist which en- 
velops the writings of scholars ap- 
pears intended more to conceal 
than to exhibit their thoughts " (p. 
xix.) 

Reader, It is all a mistake, doc- 
tor. If you reflect for a moment 
on your oracular sentences, you 
^ill see that they are mere non- 
sense. You say that it lies in the 
nature of philosophy that it should 
^ common property. I wonder if 
^his can be true. I fancy that phi- 
l<>sophy, like any other science or 
discipline which is acquired by 
study, is the property of those 
^one who have studied it ; and I 
^ope that no man of sense will con- 
t^t such. an evident truth. You 
**y that philosophical expositions 
^ould be intelligible to every edu- 
f^fedmsLU ; but this is true only on 
the assumption that the education 
®f which you speak includes a tho- 
rough training in philosophy; which, 
t^^fortunately, is not the case with a 
peat number of so-called educated 
^n. You say that whatever is 
clearly conceived can be clearly 
^^pressed; but you forget that 
what is clearly expressed for the 
^Mar may still be obscure to the 
^^initiatcd. Is it possible that a 
d^tor like you, and a president of 
jt medical association, should over- 
*^k the fact that every science has 
* number of technical terms and 
*^*cntiiic phrases which must be 
•earned in special books and by 



special study before its specula- 
tions can be comprehended ? It is 
therefore supremely ridiculous to 
talk of " the mist that envelops the 
writings of scholars." Everything 
is misty to the uninstructed. Let 
him study, and the mist will disap- 
pear ; for it is not the doctrine that 
wants clearness, but it is the eye of 
the ignorant that is blurred. 

And now, what shall I say of 
that pompous phrase of yours, that 
modern discoveries " have com- 
pelled thought to leave the misty 
and sterile regions of speculative 
dreams, and to descend to real 
life " ? I hope you will allow me 
to call it " modem bombast " and 
*' philosophical charlatanism " ; for 
I cannot call it by any other name. 
If you mean by such words to de- 
nounce Kant, Hegel, Schelling, and 
other German dreamers of tlie 
same school, I have nothing to say 
in their defence ; but if you intend 
thereby to stigmatize the Catholic- 
schools, to which you Germans, no 
less than the reit of the civilized 
world, owe your intellectual educa- 
tion, I cannot help saying, dear doc- 
tor, that your hostile insinuations arc 
dictated by malice and hatred of 
truth. Why do you defame what 
you know not ? How can you call a 
sterile region that speculative phi- 
losophy which formed all our great 
men.^ or dreams those evident con- 
clusions against which reason can- 
not rebel without slaying itself? 
Is not this very strange in a doc- 
tor ? You were confident that ** in- 
tellectual jugglery," to use Cotta's 
expression, would be stronger than 
historical truth; but we are quite 
prepared to meet you on this 
ground as on others; for we Ca- 
tholic thinkers are not afraid of 
bombastic words. We do not even 
think that your "jugglery " is at all 
** intelleclv\a\." Yot *\s \\. vxvX^Yiftt- 



438 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



tual to make sweeping assertions 
when you can give no proofs ? Or 
is it intellectual to sneer at your 
opponents, instead of rcplyitig to 
their arguments ? I presume, dear 
doctor, that your freemasons alone 
would see anything intellectual in 
such a proceeding. 

BUchner, You imagine, sir, that 
I must be a freemason. I shall not 
answer that, as it has nothing to do 
with my book. Yet I wish to in- 
form you that freemasonry every- 
where favors the progress of "mo- 
dem science"; and therefore I 
would not object to being called a 
freemason, whether I am one or 
not. But as to making assertions 
of which I give no proofs, I defy 
you, sir, to substantiate the charge ; 
and as to my not replying to my op- 
ponents, I am sure you will modify 
your judgment when you examine 
the prefaces to the various editions 
of my work. 

Reader. I accept the challenge. 
It will not be more difficult to give 
you full satisfaction on these two 
points than it has been to rebut 
your flippant denunciations of the 
scholastic philosophy. 



II. 



TERGIVERSATION AND JUGGLERY. 

Reader, You say, then, that in 
the prefaces to the various editions 
of your work you have replied to 
your opponents. 

Biichner, Certainly I do. 

Reader, I have read all your 
prefaces. In the very first you 
make this declaration: **We will 
not be in want of opponents ; but 
\»'e shall only notice those who 
speak from experience and combat 
us with facts" (p. xx.) This 
amounts to saying: "When we 
shall be.'littacked with any sort 
of anrfs, arrows, pistols, knives. 



swords, guns, and sticks, we shtD 
not defend ourselves except against 
sticks." Against sticks, of course,- 
you may defend yourself by the 
use of other sticks ; but, if yon are 
attacked with artillery, will your 
sticks be to you a sufficient protec- 
tion ? You knew very well, when 
publishing your book, that you 
were to be attacked with reasons. 
To declare that you would no- 
tice only those adversaries who 
would attack you iviih /acts was to 
declare that you were not ready to 
meet your real opponents. 

Biichner. Against fact there is no 
reasoning. 

Reader* This is not the question. 
It is true that against fact there is 
no reasoning; but when we argue 
against your false conclusions, we 
do not attack your facts, but your 
sophisms only, most erudite doctor. 

Then you add that " speculative 
philosophers may fight among 
themselves from their own point of 
view, but should not delude them- 
selves into the belief that they 
alone are in possession of philo- 
sophical truth " (p. XX.) These 
words reveal your tactics, which 
are : ** Let them fight among them- 
selves, and not against me ; but if 
one of their number attacks me, 
and I cannot hold my ground, let 
him know that, if he is right, I also 
am right; for he is not alone in 
possession of philosophical truth.** 
This is, doctor, the silly plan of de- 
fence you have adopted and car- 
ried out against the attacks of Ca- 
tholic philosophers. How can you, 
then, pretend that jrou have an- 
swered your opponents .> I mean 
your real opponents. 

When the Frankfurter Kaiho- 
Hsche Kirchenblatt took you to task 
for your impious and absurd pub- 
lication, what did you answer? 
Here are your words : ** We shall 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



439 



pass over the fierce denunciations 
of the Frankfurter Katholische 
Kirchenbl<itU conducted by the 
parish priest, Beda Weber. The 
melancholy notoriety which that 
individual has acquired, as one of 
the most eccentric of the ultramon- 
tane party, permits us simply to 
dismiss him. We shall only tell 
the reader that the Frankfurter 
Kirckenblatt carries its hatred 
against the modem direction of 
science so far as to recommend the 
application of the criminal law 
against its representatives. The 
public may thus learn what these 
gentlemen are capable of, should 
they ever become possessed of 
power. The same bloody hatred 
with which science was once per- 
secuted by religious fanaticism 
would revive anew, and with it 
the Inquisition, and auto-da-fis^ and 
all the horrors with which a refined 
icalotism has tortured humanity 
would be resorted to, to satisfy the 
wishes of these theological cut- 
throats. We must turn from these 
enemies, quite unworthy of a serious 
refutation, to another opponent " 
(p. xxiii.) Here, then, you confess 
that you have cowardly turned your 
^>ack to the enemy. 

Buchner. Cowardly ? 

Rtaddr, Yes. If you do not like 
Reword, I will ^di^ prudently. In 
fact, the reason you allege — that 
such an enemy was unworthy of 
serious refutation — is a miserable 
pretext. Whoever is not blind can 
sec that your furious declamation 
against Beda Weber was an im- 
pudent attempt at crushing, if 
possible, by insults, the man whom 
you could not defeat with reasons. 
It is mean and disgusting. What 
can your readers say when you 
<lare not even let them know Beda 
Weber's objections, on the plea 
^kat the reverend priest " has ac- 



quired a melancholy notoriety as 
one of the most eccentric of the 
ultramontane party " .? If such is 
the verdict of the masonic lodges, 
we cannot but congratulate Beda 
Weber for the compliment paid to 
him. His very " hatred against the 
modem (masonic and infidel) direc- 
tion of science '* shows that he is 
a man of sound and clear judg- 
ment; and his opinion that "the 
criminal law '* should be applied 
against the atheists and the cor- 
ruptors of youth recommends him 
to us as a man of order and a true 
friend of civil society ; for nothing 
is more necessary for the preserva- 
tion of order and the peace of 
society than the enforcement of 
law. When such men make denun- 
ciations, they should not be 
"simply dismissed," dear doctor. 
Religious fanaticism, refined zea- 
lotism, tortures of humanity, perse- 
cution of science, and the rest, 
even if they were not thread-bare 
lies, would not authorize you to 
" simply dismiss ** a learned oppo- 
nent as unworthy of serious refuta- 
tion. I will say nothing about 
that malicious insinuation concern- 
ing "what these gentlemen are 
capable of, should they ever become 
possessed of power." Were they 
capable of any monstrosity, this 
would not help your defence of 
Force and Matter, But those gentle- 
men have been possessed of power 
for ages, and the nations redeemed 
from barbarism, and enriched with 
monuments of art, and with scien- 
tific, literary, and charitable insti- 
tutions, show " what they were 
capable of." Of course freemason- 
ry is capable of something else ; ^ 
glance at the present deplorable 
condition of Germany suffices to 
show what you are capable of when 
you are possessed of power. But, 
I repeat, were we as V\cJl^^, *\tu 



440 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



your opinion, as you are in fact, 
this would be no reason for not 
answering our arguments. Your 
book is an attack against religion. 
The professors of religion are there- 
fore your natural opponents. It is 
to them^ therefore, that you owe 
your explanations. And yet this 
is what you publicly profess your- 
self unable to do. 

Buchner. I never made such a 
profession. 

Reader, You made it very open- 
ly. " With regard to parsons and 
ecclesiastics,'' you say, " who never 
cease to enlighten and to assail us 
with their eloquence, we beg to re- 
peat that we cannot discuss with 
them " (p. Ixiv.) Of course you 
endeavor to cover your retreat, as 
usual, by pretending that "these 
good people have, from the begin- 
ning of the world, had the privilege 
of using their zeal and ignorance 
in crying down everything that does 
not suit their business" (ibid^ ; but 
this vile language only betrays your 
inability to cope with them. You 
are so generous as " not to disturb 
them in their vocation," because 
" no rational man doubts the total 
incapacity of these gentlemen to 
enter upon such questions " (p. 
Ixv.) 

Buchner, Why should I answer 
them } They are mere theologians ; 
and I maintain that " there is no 
theological or ecclesiastical natural 
science, and there will be none so 
long as the telescope does not 
reach the regions where angels 
dwell " (p. Ixv.) 

Reader, This is a very poor 
excuse, dear doctor. Theologians 
are not debarred from dealing with 
natural sciences. To mention no 
others, Copernicus was a canon ; 
Secchi is a Jesuit; Moigno is a 
priest. Moreover, the subject of 
ithe question is not natural scietvct, 



but your sophistry; and you can- 
not deny that ecclesiastical stud/es 
make men competent to judge 
of logical blunders. But, leaving 
all this aside, did you not try 
to refute the Allgemeine ZeUung, 
though you pretend that " in stnig- 
gling with such pen-heroes, it 
seems to you that you are acting 
like Don Quixote" (p. xxviii.)? 
Did you not fight, also, against Mr. 
Karl Gutzkow, although he, "as 
is well known, has never impeded 
the daring flight of his genius by 
the ballast of science " (p. xxi.x.) ? 
And, to omit others, did you not 
do your best to answer the Allgc- 
ffieine Kirchen Zeitung^ although it 
meets you, as you say, ** with theo- 
logical eccentricity and rodomon- 
tades " (p. xxxvii.) } It would 
appear, then, that you are not 
afraid of accepting battle when you 
have any hope of overcoming your 
adversary. And therefore, when 
you shrink from answering your 
Catholic opponents, it is evident 
that you do so only because with 
them you have no hope of success. 

Buchner. You are quite mistaken, 
sir. 

Reader, No, indeed. I am cer- 
tain that you cannot hold your 
ground against a Catholic opponent, 
and I am ready to show you im- 
mediately that such is really the 
case. I have already told you that 
your Force and Matter is a book full 
of sweeping assertions, of which no 
proof is given. You challenged lo*^ 
to substantiate the charge, antl ^ 
have accepted the challenge. ^ 
say, then, that your very first p^^ 
position, on which all the ot^^J 
arguments employed in your W<^^ 
are ultimately based, is one of tt»^* 
assertions of which no proof \B ^ 
can be given. Do you accept "^ 
battle on this ground ? 

Buchner, I do. 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



441 



Reader. Please, then, what do 
you coDsider to be the fundamental 
proposition of your work ? 

Buckner. It is this : " No matter 
without force, and no force without 
matter " (p. 2). 

Reader. Is this proposition al- 
together universal, so as to admit of 
no possible exception ? 

BUehner, Yes, sir, absolutely uni- 
versal, without any possible excep- 
tion. 

Reader, Then please tell me on 
what grounds such an absolute uni- 
versality can be established. 

BiUhner. On many grounds. 
First, as Dubois-Reymond pro- 
foundly remarks, "fundamentally 
considered, there kxt neither forces 
nor matter. Both are merely ab- 
stractions, assumed from differ- 
ent points of view, of things as they 
arc. They supplement and presup- 
pose each other. Separately they 
^ not exist. Matter is not like a 
carnage, to which the forces, like 
horses, can be put or again remov- 
ed from. A particle of iron is, and 
remains, the same, whether it 
crosses the horizon in the meteoric 
stone, rushes along in the wheel of 
the steam-engine, or circulates in 
tbe blood through the temples of 
^t poet. These qualities are 
eternal, inalienable, and untrans- 
ferable " (pp. i, 2). 

Reader, I would remark that the 
^lualities of matter are not eternal. 
^ course, as long as matter con- 
tinues to exist, its essential consti- 
tution must remain intact; but to 
^y that the qualities of matter are 
^^mal is to assume not only that 
"^ttcr will last for ever, but also 
^^at it has existed from all eternity, 
^icnce has no right to make this 
^^snmption, since it has no means 
^^ ascertaining its truth; for evi- 
^^titly eternity does not come 
^•^der observation and experiment. 



But leaving aside this question, 
which we may examine later, I say 
that your quotation from M. Dubois 
does not account for the univer- 
sality of your proposition. 

Buchner, Hear Moleschott : " A 
force not united to matter, but 
floating freely above it, is an idle 
conception " (p. i). 

Reader, This is a mere assertion. 

Buchner, Hear Cotta : "No- 
thing in the world justifies us in 
assuming the existence per se of 
forces independent of the bodies 
from which they proceed and upon 
which they act " (p. 2). 

Reader, This is no proof. It is 
quite clear that those forces which 
proceed from the bodies cannot be 
independent of the bodies. But 
your proposition is that no force 
whatever can exist without matter ; 
and therefore you should prove 
that all forces, without exception, 
are dependent on matter. 

Buchiur, First of all, we mu.st 
admit that there is no matter with- 
out force. '^ Imagine matter without 
force, and the minute particles of 
which a body consists without that 
system of mutual attraction and 
repulsion which holds them togeth- 
er, and gives form and shape to 
the body; imagine the molecular 
forces of cohesion and affinity re- 
moved; what then would be the 
consequence.^ The matter must 
instantly break up into a shapeless 
nothing. We know in the physical 
world of no instance of any particle 
of matter which is not endowed 
with forces by means of which it 
plays its appointed part in some 
form or another, sometimes in con- 
nection with similar or with dissim- 
ilar particles. Nor are we in im- 
agination capable of forming a con- 
ception of matter without force. 
In whatever way we may think of 
an original substance, there must 



442 



A Discussion with an Infidel, 



al way's exist in it a system of mu- 
tual repulsion and attraction be- 
tween its minutest parts, without 
which they would dissolve and 
tracelessly disappear in universal 
space. A thing without properties 
is a non-entity, neither rationally 
cogitable nor empirically existing 
in nature " (pp. 2, 3). 

Reader. Very good so far. But 
this is no recent discovery ; it is 
an Old truth constantly taught, and 
much more exactly expressed, by 
those schoolmen whom you ima- 
gine to have been " the persecutors 
of science.** Thus far, then, you 
liave only rehearsed the old doc- 
trine. But now you have to show 
that, as there is no matter without 
force, so also there is no force 
without matter. 

BiUhncr, Yes. " Force without 
matter is equally an idle notion. 
It being a law admitting of no ex- 
ception that force can only be 
manifested in matter, it follows 
that force can as little possess a 
separate existence as matter with- 
out force '* (p. 3). 

Reader, Take care, doctor ! You 
are now assuming what should be 
proved. You assume a law, admit- 
ting of no exception^ that force can 
only be manifested in matter. 

Buchner, The law is known. 
" Imagine an electricity, a magnet- 
ism, without the iron or such 
bodies as exhibit these phenomena, 
and without the particles of matter, 
the mutual relation of which is just 
the cause of these phenomena ; 
nothing would then remain but a 
confused idea, an empty abstrac- 
tion, to which we have given a 
name in order to form a better con- 
ception. If the material particles 
capable of an electric condition 
had never existed, there would 
have been no electricity, and we 
should never have been able by 



mere attraction to acquire the least 
knowledge or conception of elec- 
tricity. Indeed, we may say elec- 
tricity would never have existed 
without these particles. All the so- 
called. imponderables, such as light, 
heat, electricity, magnetism, etc., 
are neither more nor less than 
changes in the aggregate state of 
matter — changes which, almost like 
contagion, are transmitted from 
body to body. Heat is a separa- 
tion, cold an approximation, of the 
material atoms. Light and sound 
are vibrating, undulating bodies* 
Electrical and magnetic phenome- 
na, says Czolbe, arise, as experi- 
ence shows, like light and heat, 
from the reciprocal relation of 
molecules and atoms " (pp. 3, 4). 

Reader* Have you done 1 

BUchner, Yes, sir. 

Reader, Is this all your proof.' 

BiichfiJtr, Yes, sir. 

Reader, Then allow me to state 
that vou have not shown what 
you promised. You have proved, 
indeed, that the forces of mat- 
ter exist nowhere but in mat- 
ter ; but as every one admits this, 
there was no need of your prooC 
Your duty was to prove the uni- 
versal proposition, no force mtk- 
out matter ; and therefore you 
had to show that there are no 
other forces than the forces of 
matter. 

BUchner, This is evident; as 
" force can as little exist without a 
substance as seeing without a vis- 
ual apparatus, or thinking without 
an organ of thought " (p. 4). 

Reader, I am afraid, doctor, 
that you do not speak to the point. 
The question is not whether a 
force can or cannot exist without a 
substance ; it is, whether there is 
no other substance than matter. 
Before denyipg the existence of 
force without matter, you must 



A DiteussioH with an Infidel, 



445 






r 



conclusively show that all sub- 
stance is matter. 

Buchner, ** Nothing but the 
changes we perceive in matter by 
means of our senses could ever 
give us any notion as to the exist- 
ence of powers which we qualify 
by the name oi forces. Any know- 
ledge of them by other means is 
impossible " (p. 4). 

Reader, I should be glad to 
know how you can infer from such 
a remark that all substance is mat- 
ter. What you perceive in mate- 
rial objects proves, indeed, the ex- 
istence of matter and of the forces 
of matter; but how does it prove 
the non-existence of other sub- 
stances and of other forces ? You, 
surely, imagine that our senses are 
our only source of knowledge, and 
that the supersensible^ as unknow- 
able, must be consigned to the re- 
gion of dreams. 

BUchiur, Certainly. ** We main- 
tain that human thought and hu- 
nuin knowledge are incapable of 
discovering or knowing anything 
supersensual. This is the necessa- 
0' general result of modem inves- 
tigation " (p. xli.) 

Reader. A curious result indeed ! 
% which of your senses do you 
perceive abstractions, such as phi- 
^^fyf piifra/ifyf affirtfiatiofiy veraci- 
(r/ I put you the alternative : 
«ther show that you touch, hear, 
swell, taste, or see, with your ma- 
terial eyesy any of such abstract 
notions, or confess, according to 
^ general result of your ridiculous 
QKKiem investigations,. that you can 
^ve none of such notions, and are 
essentially incapable of reasoning. 

BUckner, You try to draw me 
<^t of the real question, sir. 

Reader. By no means. It is 
your denial of c^r capability of 
^wing anything superscnsual 
tbat draws \i8 out of the quebtioh. 



Biichner, My object was to show 
that there is no matter without 
force, and no force without matter. 
This proposition can be establish- 
ed without any special reference to 
our mental operations. 

Reader, You may try; on con- 
dition, however, that our know- 
ledge ^of the supersensible be not 
called in question. 

Biichner, The science of force is 
physics " This science makes us 
acquainted with eight different 
forces : gravitation, mechanical 
force, heat, light, electricity, mag- 
netism, affinity, cohesion, which, 
inseparably united to matter, form 
and give shape to the world " (p. 
18). Any force which cannot be 
reduced to a combination of these 
forces is therefore to be looked 
upon as chimerical. Nothing is 
more evident. 

Reader. Evident ? I think, doc- 
tor, if I were you, I would be 
ashamed of uttering such a rank 
soi^ism. You beg the question 
altogether. What right have you 
to assume that there are no real 
forces in the universe but those 
mentioned in our physical treat- 
ises } To assume this is to assume 
that there is nothing in the world 
but matter — ^the very thing which 
you should demonstrate. And 
therefore you are a§ far as ever 
from having shown your universal 
proposition, no fohe without mat- 
ier. Indeed, you will never show 
it. Truth is stronger than you. 

Biichner, Then tell me, sir, on 
what ground do you base your be- 
lief in the existence of supersen- 
sual forces ? 

Reader, Excuse roe, doctor. 
We were not discussing the ques- 
tion, " What are my grounds for 
believing their existence .>'* Our 
question was, " What are your own 
grounds for prochtimtng their non* 



444 



A Discussion with an InfideL 



existence?" When a man makes 
an assertion contrary to the com- 
mon belief, it is his duty to give 
good reasons in its support. If 
he cannot, let him give up his as- 
sertion, and go back to the com- 
mon belief. Common beliefs, on 
the contrary, are in no need of 
special demonstration so lo^g as 
they, are not attacked with plausi- 
ble reasons. That there are super- 
sensual forces is a common belief. 
As you have failed to adduce any 
serious. proof to the contrary, this 
common belief remains unshaken. 
You ask on what grounds I base 
my belief. I might answer that I 
base it on the ground of universal 
consent, and 1 might show that this 
universal consent must have a uni- 
versal foundation, which cannot be 
invalidated. But I will tell you a 
special reason for admitting super- 
sensual forces. It is that there are 
facts which cannot be accounted 
for by the forces of matter. 

BiUhner, What fact.? Do you 
mean the exploded fact of crea- 
tion } 

Reader. I will soon come to the 
fact of creation, if you wish, and 
compel you to swallow back your 
nasty epithet. But the fact I al- 
luded to was that the phenomena 
of consciousness and of volition are 
unaccountable, if there is nothing 
besides material forces. This you 
cannot deny ; for you say you 
"cannot but acknowledge that in 
the relation of brain and soul, phe- 
nomena occur which cannot be ex- 
plained from the simple physical re- 
lation of force and matter " (p. Ixiv.) 
As long, therefore, as you admit 
nothing but matter and material 
force, there are facts which, by your 
own confession, cannot be explain- 
ed. Thus, you seej not only have 
you failed to substantiate your fun- 
dameniaX assertion, iw Jorccioiihoui 



mattery but you are constrain 
your own showing, to admit 
that transcend matter. 

111. 

CREATlbN. 

Reader, You say, docto 
creation is an exploded fact 
I ask why } 

Buchner. "Those who ta 
creative power, which is i 
have [jroduced the world ou 
self, or out of nothing, are i^ 
of the first and most simple 
pie, founded upon experien 
the contemplation of nature, 
could a power have exist 
manifested in material sub 
but governing it arbitrarily z 
ing to individual views 1 I 
could separately-existing foi 
transferred to chaotic mattt 
produce the world in this m 
for we have seen that a separ 
istence of either is an imp* 

ity " (p. 5)- 

Reader, I beg to remind y 
we have tioi seen the impos 
of force without matter. Al 
efforts to show it have beer 
It is childish, therefore, or 
part, to pretend that those wl 
of a creative power " are ig 
of a first principle founded 
experience and the contemj 
of nature." The contemplat 
nature is, on the contrary, th 
der by which rational creatu 
cend to the knowledge of the 
tor. You ask : How^ could a 
have existed not manifested 
terial substance } I answer 
other question: How coul 
world have existed, if no such 
exists? This is the real qi 
at issue. And pray, doctor, 
speak of separately-existing 
transferred to chaotic matter, 
is not the way we account f 



A DiicHSsion with an Infdel. 



44S 



n of the world. We do 

of chaotic matter before 

And again> do not sup- 

we can ever dream of a 

roducing the world out of 

We are not pantheists; 

:now that the world has 

uced out of nothing This 

e notion of creation ac- 

) both theology and phi- 

^ Very well. But "the 
Id not have originated out 
ig. A nothing is not 
ogical, but also an empiri- 
itity. The world, or mat- 
its properties, which we 
IS, must have existed from 
.nd must last for ever — in 
, the world cannot have 

ted" (p. 5)- 

These are bold asser- 
ted. How can you make 
i? 

r. " The notion * eternal ' 
ly one which, with our 
culties, is difficult of con- 
The facts, nevertheless, 
doubt as to the eternity 

rid" (p. 5). 
What facts, if you please ? 

r. Here is one fact : 

e world is not governed, 

lently expressed, but that 

es and motions of matter 

lecessity inherent in it, 

nits of no exception, can- 

rnied by any person who 

erficially acquainted with 

.1 sciences " (p. 5). Now, 

rid is not governed by a 

)ower, we cannot make it 

t for its origin on any su- 

)wer. This leaves no 

to the eternity of the 

I wonder, doctor, if you 
: learned or understood 
principles of philosophy, 
idents may teach you that, 



from the necessity to which matter 
is subjected of obeying certain laws 
of motion, it is absurd to infer the 
necessity of its existence. What is 
subject to obedience is not indepen- 
dent, and what has a necessity of 
obeying is essentially dependent. 
Moreover, do you not see that what 
is subject to change cannot be ne- 
cessary, and cannot be eternal.^ 
You appeal to natural sciences. 
This is ridiculous. There is no 
need of modem sciences to know 
that the phenomena of the material 
world follow an invariable law. 
This was known in all past ages; 
yet no man in his senses has thought 
of concluding that therefore matter 
was a necessary being. Pagan phi- 
losophers, who had lost the primi- 
tive traditions of mankind, admit- 
ted uncreated matter without fur- 
ther examining the question; but 
none of them pretended to prove 
the eternity or necessity of matter 
from its subjection to definite laws 
of motion. The absurdity of such 
a deduction is manifest. Suppose 
a geometrician were to argue thus : 
What follows an invariable and 
necessary law exists from eternity ; 
but every triangle follows this in- 
variable and necessary law : that the 
sum of its angles equals two right 
angles; and therefore every tri- 
angle exists from eternity. What 
would you reply } 

Biichner, I would reply that the 
laws of geometry are mere abstrac- 
tions. 

Reader. And so are all physical 
laws also. When a thing exists, it 
cannot but be what it is according 
to its essence. If it is a figure of 
geometry, it exists according to 
geometric laws, and has its geomet- 
ric properties ; and if it is a mate- 
rial substance, it cannot but have 
the properties of matter, and so 
long as it exists it caivtvoX bviX. i^Xbaxi 



446 



A Discussi&m with an InfideL 



the same properties. This is evi- 
dent. But from the fact that a 
thing existing is necessarilj subject 
to the liws ot its nature jou can- 
not conclude that it nccessarilj ex- 
ists*, unless.. in«ieed»Toa are not even 
:>upecffecsiET acquainted with the 
Uw^^ ot re.ss«xuBi^ Hence it is clear 
(Qbic vcccr jurgvaent has no weight. 
J^vMrr. *" But that a power — 
luksit fii}r tOK Qoce in its abstract 
jcmtf> < xnn»t ooIt exbt so long as 
ic i& ^^v^ i» no less dear. In as- 
$ufltt]X|jft. chseMcce.. a cxeative abso- 
Otftt ^«n»^ a prtonevai souL an un- 
k»iii«a JB — ic nucfiecs not wkat name 
w^ ^v^ tt^ — ,& criie catKse of the 
^•tictiu w^ a»ssc UL apphring to it 
;;Ht *wo»nt vH :int!e.. sav that it could 
tt^ lu^^ c.v:$&^i etciier htfi^rt or 
#Ari^ ^iur <^MCt!k>aL It could not 
ilii^v <vt3$tK%£ ^htrt^ as the notion 
>H XK>«kv^c «^ net r^fcoocilable with 
(^ i\k«»t ^M nothing or inactivity. 
U. wNMivi liot hav^ been a creative 
'^^)%v< >%i^hout creating something. 
V^c ufcasc tht<4^Hwre* suppose that 
;^i> ', vwcr bu$ tor a time been inert 
tu viK i>«xi*etKe of chaotic and mo- 
Uvkktlc"^ uiotter — a c\>ttception we 
V%\< .utvv^v *i^^wn to be absurd, 
tv v^^i;vi iK< ^%^v' evi;«ed HifUr the 
^AMvK^ .^v ?vx; and inactivity are 
^^<.u iKv'^HP'^^^^W With the notion 
vH ANiw^ C^'^ wiv>tion of matter 
x»^<\-v ^*'> ViJks^*w^ Uws which are in- 
^^siY.4.'> 4tvUVv^; and their manifes- 
y^vH^^M. ^i^ iiK>thing but the product 
vW ^Uv v^Mtious and manifold acci- 
^^yiiV^l v>r necessary combinations 
y*^ Ui^^Wrial movements. At no 
l^^vv> i^nd nowhere, even in the 
^^v^l distant space reached by our 
^^Iv'W^kpe, could a single fact be es- 
^blinhcd, forming an exception to 
\\\\% law, which would render the 
'^)i'iU\\M»Uun of a force external, and 
llhlv)|>i3iulcnt of matter, necessary. 
\\\\\ w Umvc which is not manifested 
^/hm 44mI ^\\^\% and cannot be taken 



into account in our reasoning 
6). What do you answer, sii 

Reader. I answer that thi 
tended argument cannot 
any one but an ignorant n 
one who desires to be cheate< 
cheat himself. And first I c 
that you begin by surmisin 
the Creator would be " an a 
power " ; now, the surmise is 
surdity. Secondly, you suppc 
we "assume" a creative al 
power — which is not the ca 
we do not assume its existen 
we prove it. Thirdly, you c 
Creator *'a primeval soul, ; 
known jc"y and both expr 
are very wrong indeed. Fo 
you say that we must apply 
Creator "the notion of ti 
which is sheer folly; as eve 
knows that time has no exi 
but in the successive chanj 
created things. Even you yc 
say that " the mere applicatic 
limited notion of time to the 
tive power involves a contradi 
(p. 7). And therefore, whc 
affirm that the creative 
" could not have existed eitl 
fore or after creation," you c 
a great blunder by assumin 
before creation there should 
been time. But leaving asi 
this, and supposing that the 
" before the creation " may 
derstood in a legitimate sei 
expressing the priority of et 
and not of time, I will come < 
ly to your argument. 

You say that a creative 
could not exist before en 
" as the notion of power is r 
concilable with the idea of n< 
or inactivity." This reason ] 
nothing, except, perhaps, yo 
norance of logic. Try to i 
your argument to the sylh 
form, and you will see wl 
amounts to. 



A Discussion with an InfideL 



447 



?r. The syllogism will 
: A power can exist only 
as it is active. But the 
power before the creation 
active. Therefore the 
power could not exist be- 
creation. I hope this 
>mething else than my ig- 
)f logic. 

. And yet your logic is 
ault. Do you not see the 
tion lurking in the middle 
Vhat do you mean by cu- 
oes this word stand for 
r for able to acif If it 
•r aciingy then your major 
3n is false; for a power 
long as it is able to act, 
it is not actually acting, 
clear; for have you not 
of talking as long as you 
to talk, although you may 
>e silent ? If, on the con- 
e word active stands for 
'^/, then it is your minor 
on that will be evidently 
r the creative power, be- 
:reation, was able to create 
d, although we conceive 
t yet creating anything, 
our nice syllogism is a 
hism, and your conclusion 

)ther assertion, "It could 
\ been a creative power 

creating something,'' is 
lophistical. For the epithet 
J " in your argumentation 
ible to create '* ; and con- 
' it does not entail actual 

but only its possibility. 

blunder is repeated. 
)u proceed : " We must, 
, suppose that this power 
a time been inert in the 

of chaotic or motionless 

In these few words I 

»e mistakes: First, you 

Produce time where there 

lothing but eternity; sec- 



ondly, you assume that a power, 
not exercised is inert — ^which is 
false, because inertness means des- 
titution of self-acting power ; third- 
ly, you put chaotic and motionless 
matter in the presence of the crea- 
tive power before this power has 
been exercised — which is to as- 
sume that chaotic matter was not 
created, but only received move- 
ment. You understand, doctor, 
that in arguing, as you do, from 
the point of view of your adversa- 
ries, you cannot take such liberties. 
If you wish to refute creation, you 
must take it as it is understood 
and defended by its supporters ; or 
else you will only refute your own 
hallucinations. But I will not in- 
sist on these latter remarks. I 
made them only that you may bet- 
ter realize how deficient and miser- 
able is your method of reasoning. 

Buchner (bitterly). Thank you 
for the compliment. 

Reader, However, I have more 
to say; and I hope, doctor, that 
you will not lose your temper, if I 
proceed onward in the same strain. 
In the second part of your argu- 
ment you say that the creative 
power " could not have existed 
after the creation, as rest and in- 
activity are again incompatible 
with the notion of force." This is 
evidently a mere reiteration of the 
sophism just refuted. If the rea- 
son you allege had any weight, it 
would follow that, when you have 
ceased curing a patient, your med- 
ical power would vanish, and, 
when you have ceased talking, 
your talkative power would be ex- 
tinct ; in fact, rest and inactivity, 
according to you, are incompatible 
with the notion of power. I say 
" power,'* although you here make 
use of the word " force," which is 
calculated to mislead your readers. 
The word "force" is frec\vi^Tv\i^ 



448 



A Discussion wilU an Infidel. 



used to express a quantity of 
movement ; and, of course, rest and 
movement exclude one another; 
hence to designate the creative 
power by the name of " force " 
may be a dishonest trick, though a 
very clumsy one, to inveigle readers 
into the belief that rest and crea- 
tive power are incompatiJ)le. Here, 
however, I must point out another 
great blunder, which a man of your 
talent should have been able to 
;%vvMd» There is a truth, doctor, 
of which you seem to be quite ig- 
norant, though certainly you must 
ha>>f heard of it more than once. 
It i* that the creative power, after 
the prvKiuction of creatures, does 
m»/ remain inactive. Creatures 
need positive conservation, and 
wv>uld fall into nothingness were 
thoy not continually kept in exist- 
ence by the same power by which 
thoy have been first brought into 
being. Hence the creative power 
is always at work. What is, then, 
your supposition of its inactivity 
l»ut a new proof of your ignorance ? 
What you add concerning the 
nu^tion of matter has no importance. 
I might admit with you that, pre- 
scinding from miracles (which you 
arc blind enough to deny), "at no 
time and nowhere>even in the most 
distant space reached by our tele- 
scope* could a single f;ict be estab- 
lished which would render the as- 
sumption of a force external, and in- 
dependent of matter, necessary.'* 
This, however, regards only the 
stability of the laws of motion ; and 
it would be absurd to infer that 
therefore the existence of matter 
J ml its conservation need not be 
.iccounted for by an external cause. 
Mm yi)U again give a proof of your 
ii^nnrance by adding that " the 
MMition of matter obeys only those 
Imtj which arc inherently active." 
Whiil ihcH this mean ? Try to un- 



derstand the term " law," 
will see that to call law " in 
active " is an unpardonal 
sense. \nd hoping that t 
ces to show the absolute w 
ness of your pretended arg 
will let you go on with yo 
allegations. 

Buchner, You do not re 
that in your theory the 
power must have been id 
eternity; and this cannot 
mitted. For "to consi 
power in eternal rest, and 
self-contemplation, is an e 
bitrary abstraction without 
pirical basis " (p. 6). 

Reader, Not at all, doc 
consider God in eternal n 
an empty arbitrary tabstrai 
is a real and necessary cc 
from incontrovertible prem 
it philosophical to assume 
do, that creation would li 
an end to God's eternal resi 
always rests unchangeably 
self, whether he actually < 
his creative power or not. 
in himself his happiness, 
himself he rests for ever i 
dently of creation. This 
without thinking for a mo 
your "empirical basis." 
know that it is a silly thou 
of endeavoring to find an e 
basis for a purely intellectu 
But if by the want of an e 
basis you mean a want ol 
facts from which to show C 
istence and infinite perfect! 
your duty would have beer 
stantiate your assertion by 
that such facts are not real 
have no connection with tl 
ence of a supreme bein] 
you have omitted to do, n 
all your argument consists 
assertions, not only without 
but without the possibility < 

Is it not strange, then, t 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



449 



3 have cornered your read- 
l compelled them to resort to 
St absurd fictions to uphold 
itence of a creative power ? 
y, in fact, that they have no 
esource but to adipit "the 
r notion that the creative 
bad suddenly and without 
asion arisen out of nothing, 
eated the world (out of 

and had again, in the mo- 
' completion, collapsed with- 
', and, so to say, dissolved 
i the universe " (p. 7). In- 
irere we as stupid as any 
» can be, we would still find 
ssible to dream of such a 
assumption. You add that 
ophers and others have ever 
jd this latter notion, believ- 
; they could, by this mode 
oning, reconcile the indis- 

fact of a fixed 'and un- 
ible law in the economy of 
verse with the belief in an 
lal creative power" (ibid.) 
t hesitate to tell you, doctor, 
thing but hatred of truth 
•rompt you to utter such a 

ft 

m 

n^r. Yet " all religious con- 
s lean more or less towards 

* " (p- 7). 

rr. This I deny. 
fur. Let me explain. Phi- 
rs admit the idea, " with 
erence : that they conceive 
rit of the world reposing 
le creation, but yet, as an 
lal, capable of again sus- 
; his own laws " (p. 7). 
rr. This explanation is not 
oint. Your assertion im- 
lat philosophers and others 
erished the notion that the 
power had suddenly arisen 



out of nothing, and that all reli- 
gious conceptions lean more or 
less towards this idea. This is 
what I challenged you to show. 
Does your explanation show it? 
On the contrary, it shows that the 
idea towards which religious con- 
ceptions lean is quite different. 

Buchner, Be this as it may, 
"conceptions of this kind cannot 
concern us, not being the result of 
philosophical reasoning. Individ- 
ual human qualities and imperfec- 
tions are transferred to philosophi- 
cal notions, and belief is made to 
oc!cupy the place of actual know- 
ledge " (p. 7). 

Reader, I perceive, doctor, that 
you are persistently wrong. It 
seems as though you could not 
open your mouth without uttering 
some false or incongruent assertion. 
What are those conceptions which 
" cannot concern us " } Are they 
not the dreams you have just im- 
agined ? How, then, do you in- 
sinuate that the existence of a 
creative power does not concern 
us, because your dreams are not 
the result of philosophical reason- 
ing ? And pray, who ever " trans- 
ferred individual human qualities 
and imperfections to philosophical 
notions ".^ Has this phrase any in- 
telligible meaning.' Lastly, it is 
evidently false that, in order to 
admit a creative power, " belief is 
made to occupy the place of actual 
knowledge." The existence of 
God is a philosophical truth ; now, 
philosophy is a method of know- 
ledge, not of belief. 

I trust I have sufficiently expos- 
ed your ** intellectual jugglery " to 
let you see that you are at best a 
charlatan, not a philosopher. 



TO BB CONTIN USD. 



VOL. XIX. — 2g 



450 Dante's Purgatario. 



DANTE'S PURGATORIO. 



CANTO FOURTEENTH. 



NoTB.— This canto, like the pmotAVoig (XIII.), iUttstntet the slii of eoTy, wW^ Dnte dccat • 
tpectil Tice of the Florentines, against whom and the other inhabitants of Valdamo he iaT«i{h» 
with a bitterness that savors more of the style of the Inferno than of "the milder shade of ?9f 
gatory." 

In the Thirteenth Canto, Bnvy has been rebulced by roices of love and gentleness ; as, for inilaace* 
the kindly comment of the Virgin at the marriage feast of Cana, " Tk^j^ have »# tuituJ" These aa^ 
similar words are the tc^urgv which the euTious hare to endure. But the SridU, Dante mjf^vr^ 
tones of a contrary import, such as tlie terrific Toice of Cain« who passes by in a peal of thu'sde^ 
but invisible, followed by the dreadful cry of Aglauros, described in the condudiog pangrM>k 9^ 
this caoto. 



** What man is this who round our mountain goes* 
Before that death has let his pinions^free. 

Who doth at will his eyelids ope and close ?" 
^' I know not ; but am sure not sole is he : 

Demand t/tou of him who the nearest art, 
And gently ask, that he may deign reply." 

Thus to the right two spirits there, apart, 
Bent each toward each, conferred as I came nigh ; 

Then turning up their faces as to speak. 
One said : " O soul ! that still in mortal hold 

Art on the way thy home in heaven to seek. 
For charity console us, and unfold 

Whence comest, and who art thou ? for the grace 
Accorded thee in us the wonder wakes 

Due unto things which ne'er before had place." 
And I : " Through middle Tuscany there flows 

A brook whose founts in Falterona spring. 
Nor do an hundred miles its current close : 

From that stream's banks this body of mine I bring : 
'Twere vain to tell you how my title goes ; 

For yet my name hath not much heralding.' 
" If well I probe the sense thou hast conveyed 

With intellect," the first who spake replied : 
" Thou meanest Amo !" — and the other shade 

Said to the former : " Wherefore did he hide 
That river's name as men are wont to do 

Of things most horrible ?" — and then the one 
Whom that inquiry was directed to, 

Discharged him thus : 



f» 



Dantis Purgatorh. i^\ 



OTHDO DEL DUCA. 

" Why he that name doth shtto 
I cannot tell : but meet it is the name 

Of such a valley perish from the earth ! 
Since from its head (where so abounds the same 

Great alpine chain which cast Pelorus forth, 
With springs that few spots are impregnate more) 

To where it seeks, arriving at the main. 
What the sky sucks from ocean to restore 

(Whence rivers have what waters they contain), 
Virtue by all is hunted for a foe 

As 'twere a snake ; — whether from fault of place 
Or evil custom goading nature so : 

Wherefore that miserable valley's race 
Have changed their kind to that degree 'twould seem 

Circe had pastured them. Among brute swine, 
More fit for mast than human food, the stream 

Winds its poor way ; then, lower down its line. 
Finds curs that snarl beyond their power to bite. 

And turns from them his nostril as in scorn. 
Falling it goes, and more it grows in might. 

The curst ditch finds that of those dogs are bom 
A pack of wolves. Through many a whirlpool then 

He comes to foxes in deceit so deep 
They fear no catching by more crafty men. 

What though o'erheard, no silence will I keep ! 
And well for this man, if in mind he bear 

What my true spirit unfolds. One of thy blood 
Shall hunt those wolves. I see thy grandson there 

Harrowing the borders of that savage flood ; 
All fly before him, all are in despair : 

He makes a market of their living flesh. 
Then, like old beasts for slaughter, lays them low : 

Staining his fame with many a murder fresh ; 
He comes all bloody from that wood of woe, 

Leaving such wreck that in a thousand years 
To its primeval state it shall not grow." 



Like one whose visage alters when he hears 
III hap foretold, as 'twere in dread which way 

The blow may strike, I saw that other soul 
Stand turned to hear, disturbed and in dismay. 

Soon of those words as he had grasped the whole. 
His troubled air, and what the other said, 



4$2 Dante's Purgatorw. 

To know their names wrought in me such a thirst 
That I with prayers direct inquiry made. 

Wherefore the shade who had addrest me first 
Began again : '^ Thou wouldest that I deign 

Do thee a grace I did in vain beseech ; 
But since the will of God in thee so plain 

• Doth favor show, I will not stint my speech ; 
Therefore know this : Guido del Duca am I. 

My blood with envy was so burnt, so bad, 
Thou mightst have seen me livid grow and dry 

Had I but seen another's face look glad. 
Such of my sowing is the straw I reap ! 

O human race ! why bring your wishes down 
To pleasures that exclude all partnership ? 

This is Rinieri ; this the prize and crown 
Of Casa Calboli, whereof no child 

Hath made himself ah heir of his renown. 
Nor yet alone hath his blood been despoiled, 

'Twixt Po, the Pennine, Reno and the shore, 
Of what best needs for truth and happiness ; 

For through those borders there be plenty more 
Of stock so bad, to make their venom less 

By cultivation 'twere but vain to try. 
Where is good Lizio ? and Mainardi ? Where 

Pier Traversaro and Carpigna's Guy ? 
O Romagnuoles ! what bastard shoots ye bear. 

When sprouts a Fabbro in Bologna, when 
Bemardin Fosco makes Faenza heir 

From coarse grass to a growth of gentlemen ! 
No wonder, Tuscan, at my weeping thus 

While I recall, remembering them so well, 
Guido of Prata when himself with us. 

And Ugolin of Azzo, used to dwell : 
Frederic Tignoso and his goodly troop ; 

The Traversara, Anastagi race ; 
Now disinherited both houses droop ! 

Ladies and knights, the toils repose and grace 
They wrapt us in of courteSy and love 

There where the best blood such bad hearts debase I 
" O Brettinoro ! why dost thou not move 

From thy proud seat, thy family wholly gone, 
And many more, to shun corruption's course ? 

Bagnacaval does well to have no son, 
And Castrocaro ill, and Conio worse 

To breed such Counties taking further pains : 
And well enough too, when their devil is dead, 

May the Pagan i do, though some remains 
Bear witness 'gainst them of impureness fled. 

O Ugolin de' Fantoli ! most sure 
Js thy good name, since no degenerate head 



Daniels Purgatorio. 453 

fs looked for now its brightness to obscure. 
But go thy ways now, Tuscan ! more delight 

I find in weeping than in words — too stirred 
By this talk of our country." We were quite 

Sure those dear souls our way's direction heard, 
And from their silence knew that we went right. 



« 



Soon as proceeding we became alone, 
A voice, like lightning when it strikes, did say. 

Rushing on tow'rds us with its thunderous tone. 
Whoever findeth me the same sliall slay /" * 

Then fled as thunder, when the bolt is thrown 
From the torn cloud, in rumbling dies away. 

When on our ears a moment's truce there fell, 
Another crash came of like rattling shock 

As of a rapid thunder, peal on peal : 
"/ am AglauroSy who became a rockT * 

On this, I drew back from my forward pace 
To cling for shelter close behind the bard, 

And when the air was hushed in all its space. 
He said to me : ** That was the bit if full hard 

Which should each man within his limit stay. 
You take the bait so fondly that the small 

Hook of th' old enemy makes you his prey, 
And bridle boots you naught, nor warning call. 

Heaven calleth to you, and the eternal round 
Shows you of beauties that about you roll. 

And still your eye is grovelling on the ground; 
Wherefore He smites you who discerns the whole." 

• 

* Of these two unseeo spirits, Uie first Voice is tliat of CaId ; the second, th&t of Aglauros, chanf ed 

♦Tk* ^^ *°^y ®^ ^^ •^•^*' "•"*» *• ****** ^y ^^***' 

^ ^e aetninr of thb bit or bridlt is explained in ttie preliminmry note. 



4S4 



Tki VeU WiiidrawH. 



THE VEIL WITHDRAWN. 



TIAKtLATID, BY rBSIUSIION, PKOM TUB PBBNCR 09 MADAMB CBATBIf , AUT80B OF **A BBT 



'* plbubamcb/' etc. 



VII. 



Lorenzo, Duca di Valenzano, 
belonged to one of the noblest 
families of upper Italy; but his 
mother was a native of Sicily, and 
it was from her he inherited his 
title as well as the fortune already 
in his possession, which would be 
considerably increased if an im- 
portant lawsuit (the usual accom- 
paniment of a Sicilian inheritance), 
which brought a great part of it 
into litigation, should terminate 
successfully. His object in coming 
to see my father was to place this 
business in his hands ; and, after 
his first visit, he usually came once 
or twice a week. At first he mere- 
ly bowed to me as he passed, or, at 
most, addressed me a few words on 
leaving the room. The remainder 
of the time was spent in looking 
over voluminous documents with 
my father. Nevertheless, these 
visits soon became a little incident 
in my monotonous life, and I began 
to look forward to them with a 
certain impatience. 

The duke, at this time, was 
scarcely more than thirty years of 
age ; but he by no means seemed 
young in ray eyes. A few prema- 
ture wrinkles and an observant, 
thoughtful look imparted a gravity 
to his face which was not, however, 
its prevailing expression ; for it was 
frequently ironical and sarcastic to 
the last degree, and so mobile that 
it was not always easy to decide on 
the impression it left. His general 
appearance, however, was noble 
Mod striking, as well as the tone 



of his voice, which invc 
commanded attention tc 
said. 

Several weeks elapsed 
any other variety than 
moments, more or less pi 
which he passed at my tal 
end of each visit. He 
made some unimportant 
respecting my lessons, i 
or my flowers, which he 
I cultivated with a care s 
unusual in our clime, 
he only spoke to me as 1 
to a child. I replied ii 
responding tone, and, ve 
not only without embari 
but with a pleasure I mac 
tempt to conceal. I had 
be devoured by ennui in 
tive and solitary a life, anc 
ly welcomed any divers 
came in my way. My i 
such times, remained sil 
grave, and seemed somev 
patient when these brief < 
tions were prolonged a lit 
than usual. 

One day, when the d 
proached my table as usu 
a large atlas open before 
he noticed that I was e: 
the map of Asia. I was 
without any effort, and y< 
certain interest resulting fi 
ositv which, added to an 
meraor)*, made me an i 
good scholar. The duk< 
at the map a moment, a 
some obser>*ations that ex 
interest, he pointed to a pi 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



455 



tlic Himalaya mountains, and re- 
marked : ^ One year ago to-day I 
"w^L^ there." I knew his extensive 
travels had rendered him celebrat- 
ed, as well as his success as a 
sculptor, doubly surprising in a 
man of his rank and so enterpris- 
ing an explorer. I had acquired 
this information from conversations 
respecting the duke since his arri- 
val at Messina, where his presence 
bad caused a sensation. 

On this occasion, seeing my in- 
terest strongly excited, he seemed 
to take pleasure in giving an ac- 
count of that remote region, which 
I sometimes interrupted by ques- 
tions that appeared to surprise him. 
The facility with which I was en- 
dowed made me really superior in 
nwny respects to most girls of my 
^; and as for inforniation, I 
inight have been considered a phe- 
nomenon in my own country. 

The conversation that day might 
have been indefinitely prolonged 
had not my father found a pretext 
fof abridging it by suddenly pro- 
poang to take the duke to the fur- 
ther end of the garden, in order to 
<^xamine some ruins and a Greek 
portico on a height from which 
^here was an admirable view. The 
^^ke looked at me, as if he wished 
I could join in the walk ; but my fa- 
ther not seconding this mute sug- 
gestion, he was forced to accompany 
him, not, however, without giving 
■Qe, as he left the room, a look that 
seemed to express compassion, in- 
terest, and respect. 

As soon as I was alone, I abrupt- 
ly closed my atlas, rose from my 
scat, and abandoned myself to a 
violent fit of irritation and grief, as 
1 hunried with long steps through 
the extensive gallery, exclaiming 
^Ottd against the undue sternness 

and severity of my father He did 

not see that he was thus rendering 



the seclusion he had imposed upon 
me beyond my strength to bear — 
a seclusion that would have been 
transformed by one word of affec- 
tion, sympathy, or even kindness. 
Instead of this, did he not even ap- 
pear to be annoyed that I should 
receive any from this stranger ? 

It was impossible for me to re- 
sume my studies. I had an hour 
to wait before Ottavia would come, 
as she did every day, to ac- 
company me to the garden — 
as if I were a mere child, instead 
of being allowed to wander at my 
own pleasure till sunset. Hitherto 
I had endured everything humbly ; 
but my patience was now exhaust- 
ed, and I felt a disposition to re- 
volt which I only repressed with 
difficulty. Was this merely against 
a rigime of such excessive severity, 
or was it the result of a slight re- 
turn of confidence in myself inspir- 
ed by the interest, and almost defer- 
ence, which this stranger had just 
manifested ? It was doubtless both ; 
and the consequence was, I felt an 
agitation I could not subdue, and 
an irrepressible longing for any 
change whatever in a mode of life 
that had become insupportable. 
Tired of walking up and down, I at 
last took a seat by the window, 
where I could, at a distance, see my 
father and his client. I watched 
them with an attention that soon 
diverted my thoughts and ended by 
wholly absorbing me. 

I at once noticed that, instead of 
proceeding to the end of the gar- 
den to see the ruin my father had 
spoken of, they had stopped in a 
broad alley leading from the house 
to a white marble basin, in the form 
of a vase, which stood in the centre. 
This alley, bordered with a clipped 
hedge of box, extended beyond the 
basin to a small grove of olive-trees 
leading to the hill it was necessaiy 



456 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



to ascend in order to see the ruin. 
They seemed to have wholly lost 
sight of the proposed object of their 
walk ; for when I first saw them, they 
had scarcely reached the basin, and 
were now slowly returning towards 
the house. The duke appeared to 
be listening to my father, every now 
and then striking the hedge they 
were passing with a stick he held in 
liis hand. All at once he stopped, 
and, passing his arm through my fa- 
ther's, he led him to a bench, on 
which they both sat down. I could 
see them distinctly, and, without 
hearing what they said, could dis- 
tinguish the sound of their voices. 
It was the duke*s I now heard. At 
first he spoke with his head bent 
down, as if with some hesitation, 
but by degrees with more animation 
and fire, and finally with clasped 
hands, as if pleading some cause or 
asking some favor. . . . Once he 
raised his eyes towards the window 
where I was, though he could not 
see me. Was he speaking of me ? . . . 
Had he ventured to intercede in 
my behalf? ... I looked at my fa- 
ther anxiously. His face express- 
ed the greatest surprise as well as 
extreme dissatisfaction, but it grad- 
ually changed. He became very at- 
tentive ; and when at last the duke 
extended his hand, he took it in his, 
and seemed to be making some 
promise. Then they rose and re- 
sumed the way to the house, but by 
a shady path where my eyes could 
no longer follow them. 

That day our dinner was less 
gloomy than usual. My father 
conversed with Mario as he had 
not done for a long time, and the 
latter, with satisfaction, attributed 
to himself this change (which, to do 
him justice, had been the object 
of persevering eflfort). But Livia, 
who had more penetration, saw 
tiicre WAS some other reason; for 



she speedily observed that tliis 
change was especially evident to- 
wards me. In fact, for the first 
time since the fatal day that seemed 
like a dividing line in my young 
life, I once more saw in my 
father's eyes the fond look I was 
formerly accustomed to ; and this 
paternal and almost forgotten ex- 
pression gave me new life and a 
sensation of joy and happiness that 
made me raise my head as a flower 
beaten down by the storm looks up 
. at the first return of the sun. 

The explanation was not long 
delayed. The next day my father 
sent for me at an earlier hour than 
I generally went to him, and after 
a preamble which I scarcely com- 
prehended, and which by no means 
served to prepare me for what I 
was about to hear, he informed me 
that the Duca di Valenzano had 
asked for my hand. I remained 
stupefied with astonishment, and 
my father continued : " It was 
impossible to expect a proposal 
like this for one of my daughters; 
but however brilliant it may be, 1 
should unhesitatingly decline it 
were not the duke personally 
worthy of love and esteem. As to 
this I am satisfied from all I hear 
respecting him. But it is for you 
to decide about accepting his hand. 
I will not impose my will on you. 
Consider the subject, Ginevra. 
The Duca di Valenzano will come 
this evening to receive your re- 
ply." 

My father might have said much 
more without my thinking of in- 
terrupting him. I was in such a 
state of utter amazement that 1 
could hardly realize what he said, 
and the perspective thus suddenly 
opened before me conveyed no 
definite idea to my mind. It was 
easier to believe he was jesting 
with me than to suppose such a 



The Veil Withdrawtu 



4S7 



nan as the duke would propose for 
ne to become his wife I . . . 

I returned to my chamber ex- 
tremely agitated, and this feeling 
was not diminished by witnessing 
my sister's emotion and Ottavia's 
noisy demonstrations of joy when 
^ told them of the proposal that 
had just been communicated to me. 
fhe Duca di Valenzano was not 
only a person of high rank, but he 
^'^s thought to possess every ac- 
complishment, and it was evident 
that every one looked upon my 
consent as a matter of course. 

C^mt homme accompli I Before go- 
ing any further, I cannot help 
stopping to remark here to what 
a degree the world, generally so 
severe, shows itself indulgent in 
certain cases ; and how often this 
indulgence is shared even by those 
who try to think they are not in- 
fluenced by external circumstances ! 
Assuredly neither my father, nor 
roy sister, nor the simple Ottavia 
attributed the favorable impression 
produced on their minds to the 
l>riUiant position of this unexpect- 
ed suitor, or the special merit he 
had acquired in their eyes, to the 
rocre fact of his having thought of 
sharing his lot with me. 

It would have been difficult for 
•^e to express my own feelings, for 
J hardly understood their nature. 
' was flattered ; I was touched ; I 
*as even very grateful, for it was 
evident that the duke had begun by 
pleading my cause with my father, 
*nd hitherto he had been by no 
"^eans unpleasing to me. Why, 
'hen, could I not think of him now 
without a kind of repugnance, fear, 
•^"d aversion? And why did I 
^eel as if I should prefer never to 
^^e him again? I asked myself 
'hese questions, at first silently, and 
'hen aloud, as was often my habit 
when with Ltvia and Ottavia, 



who, though so different from each 
other, were nevertheless so alike in 
their affection for me. 

" That is quite natural, carina^'' 
replied Livia. " You scarcely know 
the Duca di Valenzano, and the very 
word marriage is one of serious im- 
port, and even fearful, when it falls 
for the first time on the ears of a 
young girl. But this will pass 
away." 

" Do you think so ?" 

" Oh ! yes. I am sure of it. 
When you know him better, and 
especially when he, in his turn, 
comprehends the qualities of your 
mind, and heart, and soul, he will 
conceive such an affection for my 
dear Ginevra that she will soon 
love him in return, and not a little, 
I imagine." 

"I think so, too," said Ottavia, 
laughing. " They say he is very 
captivating, to say nothing of his be- 
ing one of the greatest and wealth- 
iest noblemen of Italy. Ah ! ah ! 
what a different tone those wicked 
people will assume who say . . . " 

Livia looked at Ottavia, who stop- 
ped short. 

" Livia ! do not stop her," I ex- 
claimed. " Go on, Ottavia ; I insist 
upon it. I wish to know what 
wicked people you refer to, and 
what they say." 

Ottavia once more regretted her 
precipitation, and would rather 
have remained silent ; but I con- 
tinued to question her till she ac- 
knowledged some people had taken 
the liberty of saying I should never 
marry on account of " what had 
taken place." 

"What a vague, cruel way of 
speaking!" exclaimed Livia indig- 
nantly. " Everybody knows now 
there was nothing, absolutely no- 
thing at all, in that gossip ; that it 
was all a mere falsehood." 

** Everybody ?" ... I said with 



4S8 



Tki VeU WitJidrawH. 



sudden emotkyn. " But has not my 
father continued to treat me as if I 
were culpable ?" Then after a mo- 
ment's silence, I added : " Do you 
think these falsehoods have come 
to the ears of the Duca di Valen- 
zano ?" 

" How can I tell ?" replied Livia. 
"^'And of what consequence is it? 
His proposal shows that he is sure, 
as well as we, that you have nothing 
at all to reproach yourself for." 

I made no reply. A new thoughl 
struck me, and I felt the necessity 
of being alone, in order to reflect on 
what had been suggested by her 
words. I therefore left my two 



companions abmpdy, and took a 
seat at the end of the terrace oo a 
little parapet that looked on tlie 
sea, and there I remained nearly an 
hour. 

That night, when the Duca di 
Valenzano returned, my father, at 
my solicitation, told him that, before 
coming to any decision, X wished 
to have some private conYersation 
with him. It was not without diffi- 
culty I induced my father to con- 
vey this message ; but the duke im- 
mediately assented, and with so 
much eagerness that it might have 
been supposed my request had only 
anticipated a wish of his own. 



VIII. 



I was in my usual place in the 
gallery, and alone, when the duke 
entered at the appointed hour. I 
rose, and extended my hand. He 
was astonished, I think, to find me 
so calm, and perhaps so grave, 
and looked at me a moment in si- 
lence, as if he would divine what I 
was going to say to him. Seeing 
that I remained silent, he at length 
said : 

** Donna Ginevra, I thought my- 
self skilled in reading the expres- 
sion of your eyes; but in looking at 
you now, I cannot tell whether the 
word that is about to fall from 
your lips is yes or no." 

I found it difficult to reply; but 
overcoming my embarrassment at 
last, I succeeded in saying : 

" Yes or no .? ... If I only had 
that to say, M. le Due, I could 
have charged my father with it. 
. . . But before speaking of the 
reply I am to make, I must make 
one request. You must tell me 
sincerely what you think of me, and 
I will afterwards tell you with the 
utmost frankness wherein you are 
mistaken." 



He looked at me with an atten- 
tive air, and then smiled, as he 
said: 

"Tell you what I think of you? 
. . . That might lead me to say more 
than I have yet the right to say. 
But I will tell you. Donna Ginevra, 
what I do not think, and, in so doing} 
I shall, I imagine, comply with your 
request. Let me fully assure you 
I attach no importance whatever to 
the words of a coxcomb; and I 
would call any one a liar, and treat 
him as such, who would dare to re- 
peat them ! . . ." 

He saw, by the expression of joy 
that flashed from my eyes, that he 
had guessed aright. 

"Poor child! . . . poor angel!' 
he continued, " it would be strang<J 
indeed if I took any other al- 
titude than this before you." And 
he was about to kneel at my feet? 
when I eagerly prevented him 

" Do not do that, I beg of you!" 
I exclaimed. "And say, if )0^ 
like, that I am a child, but do not 
call me an angel. . . . Oh! no, 
never say anything so far from the 
truth 1 Listen to nie, for I re- 



The VeU WUhdrapm. 



459 



quested this interview ooily: that 
you might know, allr-rwhat is true 
as well as what is false." 
/"What is true?" he said in a 
' slight tone of surprise. 

^Yes. Listen, to me. I thank 
you for not. having believed what 
• . . what waa said concerning 
n>e, for tfaat^ indeed, was false. I 
^ however, culpable, and it is 
figbt you should know. it. Perhaps 
you will then change your mind, 
^ think no more about me." 

He looked at me again, as if he 
^ould read the depths of my souK 
^ Is it with this design," he said 
"tha-t you speak so frankly ?" 

I knew not what reply to make, 
^05 I no longer knew what I 
^h^. ' I found a charm in the 
°^ii^Sl^ tenderness and respect of 
which I so suddenly felt myself the 
object. Besides, I had suffered 
greatly from my long seclusion, and 
^Y heart involuntarily turned to- 
^^^ds him who was trying to de- 
'*^^r me from it. . . . My fear and 
'^^I^Ugnance vanished beneath his 
sympathetic look. 

*• No," I said at last, "it is not 
fo*" that reason." 

^ ** Then speak frankly," he said, 
^d let me hear this important 
'^elation, whatever it may be." 

^ And will you promise solemn- 
ly never to reveal my secret?" 
** Yes, I solemnly promise." 
In spite of the solemnity of his 
^ords, I saw it was with difficul- 
^ be repressed a smile. But when 
^ saw the agitation produced by 
^^ recollections thus awakened, 
^is expression became serious. For 
^ moment a cloud came over his 
|*cc ; but in proportion as I entered 
^to the details of that last night 
^f my mother's life — ^my thought- 
lessness, my shock, and, finally, my 
^cspur and repentance— -he became 
^^tcd,and listened with jo much 



emotion that his look inspired me 
with confidence, and I finished 
without fear the account I had be- 
gun with a trembling voice. 

As has been seen, I thought 
myself more guilty than I should 
have been had there been any 
truth in the vague, unmerited re- 
proaches I had endured; for the 
slight fault I had really committed 
seemed indissolubly connected with 
the fearful calamity that follow- 
ed !.. . That was why I thought 
myself unpardonable, and why I 
preferred to endure the most un- 
founded suspicions concerning me 
rather than reveal the truth to any 
one in the world— above all, to my 
father. But it seemed to me I 
ought not, for the same reason, to 
conceal it from him who had so 
generously offered me his hand, 
whatever might be the result. I 
therefore continued, and he listen- 
ed without interrupting me. When 
I had ended, he spoke in his turn, 
and what he said decided the fate 
of my life. 

I already felt relieved by the 
complete revelation of a secret I 
had hitherto kept with an obsti- 
nacy that was perhaps a little child- 
ish. .And in listening to the soft 
accents of his sonorous, penetrating 
voice, my heart was more and 
more comforted, and soon allowed 
itself to be persuaded into what it 
was sweet and consoling to be- 
lieve — that, as he said, I exaggerat- 
ed the consequence of my thought- 
lessness; that if I had afHicted my 
mother, I had time to ask and ob- 
tain her forgiveness; that I was 
ignorant of her dangerous condi- 
tion, and, when I became aware 
of it, I siipposed I had been the 
cause ; . . . but all this was unrea- 
sonable. . . . And as to the flow- 
er .. . Here he stopped, and his 
brow darkened for a moment. '^ An- 



460 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



swer me frankly," he said slowly ; 
" if Flavio Aldini were still alive, 
if he were here under this window 
to-day, and implored you to give 
him that little sprig of jasmine I 
see in your belt . . ." 

He had not time to finish. 
- " Is it possible," I exclaimed, 
" that you, who say you understand 
me, who pretend to have read my 
heart, can mention a name that has 
become so odious to me ? ..." 

Then I continued, I imagine to 
his great surprise : 

" You are the first to whom I 
have acknowledged the fault he 
made me commit, for I do not 
consider the ear of the priest to 
whom I confessed it as that of 
man. There I experienced the in- 
dulgence of heaven, and was for- 
given by God as well as my moth- 
er. . . . But would you know what 
cost me the most that day ? Not, 
certainly, my sorrow for the past ; 
not my firm resolutions as to the 
future ; nor even the humble ac- 
ceptation of all the humiliations 
that have been infiicted on me. . . . 
No, what cost me the most was to 
promise to overcome my resent- 
ment, to subdue the bitterness 
awakened by the very name of 
Flavio, and to utter it every day 
in prayer for the repose of his 
soul ! . . ." 

I was, in speaking thus, very re- 
mote from the regions familiar to 
Lorenzo. While I was uttering 
these words, my face was lit up 
with an expression very different 
from any he had ever seen there. 
He gazed at me without seeming 
to hear what I said, and at length 
replied with evident emotion : 

** I thank you for telling me 
this, though one look at you is suf- 
ficient to efface all doubt, as dark- 
ness vanishes before the approach 
ofdAy." 



After a moment's silence, he ie« 
sumed : " And now, Ginevray I 
implore you to delay no longer the 
reply I have come to receive." 

The recollections of the past 
had made me forget for a few mo- 
ments the present ; but these words 
recalled it, and I looked at him 
as if confounded. There was a 
moment's silence. My heart beat 
loudly. At length I silently took 
from my belt the little sprig of 
jasmine he had just spoken of, and 
gave it to him. 

He understood the reply, and 
his eyes lit up with gratitude and 
joy. I felt happier than I had an- 
ticipated. Was not this, in fact, 
what I had dreamed of, what 1 
had longed for — to be loved ? And 
would it not be easy to love in re- 
turn such a man as this } 

As these thoughts were crossing 
my mind, and I lowered my eyes 
before his, he suddenly said : 

" Do you know how beautiful 
you are, Gin^vra V* 

At these words I frowned, and a 
blush rose to my forehead which 
once might have been caused by 
gratified vanity, but now was only 
occasioned by sincere, heart-felt 
displeasure. " Never speak to roe 
of my face, I beg of you," I said to 
him, " unless you wish to annoy or 
displease me." 

He looked at me with the great- 
est astonishment, though he felt 
no doubt as to my perfect sin- 
cerity, and, taking my hand in his, 
said: 

" You are a being apart, Ginevra, 
and resemble no one else in any 
respect. It will be difficult some- 
times to obey your request, but I 
will do so." 

Had I been able to read Loren- 
zo's heart, I should, in my turn, 
have been astonished, and perhaps 
frightened, at the motives that had 



Tke VM Withdrawn. 



461 






induced him to link so suddenly 
his life with mine. 

The beauty of which I was no 
ioDgervain; the talents I possess- 
ed without being aware of it ; the 
strangeness of finding me in a kind 
of captivity, and the somewhat 
romantic satisfaction of delivering 
me £rom it and changing my con- 
dition by a stroke of a wand — such 
were the elements of the attraction 
to mrhich he yielded ; and if it had 
occurred to any one to remind him 
that the girl who was about to bc- 
coiue his wife had a soul, he would 
very probably have replied by a 
glance of surprise, a sarcastic smile, 
or a. slight shrug of his shoulders, 
as if to say : " Perhaps so, but it 
does not concern me." 

It happened in this case, as 
often happens in many other cir- 
cumstances, that a word, a look, or 
tte tone of a voice impresses, per- 
suades, and influences, and yet 
(perhaps for the happiness of the 
human race) does not reveal the 
inuer secrets of the soul. 

Hy engagement was announced 
^ next day, and the last of May 
^pointed for the marriage. There 
^as a month befone the time — a 
OKmth the remembrance of which 
still stands out in my life like a 
season of enchantment. The re- 
stored confidence of my father, 
joined to the thought of our ap- 
proaching separation, had revived 
^ the fondness of his former affec- 
tion. Lorenzo had succeeded in 
ntakiog him regret the excess of his 
severity towards me. Indebted to 
^, therefore, for the return of my 
^er*s love as well as the gift of 
^is own, he seemed like some bene- 
^tnXgenie who had dispersed every 
cloud, and restored to my youth the 
varm, golden light of the sun. I 
thanked him for this without any 
^^mlocatian, and sometimes in 



so warm a manner that he must 
have been the most unpresuming 
of men to suppose me indifferent 
to the sentiments he so often ex- 
pressed, though not so ardently as 
to disturb me. He respected the 
request I made the first day. He 
suffered me to remain the child I 
still was, in spite of having expe- 
rienced such varied emotions. Per- 
haps the strong contrast he thus 
found in me formed a study, not 
devoid of interest to a man blasS by 
all he had seen and encountered in 
the world. 

The preparations for so brilliant 
a marriage completely filled up the 
time of the busy Ottavia, who was 
charged by my father to omit no- 
thing in the way of dress requisite 
for the fiancee of the Duca di Va- 
lenzano. Mario, prouder than he 
was willing to acknowledge of an 
alliance that reflected lustre on 
the whole family, showed himself 
friendly and satisfied. Besides, 
the transformation that had taken 
place in my whole appearance with- 
in a few months, as well as in my 
way of life, had softened his man* 
ner towards me ; and the more be- 
cause he attributed the merit of it 
to himself, and often repeated that, 
had it not been for him, my father 
would not have had the courage to 
persevere in a severity that had had 
so salutary a result. He loved me, 
however, as I have had occasion in 
the course of my life to know ; but 
as there are people in the world 
who are kind, and yet are not sym- 
pathetic, so there are also many 
who on certain occasions manifest 
some feeling, and yet are not kind. 
Mario was of the latter class. At 
certain times, on great occasions, 
he seemed to have a heart capable 
of aflection and devotedness ; but, 
as a general thing, it was rather 
evil than good he discovered in 



4^ 



The Veil Wit/tdrmwn. 



cvcrytWng and everybody, without 
excepting even those with whom he 
was most intimately connected, and 
perhaps in them above all. 

Livia alone, after the first few 
days, seemed to have a shade of 
thoughtfulness and anxiety mingled 
with her joy, and Mario, who ob- 
served it, unhesitatingly declared 
it was caused by the prospect of 
remaining an old maid, doubly vex- 
atious now her younger sister was 
about to ascend before her very 
eyes to the pinnacle of rank and 
fortune. But I knew Livia better 
than he, and, though unable to read 
all that was passing in her soul at 
that time, I was sure that no com- 
ivarison of that kind, or any dis- 
italistied consideration of herself, 
had ever crossed her mind. 

But 1 did not suspect that her 
pure, transparent nature, as well as 
the instinct of clear-sighted affec- 
tion, enabled her to see some 
threatening signs in the heavens 
above me that seemed to every 
one else so brilliant with its sun 
and cloudless azure. But the die 
was cast, and it would have been 
useless to warn as well as danger- 
ous to disturb me. She therefore 
confined herself to reminding me 
of all my mother's pious counsels. 
She made me promise never to for- 
get them, and she, too, promised to 
pray for me. But when I told her 
she must continue to aid me with 
her advice, and remain true to her 
rSie of my guardian angel, she 
shook her head, and remained 
silent. 

One day, when I spoke in this 
way, she replied : " Do not be 
under any illusion, Ginevra. Mar- 
riage is like death. One may pre- 
pare for it, one may be aided by 
the counsels, the prayers, and the 
cMKOuragement of friends till the 
taut moment ; but once the \\nt \s 



crossed, as the soul af 
finds itself alone in the 
of its God, its heavenly bri 
to be eternally blessed b 
or cursed by its privatic 
wife finds herself alon< 
world with her husband 
is no happiness for her bu 
mutual affection. If th 
she possesses the greate! 
ness this world can afford 
prived of it, she lacks ev 
The world will be only a i 
she may still consider he 
tunate, if this void is fille< 
row, and not by sin ! . . . 

" What you say is fright 

"Yes, it is frightful; 
I have never been able 
so terrible a bondage, 
dear Gina! may God wa 
you. ..." 

" You terrify me, Livia. 
you I should never have 
marriage under so serious i 
from the way in whicl 
around us enter into it." 

Livia blushed, and her c 
erally so soft, assumed ar 
sion of thoughtfulness and 

"I am nearly twenty-i 
old," she said, " and am 
no longer a girl, as you 
But in a few days you wi 
the duties of womanhoc 
will place your hand in L 
and pronounce the mos 
vow there is in the world, 
therefore say one thing 
which I am sure is the 
echo of your mother's se 
•and what she would cert 
you likewise. Ginevra, ra 
imitate any of those to w 
refer, rather than seek an 
your own fireside a happir 
lar to theirs, it would be 1 
God to call you to himself 
hour. Yes," she continv 
unwonted energy, ''soon 



Tke Veil Withdrawn. 



463 



toehold this, I would rather — I who 
love you so much — I would far 
rather see those beautiful eyes, now 
looking at me with so much sur- 
prise, close this very instant never 
to open again !" 

I was, indeed, surprised. For 



were not these words, or at least 
the idea they Conveyed, what I had 
found written in the little book 
lyivia had never read, and was it 
not my mother herself who actually 
spoke to me now through the voice 
of my sister ? . . . 



IX. 



This conversation left a profound 
And painful impression on me, but 
it i^as counteracted by the increas- 
ing attachment Lorenzo inspired. 
During this phase of my life I only 
perceived his charming, noble qua- 
lities, the unusual variety t)f his 
tastes, his mental endowments, and, 
above all, his love for me, which it 
•^^med impossible to return too ful- 
If- It would have required a de- 
g*^e of penetration not to be ex- 
P^pted of one of my age to lift the 
^*^liant veil and look beyond. 
'^Hcrefore the natural liveliness of 
^^^ disposition, which had been pre- 
^'^turely extinguished by successive 
^*^als of too great a severity, gradu- 
ally revived. It was no unusual 
^Mng now to hear me laugh and 
sing as I used to. The influence 
^f this new cheerful life counteract- 
^the effects of the factitious life 
I had led the previous year. Under 
Lorenzo's protection, and escorted 
by Mario, I was allowed to take 
long rides on horseback, which re- 
stored freshness to my cheeks, and 
inspired that youthful feeling which 
Quiy be called the pleasure of living 
■"^ feeling that till now I had been 
^ stranger to. My mind was devel- 
oped by intercourse with one so su- 
perior to myself, and who endea- 
vored to interest and instruct me. 
In a word, my whole nature de- 
veloped and expanded in every way, 
^ for awhile I believed in the re- 
alization here below of perfectly 
unclouded happiness. 



A sad accident, however, occur- 
red, which cast a shadow over the 
brief duration of those delightful 
days. It was now the last day but 
one before our marriage, and for the 
last time we were to make an ex- 
cursion on horseback, which was al- 
so to be an adieu to the mountains, 
the sea, and the beautiful shore 
that had been familiar to me from 
my infancy. For, immediately af- 
ter, we were to leave Messina; 
and though it was to go to Naples, 
I thought more of what I was about 
to leave than what I was to find, 
and the melancholy of approaching 
separation seemed diffused over 
all nature around me. Our horses 
were waiting at a gate at the end 
of the garden, which, on that side, 
opened into the country. Mario 
and Lorenzo had gone before, and 
I was walking slowly along to join 
them, holding my skirt up with one 
hand, and leaning with the other 
on Livia, who was going to see our 
cavalcade set off. 

Mario had already mounted his 
horse, but Lorenzo, on foot beside 
Prima, my pretty pony, was waiting 
to help me mount. He held out 
his hand. I placed my foot on it, 
and sprang gaily up. As soon as I 
was seated, he stepped back to 
mount his own horse, while Livia 
remained beside me to arrange the 
folds of my long habit. Just then 
the wind blew off her light straw 
hat, to which was attached a long, 
blue veil, and both passing suddenly 



464 



Thi Veil WitMrawn. 



across my horse's eyes before I 
had fairly gathered up the bridle, 
he took fright. I was unable to 
check him. He sprang ma41y 
away, bearing me along the narrow 
alley leading from the garden to the^ 
highway. I heard the screams of 
those who remained motionless be- 
hind, but nothing afterwards ex- 
cept a hum in my ears. A flash 
seemed to pass before my eyes, but 
I retained my consciousness. I re- 
alized that I was lost. The alley, 
like that in the garden, was border- 
ed with a thick hedge of box ex- 
tending to the road, which was here 
at an immense height along a cliff 
overlooking the sea and protected 
by a low parapet. My ungovern- 
able horse was evidently about to 
leap over it and precipitate me be- 
low. ... I recommended myself 
to God, dropped the bridle, gather- 
ed up the folds of my habit with 
both hands, and, murmuring the 
words. Madonna santa^ aiutate mi /* 
I allowed myself to fall on the 
hedge which bordered the alley. I 
might have been killed in this way 
no less surely than the other ; but 
I escaped. The thick, elastic box 
yielded to my weight without break- 
ing, which prevented me from re- 
ceiving any harm from the fall. I 
remained stunned and motionless, 
but did not lose my senses. I know 
not how many seconds elapsed be- 
fore I heard Lorenzo's voice. I 
opened my eyes, and smiled as I 
met his gaze. I sliall never forget 
the passionate expression of love 
and. joy that flashed from his pale, 
terrified face, which was bending 
over me ! He raised me from the 
verdant couch where I lay, and 
pressed me in his arms with mute 
transport. I, too, was happy. I felt 
an infinite joy that I had been saved 

^ Holf Madonaa^ asaisl me. 



and was still alive. I leaifed a/ 
head against his shoulder, and clos- 
ed my eyes. My hat had been 
thrown off, and my hair, complete// 
loosened, fell almost to the ground. 
In this way he carried me back 
amid cries of joy from those who 
had followed us. Nothing was 
heard but exclamations of thanks- 
giving to God and the Virgin when, 
escorted by a crowd swelled by all 
on the road or in the neighboring 
fields, who had perceived the acci- 
dent, we arrived at the principal 
entrance to the house. There they 
made me sit down, and in a few 
moments I was suffici^tly restored 
to realize completely all that had 
happened. 

Lorenzo continued to support 
me, and poured forth his joy in 
tender, incoherent words. My 
father embraced me. Ottavia wept, 
as she kissed my hands. Mario 
himself was affected. In the first 
moment of confusion I did not notice 
that my sister alone was wanting. ' 
But this absence soon struck me, 
and I eagerly asked for her, calling 
her by name as I looked around 
me. There was a moment's hesi- 
tation, and I saw two of the ser- 
vants near me making the odious 
sign of which I have already ex- 
plained the signification. And— 
must it be said.? — Lorenzo's hand 
that held mine contracted also, and 
I saw that he, likewise, was so absurd 
as to wish to protect me in this 
way. I rose. ... I no longer felt 
the effects of the fall I had just had. 
I pushed them all aside, and hin* 
the first. The circle around ta^ 
opened, and I saw my sister, pa^^ 
and motionless, leaning against one 
of the pillars of the vestibule! ^ 
forgot everything that had occu^' 
red. I thought of nothing but he^* 
and threw myself on her neck. 

"Do not be alarmed, my de(»^ 



T^ Veil Withdrawn. 



46s 



Livia^" I said loud enough for every 
one to hear. '* I assure you I have 
received no injury. I thought you 
Vere more courageous. It does 
not seem like you to be so frighten- 
ed. The Madonna, you see, has 
protected me. I know you said a 
fervent Ave Maria for me when you 
saw me so swiftly carried away, and 
your prayer was heard. ..." 

L.ivia pressed me in her arms 
without speaking, and tears began 
to flow from her eyes. Leaning on 
her arm, and refusing assistance 
from any one else, I started to go 
to my chamber. But just as I was 
leaving the porch a thought occur- 
red. 

** And my poor Prima," I said. 
"What has become of her.>" 

The reply to this question made 
me shudder. The poor animal had 
sprung over the parapet, and fallen 
down the precipice into the sea! 
• • . Our delightful excursions had 
<-*Aded in a sinister manner, and 
niore than one painful feeling min- 
gW with my joy at having escaped 
so great a peril. My heart felt 
i^cavy and oppressed, and my first 
*ct on entering my chamber with 
Livia was to fall on my knees be- 
fore a statue of the Madonna, which, 
in honor of the month of May, was 
bnlliant with lights and flowers. . . . 
l^ivia knelt beside me, but her 
prayer was longer than mine, and I 
^v that she continued to weep as 
she prayed. 

**Come, Livia," I said to her at 
^ast, not wishing her to suppose I 
thought her sadness could have 
^Qy other cause than my accident, 
'^your distress concerning me is 
unreasonable. You weep as if I 
'^ad been carried by my poor Prima 
to the bottom of the sea, instead of 
'*^'ng here alive with you." 

Uvia rose, wiped her eyes, and 
'^tniled. 

VOL. XIX. — ^30 



" You are right, Gina," she said 
in a calm tone. " I ought to profit 
by the few moments we have to- 
gether, for we shall not be left alone 
long. I have something to tell 
you, dear child — something that 
will surprise you, perhaps — not 
about you, but myself." 

I looked up in astonishment. 

" Let me first put up your long, 
thick hair, and take off your habit, 
so soiled and torn. Then you shall 
sit quietly down there, and I will 
tell you what I have to say." 

I allowed her to do as she wished, 
and obeyed her without reply or 
question. She appeared thought- 
ful and agitated, and I saw there 
was something extraordinary on 
her mind. 

When I had, according to her 
injunction, taken the only arm- 
chair there was in my chamber, 
Livia seated herself on a stool near 
me. 

" Listen to me, Gina," she said. 
" It will not take long for what I 
have to say. Do not interrupt me. 
You are really here before me," 
continued she, passing her hand 
over my hair in a caressing manner, 
and looking at me affectionately. 
"God has protected you, and I 
bless him a thousand times for it. 
But say if, instead of this, the 
horror of seeing you disappear 
for ever had been reserved for me 
an hour ago — me who love you 
more than my own life — do you 
know to what the witnesses of this 
catastrophe would have attributed 
it? Do you know what, perhaps, 
they think now ? . . ." 

I blushed in spite of myself, but 
made a negative sign, as if I did not 
comprehend her. 

" You shake your head, but you 
know very well what Lorenzo and 
Mario would have thought, and 
who knows but my father himself^ 



466 



Tlie Veil Withdrawn. 



and everybody else ? . . . Was I 
not beside you this time also ? Did 
I not bring you ill-luck ? . . . Did 
not every one around you just now 
have this idea in their minds, and 
were they not ready to exclaim, 
* Jettatrice ' — ' Jeiiairice," " repeat- 
ed she in a stifled voice — " a name 
harder to bear than an injury, more 
difficult to defy than calumny, it is 
really on her to whom it is applied, 
and not those she approaches, this 
fatal influence falls !" 

" Livia !" I exclaimed, turning red 
once more, but trying to laugh, " is 
it really you, my pious, reasonable 
sister, who uses such language? 
The folly to which you allude has 
more than once vexed me to tears, 
and I must confess I cannot now 
bear that you should seriously 
speak to me in such a way." 

Livia smiled, as she embraced 
me, and I saw it pleased her to 
hear me reply in this manner. 
But she soon resumed more grave- 
ly: 

"You know very well, Ginevra, 
what I think of this myself. There- 
fore for a long time I despised 
this folly, and endeavored to over- 
come the cruel impression it left 
upon me ; for," continued she, her 
voice trembling with emotion in 
spite of herself, " it is a peculiarly 
hard trial, you may suppose, to 
feel your heart full of tenderness, 
sympathy, and pity for others, and 
yet seemingly to bring them danger 
and misfortune. . . . For instance, 
to extend your arms to a child and 
see its mother hesitate to allow 
you to take it, or even to look at 
it. But let us change the subject. 
I have never alluded to this trial, 
and, if I speak of it now, it is not 
to excite your sympathy, but, on 
the contrary, to tell you I am no 
Jonger to be pitied. The hour 
thsit has just passed was hombVe, \l 



is true, but it put an end 
hesitation and doubt. I $< 
way clearly now, and peace 1 
turned to my soul." 

Her eyes, though still fi 
tears, wore an expression of 
tial joy. I looked at her 
astonishment, but did not 
interrupt her. She continuec 

"Gina, my darling sister, yoi 
found your sphere, and I 
found mine. May God gran 
all the happiness, yes, all the 
to be found in this world ! ] 
will not equal mine. Pity r 
longer, I repeat. It is to r 
has given the better part." 

Her voice, her accent, an 
looks expressed more thar 
words. I understood her, an 
seized with strange emotion, 
very strange! and a feeling 
different from what might 
been supposed. 

I loved Livia, and my appr 
ing separation from her fille 
with so much sorrow as to di 
happiness. Now I felt that a 
rier even more insurmountable 
distance was t& come betwee 
It was not, however, affliction ( 
part, or pity for her, that I 
rienced. It was — shall I say 
an inexplicable feeling of re 
and envy — a vague, unreaso 
wish to follow her ; a myst( 
aspiration for something h 
nobler, and more perfect 
wealth, position, rank, and 
Mat so soon to surround mc 
more precious than the love 
that had fallen to my lot ! 

I remained a long time inca 
of making my sister any repl 
eyes, like hers, fastened on th 
off horizon, now tinged wit! 
softest evening hues. 

O my God ! a ray of the 
light fell on us both at that moc 
bwX for her it was the pure, 



Anglican Orders. 



467 



ic dawn ; for me it was 

of lightning which gives 

le of the shore, but does 



not diminish the darlmess of the 
coming night or the danger of the 
threatening storm 



TO BE CONTIMUBOli 



ANGLICAN ORDERS.* 



Cstcourt's book is, in all 
most remarkable one, and 
fail to make an era in 
ersy. It is a monument, 
of successful research, but 
mate acquaintance with a 
icated and difficult sub- 
nothing but the assidu- 
\i years can give. It is 
ilm and judicial both in 
i in its conclusions; for 
e charity, is long-suffering. 
: contain, we believe all 
admit, a single instance 
ned or ad captandum ar- 
bilst moving with mea- 
to its unassailable conclu- 
studiously gentle has 
ourt been throughout in 
e, and so scrupulous in 
Df weapons, that we can 
ler if some of his Catho- 
ire startled as though the 
id given an uncertain 
if Anglicans, like the exe- 
ictim in the story, hardly 
St that the fatal blow has 

e which Canon Estcourt 
himself (p. 3) is to ascer- 
luc of Anglican preten- 
ders as judged by the 



mtf A ngiican Orders Discussed. 
rait. Canon of S. Chad*s Catbe- 
un. 1873. 

!!•« 0/ thg H^y Office en A byssiit' 
f the Rer. J. Jones. Letter to the 
bcr-DeceahA', /^/j. 



standard of Catholic theology. An- 
glicans have professed themselves 
anxious that the Holy See should re- 
consider their case. They insist that 
the practice of ordaining converts 
from the Anglican ministry who as- 
pire to the priesthood is, upon Ca- 
tholic principles, inconsistent with 
any real knowledge of the history of 
Anglican ordinations. 

Few things, we suppose, would sur- 
prise a Catholic more than to find 
that the authorities of the church 
had been pursuing a course in re- 
gard to Anglican orders which, 
though morally justified by a host 
of suspicious circumstances, yet was 
not in accordance with the real facts 
of the case. Still, such a misfortune, 
however improbable, is not incon- 
ceivable. There is nothing incom- 
patible with the principles of the Ca- 
tholic faith in the supposition that 
the Holy See may have been practi- 
cally misled in a matter of histori- 
cal evidence, where such misleading 
could involve no misrepresentation of 
truth and no fatal mischief. It would 
have been otherwise had a formal de- 
cision been given upon any point of 
doctrine, as, for instance, the validity 
of this or that form ; or, again, if the 
decision, though merely practical in 
its form, yet, like the admission of 
Greek orders at Florence, had held 
an integral portion of chuxcViVdt ^^ 
pendent upon its cortectti^s. 



468 



Anglican Orders. 



We think Canon Estcourt has 
proved that Anglican orders, regard- 
ed in the light of the latest research 
into their documentary history, are 
thoroughly untrustworthy; and that 
any reconsideration of their case by 
the authorities of the church could 
only result in a confirmation of the 
ancient practice. He shows, ist, that 
the consecration, under any form, of 
Parker's consecrator, Barlow, is doubt- 
ful, and that it is exceedingly doubt- 
ful if the assistance of Bishop Hodg- 
kin at Parker's consecration would 
make up for the inefficiency of the con- 
secrator. 2d. That, although certain 
deficiencies ip the Anglican form for 
the priesthood, upon which various 
Catholic controversialists have laid 
stress, are not in se invalidating, yet 
that, regard being had to the genesis 
and context of the form, and to the 
theology of those who fran>ed and 
first used it, it cannot be regarded as 
an implicit signification of the Ca- 
tholic doctrines of the priesthood 
and the sacrifice — such as a form 
consisting of the same words might 
be, amongst Greeks or Abyssinians — 
but as an implicit denial of the same. 
Thus the Anglican form is substan- 
tially different from any form which 
the church has accounted as even 
probable, and is quite inappropriate 
for conferring the ^^ potentiam ordinis'^ 

Before proceeding to examine 
Canon Estcourt's treatment of the 
two main points of the question, the 
status of Parker's consecrator, and 
the value of the Edwardine form, it 
will be well to consider an objection 
that may be brought against him 
from the Catholic side. It may be 
urged that, in his anxiety to do jus- 
tice to his opponents, he has allowed 
thcni to assume a better position 
than they have any right to occupy. 
Anglicans owe the assumed assist- 
Ai)ce of a duly consecrated bishop at 
iVirlcer's consecration, and xVvt as- 



sumed use of a form as Ca 
the Edwardine, to the assuE 
rectness of the Lambeth 
This document records that 
17th of December, 1559, Pa; 
consecrated at Lambeth, ai 
to the rite of Edward VI., by 
Coverdale, Scory, and Hodgl 
these, Coverdale and Scory h 
consecrated by undoubted 
using the Edwardine rite; I 
by an undoubted bishop, ui 
Catholic rite. This Regis 
first produced by Francis W 
161 6; and even Canon I 
whilst granting the truth of 
statements, denies that it ca 
cepted as '' an authentic and 
poraneous account of the 
they occurred." On the oth 
there is a time-honored 
which has long passed 
amongst Catholics, and wh 
finds able and zealous d 
amongst their number. * A< 
to this account, at a meeting 
the Nag's Head inn in Ch 
Scory alone performed the c 
upon Parker and sundry otl 
nandi, by laying the Bible uf 
head or shoulders, and saying 
thou authority to preach tl 
of God." Here, whatever 
said of the consecrator, the 
confessedly insufficient. 

Canon Estcourt, followh 
gard and Tiernay, simply re 
Nag*s Head account as cc 
sially wortlUess, aiKi acce] 
given by tlie Lambeth Re. 
substantially correct. We tt 
he is amply justified in sc 
Of course, however, each 
must stand upon its own b; 
the rejection of the one doe 
volve the admission of the 01 



* See the pamphlet, A Frw Remm 
Xtctmt HWk 0/ CaM0U EsUwurU AB^ 
sicned '' Englbh CaUiolic/* to the Tm 



ras NAO'S HEAD STORY. 

knon Estcoiirt, in liis enume- 
f sources of evidence (p. ii), 
, "A story tliat has passed 
[son 10 person merely by ver- 
liion, even if names are quot- 
ilhotity, but wiiliout written 
y, cannot be accepted as 
^ nor allowed to have weight 
"gument, even it considered 
raaan historical facL" Now, 
[trioLis that the Nag's Head 
peilds merely upon hearsay 
jr, without a particle of docu- 
evidcnce. Wiiatever vague 
Bay have been current, there 
oof that the story ever as- 
t " questionable shape " until 
rood (Sacrobosco) published 
04. Stapleton, one of our 
kmetl and vigorous contro- 
K, in a work published only 
n after the date assigned to 
^8 Head consecration, docs 
ition it ; and, moreover, says 
;ny woriis that the Anglican 
were consecrated according 
lie of Edward VI. Neither 
hlen a word of it among ail 
;ineriied vituperation of tlie 
Reni bishops," in his Cl-ivrs 
t; nor Kischlon, the contin- 
F his Ue SchismaU, These 
mtainly lacked neither infor- 
|lor courage. It is true that 
Bce the Nag's Head story 
light out. controversialists on 
KJe were apt to interpret 
tCBsions of the earlier Catho- 
in as referring to this par- 
liarge; but when we turn to 
V find nothing more than the 
j^urge of invalidity,* 
Chatnpncys, who wrote in 
tiles the story upon tlie au- 
Of F. Bluett, a. prisoner in 

tmiloT F. Kclllun'l SHfVeyf/in. 
tin, ites. to wkom Cinon KtUouiI 
jib* Sm puliUcftlloa at tUe Ntu'* 



Wisbeach Castle, who said he had 
it from Mr, Neale, the eye-witness. 
This last-named person, being at the 
time Bishop Bonner's chajilain, wjs 
sent by him, so the story runs, to in- 
hibit Kitchen of Llandaff from con- 
secrating, and thus witnessed ihc 
whole irregular proceeding, .-iH the 
threads of tradition — with one excep- 
tion, wliich we shall notice further 
on — appear to centre in F. Bluett. 
He tokl Dr. Champneys; he told, so 
says Dr. Cliampneys, V. Hoiiwood, 
who printed the story, in a con- 
densed forni, in 1604, Dr, Kenrick 
thoughthe had discovered from Pitts* 
another mouth-piece of Neole's in 
Neale's fnend, Mr. Orton ; but it is 
not so, Pitts, in his biographical no- 
tice of Neale, after staling that va- 
rious particulars, which he gives, are 
upon the authority of Orton, proceeds 
to say of Neale : " This was tiie very 
same man who was sent by Bonner." 
etc, emphatically marking otf the 
Nag's Head story as wot being one 
of the things he had heard from Or- 
ion, lliough otherwise sufiicienlly 



Of Bluett nothing is known, except 

that he was for a long while prisoner 
for the faith, whicli of course speaks 
volumes for his honesty. But a 
lengthened imprisonment is not un- 
favorable for delusions, especially of 
a religious character. When we 
come to consider the character of the 
reputed first-hand in the line of tra- 
dition, Mr. Thomas Neale, wc find 
ourselves upon very different ground. 
If F, Bluett's lengthy imprisonment 
is deservedly reckoned in his favor, 
what shall we say of a man who was 
able, on the accession of Klizabelh, 
after having been Bishop Bonner's 
cha|)lain, to take a public professorship 
in Oxford, and who, on his giving 
this tip, was in a position to build 

•ZV /IJi-l Anillm Scr(fU p. ?;a. PuH, 



470 



Anglican Orders. 



himself a house opposite Hertford 
College, long known by the narae of 
Neale's Buildings ? These facts, ad- 
mitted on all hands, sufficiently bear 
out Anthony k Wood's account of 
him : that his religion " was niore Ca- 
tholic than Protestant," that he 
dreaded being called in question " for 
his seldom frequenting the church and 
receiving the sacrament." X Wood 
is certainly not writing with a con- 
troversial purpose, and this is hardly 
the Hne that a Protestant deprecia- 
tion of a hostile 'vitness would take. 
The defenders of the Nag's Head 
story have had to meet the objection 
that Bonner dared not, whilst a pri- 
soner, have taken the bold step as- 
cribed to hkn, by an appeal to his 
notorious fearlessness. On the other 
hand, every one admits that Neale 
was an arrant coward ; " of a timor- 
ous nature," says k Wood ; " of a na- 
ture marvellously fearful," says Pitts. 
Now, if' Bonner showed his courage 
by inhibiting, what must have been 
the courage of the man who ventured 
into the lion's den to execute the in- 
hibition, and stood doggedly by to 
see how far it was obeyed ? Surely 
we should have reason to be surprised 
if, after such an exhibition of courage, 
Neale had been afraid to put the 
matter on paper, or to breathe a 
viTord of it except to F. Bluett. 

It has been attempted to establish 
the Nag's Head story upon another 
line of tradition, independent, not 
only of Bluett, but of Neale. Mr. 
Ward, in his Nullity of tlie Proiesiani 
Clergy, when mentioning the well- 
known examination of the Lambeth 
Register^ in 1614, by certain Catholic 
priests then in confinement, at the 
request of Archbishop Abbot, con- 
tinues : " But Mr. Plowden, yet living, 
does depose that he had it from F. 
Faircloth's own mouth, with whom 
he lived many years an intimate 
friend, this ensuing answer of F. Fair- 



cloth's to Abbot: My Ion 
my father was a Protestant 
a shop in Chepeside, and a 
that himself was present a 
and the four Protestant bis 
secration at the Nag's 
Chepeside," etc. This is n 
sav, but we confess that v 
grounds for doubting that 
cloth made just the answer ; 
to him. He was doubtlej 
believer in the Nag's Heac 
related by Bluett, and his fa 
had been a shopkeeper in C 
was able to tell him that t 
Head Inn was no myth; 
there had been a meeting o 
there ; that he, Faircloth se 
seen them. Who does n 
how often and how hones 
evidence for an unimportai 
accepted as evidence of th 
If old Faitcloth had beei 
give any real confirmatioi 
story, surely more would h 
made of him. 

Even if it be admitted th 
secration of some sort did t 
at the Nag's Head, there 
portant discrepancy in the 
given by Holiwood and CI 
of the Neale and Bluett stoi 
is fatal to it as an accurate 
of what took place. Holi« 
that Scory " caused John 
rise up Bishop of Salisbury, 
that was Robert Horn befc 
up Bishop of Winchester, 
forth with all the rest." If 
be taken as an exact accoun 
took place, no specific foi 
was used ; and F. Fitzsimoi 
to precisely the same effect 
orders them all to kneel do? 
taking the hand of Parl< 
' Rise, Lord Bishop of Cante 
like manner to Grindal, * R 
Bishop of London,' " etc. 
cording to Dr. Champneys, 
the Bible in his hand, they 



Anglican Orders. 



—■ u ^..^ "Ite laid it upon every 
fteir lieads or shoulders, say- 
kke thou aulhorily lo preach 
»d of God sincerely ' " — a 
iKincl form indeed, however 

(eject, then, ihe Nag's Head 
M, as lacking all but hearsay 
e. and hearsay evidence is at 
itaiand of any cause ; ad, as ex- 
I various notes of intrinsic ini- 
lity; 3d, as wholly irrelevant, 
bresent aspect of the coniro- 
b the question of Anglican 
'■ It is irrelevant, because, 
ir was or was not done at the 
lead, it is quite clear that the 
leoncerned, the government, 
i bishops were no more satis- 
i}i it than Catholics would 
ten, but continued to move 
Br's consecration precisely as 
bg had been done. At the 
bne, we protest against the 
thai the Nag's Head slory 
bratuiious lie. For, first, it 
bd that the bishops did meet 
kntical inn for purposes con- 
br otherwise, and to such 
t— viif., the confirmation din- 
Hl Fuller and Heylin, Strype 
jfcr, trace the story,* Second- 
Ibll-known disbelief in orders 
fg amongst the Protestant 
jktir repeatedly shrinking ftom 

iioSc challenge to produce 
ak; their insistence, when 
of their episcopacy, that or- 
by a priest was valid, when 
jether. justified Catholics in 
ng suspicion that there was 
k flaw somewhere, an irregii- 
hich even an Elizabethan 
tee stickled al. No one who 
■pon the genuine horror and 
I which the sight of the hen- 
tbUhopi of Knglnnd, with 
ten-pope, excited throughout 




Christendom, can regard the Nag's 
Head story as an extravagant or 
gratuitous outcome of Catholic im- 

The principal interest of the fable 
lies in the fact that it fairly got 
through the Anglican skin, and forced 
the production of the Lambeth /ie- 
gis/er. All the denials of their or- 
ders by controversialists like the 
Jesuit Harding, all Saunders's taunts 
about petticoat government, affected 
them no whit. Orthodoxy and hon- 
esty might go to the winds, but one 
virtue they did set store by, and that 
was Chrisiiangravity; and this tavern- 
story so stung them that they could 
keep their counsel no longer, 

THE LAMBETH REGISTER. 

We shall now proceed, taking Ca- 
non F.sicourt as our guide, to exam- 
ine, in chronological order, the various 
documents connected with Parker's 
consecration. 

On the 19th of July, 1559, Elizabeth 
issued the ca/ig^ d'elire to the Chap- 
ter of Canterbury, that see having 
been just seven months vacant after 
Ihe death of Cardinal Pole, On the 
9th of August the election took place. 
September g, a royal commission 
was issued for the confirmation and 
consecration of Parker, to whom 
letters-patent of the same date were 
addressed. The commission was ad- 
dressed to Tonsiall of Durham, 
Bourne of Bath and Wells, Pole of 
Peterborough, and Kitchen of Llan- 
daff, being four out of the five re- 
maining Catholic bishops, Turber- 
ville of Exeter being the only one 
omitted. But joined with the above 
four were the returned refugees. Bar- 
low and Scory. Of the four Catho- 
lic bishops, the first three positively 
refused to consecrate, and were short- 
ly after deprived. Kitchen of Llan- 
daff, vmfaithful though he was, some- 
how managed to get oul ot \l.-, ^\- 



4;2 

haps on I'.ie score of his weak sight — 
the excuse attributed to him in the 
Nag's Head story. 

Next in order comes a paper yet 
remaining in the State Paper Office, 
which may be called the programme 
of the consecration. Canon Estcourt 
gives a fac-siraile. It details the va- 
rious steps to be taken for tlie con- 
secration of Parker, and contains 
marginal notes in the handwritings 
of Cecil and Parker. Cecil's notes 
are significant. Upon the direction 
in the text, in accordance witli a sta- 
tute of Henry VIII., that application 
should be made for consecration to 
some otlier archbishop within the 
king's dominions, or, in default of him, 
to four other bishops, he remarks: 
"There is no archb, nor iiij bishopps 
to be had; wlierefore ^uiereruiiim^ 
etc." Upon the direction that King 
Edward's ordinal be used, he re- 
marks : " This booke is not estab- 
lished by parlemenl." 

Tlie second commission, Decem- 
ber 6, 1559, was addressed to Kitch- 
en, Harlow, Scory, Coverdale ; Hodg- 
kin, the Suffragan of Bedford ; Salis- 
bury, Suffragan of Thetford ; and Bale, 
who had been Bishop of Ossory. It 
concludes with the following dis- 
pensing clause; " Natheless s\ipply- 
ing by our supreme royal authority 
of our proper motion and assured 
knowledge, If there be or shall be 
aught wanting (in those things which, 
according to our afotegiven mandate, 
shall be done by you, or any of you, 
for performing the aforesaid) of what 
is requisite or necessary, whether ac- 
cording to the statutes of this our 
realm or the laws of the church, the 
quality of the limes and the pressure 
of circumstances demanding it." 
Canon Estcourt produces afac-simile, 
''taken from the original draft ex- 
tant in the Public Record Office, with 
the autograph signatures of the civi- 
lians giving Iheir opinion that the 



Anglican Orders. 



commission 'in the form penn; 
be lawfully acted on." 

Tlie Lambeth Register 
that, in accordance with the c 
sion, four of those named — vi, 
low, Scory, Coverilalc, and 
kin — did, on the 9th of Dc( 
confirm Parker in Bow Chui 
elect appearing by his proxy, 
lasBuUingham; and that, on ili 
the same four bishops perform 
ceremony of consecration in 
dance, save in one particular, w 
ritual of Edward VI. Wethussi 
rize Canon Esicourt's summary 
reasons for giving credence 
above facts recorded by the Si 
I. The official minute with 
and Parker's notes. It was 
used in the controversy until n 
to by I.ingard. It can be r 
gery, for the forger would no 
been such a fool as to forge 
remarks as to the illegality 1 
proceeding. This document 
the intention of the parties co 
eil to proceed as the Rfpsli 
they did proceed, i. The 1 
patent issuing the commissi 
December 6, 1559, are enroll 
Chancery on the patent-roll 
highest official test of genuin 
The original drafi of the comn' 
is still preserved in the State 
Office, with Cecil's writing on I 
the autograph signatures of th 
lians. This i)aper has never 
produced in the controversy, ai 
forger would have taken such \ 
trouble. 3. In the recenUj 
covered diary of Henry M; 
a merchant tailor in Londoi 
find the following entries: 
xxiii day of June [1559] 
elected vi new Byshopes com 
beyond the sea, masier Parker 
shope of Canlurbere, master 
dalle Bysshope of London, dc 
Score Bysshope of Harfford, B 
[of] Chcchaslur, dociiit i~ 



ut U 



Anglican Orders. 



ire, doctor Cokes of Nor- 

. Upper pan of page burnt 

rii]cr dectyd biahope of Can- 

f 

K xvii day of Desember was 

|«f byshope of [Canterbury] 

1* Parker, was mad thcr at 

*■" 

it XX day of Desember afor- 
ms Sam Thomas evyii, my 
r Caniurljcrc wheiit to Bow 
ie, and llier wlier v nuw by- 
Wad," 

genuineness of these entries 
Cld all suspicion. Had tliey 
iadc for a controversial pur- 
hcy would have been used 
In the controversy. Although 
ty contains various innccura- 
r.,[hedate assigned to Parker's 
\ which is before the real date 
^gi d'elirf, and the loose use 
fcrm " mad," which, in regard 
■ bishops at Row Church, 
Itand for conlirm.ition, and in 
\ case for consecration — still, 
Sence that on the date given 
ftfgii/er something was done 
which could be described 
; made bishop." Bow 
[was the regular place for con- 
, Lambeth for consecration. 
t that the five, or rather six, 
were consecrated on S. 
'e day, on the eve of which 
Id been confirmed, although 
rwas at Lambeth, and not at 
^urch, makes the confusion 
lease not unnatural. 
lere is a detailed niemoran- 

tlhe consecration, in a con- 
y hand, preserved among the 
If Foxe, who died in 15S7, 
My nearly of tlie same age as 
Vitf^ itself, perhaps e\'en 
p.A, older tliaii tlie Segtstur 
pondition in which we now 
k. This document has been 



473 

but recently introduced into the con- 
troversy, and will be again appealed 
to when the actual condition of the 
Reciter is under consideration. 

5. Slapleton's assertion that " the 
Bishoppes were ordered, not accord- 
ing to the acte 28 {25) H. VIII., but 
according to an acie of Edw. Vf,, 
repealed by Queen Mary, and not 
revived in the first year of Q. Eliz." 

G. Act 8 Eliz., cap. i, not only 
lays down the law for the future, but 
enacts that all acts done " about a 
confirmation or consecration, in vir- 
tue of the queen's letters-patent, 
wen good and perfect ; and thai all 
persons consecrated bishops accord- 
ing to the order of 5 and 6 Edward 
VI. were rightly made and consecrat- 
ed." This is equivalent to an asser- 
tion that such consecration had ac- 
tually taken place. 

In addition to these proofs, there 
are various incidental references to 
Parker's consecration on the i7ihio 
contemporary works and letters, 
which have been carefully collecte^i 
by Mr. Bailey in his Defemio, p. 
19. 

Altogether, there is no gainsaying 
the evidence for the substantial cor- 
recmess of the Lambeth Register. 
.'\t the same time, Canon Estcourt 
shows, we think, conclusively that 
the exisiing Lambeth MS,, as we 
have it, is not the original record of 
what look place, but rather a glossed 
version thereof, in which certain im- 
portant and awkward facts are, with- 
out beiny denied, carefully suppress- 
ed. Besides ihe Lambeth MS., there 
are two others; one in the State Paper 
Office, the other in Corpus Chrisii 
College, Cambridge. The former, to 
judge by its corrections, would seem 
to have been a rough draft, and was 
probably submitted to Cecil for ap- 
proval before the registration. Ca- 
non Estcourt thinks that the Cam- 
bridge MS. was a transcriiit fmm 



474 



Anglican Orders. 



that in the State Paper Office, inas- 
much as they agree in giving the form, 
" Accipe Spiritum Sancium^^ in Latin, 
whereas tliat of Lambeth has it in 
English. Because of this and other 
variations, neither of these MSS. can 
he regarded as a transcript from that 
of Lambeth, or as tending to authen- 
ticate its present condition. 

Canon Estcourt prints the Foxe 
MS., of which we have spoken, side 
by side with the Lambeth Register ; 
and we see that, whilst in the former 
Barlow is distinctly stated to have 
been ^he consecrator, and the rite 
used that of Edward VL, the latter 
makes no distinction between Barlow 
and the other three, and makes no 
reference whatever to the ordinal of 
Edward VI. 

Whether the Foxe MS. is a com- 
mentary upon the Register or upon 
the rough draft, or, as Canon Est- 
court is inclined to think, is taken 
from the Register as it originally 
stood, it is, anyhow, the testimony of 
a contemporary ally of the parties 
concerned to the existence of im- 
portant circumstances which the ex- 
isting Register carefully suppresses. 

It is difficult for us — as, indeed, it 
was for Catholics of the generation 
immediately succeeding that of Eliz- 
abeth's accession — to understand the 
nervous anxiety that possessed the 
Protestant party lest they should give 
their enemies the slightest legal pre- 
text against them. The complete- 
ness of Elizabeth's triumph naturally 
tended to obliterate, in the minds of 
her victims, the precarious condition 
of parties in the beginning of her 
reign. There is, however, ample tes- 
timony that this nen'ousness did ex- 
ist. When Home, the Elizabethan Bi- 
shop of Winchester, tendered Bonner, 
a prisoner in the Marshalsea, the oath 
of supremacy, the latter demurred, on 
the ground that Home was no bi- 
shop in the eye of the law, forasmuch 



as he had br^en consecrated 
ing to the ordinal of Ed wan 
which had never been legalize 
its proscription, i Mary, sess. j 
and had also contravened the 
25 Henry VIII., c. 20, requi 
consecrators either an arcl 
and two bishops or four b 
As it was notorious that Hor 
consecrated by Parker and tw< 
bishops, this last count was 
stood as tantamount to sayii 
Parker was not legally archl 
on the ground that, of the t 
concerned in that ceremony, thi 
been deprived and the fourth 
ed. This bold plea that, to 1 
words of one of Cecil's corr 
dents, quoted by Canon Estcc 
119, "there was never a law 
shop in England, so. astonis 
great number of the best 1 
that yet they knew not what 
swer him ; and when it was 
mined he should have suffei 
is remitted to the place from > 
he came, and no more sai( 
him." 

After this we can understa 
persistency with which con 
sialists like Jewel, who were 
secret, shirked the challenge, 
quently addressed them by 
lies, to show the steps of the 
cession. 

It is highly probable that iV 
testant party, in the anxiety 
by Bonner's onslaught, so ii 
pered with the Register as t 
over the vulnerable points, 
noteworthy that this same pa 
Foxe's contains a sum mar) 
Bonner's case, showing the ( 
tion in the author's mind. Il 
be unreasonable to admit th( 
implication of the Register^ thi 
was no distinction of consecra 
assistants, against the explicit 
ment of the Foxe MS. 

The one point in which I 



Anglican Orders. 



475 



cojTB secradon, according both to the 
Ls^iiibeth Register 3in6. to the Foxe 
MS., deflected from the Edwardine 
ordinal was this : that whilst the latter 
prescribes that the consecrator alone 
should hold his hands upon the elect's 
head during the prayer of consecra- 
tion, all four bishops are said to have 
held their hands ui>on Parker's head. 
But, as Canon Estcourt observes, 
we are not to suppose that, in acting 
<^ they did, Barlow and the others 
bad devised something new and un- 
sown before, and which therefore 
requires exceptional treatment. On 
the contrary, they were following the 
'^bric of the Exeter Pontifical, which 
'Q tills point agrees with the Roman 

Stjpposing, then. Barlow and his 
com |:>anions to stand in the relation 
of cojisecrator and assistants, would 
^^^ incapacity, from want of consc- 
crati^jn, of the consecrator be sup- 
ph'ecl by the capacity of an assistant ? 
^^''- Irlad'Jan appeals triumphantly to 
^^'^'"tL^ne's dictum that ** the bishops 
who assist are for certain not merely 
wi'.Tx^sses but co-operators."* But 
th;a ^oes but a little way. It is ad- 
■^^^^^d on all hands that the assist- 
ant^ arc something more than mere 
^'^•'^^sses, although they emphatically 
fulfil that office. They are at least 
^P'-*|>erators by the official significa- 
tio«^ of their approval and support. 
* ^^^^2 who held up the arms of Mo- 
^^^ did something more than witness 
|P the marvels wrought by those up- 
Uttt*^ hands. The comparatively 
***^11 number of theologians who 
'"^^iniain the necessity of three bi- 
^ops for a valid consecration are the 
^^ly ones who maintain that the as- 
^isunts are, properly speaking, conse- 
crators. Anyhow, the action must be 
regarded as taking place per moiium 
nnms^ f jr tlie opus is one, not mani- 

• IV Amii^. EccUt. Rit., lib. i, pt. iii. c rlU. 



fold ; b*it once annihilate the princi- 
pal consecrator, and the raiio by 
which the assistants coalesce in 
unum opus is gone. If we may be 
forgiven a homely phrase in connec- 
tion witii a solemn subject, Tom is 
doing nothings^ therefore those who 
are merely operative in virtue of their 
assistance of him are merely helping 
him to do nothing. We do not know 
any theologian who has said in so 
many words, or whose theory requires, 
that the assistant should be held as 
compensating for the inefficiency of 
the consecrator. Canon Estcourt, 
with characteristic moileration, urges 
that it is at least probable that no such 
compensation could take place, and 
therefore, according to Catholic prin- 
ciples, the safer side would have to be 
taken, and the ceremony repeated. 

It is, then, of vital importance to 
the Anglican cause that there should 
be no doubt whatever about Barlow's 
consecration. Canon Estcourt does 
not deny that it is probable he may 
have been consecrated. He does 
not pretend to do more than show 
that there are the gravest reasons for 
doubting the fact of his consecration. 
We wish to examine fairly the mo- 
menta on both sides. 

barlow's status. 

William Barlow had been profess- 
ed as an Augustinian Canon of S. 
Osith's Priory, in Essex. He had 
been early distingubhed as the pro- 
t^g^ and obsequious servant of Anne 
Boleyn. '* In October, 1534, he was 
sent as ambassador into S<:otland, in 
conjunction with Thomas Holcroft, 
in order to persuade King James to 
renounce the Pope."* In the early 
part of the next year, he was again 
in Scotland, *• in company with l^rd 
William Howard, who conveyed the 
garter to King James "; and January 



476 



Anglican Orders. 



22, 1536, for the third time went to 
Scotland, " on a joint embassy, again 
with Lord William Howard." He 
had been elected to the bishopric 
• of S. Asaph on the i6th, six days 
before. He was confirmed by proxy 
either on the 2 2d or the 23d of Febru- 
ary. He remained in Scotland dur- 
ing February and March, and seems ^ 
to have left in the beginning of 
April. On the loth of April, Barlow 
was elected Bishop of S. David's, 
and on the 21st was confirmed in 
person in Bow Church. " The arch- 
bishop's certificate of the confirma- 
tion is dated on the same day, but 
makes no mention of consecration, 
nor is the fact recited, as usual, in the 
grant of temporalities which was 
issued on the 26th." On the 27th, a 
summons to Parliament is sent : " Re- 
verend© in Christo Patri W. Meneven- 
si Episcopo." On the ist of May, 
he is installed at S. David's, and before 
the 13th is writing a joint letter, with 
Lord William Howard, from Edin- 
borough, addressed to the king and 
Cromwell, in which he signs himself 
Willraiis Menev, the style of Bishop 
of S. David's. He calls himself and 
is called Bishop of S. David's on and 
after April 25, but not before. On this 
account, several of the defenders of 
his consecration have plausibly con- 
jectured that he was consecrated on 
April 25, " which," Mr. Haddan tells 
us, " was a Sunday, and when he 
was certainly in London." Mr. 
Haddan himself, however, prefers to 
follow the order of precedence in the 
House of Lords and in the Upper 
House of Convocation, which places 
Barlow after the Bishops of Chiches- 
ter and Norwich, who were consecrat- 
ed, the latter certainly, the former 
probably, upon June 11, 1536. He 
assigns June 11 as the date of Bar- 
low's consecration. Lord William 
Howard left Edinburgh for England 
on or before May 23, and Barlow 



writes to Cromwell on that sar 
that he "has protracted his tar] 
somewhat after my lord's depa 
" for a daye or twayne," at the r 
of the Queen of Scots. Froi 
Mr. Haddan concludes that on 
II, when a consecration was I 
to have taken place, he was in 
don. Canon Estcourt, howevc 
brought to light a warrant of < 
well's to the Garter king- at 
who had accompanied the em 
and did not return until June ] 
which day he presented hims 
Cromwell. The warrant is 
June 12. The king-at-arms 
doubtless have returned, whe 
embassy was at an end, with 
William Howard, and therefoi 
fore Barlow. But we are not 1 
conjecture; the warrant spea 
Barlow as " the bishopp then el 
S. Asaph, now elect of S. Da' 
Therefore, on the 12th, he wa 
unconsecrated. 

Barlow's episcopal register is 
ing both at S. David's, and at 
and Wells (to which last he was 
lated in 1541); and at S. A 
no register at all exists for the 
when he nominally held the 
The next consecration of whi 
have any record — after the 12 
June, when we know Barlow w 
consecrated — took place on J 
but on June 30, Barlow took h 
in the House of Lords, and fro 
time acts and is treated as t 
he lacked nothing of the epi 
status. 

We are now in a position 
lect and estimate the moniei 
and against Barlow's consec 
On behalf of his consecratio 
urged, ist, that it " must be re; 
as certain until it can be disprov 
for no adequate motive can 
signed for the omission of a cer 

* Note to Haddan's Preface to Bnua 
t Haddan, Pref. to Br^siliall. 



Anglican Orders. 



could not be omitted with- 
icurriiig severe penalties, to 
Uie archbishop wlio neglected 
Kcrale would be also subject, 
lat he was acknowledged, both 
Jiament and by his brother bi- 
10 be in all respects a bishop 
une 30. 1530, when he took 
t in [he House of Lords; and 
I syllable was breathed against 
asecratiot), cither by friend or 
m that date until Dr. Cliamp- 
ist questioned it in 1614, foriy- 
ears after his death, and eighty 
e commencement of his episco- 
3d. The fact that his consecra- 
Dot recorded in the archlepisco- 
ister is not much to the purpose, 
lut of thirty-six consecrations, 
amer's lime eight exclusive of 
I's, in his predecessor. War- 
rime, six out of twenty-six are 
tcrefl.* 4th. His episcopal 
Bpccting the property of his 
3Uld have been legally invalid 
lult of consecration; but al- 

these acts were legally disput- 
one suggested the flaw of non- 
ntion. 

ihe other hand, it must be re- 
ired that the question is really 
lether Barlow's consecration 
■" disproved," but whether, in 
if what may be legitimately 
in its behalf, there are not 
at grounds for suspecting that 
er took place. i. Neither 
' nor Cranmer believed in 
taiion. In their 
[ucstions 00 the 
were submitted to the king, 
ly that, for making a bishop, 
Dn or appointing thereto is 
pt," Barlow, in a sermon de- 

by him at S. David's, Novem- 

1536, is charged with having 
*If the king's gr., being su- 
head of the Church of England, 



477 

did chuse, denominate, and elect any 
layman, being learned, lobe a bishop, 
that he so chosen, without mention 
being made of any orders, should 
be as good a bishop as he is or the 
best in England." 3, This doctrine 
was undoubtedly favored bv the 
king; for in another part of this 
same pajier on the sacraments, where 
the bishops are attempting to take a 
rather more Catholic line, we have 
notes in the kmg's handwriting to 
this effect. The bishops having an- 
swered, " Making of bishopes hath 
twoo partes, appointment and order- 
ing," his remark is, " Where is this 
distinction fonde?" and ihey con- 
tinuing, " Appoyntament, whiche the 
apposiels by neccssyte made by 
common election, and sometimes by 
their owne several assignment, could 
not then be doon by Christen princes, 
btcause at that time they were not ; 
and nowe at these days appertayneih 
to Christen princes and rulers;" 
the king's note is : " Now sins ycTu 
confesse tliat the appostylles did oc- 
cupatc the won part, whych now 
you confesse belongyth to princes, 
how can you prove that orderyng is 
wonly committed to you bysshopes ?" 

3. Canon Estcourt (p. 69) shows 
that the other side has no right to 
assume thai Barlow and Cranmer 
would have incurred any penalties 
by the nure pretermisnon of conse- 
cration ; for tlie acl 25 Henry VIII.. 
cap. 20, declares : " If any arch- 
bishop shall refuse or do not confirm, 
invest, and consecrate, he shall incur 
a priemunire " ; and there is no special 
meniionof the bishop elect among the 
pereons liable to penalties, the clause 
running in general words; if "any 
person admit or execute any cen- 
sures, etc., or other process or act to 
the contrary or let of due execution 
of the act." 

The notion that the leases and 
other episcopa\ acXs co\\t»ec\.ft4 >s'\JiA 



478 



A iig lican Orders. 



diocesan property would not be legal- 
jly valid in default of consecration is 
La gratuitous assumption. Certainly 
neither Mr. Haddan nor Mr. Bailey 
has attempted to produce any evi- 
dence. What the law really lakes 
cogniiHUce of in such questions is 
the possession of the temporalities, 
an indisputable right to which is 
given by the writ of restitution. 

The recognition of Parliament, 

upon which so much stress has been 

laid, cannot be regarded as any proof 

aeration, since it naturally and 

inevitably ensued upon the issue of 

I this same writ. This is sufficiently 

I proved by the fact that Parliament 

[ lummoned Barlow to take his seat, 

I snil gave him his full episcopal title, 

as has been shown above, 

aiiily was not consecrated. 

; Doubtless some of the more zealous 

L «f the Catholic [>arty might have 

[ made a disturbance had they realized 

the omission i but, as Cauon Est- 

c9url observes (p. 78}, G.irdiner was 

absent as ambassador in Paris during 

the whole ol 1536 and 1537. 

As to Cranmer's register, it is true 
hat it was very carelessly kept; but 
I of the nine unrecorded consecrations. 
Barlow's would be the only one for 
which no collateral evidence what- 
' ever can be furnished. No docu- 
I ment recites it, and every date that 
IS been as yet conjectured for it has 
been exploded. Bartow's con tempo- 
rary, Foxe, in his record of the Lam- 
beth consecration, whilst specifying 
accurately the dates of the consecra- 
tion of the other bishops engaged, is 
only able to say of Cariow that he 
was consecrated " tempore Henrici 

I VI n." 

[ Canon Eslcourt points out that 
■Ithough there was no regular regis- 
ter kept at S. David's— and we know 
that the breviaries and martyrologies 
which contained records of episcopal 
succession were birnil in the neM 



reign as supersliiious- 
sufHciently odd that all I 
books have been lost, ani 
Lider Compuli^ still extant, I 
in it for several years before 
But this is not all. Canon 
has found out, on examininj 
ginal document first pri 
Mason as the restitutior\ tj 
of the temporahties of 1 
"out of the Rolls Chap« 
eery," that the enrolment' 
ly been made in the office < 
chequer, as though the in 
purely secular, instead of < 
tent rolls in chancery, 
examining the original fen 
Mason reproduced impeifi 
to conceal its real charac 
comparing it with the normi 
s out to be 
t "a gr« 
custody of temporalities eOi 
of the vacancy of the seefV 
extraordinary addition of "S 
him and his assigns during 
These grants of the custod 
temporalities of a diocesi 
had accrue<l during a vacu 
common enough. The f 
of Barlow's grant is tlM 
grant of custody made U 
for a writ of restitution. ' 
of custody was ordinariljT' 
a preliminary to the wiil 
tution. No limit was U 
it, but it naturally and M 
merged in the restitution, tf 
was a gracious foretasi&dj 
case of Cranmer, indeed, 4 
EstCDurt points out, the glH 
tody was made after he m| 
ed the restitution of the tetrf 
ill the usual form ; but the 
carefully limited to the profi 
ing from the comniencemei 
vacancy to the dale of { 
Barlow's grant is for Hfe, i 
ticipating in its completely 
tl\e writ of restitution cot 



Anglican Orders. 



479 



would preclude the crown from mak- 
ing restitution in the proper form 
wit li out a surrender of the grant of 
custody. Before consecration, a bi- 
shop cannot sue out a writ of restitu- 
tion, as the act requires, but the king 
sometimes ex gratia allowed it ; the 
form, however, of such indulgence is 
well known, and is very different from 
thsLt. of the document in question.* 

The form actually chosen ** may 
be supposed to have saved the neces- 
sity of obtaining either the archbi- 
shop's mandate or the archdeacon's 
conimission " ; in fact, to have made 
Ba.rlow free of his see at once with- 
out any official formalities, and to 
"*■ secure him in the enjoyment of the 
temporalities of the see, whether his 
character of bishop was perfected 
spiritually or not." 

"The effect of the grant, both in 
Barlow's own mind and in official 
quarters, may be seen from what fol- 
lowed. The next day a writ of sum- 
mons to the House of Lords was 
»wcd, and Barlow himself immedi- 
ately assumed the style and title of 
bishdp." *« It seems highly probable 
that this special and novel form was 
<iclibcrately adopted as suiting the 



views of all parties, and being highly 
favorable to any ulterior designs 
which the king might have upon 
the temporalities of the church at 
large." 

It must be remembered, too, that 
many of tlie arguments tending to 
show the unlikelihood of the omis- 
sion, such as its unprecedented char- 
acter, the want of apparent motive, 
or, again, the exceedingly imperfect 
character of the registration, tend to 
diminish the chances of detection. 
True, Barlow was not a man inclined 
to sacrifice much to his convictions ; 
but he had a hearty hatred for sacer- 
dotalism, a strong sense of humor, 
and, if we judge from his sermon 
quoted above, the impudence, if not 
the courage, of his opinions. A com- 
petitor for a tyrant's favor must al- 
ways risk something to keep a front 
place, and on this point he knew how 
the king was minded. Altogether, 
he would seem to be by no means an 
unlikely man to have played the part 
assigned to him. 

We conceive tliat these momenta 
do amply justify grave suspicions of 
Barlow's consecration, and conse- 
quently the repetition of any rites de- 
pending for their validity upon hb 
consecration. 



48o 



Grapes and Thorns. 



GRAPES AND THORNS. 



aV THB AUTHOR OF **TMB HOUSE OF YORKB. 



«t 



CHAPTER XIII. 



F. Chevreuse had no time to lin- 
ger in the house of mourning; for 
it was his duty to inform Mr. Schon- 
inger at once of his deliverance. 
But that it was necessary to guard 
the unhappy mother from any 
chance of hearing the news too ab- 
ruptly, even the claims of a supreme 
misfortune like hers could not have 
been allowed to take precedence 
of a wrong so deep as that from 
which he had suffered. After he 
was informed, silence would, of 
course, be impossible; for when 
Mr. Schoninger knew, the whole 
world must know. 

Until the evening before, the 
priest had not permitted himself 
even to guess what might be the 
contents of the package entrusted 
to his charge. Humanly speaking, 
he knew nothing. Whatever he 
might have learned by virtue of his 
sacred office was hidden in the bo- 
som of God ; not even in his most 
secret thoughts did he suffer his 
mind to dwell upon it. The only 
action he had taken in the matter 
was such as might have seemed ne- 
cessary to one who had no more 
than a faint suspicion of what was 
about to take place ; he had re- 
quested F. 0*Donovan to be with 
him that day, and he had made 
sure that Mrs. Gerald should have 
the only preparation possible for 
whatever might thi^saten her, in a 
well-made communion. 

For her sake he had opened the 
package the evening before, in or- 
der to be able to put Honora Pem- 
broke on her guard. He d\d ivoX. 



read the confession to hei 
he read it himself, but glai 
the letter w'hich Annette 
closed to him. 

" A great misfortune is 
fall upon our dear friend, 
" and I trust to your piety 
cretion to do what you ca 
Her son will not return he 
has fled from the country 
may never see him ag; 
morrow she will know all 
world will know all. Mr. 
ger, who has been unjustl] 
and condemned, will be 
You must be strong and 
See that nothing disturb: 
night, or interferes with he 
a good communion. Do 
of yourself, but of her. 
not much to do; perha 
will be nothing to do, but 
stand guard and see that 
comes near to trouble h 
and to have her at hoir 
morning at ten o'clock, a 
out visitors." 

"It will kill her!" said 
when she could speak, 
kill her!" 

F. Chevreuse sighed, 
it will ; but there is no he 
Justice must be done." 

It had indeed killed \ 
more quickly, therefore m 
cifully, than they had ant 
And now F. Chevreuse, hav 
the messenger of disgrace 
solation, had to be the m 
of joy. 

He wiped away resola 
V^^x^ that started at sight 



Grapes and Thorns. 



ictim of maternal love. 

I at least," he said, "I 

« no feeling. I must do 
faith fu II y, and only my 
cannot allow myself to 

te with the slayer and the 

very hard for such a man 
mpathize with a true joy 
■ whenever it came within 
bimto whose lips, even in 

of care or sadness, the 
;h of a child would bring a 
1 to whose eyes, even in mo- 
oy, the sorrow of a stranger 
ill the sudden moisture. 
Ery excess, and, still more, 
rast, of these contending 
enabled him to hold him- 
ort of equilibrium. Like 
>ralks a rough path carry- 
? filled to the brim, and 

to right nor left, lest he 
ose its contents, so F. 
E carried his full heart, 
d not yield to any enio- 
is work was done. 
he entered the corridor 

Mr. Schoninger's cell, 
Dewhat surprised at meel- 
diiininger's lawyer coming 
\ surprise was mutual, but 
ly saluted each other, and 

.oesn't give up yet," re- 
le turnkey confidentially. 
iryer comes every little 

1 the warden has given 
it they shall talk without 

He, the lawyer, is the 
on who can talk alone 
ivict, except the chaplain, 
lurse, you, sir!" 
rreuse had self-possession 
6 bow his acknowledg- 
'But I wish to enter the 

morning," he said ; " I 
t to talk through the bars ; 
ii to enter alone." 
lan looked embarrassed. 

VOL. XIX,— Ji 



There was a limit even to the privi- 
leges of F. Chev reuse. 
" You can lock me io with him, 

and go away," the priest said, im- 
patient of delay, " I will be re- 
sponsible for you this time. I look- 
ed for the warden, but he is not 
about the house. Let me go in, 
and, as soon as the warden returns, 
say I wish to see him." 

The guard yielded, though un- 
willingly. There was something 
imperative in the priest's manner 
which he did not venture to resist. 
Moreover, F. Chevreuse was so well 
known as a man who scrupulously 
upheld legitimate authority, and 
obeyed to the letter the regulations 
of any establishment he might enter, 
that it was evident there must be 
some urgent reason when he would 
set a rule aside. 

The bolls were drawn back, the 
door grated on its hinges, Und the 
priest stepped into the cell. He 
scarcely took any notice of the 
prisoner, who sat looking at him 
something as a newly-caged lion 
may look when first his keeper ven- 
tures into the cage, but watched 
the guard while he locked the door 
again, and listened to the sound of 
his retreating steps as they echoed 
along the corridor. 

The prisoner's voice, deep and 
harsh, demanded his attention be- 
fore he t umed to him. " May I ask, 
sir, the meaning of this intrusion ?" 

F. Chevreuse almost started at 
the sound. His mind had been so 
occupied by sorrowful and pathe- 
tic images, and he had, moreover, 
so associated Mr. Schoninger with 
thoughts of joy and freedom, that 
the concentrated bitterness of those 
tones smote him discordantly. He 
had for the time forgotten that the 
prisoner could not even suspect 
that his visitor was one who brought 
good tidings. His surprise wa,* wa 



48s 



Grapes. and Thorns. 



great, therefore, at this repelling 
question, that for a moment he look- 
ed at the speaker attentively with- 
out replying, and the look itself 
held him yet a moment longer si- 
lent. 

Mr. Schoninger had changed ter- 
ribly. It was as though you should 
take some marble statue of a su- 
perb heathen deity, and carve down 
the contours, sharpen the lines 
without changing them, carefully, 
with mallet and chisel, gnaw away 
the flesh from muscle and bone, 
and cut in the lines of anger, im- 
patience, and hatred, and of an 
intense and corroding bitterness. 
Then, if the statue could be made 
hollow, and filled with a fire which 
should glow through the thin casing 
till it seemed at times on the point 
of melting it quite, and bursting out 
in a destroying flame, you would 
have some semblance of what this 
man had become after seven months 
of imprisonment. 

F. Chevreuse was terrified. 
"Mr. Schoninger!" he exclaimed, 
" I have come to bring you liberty. 
Do not look so at me ! Try to for- 
give the wrong that has been done 
you. All shall be righted. The 
criminal has confessed, and you are 
to go free as soon as the necessary 
steps shall be taken." 

Not a gleam of pleasure softened 
the prisoner's face. Only his brows 
darkened over the piercing eyes he 
fixed on his visitor. " So Mr. Ben- 
ton has betrayed me !" he said in a 
low voice that expressed more of 
rage and threatening than any out- 
cry could have done. 

" I do not know anything of your 
lawyer, nor have any communica- 
tion with him," the priest replied. 
" I do not know what you mean by 
betrayal. I repeat, I have come to 
bring you good news. Do not you 
understand?" He began to fear 



that Mr. Schdninger hac 
reason. " Your innoceni 
tablished. You are knon 
at once be known, to h. 
greatly wronged." 

"It is a trick!" the 
exclaimed passionately, 
has either betrayed me or 
and you think to offer me z 
for which I am to be gral 
merciful too — what I hav( 
myself. I will not take 
from your hands !" H( 
up, and, with a gesture of 
seemed to fling the prie 
from him. " Do you ii 
that I have been idle here 
a man sleep in hell ? Did 
cy that I was going to wai 
tice to come to me } No 
shut into a cage ; but I ai 
sort of animal who can 1 
and made to play trick: 
keeper. I have been bi 
the world forgot me." 

"I did not forget you, 
interposed the priest. " A 
also have tried." 

"Tried!" echoed the 
scornfully. " Sir, when a ( 
falls on a poor workma 
body runs to the rescue 
minute is lost. People 
haste to dig him out bef 
dead. That you call \ 
You do not even dignify 
name of charity. A man 
a brute to do otherwise 1 
in such a case. But he 
overwhelmed with a moi 
wrong and disgrace, sh 
cage that is changing m 
madman, and people ] 
consider ; they are politic, 
careful not to soil their f 
inconvenience their friend 
ing me liberty. I am 
and, therefore, out of the 
your charity. But, Jew 
am, priest, I take the sid 



Grapes and Thorns. 



483 



on pretend to adore against 

xursed and hypocritical 

IS. If your doctrines were 

il I am a better Christian 

' of those who have believ- 

lilty." 

*med to have quite forgot- 

priest's errand, or not to 
lerstood what it meant, 
t you say may be all true," 
reuse replied calmly. " But 
I be thought of another 
ou have something more 

to dwell on now. Have 
2rstood my errand here ?" 
we of the deep and wearing 
:nt under which he labor- 
Schoninger perceived that 
r was trying to soothe him, 

somewhat alarmed at his 
He controlled himself, 
r, and, as much from physi- 
cness as from a desire to 
elf-possessed, resumed his 
tioning his visitor to an- 

1 the time when Annette 
:ame here and begged me 

have known whose place 
cupying," he said in mea- 
nes, his gaze fixed steadily 
: priest's face. " I sent for 
er the next morning, and 

on the track. I had not 
)roof to prevent the fellow 
ay ; but his every step has 
lowed. I know where he 
in London and in Paris; 
despatch from Rome has 
ring he is there. To-mor- 
ling an answer will be sent 
telegram, ordering his ar- 

evreuse was confounded, 
oment he knew not what 

nk you will perceive that 
need your assistance, sir," 
dninger continued haugh- 
rhe power is in my hands, 



and I shall use it as seems to me 
best." 

"And so," said the priest, recov- 
ering his speech, " you are willing, 
from pride and a desire for re- 
venge, to stay here weeks, perhaps 
months, longer, and await the re- 
sult of another trial, rather than 
accept the tardy justice which that 
unhappy man offers you, not know- 
ing that you suspected him, and 
rather than permit me to be the 
medium of his reparation ! I can 
make great allowances for the ef- 
fect which your terrible wrongs 
and sufferings must necessarily 
have produced on your mind ; but 
I did not expect to see you show a 
needless acrimony. I did not think 
that you would wish to strike 
down a man, even one who had in- 
jured you, in order to take violent- 
ly what he offers you with an open 
hand, not knowing, remember, that 
you have the power to compel 
him." 

Mr. Schoninger still looked stead- 
fastly at his companion, but with a 
changed expression. He looked 
no longer suspicious, but uncom- 
prehending. Indeed, his mind 
was so preoccupied and excited 
that he had only half listened to 
the priest's communication, and 
the only impression he had receiv- 
ed was that Lawrence Gerald's 
friends, knowing his danger, were 
trying to temporize, and that, while 
securing his escape, they would ob- 
tain the release of his substitute by 
some quibble of the law. He was 
not sufficiently recollected to per- 
ceive, what he would at any other 
time have acknowledged, that F. 
Chevreuse was not the man to lend 
himself to such a plot in any case, 
still less in this. 

" Four weeks ago," the priest 
resumed, " Lawrence Gerald and 
his wife gave me a pacVi^X. hi\v\Oci 



Grapes and Thorns. 



48S 



warden called to his guard, 
^e not far away. Indeed, 
of them, curious to know 
as going on, had gathered 
corridor, only just out of 
' those in the cell. 
lock the door of Mr. Schon- 
cell," he said in a loud 
** He is no longer a prison- 
bolts shot back, and the 
inged open against the stone 

me be the first one to con- 
e you, sir," the officer add- 

>choninger did not see the 
fered him, though hc^replied 
words. He was looking 
\ officer, past the wondering 
' the guard who peeped in 
loor, and his glance flashed 
le corridor, through which a 

sunlight Shone from the 
00m, and fresh breezes 

A slight quiver passed 

his frame, and he seemed 
sisting an impulse to rush 
le prison. 

as only for one instant. 
Kt, he became aware of the 
at curiously observed him, 

the exercise of that habit 
control which had become 

a second nature, shut off 
s face every ripple of emo- 

lank you, sir!" he said in 

the warden's compliments, 
erhaps you will be so good 
ind those men away from 
ridor, and to let Mr. Benton 
at I want to see him here 
itcly." 

9[uard disappeared at once, 
them as messenger to Mr. 
iger's lawyer; but the war- 

1 lingered. 

I will want to change your 
" he said. "And after 



that, I shall be happy to place a 
room in my house at your disposal, 
where you may receive your friends 
and transact business till the time 
comes for you to go free," 

Mr. Schoninger glanced down 
with loathing on his prison uni- 
form, remembering it for the first 
time since that day of horror and 
despair when he had waked from 
a half-swoon to find himself invest- 
ed with it and laid on the narrow 
bed in his cell. 

Perhaps the officer, too, remem- 
bered that day when he had said 
that he would rather resign his of- 
fice than receive such a prisoner 
into his care, when he had exhaust- 
ed arguments and persuasions to 
induce him to submit to prison 
rules, and how, when at last he 
had felt obliged to hint at the em- 
ployment of force, he had seen the 
strong man fall powerless before 
him. 

" These clothes would hardly fit 
Mr. Lawrence Gerald," Mr. Sch5n- 
inger remarked, smiling scornfully. 
" But perhaps there will be no 
question of his wearing them." 

The warden uttered an exclama- 
tion. " Is it Lawrence Gerald ? 
It cannot be !" He had not been 
told the name. 

" And why not, sir ?" demanded 
the Jew haughtily. 

The officer was silent, discon- 
certed by the question, which he 
did not attempt to answer. 

"Poor Mrs. Gerald!" he said, 
looking at F. Chevreuse. 

Mrs. Gerald's fondness for her 
son was almost a proverb in Crich- 
ton. 

" Mrs. Gerald's troubles are 
over," said the priest briefly. 

Mr. Schoninger went to the win- 
dow, and stood there looking out, 
his back to his companions. To 
his hidden tumult of i^asi^voxi^^ VCy& 



486 



Grapes and Thorns. 



fierce, half-formed resolutions, his 
swelling pride, his burning anger 
and impatience, this news came 
with as sudden a check as if he 
had seen the cold form of the dead 
woman brought into the cell and 
laid at his feet. 

He had been thinking of the 
world of mep, of the bigoted crowd 
which had condemned him un- 
heard, of the judge who had pro- 
nounced sentence, and the jury 
who had found him guilty — of all 
the cold outside world which has to 
be conquered by strength, or to be 
submitted to ; and now rose up be- 
fore him another world of pitying 
women, whose tenderness reversed 
the decisions pronounced by the 
intellects of men, or swept over 
them with an imperious charity ; 
who were ever at the side of the 
sufferer, even when they knew him 
to be the sinner, and whose silent 
hearts felt the rebound of every 
blow that was struck. He saw the 
priest's mother, a sacrifice to the 
interests of her son ; the criminal's 
wife, as he had seen her that night 
in his cell, with the only half- veil- 
ed splendor of her silks and jewels 
mocking the pallid misery of her 
face; and now this last victim, 
more pitiful than all! A sighing 
wind seemed to sweep around him, 
far-reaching and full of mingled 
voices, the infinite wail of innocent 
and suffering hearts. How gross 
and demoniac in comparison were 
the bitter, warring voices of hate 
and pride and revenge ! To his 
startled mental vision it was al- 
most as though there appeared be- 
fore him hideous and brutal forms 
cowering away from faces full of 
a pure and piercing sorrow. 

He perceived that he had been 
taking tow ground, and, with a firm 
will, caught himself back, setting 
his foot on the temptation that had 



been making him a coi 
demons. Wronged he 
a way that he could nc 
he could at least prever 
ering him in mind. T 
not induce him to yield 
or to meanness. 

He turned proudly 
two companions, who 
for him to speak. " If 
of Lawrence Gerald is n« 
for my release, then I h< 
escape," he said. " 
enough to be shut up i 
when one has a clear « 
but with such a consci 
must have, imprisonmen 
only to piadness or suic 

" Or to penitence," 
Chevreuse with emphas 

Mr. Schoninger did 
this alternative was I 
comprehension. But ] 
at the priest ; and in d 
eyes were attracted to tl 
which was quite filled b; 
figure of Mrs. Ferrier. 

"I couldn't help comi 
she said quite humbly, 
sides, Honora Pembrol 
thought it right that 
I sha'n't stay long or 
I only want to say that 
Schoninger goes out of 
my house and all in it ar 
posal." 

The scene she had wi 
quieted her completely, 
was even a certain dig 
submissive air. But 
turned to Mr. Schoninge 
burst forth again, in s{ 
efforts to restrain then: 
have to learn to forgive a 
she said in a stifled v< 
she vainly strove to re 
"I'm the only one lef 
amends to you." 

Mr. Schoninger came 1 
stantly, and extended hi 



Grapes and Thorns. 



48y 



I have nothing to forgive 
" he said warmly ; " and I 
lot wish to forget your kind- 
thank you for your offer, but 
t give any answer to it now. 
line, it will not be because 
igrateful. And now let me 
>d-by to you till a more 
le time." 

lad had the discretion not 
for this intimation, and had 
\i made the motion to go. 
• to forgive and forget," she 
ed hoarsely ; and, pulling 

over her tear-swollen face, 

away. 

was Mr. Schoninger's first 
but not his last. Before an 
ad passed, the news had 
ead the whole city, produc- 
trange revulsion of feeling. 

were, perhaps, those who 
t heart, sorry to know that 
^ was innocent. They had 
e first expressed their belief 
guilt, and they had been 

their opinion that he should 
enced to the full extent of 
. This class were not only 
tinted in their prejudices, 
tibled in their own persons. 
Duld not but feel that they 
adered themselves at once 

and ridiculous. But the 
y of the people were dispos- 
ender full justice. Ail the 
ant clergymen called on him, 

but few of them had ever 
to him. It was right, they 
at every man of dignity and 
1 in the city should pay 
espect to the stranger who 
Fered in their midst such a 
njustice, and the fact that 

a Jew should make them 
more anxious in doing so; 

pubuc must see that they 
: persecute any one for his 
IS belief. Judges, lawyers, 
s, professors, men of wealth, 



who were nothing but men of 
wealth — all came to express their 
regrets and to offer their hospitality. 

He saw none of them, though he 
sent courteous messages to some. 
He was too much engaged in busi- 
ness that day to receive visitors. 
Only one received a decided rebuff. 
"As for the judge who sentenced 
me to be hanged," Mr. Sch&ninger 
said, " no compliment which he can 
pay will ever render his presence 
tolerable to me." 

All the young ladies took their 
walk in the direction of the prison 
that day, and all the young gentle- 
men followed the young ladies; 
and, in passing, they lingered and 
looked, or cast sidelong glances, at 
the windows of the warden's parlor, 
where it was understood Mr. Schon- 
inger was. People who did not like 
to be suspected of romance or of 
curiosity had some excuse for go- 
ing in that direction, and those who 
had business in the prison were 
esteemed fortunate. Probably one- 
half the town took occasion that 
day to look at the windows of the 
warden's house. But it cannot be 
said that they were wiser for having 
done so, for not a glimpse did one 
of them get of Mr. Schoninger. 

But when the soft spring evening 
deepened, and all the curious crowd 
had withdrawn, and the same full 
moon which Lawrence Gerald and 
his wife had seen the night before, 
flooding with its radiance the mel- 
ancholy splendors of Rome, was 
veiling with a light scarcely less 
brilliant the beautiful young city of 
Crichton, two men emerged from 
the warden's house, and, taking a 
quiet by-street, where the trees 
made a delicate shadow with their 
budding branches, climbed the hill 
to South Avenue. They walked 
leisurely, and almost in silence, 
only exchanging nov wvd tVi^xi %. 



488 



Grapes and Thorns. 



quiet word ; but one who watched 
closely the taller of the two might 
have perceived that his quiet sig- 
nified anything but indifference to 
the scene around him, and that 
he was full of a strong though 
controlled excitement. He step- 
ped as though curbed, and every 
moment glanced up at the sky or 
at the branches over his head, and 
drew in deep breaths of the fresh 
spring air. A fine delight ran 
bubbling through his veins. All 
the feverish mass of humanity, with 
its petty hates and still more hate- 
ful loves, its jealousies, its trivial 
fears and despicable hopes, was 
put aside, and he was entering into 
a new and freshly-blooming creation, 
where mankind, too, might partake 
of the nobility of nature. 

They passed Mrs. Ferrier*s house, 
with its broad front and long gar- 
dens, looking very stately in that 
softening light, and, after a few min- 
utes, reached the summit of the hill, 
where only a single tree stood guard, 
and all about them the world, of 
which they seemed to be the centre, 
lay spread in tranquil beauty, its 
hills and dales, its towns and forests, 
bound with a ring of mountains that 
showed with a soft richness against 
the sky. The city lay white beneath 
them, and the Saranac wound like 
a silver ribbon across the view. 
Where the hills dipped, one spark- 
ling point, audible with dashing 
foam, told where the Cocheco danc- 
ed day and night with white and 
blithesome feet 

F. Chevreuse, standing one si- 
lent moment to contemplate the 
scene, was startled to see his com- 
panion break from his side, and, 
running to the tree at a little dis- 
tance, catch one of its branches, 
and swing himself into the air by it. 
The priest's first glance was one of 
dismay; his second, a smiling one. 



He understood the abound 
of which the act was an ot 
and was pleased with the 
ness of it, and that the i 
should have been yielded t 
presence. Sad as he was, h 
not help feeling glad to see i 
possessed by a full and untl 
happiness. 

Mr. Schoninger laughed, a 
turned to his companion. 

" Don't be afraid," he sa 
am not a lunatic. I am fre< 
you know what a delight it is 
a place where you can swin 
arms without hitting anythi 
could run here half an hoi 
neither turn nor be obliged t 
and I can stand upright withe 
ing as though my head wer( 
to strike. " While speaking, 
continually making slight ir 
as though trying if he had t 
use of his limbs ; and when h 
ped, he lifted his head to 
height, and drew in a long b 

" How delicious the air i 
exclaimed. " How fresh and 
It comes here from the fore! 
the mountains and the sea. 
is no smell of lime or close 
ness or human breaths 
Pah ! F. Chevreuse, whei 
preach again, and tell your 
what they have to be thank 
in spite of sorrow and povei 
mind them of the air they b 
the sun that shines on them, t 
above their heads, and the 
to move about as they will, 
sky were gray, and pouring 
rain, I should still think it 1 
ful; for it is the sky, and 
stone." 

He walked away again to 
distance. 

" Instead of being oWiged 
a reason for being ha'ppy, 1 
we should be obliged to a 
for being unhappy/' he said, ( 



Grapes and Thorns. 



489 



How many sources of de> 
have which we overlook 
we are accustomed to 
iiiere motion, walking, run- 
' natural and unconstrain- 
n, is a pleasure ; breathing 
isure; the eyes have a 
. delights. It is a source 
are to exercise one's 
and overcome obstacles, 
rent up a hill in the coun- 
mbed any height but I felt 
;ing. Swimming, skating, 
Iriving — ^how exhilarating 
! And for all these de- 
•u do not need the com- 
ip of man. Yourself and 
these are enough." 
L not know you were so 
nature," F. Chevreuse 
ling. 

not think I ever mention- 
.ny one before," remarked 

• carelessly. 

riest was struck by this 
d looked with astonish- 
the man who for thirty 
i loved nature, yet never 
»rd in praise of it. Could 
ause of a reserved and un- 
position ? Or was it that he 
too much isolated ? The 
is almost afraid to speak, 
hould check a confidence 

charming and so manly. 

* understood that it was 
ual and deep agitation of 
5ninger's mind which had 
this feeling to light, as the 
; agitation, may toss up a 

d nothing, therefore, but 
•r his companion to speak 
t observing him, but look- 
eit the illuminated dome 

1 one is free, and has the 
ae's limbs, and is happy, 
! believes in a good God, 
, father to his creatures," 



Mr. Schdninger resumed in a voice 
as gentle as he might have used 
when a child at his mother's knee. 
He had been holding his hat in his 
hand ; but in speaking, he covered 
his head. At the same instant, F. 
Chevreuse uncovered his, and the 
Jew and the Christian, each after his 
manner, acknowledged the presence 
of God in that thought, which was 
almost like a visible presence. 

** To me," said the priest, " the 
acknowledgment comes more sure- 
ly when I am in trouble. It seems 
to me that if I were in chains and 
torments, he would be nearer to me 
than ever before." 

" That is because you have been 
taught to believe in a suffering God," 
was the calm reply. " I have been 
taught to see in God a being infi- 
nitely glorious and strong, a mighty, 
shoreless ocean of deep joy. That 
he could suffer pain, that his puny 
creatures could torment and kill 
him, has always been to me a 
thought at once absurd and blas- 
phemous. It is probably for this 
reason that you see him best in sor- 
row, and I in joy." 

He stood a little while thinking, 
then added quietly, as if speaking 
to himself : " Yet it is a sweet and 
comforting thought." 

F. Chevreuse blushed red with a 
sudden gladness, but said nothing. 
It was no time for controversy ; and, 
besides, he had the wisdom to leave 
souls to God sometimes. That 
people are to be converted by a 
constant pelting of argument and 
attack he did not believe. His ex- 
perience had been that converts of 
any great worth were not made in 
that way, and that the soul that 
studied out its own way helped by 
God, and teased as little as possible 
by man, was by far the most stead- 
fast in the faith. 

They went slowly down tK^ b\VL 



490 



Grapes and Thorns. 



together' in the direction of the 
priest's house, and stopped a mo- 
ment to lean on Mrs. Ferrier's gate 
in passing. That lady had just en- 
tered her house, having been all the 
day and evening at Mrs. Gerald's. 
She would gladly have stayed all 
night had Honora allowed it. 

The two men had, unseen or un- 
recognized, been near enough to 
hear the long sigh the good creature 
gave as she mounted the steps to 
her door, and the exclamation she 
made to the servant who followed 
her : " Little did I think last night 
at this time what horrible things 
were going to happen within twenty- 
four hours." Some persons have 
that way of dating backward from 
startling events, and renewing thus 
the vividness of their sensations. 

She did not know what kind 
thoughts were following her in at 
the door, or she might have been 
comforted. 

They went on, and soon came in 
sight of what had been Mrs. Ger- 
ald's home. The blinds were all 
closed, and not a ray of light was 
visible. Under the vines and large, 
over-hanging trees the cottage ap- 
peared to shrink and hide itself. 

" I would like to go in for 
one minute, if you do not object 
to waiting," F. Chevreuse said. 
" That poor girl means to sit up all 
night, and she is likely to have no 
one else in the room. It is a 
gloomy watch, and she may feel 
better, if I speak a word to her." 

" Pray do not think of me !" Mr. 
Schoninger exclaimed. 

F. Chevreuse stepped into the 
yard, and, as he held the gate open 
for his companion, Mr. Schdninger 
followed, though with some hesita- 
tion. There were many reasons 
why he would not be willing to en- 
ter that house. Indeed, the priest 
^e\\ knew that it was no time to 



take him there openly ; but 
reason he wished him to cc 
enough, at least, to feel th< 
and desolation which ha* 
upon it. Perhaps he wis 
soften Mr. Schoninger sti 
toward the unhappy man 
den of whose guilt he had 
perhaps he wanted to rcmi 
how entirely that burden h 
removed from him by show 
cruelly it had fallen elsewhc 
The priest tried the dooi 
ringing, and, finding it nc 
ed, stepped quietly into th< 
which was lighted through t 
doors of rooms at either si 
one of these rooms sat t 
four persons. He said a fe^ 
to them, and closed the c 
their room before going 
other. 

Mr. Schdninger held bad 
ment, but could not resist 
the temptation to approach 
outer door was still open, 
soft light shone over the th 
of it from the parlor. Dra 
by step, he went to the thi 
and stood just where the li, 
shadow met, and the door 
a picture for him. The 
seemed to be nearly all wh 
flowers. White draperies i 
the windows, the pictures, j 
cabinets and tables, the c 
changed to a tender purity 1 
ers and green leaves, ar 
not profusely, but with goo 
On what appeared to be 
covered with black lay a i 
less, white-draped form lyinj 
as one might sleep; but 
needed not the covered 1 
show that it was the sleep oi 
Candles burned at the hea( 
sofa, and a prie-^eu stood 
it. All this Mr. Schoningi 
in at a glance ; but his eyes 
on what was to him the pi 



Grapes and Thorns. 



49» 



I the room— Honora Pem- 
tting near the head of the 
h the light of the candles 
over her. She looked up, 
not speak, as F. Chevreuse 
and knelt at the prie-dieu, 
s dropped again immedi- 
her folded hands, and she 
\ motionless, an image of 
1 silent grief. Her face was 
i utterly sad and languid 
g weeping, her hands lay 
in her lap, amd her plain 
ess, and the hair all drawn 
;ether and fastened with a 
bowed how distant from 
i was the thought of per- 
lornment. Yet never had 
ed more lovely or shown 
I her beauty depended on 
t. 

chdninger, looking at her 
ly, perceived that her face 
ler than when he had seen 
md though the sight gave 
:ertain pain, it gave him, 
rtain pleasure. He would 
ought her cruel had she 
ite prosperous and happy 
was in torment, 
levreuse rose from his 
)d Miss Pembroke looked 
raited for him to speak, 
you not better go to bed, 
e the others to watch ?** 
1. "You will be exhaust- 

I not want to leave her, 
she replied. " If she had 
•ng illness, it would have 
>rent ; but it is all so short, 
;n !" She stopped a mo- 
• her voice begun to trem- 
:tle ; but resumed : " She 
lie left but me, and I want 
y her till the last." 

will not be lonely?" he 
Topping further objections. 

no. The others will sit 
; in there, with the doors 



open between. At daybreak Mrs. 
Ferrier is coming down, and then 
I shall go to rest. I am glad you 
came in." 

" I was passing by with Mr. 
Schdninger," he said, ** and I asked 
him to wait for me a moment." 

Her eyes had dropped again 
while she spoke, seeming too heavy 
to be lifted ; but as the priest said 
this, she glanced into his face; 
then, becoming aware that the 
street-door was open, looked to- 
ward it. 

Mr. Schdninger stood there mo- 
tionless. 

A change passed over her face, 
her sadness becoming distress. She 
rose from her seat and went to him, 
her hand^ clasped. 

" Mr. Schoninger," she said, " she 
was the last person who would have 
wronged you or any one." 

Then, seeing that he had not 
come as an accuser, she held out 
her hands to him. 

The night before he had been like 
one buried alive, and his hand had 
been against all the world ; to- 
night life had crowded back upon 
him with its honors, its friendships, 
its pathos, and this last sf ene of 
sorrow and tenderness. 

He bent, and kissed the hands 
she gave him, but did not utter a 
word, and they parted instantly. 
•Honora returned to the prie^dieu^ 
and, kneeling there, hid her face 
and began to weep again, and Mr. 
Schoninger went out to the gate 
without giving a backward glance. 

F. Chevreuse joined him imme- 
diately. 

" AH these wretched doings have 
left Miss Pembroke very lonely," 
he said. "She has really no one 
left who is near to her, though she 
has a host of friends. But what, 
after all, is a host of friends, as the 
world calls them, worth \ Whi^tL ^ 



492 



Grapes and Thorns. 



thunderbolt falls on you, people 
always gather round, and a great 
deal of kind feeling is struck out; 
but, perhaps, you have needed the 
kindness a great deal more in the 
long, dry days when there was no 
thunder. It is the constant, daily, 
intimate friendship that gives hap- 
piness. But there ! it is of no use 
to abuse the world, especially when 
one forms a part of it, and is thus 
abusing one's self. All of us feel 
our hearts warm towards .people 
who are in great affliction, when we 
do not think of them in their ordi- 
nary trials. It is only God who 
is constant to all needs, who knows 
all. Mr. Schoninger, you are wel- 
come." 

They had reached the house, and 
the priest turned on the threshold 
to offer his hand to the man whom 
he had so long courted in vain, and 
who had so many times refUsed his 
friendship. He knew that he had 
conquered when his hospitality was 
accepted. 

He had conquered, in so much 
as he had won the Jew's friendship 
and confidence; for, having re- 
nounced his distrust, Mr. Schonin- 
ger was, in an undemonstrative way, 
generously confiding. Hard to win 
by one whose circumstances were 
so alien to his own, when won, there 
was no reserve. 

F. Chevreuse's sitting-room was* 
never a very pleasant one, except 
for his presence. It had too many 
doors, was too shut in from outside, 
and had also the uncomfortable air 
of being the first of a suite. One 
never feels at rest in the first room 
of a suite. He felt the unpleasant- 
ness of the place, without in the 
least knowing the cause of it, and 
always took his special visitors into 
his mother's room. 

Mother Chevreuse had, woman- 
like known precisely what her son's 



apartment lacked, and had ( 
a pleasant look by emplojrin] 
little devices which can int 
a fragment of beauty into th 
desolate place ; but her mani 
not fallen on Jane, the hous 
er, and thus it chanced tl: 
priest had, without knowing 
more than his mother. 

Her sitting-room was chc 
lighted when the two ente: 
and the table, prepared for s 
awaited them. It was the 
day before Palm Sunday, 
Chevreuse had eaten nothin 
taking a cup of coffee and 
of bread in the morning ; ar 
the work and excitement of I 
over, and nothing worse tl 
had anticipated having hap 
he felt like resting and ref 
himself. If Mrs. Gerald ha 
alive and mourning, he woul 
been tormented by the thoi 
her; but .she was safe in tl 
of God, and he left her tl 
perfect trust. 

Andrew, the man-servant, 
tan, and factotum of the est 
ment, was lurking somewhen 
when the priest entered, anc 
forward to make a crabbed 
tion. If he ever felt in an a 
mood or was satisfied with an 
this man took good care ti 
one should know it ; and not 
cheerfulness, patience, and a 
ity of F. Chevreuse could foi 
ment chase away the clou 
brooded over his face, or ma 
acknowledge that there wa 
thing but tribulation in h 
The priest bore more patiei 
constant, petty trial of such 
sence about him because he b 
that sorrow for the death of \ 
Chevreuse had changed t 
man from bad to worse, wl 
truth was that the lady had 
ly hidden much of their se 



Grapes and Thorns. 



Dcss, or had so displayed 
fcal pluse of it tliat it had 
bo be an aanoyance, and 
Ik amusing. 

.Jane to give us our supper 
fay, Andrew," the priest 
And bring up a bottle of 
b il." 

\ is gone to bed, sir," An- 
nounced, and stood stub- 
t be questioned, his whole 
g plainly that all had not 

a. 

ttobed!" echoed F. Che V- 
"What is the matteT with 

^says she is sick." The 
lered an acrid smile to 
the comers of his mouth. 
[ sick!" said the priest, 
•Deemed. "Is there any 
( her? Has anything been 
:her?" 
ftking, he took a step toward 

don't you trouble yourself 
Krposed Andrew quickly, 
iiat he must deny himself 
Mre of a long cross-exanii- 
" She says she doesn't 
irthing or anybody. She'll 
I when she's ready. She's 
cupper, and I can manage 
it up. All the doctors and 
[tirses in the world won't 
rwell till she's a mind to be." 
, well !" said F. Chevreiise, 
lortiftcd at this exposition 
snestic trials. " Bring up 

hod, in fact, one of those 
nt illnesses sometimes in- 
1 by some women, and now 
1 by men, when they are 
y a fit of ungovernable iil- 
rtiich they dare not show 
le guiie, or when they de- 
ippear very much abtised, 
ape blame for some ilUdo- 
Chcvrcuse had not been 



home since early morning, and din- 
ner had been prepared, had waited, 
and been put away — no small griev- 
ance to even a good-natured house- 
keeper. Secondly, about noon, 
when all the rest of the city knew 
it, Andrew above all, the great 
news of the day had burst upon 
Jane- It was too much ; and when, 
toward evening, Andrew had come 
home with an order that supper 
should be prepared for two that 
night, and a little eslra prepara- 
tion made, and that, moreover, the 
priest's visitor would stay all night, 
the housekeeper's cup ran over. 
News ha.d started from the priest's 
house, and made the circuit of the 
city, electrifying everybody, and she 
had been the last to hear it, and 
had heard it at last from Andrew ! 
She would not have dared to hint 
such a thing; but she thought that 
F. Chevreuse should have told her 
before leaving the house, even if 
he had commanded her silence. 
It would have saved her the morti- 
fication of being taken entirely by 
surprise and displaying such utter 
ignorance. 

Whilt; she mused, the fire burned. 
She would henceforth bear herself 
very stiffly toward F. Chevreuse. 
Since he thought that she was not 
to be trusted, that she was nothing 
but a servant, she would act like a 
servant. .\11 those things which 
she had done for his comfort with- 
out being asked she would now 
wait to be asked to do. He should 
see the difference between a house- 
keeper, who should, according to 
her opinion, be in some sort a friend, 
and a mere hired servant. She 
would be very dignitied, and im- 
mensely respectful and reverential ; 
would be astonished if he should 
ask if anything was the matter; 
would do in great and anxious 
haste whatever he sho\\\d convKv».wi, 



494 



Grapes and Tkams. 



and no more than he commanded ; 
and she would go to F. O'Donovan 
for confession. In short, this wo- 
man, who knew that all the comfort 
of the priest's home depended on 
her, marked out for herself a line 
of conduct which would have made 
that home a place of penance to 
him, and herself a minister of tor- 
ment ; while at the same time she 
could not only hold herself guilt- 
less of fault, but even assume an 
air of unwonted sanctity. 

To be frankly and honestly disa- 
greeable or wicked, one does not 
need to study ; but a pious hateful- 
ness requires careful preparation. 

Her plan of future conduct ar- 
ranged, Jane perceived that a nota- 
ble pivot was needed where it 
should turn from her past beha- 
vior; and what so suitable as a 
short illness ? Besides, she did not 
feel equal to assuming her new r6U 
as yet. The temptation was too 
strong to give way to anger. She 
bewailed Mrs. Gerald, therefore, 
with many tears ; Mrs. Gerald's 
death, which might have happened 
from any other cause, being the 
only point in the whole story which 
she would recognize or hear any- 
thing about. Weeping brought on 
a headache, and the headache 
increased. At five o'clock in 
the afternoon Jane bound her 
head up in a wet linen band, and 
began to feel unable to stand or 
walk. Duty alone compelled her 
to keep about. What would be- 
come of the house, if she were to 
give up ? What could a poor wo- 
man do who had no home or 
friends of her own, and was obliged 
to take care of a priest's house? 
She must work and watch early 
and late, sick or well. Nobody but 
herself knew what a trial it was. 
And here the victim began to weep 
over her own misfortunes. 



Presently, at six o'clod 
began to feel a pain in ha 
but nothing would induce 
rest. F. Chevreuse had sci 
that he would have some 
sup and stay all night, a 
must get the bed-room rea< 
cook something extra. Sh( 
see how she could do it, but 
be done. 

When her gossips had gone 
after vainly of&ring their assi 
Andrew came in and fou: 
housekeeper holding on to h( 
with one hand, while with th 
she did work which there ^ 
the least need of doing. I 
been watching with great i 
the progress of her malac 
perceived that it was near th< 

The supper-hour had bee 
ally mentioned in the priest 
sage as about seven o'cloc 
half-past six Jane could m 
press an occasional moan o! 
and at ten minutes before 
she consigned the supper, wh 
all prepared, to the care of h 
and staggered into her own 
holding on by chairs and ta 
she went. She would not, p 
have indulged in such violent 
toms had she seen the smil 
which her fellow-servant beh 
tottering progress across the 
Fully persuaded that she h*' 
quished his scepticism, and h: 
vinced herself that she was si 
severely, Jane set herself to 
for the priest's coming. 

Seven o'clock came, but 
Chevreuse ; half-past seve 
still he had not appeared. 

Jane stole out into the \ 
scarcely able to stand, and r< 
the spoiling dishes. She ( 
wish to leave anything to b 
plained of, meaning to be 
the only one ill-used. At 
she heard a foot on the ddi 



Grapis and Tliorns. 



495 



king haste to shut herself 
room, with only a very little 
left, Jane became a prey to 
I pain. 

»e movements Andrew had 

to with great edification ; 

Andrew did not know was 

invalid, skurrying out to 

the foot of the stairs when 

1 talking in the room above, 

the pleasure of listening to 

le conversation regarding 

of health. 

linutes after, F. Chevreuse, 
much surprise, it must be 
aw his housekeeper coming 
to the room where he sat 
her face red and swollen 
rious weeping, and express- 
f among its varied emo- 
d sentiments a saint-like 
ous desire and determina- 
acrifice herself to the ut- 
ler than omit the smallest 
duty. 

s an unwelcome vision, 
as a point beyond which 
did not want to have his 
;es drained. He felt that 
luman, and would like to 
mind and body, 
afraid, F. Chevreuse," she 
1 a very sick voice, lean- 
\st the side of the door — 
'raid that your toast is too 
ide it fresh three times . . ." 
ir mind, Jane," he inter- 
rather impatiently. " It 
•y well. You need not 
ourself." 

:ame into the room a few 
steps, and rested on the 
I chair. 

Dn't know how Andrew 
things up," she said, very 
breath, but not so much so 
zould fire this little shot. 
>se they are all at sixes and 
But I wasn't able to do 



If 



"If you are not well, you had 
better go to bed," said the priest 
quite sharply. "Andrew will do 
all I want done." 

Taken unawares by this unusual 
severity, Jane lost her discretion. 
' It is my place to look that things 
are properly done in the house, 
and I shall do it," she said, half 
defiant, half hysterical, and took ^ 
step nearer to the table. 

As she did so, her eyes fell on 
the pale and haggard face of their 
guest. At that sight she paused, 
transfixed with a genuine astonish- 
ment, for she had expected to see 
F. O 'Donovan ; and, after one 
wild glance, as if she had seen a 
ghost, uttered a cry and covered 
her face with her hands. 

" Jane !" exclaimed the priest in 
a voice that told her he was not to 
be tried much further. " Have you 
lost your senses ?" 

" My heart is broken for Mrs. 
Gerald!" she cried, weeping loud- 
ly. " I haven't been able to stand 
hardly since I heard about her. 
Oh ! such a wicked world as this 
is. I shall be glad when the Lord 
takes me out of it. To think that I 
shall never see her again, that. . ." 

F. Chevreuse laid down his knife 
and fork, which he had made a pre- 
tence of using. " You and Mrs. 
Gerald were by no means such in- 
timate friends that her death should 
plunge you in this great affliction," 
he said. "Her nearest friends 
bear their sorrow with fortitude. 
Your agitation is therefore quite 
uncalled for. I have no further 
need of you to-night. If you want 
anything done for you, Andrew 
will go for some of your friends." 

There was no possibility of re- 
sisting this intimation, and the 
housekeeper retired speechless with 
rage and mortification. 

" Mr. Schoninger," remarked t^^ 



4g6 



Grapes and Thorns. 



priest gravely, when they were 
alone, " women are sometimes very 
t roublesome. ** 

" F. Chevreuse," returned his 
visitor with equal gravity, "men 
are sometimes very troublesome." 

"That is very true," the priest 
made haste to admit. "I didn't 
mean to say anything against wo- 
men." 

And yet, at the woman's first 
glance and cry of horror arid aver- 
sion, Mr. Schdninger's face had 
darkened. "Was he always to 
have these vulgar animosities in- 
truded on him?" he asked himself. 
It was one of those annoyances 
which a proud and fastidious per- 
son would like to have the power 
to banish for ever with a gesture of 
the hand or a word. 

The two friends talked long to- 
gether that night, and Mr. Schonin- 
ger told the priest quite freely all 
his plans. 

'' I shall stay here and take up 
my life where I left it off, except 
that I must now give up all contest 
for that disputed inheritance," he 
said. " AH I had has been thrown 
away in the struggle. Whether 
there would, in any case, have been 
a possible success for me I do not 
know. It is now too late. This 
infernal persecution — I shall never 
call it anything else, sir — ^has de- 
stroyed my last chance, and I have 
only to dismiss the subject from 
my mind as far as possible. I re- 
ceived to-day a letter signed by all 
my former pupils, begging me to 
resume my instruction of them. 
They expressed themselves very 
well, and I shall consent. The 
Unitarian minister has invited me 
to play the organ in their church, 
but I have not decided on that 
yet." 

" I would like to have you play 
in my church," the priest said. 



"Our organist is dead, ai 
singing is getting to be mis 
Our music would, I am s 
more pleasing to you ; but, 
trines make any differenc 
would find yourself more a 
with the Unitarians. I do 
any difference between the 
the reformed Jews." 

" Doctrines do not mal 
difference, especially as I s 
obliged to listen to them 
Schoninger replied with a 
that verged on coldness, 
music I do not find any doc 
and it is not necessary to 
in order to give the word 
proper expression. Or ra 
might say that the artist ha 
etical faith, a faith of the in 
tion, in all things grand, nc 
beautiful, and can utter with 
in his art, sentiments whip 
no place in his daily life; 
they have a place, it is not j 
would be assigned to them 
theologian. In his mind a 
goddess and a Christian pric 
have niches side by side, 
would be hard to say which '. 
ferred. Your Raphael paintt 
equal delight and success 
donna and a Galatea. Yo 
zart wrote Masses and oper 
vastly preferred to write • 
He says that he wrote chur 
sic when he could do nothin] 

" So much the worse for ' 
said F. Chevreuse rather 
"Raphael would have ] 
better Madonnas — Madonna 
would have answered thei 
purpose of inspiring holy thoi 
if he had devoted his gifts < 
to God; and Mozart woul 
written better Masses, if 1 
done the same. When you 
thorough Christian artist, it 
one who will never lower 1 
to a subject contrary to, or 



Grapes and Thorns. 



497 



nccted with, religion. The others 

have been false, and consequently 

Jiave had only glimpses where they 

migHt have had visions. Some of 

them were great, but they might 

have been immeasurably greater. 

No, I repeat, do not imagine that 

you are going to feel or play our 

music as you might if you were a 

good Catholic. But excuse me !" 

he sa.id, recalling himself. " I have 

given you rather more of a lecture 

than I meant to. I still want you 

to ta.1ce our music in hand, if you 

will.** 

I will with pleasure, if you will 
be content with my interpretation 
ofit^"Mr. Schoninger said with a 
smile. 

l~l>c was not in the least displeas- 
ed "^ith the priest's lecture, and, 
on t^kc contrary, decidedly liked it. 
He -was stirred by anything which 
cov^secrated art as an embodiment 
of tte divine rather than a mere ex- 
pression of the human. 

Surprise is but a shortlived 
eniotion ; and when Mr. Schonin- 
S^r was left alone that night, with 
^^e first opportunity in many 
n^onths of thinking in an unobserv- 
ed solitude, he wondered more at 
his own calmness than at anything 
^Uich had happened to him. The 
hideous suffering from which he 
had but just escaped looked far 
AWay, and so alien that he could 
fontemplate it almost with a cold 
^^luisitiveness, as something in 
^hich he had no part. It was 
*^aitely more to him than the 
delirious dreams of a fever which 
'^ad passed away. Indignation 
*^d a desire to revenge himself 
l^ight rise again, would rise again ; 
**^t for the present they slept. The 
^•^t joy of freedom, too, was over. 
Nothing remained but a feeling of 
H^iet and security. Doubtless he 
^^ without knowing it, been 

VOL. XIX. — 3a 



soothed by the many kind and re- 
gretful words that had been address- 
ed to him that day, and felt less 
disposed to dwell on his own 
wrongs when he knew that so many 
others were thinking and speaking 
of them. 

All round the room assigned to 
him hung the pictures that had 
belonged to Mother Chevreuse — an 
old-fashioned portrait of her hus- 
band in the uniform of a French 
officer, a S. Ignatius of Loyola, a S. 
Antony preaching to the fishes, a 
print, on a gold ground, of the 
miraculous Lady of Perpetual Suc- 
cor, and a Santa Prassede sleeping 
on her slab of granite. 

Mr. Schoninger held his candle 
up to examine each of these, all 
but the portrait familiar to him in 
their originals ; and as he looked, the 
places where he had first seen them, 
the stately palaces and the quiet 
churches, enclosed his imagination 
within their walls. He saw again 
the lines of sombre columns lead- 
ing up to the glowing mosaics of 
the tribune, where the vision of S. 
John hung petrified in air ; the dim 
lamp in the mysterious chapel of 
the Cdonna Santa shone out again 
inside its grating, and the walls 
glittered dimly back. He saw the 
thickets of camellias mantled with 
bloom under an April sky, a little 
forest of white at the right hand, 
and a forest of rose-red at the left, 
and ever the fountains sparkling 
through. 

How strange it was ! He set 
down his candle, almost impatient- 
ly, as if a beautiful vision were 
being melted in the light of it, 
and blew it out. How strange it 
was! When he was in Rome, he 
had hated while he admired it ; but 
now, as the thought of it came up, 
his heart yearned out towards it, 
and grew tender and full with long*. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



ing for it. How strange that his 
dearest affections should cluster 
where his deepest hates had pierc- 
ed, and that, whenever an accus- 
ing thought arose, an excusing one 
immediately answered it. The city 
of the Ghetto was becoming to him 
also the city of the silvery-haired 
old man who had opened its gates. 
To remember him was like re- 
membering a pure white star that 
had shone out one still evening 
long ago. 

Mr. SchOninger put aside the 
curtain that hardly barred the full 
moonlight from the room, and lean- 
ed out into the night. Not many 
streets distant Honora Pembroke 
sat wakeful and mourning, alon,: 
with her dead. By what fatality 
was it that the silent woman lying 
there, and the weeping one beside 
her, should have the power to stand, 
with their softness and their pallor, 
between him and his remembrance 
of that gloomy mansion of hate and 
crime, the shadow of whose portal 
had but just slipped from him ? 
The cold and trembling hands he 
had kissed that night had quenched 
for a time all anger in his heart. 

He sighed, thinking of that sad 
household, and his gaze turned ten- 
derly and steadily in its direction. 
He would have liked to call down a 
blessing on the head he loved had it 
not been so much nearer the sou rce 
of all blessing than he was. She 
was right, no matter what she be- 
lieved. All she held good was 
good, at least as far as she was con- 
cerned, and no blame of false doc- 
trine could be imputed to her, 

A ray of light stronger than that 
of the moon shining across his eyes 
attracted his attention. It canie 
from F. Chevreuse's sitting-room, 
the one window of which was at 
right angles with the window where 
ht leaned. A sm.ill, displaced fold 



of Ihe curtain showed hiin ^ 
priest on his knees there befov^^ 
crucifJK, his hands clasped, j^ 
black-robed form as motionless jj 
if it had been carved out of ebenp. 
Here, loo ! Could he have no oiAcr 
friend than a Christian priest for liis 
hand and heart to cling to ? 

Vet all was sweet and peactfiil, 
and everything conspired to soodc 
him. The air touched him with* 
breath too soft tobe cnllcdabreeie, 
the city was still about him, uii 
only a foamy murmur told where 
the sleepless river flowed. 

Triumph, joy, and sweetness k 
had felt, and at last came grjuitudt 
to God and forgiveness of iHiD. 
One of his last thoughts that n\^ 
was of pity for Lawrence Gcijld 

In that pity he was not atont; 
for nearly the whole of Cricbtwi 
shared it. They had known the 
young man from his childhood, hid 
blamed and pelted him, had pu' 
every temptation in his way, a»d 
been ready to defend hira wheal" 
yielded. In spite of his haughti- 
ness and assumption, there vas not 
a single person in the city, perhaps, 
who really disliked him. His cap- 
tivating beauty and wayward sweet- 
ness won more alTection than the 
highest virtues or the noblest gif" 
of mind would have won. Whco a 
stranger and a Jew was accuw^i 
they could believe him to have b«^ 
actuated by the most cruel malip"' 
ty ; but it was impossible to imp"" 
such feelings to Lawrence Gerald. 
He was weak and in»pnide«l, ""^ 
had become involved, and so ''^ 
on beyond his intention. Each"'* 
could imagine, even before the '*"' 
fession was made public, just *""* 
it had happened; and when i*^'^ 
read the confession, the feeling "^ 
almost universal in favor of his f^ 
cape. Only a few, slcmly ju! 
sisted on hoping that he 



J 



Grapes and Thorns. 



499 



to suffer the full penalty 
law. Fathers and mothers 
oys, scarcely more govern- 
n he, had played and grown 
him, looked with terror on 
n children ; and young men 
retly knew themselves to 
^n preserved only by what 
jld have called chance from 
.s bad as his, shuddered at 
ight of his being brought 
long them to be tried for 

A sort of panic seized up- 
hen they saw what horrors 
row out of that which had 
to be mere youthful errors, 
V criminal had been the 

of public opinion and of 
'. Mr. Schoninger's case 
1 no moral for them, for he 
alien ; but what Lawrence 
was some of their own 
?. They were conspicuous- 
ous, these people, in that 
which stays at home and 
excuses for its own little 
\nd for this time, at least, 
^retted that their charity 
5one beyond that boundary, 
jnded to the stranger with- 
gates. 

nfcss before Almighty God, 
an who has been so wrong- 
my account, and to my 
nd neighbors, whom I have 
I " — so Lawrence Gerald's 
>n began — " that I am guil- 
!d, though not in intention, 
;ath of Madame Chevreuse, 
;h Mr. Schoninger is now 
condemned. I had gam- 
1 was in debt to a man who 
ed to expose me if I did 
him at once. I knew that 
osure would ruin me. I 
lave lost my situation, my 
; would have been prevent- 
ray mother's heart would 
en broken. The debt was 
w one. I had not gambled 



for a good while, and had resolved 
never to do so again ; and I have 
kept that resolution. If I would have 
broken it, and increased my debt, 
the man would have waited. I was 
tempted to, but I resisted. It seem- 
ed to me better to take the money — 
I did not call it stealing — when I 
could get it, and repay it privately 
after my marriage. I knew that I 
could have it then, a little at a 
time. I had known many men to 
be excused for such things — men 
who had used money that belonged 
to others, meaning to repay it some 
time, and the law had not punished 
them severely. Yet there was net 
a case where the need seemed to 
be as great as mine. I thought of 
it a long time before I felt as if I 
could do it, and then I didn't re- 
solve that I would. I only felt that 
I would take advantage of whatever 
chance occurred. I never arranged 
anything. F. Chevreuse dropped 
his latch-key into the furnace re- 
gister one day when he was at my 
mother's. I got it out afterward, 
and kept it. I knew already that 
the key of our street-door would 
unlock his. Those two helps I re- 
garded as an intimation of what I 
was to do. I even thought them 
providential ; and I promised God 
that if I should succeed in getting 
the money and paying my debts, I 
would lead a good life in future. I 
didn't know that I was blasphem- 
ing. Afterward I heard F. Chev- 
reuse say just how much money he 
had, and where he kept it. He 
was talking to my mother and me. 
I took that as another intimation. 
I said, Such a good man as be 
would not be permitted to help me 
along in this way, if I were not to 
do what I am thinking of. Then 
I knew that for one night he would 
be away ; but still I did not resolve. 
I only followed "wYvettvei cvccmtc^- 



Soo 



Grapes and Thorns, 



stances led me ; and every circum- 
Htancc led me straight on to crime. 
We were at Mrs. Ferrier's that eve- 
ning singing, and the night was 
dark. If it had been a bright night, 
I should not have ventured to go 
to the priest's door. I said to my- 
self that it was perhaps God who 
had made the night dark for me. 
I went home from Mrs. Ferrier's, 
and went to my own room, taking 
the key of the street-door with me. 
1 stayed there till all were asleep; 
and I thought that if my mother 
had left her chamber-door open, I 
would not go out, for she might hear 
me going down-stairs. She usual- 
ly loft it open, but that night it was 
shut. 1 went down the back stairs, 
and got out of a little window at 
the back of the house ; and even 
then I did not say surely to myself 
what I was going to do. 

** It was necessary that I should 
have some disguise, and I had 
none; but I had seen Mr. Schoh- 
inger lay his shawl down in Mrs. 
Fcrrior*s garden, and I thought he 
had left it there. I took that for 
another sign. If the shawl were 
not there, I would go home again. 
It was there, and I wrapped myself 
in it, and walked toward the priest's 
house* ready to turn back at the 
least obstacle. The only person 
I saw was a policeman, and he was 
behind me, so that I was forced 
to go forward* A thunder-shower 
was coming up, ai\d the sound of it 
deadened my steps. When I reach- 
ed the door» I stopped again, and, 
for the fir^t time, made a plan. If 
any one should find me unlocking 
ii% I would say that my mother was 
sick, and I had come for Mother 
l^hevrt^use. If Andrew or Jane 
should wet't and know me as 1 en- 
tc^^U I wi>uld tell the same stonr* 
and \vi>wKi ask for Mother Chev- 
it'tis^tx juai ttien ciMites the ^rbok 



truth to her. I knew she 
pity, and perhaps she would h 
me. If Mother Chevreuse he 
should come upon me, and 
nize me, I would confess to her, ^^ 
beg her mercy. Nobody sai^ or 
heard me till I had got the money 
into my hands, and was going away; 
and then it was too late to confess. 
All my irresolution had gone away, 
and I was desperate. It was no 
longer a question of confessing to 
one person, but of being exposed 
before three, and, of course, before 
the world. All the excuses I had 
made for myself before became as 
nothing, and I knew that I was a 
thief. The money was in my hands, 
I had earned it, and I meant to 
keep it. The rest is all like a flash 
of lightning. Why did she cling so 
to me ? I told her twice to let 
go, or I might hurt her. My blood 
was all in my head. If those two 
servants had come and seen me 
there, I should have killed myself 
before their faces. I heard their 
steps coming, and I pushed her 
with all my strength. I did not stop 
to think where we were. She let 
go then ; but I have felt her soft 
hands clinging to me ever since. 
It maddens a man to have a wo- 
man's soft hands clinging to him 
when he wants to get away. Af^ej 
that, I ran back to Mrs. Ferrict's 
garden, and left the shawl, and ^^ 
I went home. 

" When I was sick, and tho»^S^J 
1 w^as going to die, and coa^^^^ 
get another priest, I confessed t^^' 
Chevreuse, and he forgave me ; 
he told me that I must conscJ^^. 
his telling all in order to clear ^, 
Schoninger as soon as I shoulc^ 
dead. I consented; but I did ^^* 
die, and so he could do noth:^^ 
I hereby give him leave to tel^ 
that I then told him. I have ^ 
been to ciMlesskHi siBce^ becaus^^ 



Grapes and Thorns. 



50i 



ant to give him a chance to 
hing to me. I forgot then 
lim that I had the money 

I shall give it back with 
)f course I did not dare to 

I told the man I owed to 
rorst about it, and he did 

only said he would wait 
Id pay him. I found I had 
othing, and lost all 
wife found me out, I do 
n how, and I never asked ; 
5 she who writes this from 
tion. John, my mother's 

found me out, and I have 
iked him how. He will 
>, but without reading it. 
le has no proof against me. 
reuse knows nothing ex- 
it he has learned in the 
>nal. This will be left with 
)e opened four weeks from 

With him, also, I leave a 
my dearest mother, whom 
t worthy to name, and a 

Mr. Schoninger." 
tter to his mother was bu- 
1 her. No one ever read 
s those dead eyes could 
e letter to Mr. Schdninger 
)ly to beg the forgiveness 
le writer added, he scarce- 

to receive. 

onfession was written in a 
;n hand, with evident de- 
1 and painstaking on the 
he amanuensis ; and if the 
heart had trembled, not a 
wed it. Only here and 
large blister on the paper 
vhere a tear had fallen. 
md Mrs. Grundy were 

at the writer's insensibili- 

then Annette Ferrier al- 
5 queer, they added. 
3S only one of the many 
I that confession was aware 
iting it contained for F. 
se, or dreamed that those 
nging hands " would be felt 



by him also, as well as by the 
criminal, for many a day. Mr. 
Schoninger shrank with a pang of 
sympathetic pain when he saw the 
words, and almost wondered that 
Annette Gerald could, even in that 
moment of supreme misery, have 
been unaware of their cruelty. 

"I own to you," F. Chevreuse 
confessed years afterward to F. 
O'Donovan, " that when I first read 
those words, I realized for one mo- 
ment how a man might be willing 
to kill another. The image of him 
flinging off my mother's clinging 
hands — well, well ! The time will 
never come when I can speak 
calmly of it. Fortunately for me 
then, it was Holy Week, and I had 
my crucified Lord before me, and 
plenty of work on my hands. Mr. 
Schoninger helped me, too. I knew 
what he meant, though he made no 
explanation. He only said, * Your 
Christ is strong, if he can keep 
your hand from clinching.* " 

Christ was strong, and the Jew 
was yet to feel his might. 

Just at present, however, he had 
earthly things to think of, and a 
trial to endure particularly disa- 
greeable to one of his tempera- 
ment. He had to be a second 
time the lion of the hour, to be 
stared at, followed, observed in all 
he did, listened to in all he said — in 
short, to be the temporary victim 
of public curiosity. 

Conquering his disgust and an- 
noyance, he chose the best method 
of making this trial a short one, by 
showing himself quite freely. He 
took rooms at a quiet hotel fre- 
quented by business men, and very 
seldom visited by ladies. If the 
mood should take him to pace his 
room at night, he did not choose 
that any sympathizing heart should 
be counting his footsteps. He 
called on his former ^u^vU^ ^x^d 



502 



Grapes and Thorns. 



made appointments with them, and 
listened with patience to their earn- 
est, and often tearful, protestations 
of regret and indignation in his re- 
gard. He gathered up into his 
hands, one by one, the threads 
of ordinary life, and tried to inte- 
rest himself in them again, and to 
renew some of his old pleasures; 
but he could not unite them and 
weave his heart in with them as be- 
fore. A gulf, of which he only 
now became aware, lay between 
him and the past. It was not the 
sense of wrong and loss, it was not 
even that he had a greater distrust 
of mankind ; it was at once higher 
and deeper than anything merely 
|>er:<iv>nal : it was a disgust and fear 
of life itself, as he had seen and 
tVU it, a sense of instability and 
of hollowness everywhere. His de- 
airea for wealth and power and 
fame dropped into an abyss, and 
left no sound to tell that they were 
substances or had encountered any 
substance in their descent. Like 
one who, walking over a bridge, 
suddenly perceives that, instead of 
solid arches of stone beneath, there 
is only a thin and trembling frame- 
work between him and the torrent, 
he felt that he might at any mo- 
ment fall through into the unknown 
world, or into nothingness. 

This man had called himself a 
Jew, partly from an inherited alle- 
giance, which ran in his blood, 
though it was no longer niched in 
his brain, partly, also, from a gener- 
ous unwillingness to desert the un- 
fortunate. He cherished the frag- 
ments of his ancient traditions as 
the poet and the antiquary cherish 
the ruins of an antique temple, in 
which the vulgar see only broken 
rocks and rubbish, but from which 
their imaginations can rebuild por- 
tic o and sculptured frieze and 
/tainted ceiling. Their eyes can 



discern the acanthus leaf vrh^re/t 
lies half choked in dust, an</ the 
dying glimmer of what once Fas 
gold, and, faintly burning through 
its encrusting soil, the imperishable 
color of that rare stone, blue as the 
vault of a midnight sky. In the 
ruin of his people Mr. Schoninger 
still beheld and gloried in that sub- 
lime race which, in the early world, 
had borne the day-star on their 
foreheads. 

But it was only a memory to him, 
and the present was all vanity. 

While in prison, he had thought 
that liberty was, of all things, the 
most precious. In his emptied heart 
it had been the one object of long- 
ing ; and in the first moments of 
freedom he had found it intoxicat- 
ing. But the joy it gave effervesced 
and died away like foam, and the 
emptiness remained. Looking back 
on that prison life, he almost won- 
dered at the agony it had caused ' 
him, or even that the shameful 
death which had threatened him 
should have had power to move him 
so, or that the opinions and the enmi- 
ties of men should have struck such 
bitterness from his soul. What was 
it all but motes in the beam ? " Van- 
ity of vanities, and all is vanity." 

But life must be lived, and work 
must be done ; and he took up the 
duties that came to hand, and p^^' 
formed them almost as if he loved 
them. 

One small pleasure, indeed, ^^ 
gave himself. Escaping from ^^ 
city, with as much care as if he ^^ 
been flying from justice, he too"^ 
a long, solitary walk in the pi^^' 
woods where, nearly a year bef^^^ 
he had gone with a May party, ^^ . 
searching there, he brought ^^^ 
handfuls of pale, nodding sn^ 
drops, and sent them by a trU^ 
messenger to Honora Pembroke-^ 

" They are for her or for hL^ 



Grapes and Thorns* 



503 



Gcr53fc.ld, as she may choose," he 
said« 

Sne made no answer, but the mes- 
^^K^^ saw her lay the delicate 
blossoms in the white hand of the 
de3.d, while her tears fell on thera, 
drcn> by drop. 

N^ r. Schoninger's generosity of 
feeling would have prompted him 
to sm^tend the funeral, but his good 
tast^ prevented. He would have 
bcdi loo much observed there. He 
wa^crhed the procession as it passed 
by liis window — an old-fashioned, 
solemn, genuine New-England fu- 
J^cx-sul; no mourning carriages with 
l^'-^ghing people inside, no hired 
^^.irers "but a long line of friends 
^'^d neighbors, who knew and la- 
n^^rited the dead, walking after her 
^^^h downcast faces, to stand by 
^^^^ grave till the earth should have 
co>rered her in. 

Xna town like Crichton such a 
"^o.th for such a cause would create 
^ <3eep impression ; and crowds 
*^Ood all about the cottage when 
^^^ friends who were admitted 
*^^»iae out from its doors, and a 
S^^ve silence prevailed in all the 
*^«"«ets as they passed through 

It was Good Friday; and that 
^v-^ning, for the first time, the new 
^^ganist was to take charge of the 
^Hoir in the Immaculate Concep- 
^^CMi. There was but little to do, 
^^r the singers were not in training 
^* — only a hymn or two to sing before 
^be sermon, and nothing after. 

Mr. Schoninger was glad that he 
^ould thus be able to leave the 
church before the sermon without 
deeming disrespectful to F. Chev- 
reuse* as he would have seemed in 
^ing out and coming in again 
when the sermon was over. He 
had not the least objection to 
hemring Catholic sermons, provided 
they did not bore him — ^had, indeed, 



heard many of them ; but he did 
not wish to hear F. Chevreuse 
speak on the passion and death of 
Christ. To him, that had always 
been the weakest point in the 
Christian theology. He could re- 
verence almost to the verge of 
adoration the sublime humility 
and sweetness and patience of that 
life which they called divine ; but 
he shrank from the agony which 
crowned it as something weak and 
unfitting. A life so perfect ending 
thus was to him incongruous; as 
though the eye, travelling up a lofty 
and exquisite column, should see a 
rude block at the top instead of a 
perfect capital. 

" If it does not prove the false- 
hood of the whole," Mr. Schoninger 
said to himself, '* it proves a great 
mistake somewhere ; and I would 
rather not hear such a man as F. 
Chevreuse try to make it seem rea- 
sonable." 

But he would not be in too great 
a hurry to go. He lingered a 
little, arranged the music, and 
stopped at the door of the choir 
long enough to hear the priest 
announce his text: The Lord hath 
laid upon him the iniquities of us ail, 

"My Isaiah!" he thought. "I 
wonder what he meant in writing 
that ?" 

'*Good Friday is, to my mind, 
not so much a day of sorrow as a 
day of remorse," the priest began. 
" The Jews were ungrateful, and we 
are ungrateful." 

"That dear, just soul!" Mr. 
Schoninger muttered with a smile, 
as he went slowly out. 

Going down the stairs, he caught 
now and then a sentence. **\Ve 
sin, and are forgiven, and then we 
sin again ; and we sin against a God 
whom we acknowledge ; they sin- 
ned against a God in whom they 
did not believe." 



504 



Grapes and Thorns. 



And again : " Peter sinned once, 
but he never denied his Master a 
second time ; Magdalene was once 
a sinner, but never again." 

Mr. Schoninger stopped at a 
narrow pointed window near the 
foot of the stairs, and looked out 
into the night. He had half a mind 
to go back and listen to the sermon. 
There was something enchaining 
in the way F. Chevreuse preached. 
His were no cut-and-dried orations 
where the form is first laid out, and 
each part fitted in as exact as a 
mosaic, and where no fault can be 
found, except that there is such an 
absence of faults. He poured his 
heart out ; he announced a truth, 
and then, in a few sentences, he 
threw a picture before their eyes to 
illustrate it ; he walked the platform 
where he stood, and seemed at 
times so transported by his feelings 
as to forget that he was not talking 
to himself alone. 

Mr. Schoninger paused in the 
lower door, and listened again, 
hating to stay, hating still more to 
go away, so empty did his soul 
feel. 

The speaker gave a brief back- 
ward glance over what he had 
already said. They had seen the 
agony in the garden, and now they 
were going to see what it meant. 
They had seen the cup put aside 
by the hand of Christ, and now 
they were going to see him drink 
it to the d^egs. They had seen 
him bear uncomplainingly the 
stripes and the thorns, now they 
were going to hear him cry out in 
the agony of desolation. 

With a rapid touch he sketched 
the scene — the surging, angry crowd, 
driving and hurrying forward a man 
in the midst, who drags and stum- 
bles under a heavy cross. 

The priest wrung his hands slow- 
7/, iraikjng to and fro, w\t\\ t\\at 



sight before him. " O my G«f/" 
he said, half to .himself, " is it thus 
that I see thee } Thy divinity is 
reduced so small — so small that it 
requires all the fulness of my fiaith 
to discern it. This man is covered 
with dust and blood. He hath fall- 
en beneath his load, and the dnst 
of the street is on him, on his hands, 
and even his face, with the blood 
and the sweat. They buffet hira, 
they laugh at him " — the speaker 
faced his congregation suddenly, 
stretching out his hands to them. 
"A God! a God!" he cried, and 
was for a moment silent. 

Mr. Schoninger turned away, 
shuddering at this image of Divini- 
ty in the dust. 

Yet he had not gone far when, 
in spite of him, his feet were drawn 
back. 

F. Chevreuse stood beside the 
great black and white crucifix, to 
which he did not seem to dare to 
lift his eyes. 

" The cup is at his lips at last! 
He has lost sight of the Father ! The 
Lord has laid upon him the ini- 
quities of us all. All the murders, 
all the adulteries of the world are 
on him ; all the sacrileges are on 
him; all the brutality, the foul- 
ness, the lies, the treacheries, the 
meannesses, the cruelties — they are 
all heaped upon him. All iniqui- 
ties, past, present, and to come, 
overclouded and hid his divine 
innocence out of sight. And the 
Father, seeing him so, relented not, 
spared him not, but poured on his 
head the full measure of his hatred 
of our sins, as if he were the crim- 
inal who was guilty of them all." 

Mr. Schoninger started back ^^ 
if lightning had flashed in his i^^^' 
uttered a faint cry, and hufT*^^ 
from the church. 

He knew why the veil of the t^^' 
\ik was rent and the face of ^^^ 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



505 



encd ; and he knew why^ 
)f God had bled at every 

Iked once rapidly round 
re, baring his head to the 
»olness of the air. When 
led the church again, F. 
e had finished speaking, 

just turning away. But 
i, as he saw Mr. Schonin- 

up the aisle as uncon- 
the astonished congrega- 

gazed at him as if the 
ad been empty. 



He knelt at the communion rail- 
ing. 

" F. Chevreuse," he said in a 
voice that every one heard, so still 
were all, " I have not yet kissed the 
cross on which my God was cruci- 
fied." 

F. Chevreuse drew the small cru- 
cifix from his girdle, and presented 
it, his hands trembling and tears 
rolling down his face ; and all the 
congregation fell on their knees 
while the Jew kissed the cross on 
which his God was crucified. 



TO BB CONTINUBO. 



THE JESUIT MARTYRS OF THE COMMUNE.^ 



little volume the Rev. F. 
voy has faithfully record- 
Acts^ as he well entitles 
five brave men of our own 
went forth " rejoicing," 
ipostles of old, " that they 
:ounted worthy to suffer 
for the name of Jesus." 
jthor has not attempted a 
yr or any detailed account 
es of these brave men pre- 
heir arrest ** in the name of 
aune," but simply an exact 
t, far more impressive, of 
»wn words and acts from 
ment which so plainly 
them as chosen ones of 

Jesuit fathers suffered in 
ntly companionship, and 
d will heartily echo the 
,h of our author that other 

la CaptiviU et de la Morte det R.R. 

faints L. Ducoudray, J. Caubtrt^ A . 

Btngy^ d4 la Compagnie de Jisus. 

Armaod de Ponlcvoy de la mSme 

Parit : G. Teifui. 1871. 



societies may do for their martyred 
brethren that which he has so lov- 
ingly accomplished for his. 

The Jesuits in Paris during the 
war of 1870 saw plainly the gather- 
ing signs of darker days yet to come 
for France ; but it is not in their 
traditions to yield anything to fear, 
and so they were resolved, the 
moment the armistice was con- 
cluded, to open their school of S. 
Genevieve and College of Vau- 
girard. At the very beginning of 
the war with Prussia, these two es- 
tablishments had been freely passed 
over to the military authorities for 
the use of the sick and wounded, 
hundreds of whom had been there 
received and tenderly cared for, 
many of the fathers attaching them- 
selves to the ambulances and hos- 
pitals with the utmost devotion. 
Consequently these buildings now 
needed many repairs and to be 
almost entirely refurnished. The 
residence in the Rv\e. L»aia^^\.\.^\v^"^ 



So6 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



fared better, as the greater part of 
the community were Germans who 
had been obliged to leave France 
at the beginning of the war, while 
the house fell under the protection 
of the American minister, charged 
by Prussia to watch over the inter- 
ests of its people in Paris. Add to 
which this modest mission had the 
deserved reputation of being very 
poor — not much of a bait for the 
blood-hounds of the Commune. At 
the house in the Rue de Sevres such 
measures were taken as prudence 
seemed to suggest, leaving the rest 
to Providence. Thus at first it 
had seemed best to keep some 
members of the order in Paris — 
men at once necessary and willing 
to stay. Some were sent to the 
provinces, and others remained 
scattered throughout the ungrate- 
ful capital. At the conclusion of 
the armistice the College of Vaugi- 
rard was hastily prepared for pupils, 
and its reopening fixed for the 9th 
of March, by which time nearly 
two hundred students had applied 
for admission. But on the i8th 
the long-threatened revolution burst 
forth, and the rector, more anxious 
for the pupils than for the fathers, 
hurried both to the country-house 
of the college, at Moulineaux, be- 
tween Issy and Meudon. How- 
ever, they were soon compelled to 
retreat precipitately, first to Ver- 
sailles, and finally to Saint Ger- 
main-en-Laye ; for, placed exactly 
in the narrow belt between the 
belligerent lines, they found them- 
selves, upon the breaking out of 
hostilities between Paris and Ver- 
sailles, veritably between two fires. 
The deserted College of Vaugirard 
was surrounded, occupied, and 
pillaged, but no one was there to 
be arrested. 

The school of S. Genevieve re- 
quired more time for repairs, and 



was to be opened on March 
the insurrection, coming in 
terval, necessitated new dela 
parents were notified to aw 
ther announcements. The 
F. L^on Ducoudray, born at 
May 6, 1827, a man of gre^ 
and energy, was not one 
time or to be dismayed in t 
of trial. He at once sent < 
of the fathers, one to neg* 
loan in England or Belg 
meet the exigencies of the n 
and the others to seek in I 
vinces an asylum for the 
school, which was finally r 
to a countty-house at Athi 
on the railway line to Orl^ 
far from Paris. The pupi 
notified that the school won 
on April 12; the rector, w 
remained in Paris to sup( 
the final arrangements, wa5 
his community on Mon( 
third. 

On Sunday, the second, 
coudray perceived that I 
Piquet, a sick priest left at J 
vi^ve, was rapidly sinking, j 
quarter-past eight in the 
this good father had the hi 
of leaving this world and 
mentarily-increasing trials, 
a great loss to the house, 
this time a very painful em 
ment. The next morning (^ 
the Commune issued a dec; 
fiscating all the furniture i 
perty belonging to religious 
and at S. Genevieve they e 
stant expected a visit on 1 
of the new rulers of the citj 
ertheless, F. Ducoudray s 
several of the fathers to c 
from Athis to attend the 
ceremonies of the deceasec 
set for Tuesday, April 4. 

All at once, just after mid 
Tuesday, before these fathei 
turned to Athis, the buildir 



Tki Jisuii Martyrs of the Cotnmune. 



507 



d by a battalion of National 
armed to the teeth. The 
^mond, the Rue d'Ulm, the 
des Yignes, the very wood- 
the foot of the garden, all 
irded. There were repeat- 
s at the door of No. 18. 
thcr porter went at once to 
t the keys, according to 
were in the rector's room, 

he would go and get them. 
:his simple and reasonable 
the outsiders got into a 
ummons was sounded three 
rapid intervals ; the whole 
rhood was startled by a 
discharge at all the win- 
the Rue Lhomond; there 
id threats of bringing can- 
id mitrailleuses from the 
\ Pantheon near by.. Pre- 
le doors were opened, and 
)r himself appeared, calmly 
ng to be allowed to make 
narks in the name of com- 
tice and of individual lib- 
ut the day for these things 
le by. For sole response 
ier signified, revolver in 
at he constituted the rec- 
)risoner in the name of the 
le, and should occupy and 
le house for the arms and 
is of war therein concealed, 
reality they were here, as 
ere else, on a hunt for the 
c. " That which we most 
aid a member of the Com- 
is money." 

away every one in the 
IS on his feet, and each one 
his instinct ; but first of all 
ist hurried to the private 
where, for precaution, the 
Sacrament had been pre- 
placed, and hastened to se- 
gainst profanation, 
envoys of the Commune 
number and force enough 
^ on several operations at 



once. They arrested everybody 
they could lay their hands on — 
priests, lay brothers, even the ser- 
vants of the school — and, as fast as 
they found them, seated them in the 
entrance hall, tnd kept them there 
for several hours. They ransacked 
the entire house; the rector him- 
self led them everywhere. The 
search was very long and very mi- 
nute, without the desired result ; for 
they found no arms and very little 
money. F. Ducoudray, without 
falsifying himself in the slightest, 
replied with so much unconcern, 
with such dignity and politeness, 
that they said to each other in as- 
tonishment : " What a man this is ! 
What energy of character!" At 
last, after three painful hours, they 
took him to the hall ; but even from 
the first moment they separated 
him from his brethren, and put him 
in a little vestibule of the chapel in 
front of the parlors. It is almost 
superfiuous to add that the pillage 
of the house commenced almost at 
once, acceleraced, and the next day 
completed, by bands of women and 
children. 

At five in the morning the recall 
was sounded ; it was the signal for 
defiling and departing for the pre- 
fecture of the police. The prison- 
ers were ranged between two lines 
of National Guards. First came the 
rector, a little ahead of the others ; 
behind him the Rev. FF. Ferdinand 
Billot, Emile Chauveau, Alexis 
Clerc, Anatole de Bengy, Jean Bel- 
langer, Theodore de Regnon, and 
Jean Tanguy, four lay brothers, and 
seven servants. 

" Well," said F. Ducoudray, with 
a radiant countenance, to F. Cau- 
bert, who was nearest him. " Ibaut 
gaudentes^ did they not.?" 

"What is he saying there ?" ask- 



• " They weal fortki tt\o\dtt:^: 



»% 



5o8 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commum. 



cd the uneasy guards. F. Caubcrt 
repeated the sentence ; God knows 
what they understood by it ! 

At the pr6fecture a major ex- 
claimed : ** Why have you brought 
me these rascals {coquins) ? Why 
didn't you shoot them on the spot ?" 

" Gently," answered one ot the 
guard ; " it is necessary to proceed 
calmly, or you yourself might get it 
before the rest.** 

The same officer then asked, re- 
volver in hand, for the director. 

" I am here,** replied F. Ducou- 
dray, advancing. 

" I know that you have arms con- 
cealed in your house.** 

"No, sir.'* 

"I have it on certain authority.** 

" If there are any, it is without 
my knowledge.** 

" You have an iron will. We are 
going to see about that, we two ; and 
if we do not find them, you do not 
get back here.** 

Then 'followed a number of 
charges against the priests, such as 
poisoning the sick and wounded in 
the hospitals and ambulances, per- 
version of youth, and complicity 
with the government of Versailles. 
F. Ducoudray, following the exam- 
ple of his divine Master, made no 
reply, and, after being loaded with 
insults, was finally taken secretly 
and locked up in a cell of the Con- 
ciergerie prison. The others were 
confined in a common hall of the 
depot prison, intended for vagrant 
women. 

In the meantime, two priests and 
one brother, who had escaped de- 
tection in the tumult, remained at 
S. Genevieve. The brother was an 
invalid confined to his bed, and the 
two priests, one of whom had been 
concealed all night in the garden, 
met in his room after the guards 
had left, and it remained for nearly 
two months virtually their ptisoti. 



The saintly president of the 
of the Rue de Sevres, F. Picn 
vaint, had seen all his flock si 
ed from the gathering ston 
on that Monday was alone 
house with one reverend cc 
ion, F. Alexis Lefebvre, and 
devoted brothers, incapable < 
All day long warnings and < 
ties poured in upon him tc 
him to fly in advance of t' 
pending visit from the Con 
** But what would you have ?" 
swered tranquilly. "I am 1 
captain of a vessel, who n 
the last to leave the ship, 
are taken to-day, I shall ha 
one regret : that it is Holy 
day, not Good Friday.** 

" Why, now, my child,** 1 
again, ai six o'clock, to or 
implored him to save himsel 
there was yet a moment, foi 
certain there was to be 
on the part of the Commui 
very evening — " why, now, m 
why do you excite yourself 
not the best act of charity 
perform to give our life for t 
of Jesus Christ.?** And t 
went to the lower floor, faci 
hall door, and calmly went ( 
his office. " I am waitin 
said to a friend who pass 
pressing his hand. 

Just as they were assemb 
the refectory for the evening 
tion, at the usual hour of a q 
past seven, the brother pon 
summoned ; a delegate of tin 
mune was at the door, behii 
a company of National ( 
The brother was instructed 
tain them in the vestibule or 
parlor until the superior 1: 
should come. Brother Fran 
so, in spite of the impaticn< 
threats of the visitors. In ar 
tion of this visit, but two ha 
been left in the morning, ar 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



509 



Iher hurried lo his room, and 
id his viaticum ready. F. 
it returned the first, soon 
Iby F.Olivaint. Thedcle- 
rounced the object of his 
—to look for arms and mu- 
licpt iD reserve by the Je- 
l», being himself called away 
tortant business, deputed 
Lagrange to take his place, 
m, well worthy of the deed, 
every avenue of escape to 
led, and then, followed by 
Alf his force, began the tour 
Ktion, accompanied by F. 
, and preceded by two b ro- 
le with a light, the other 
[ the keys; two other bro- 
ire stationed at the entrance 
guards, and, as each room 
mined, Lagrange left two 
Ml to guard it. To have any 
I he shameless impiety and 
isolence of these function- 
the Commune, one must 
en and heard them; for 
urs the search continued, 
eats and mockery, through 
;h F. Olivaint remained 
I reserved. 

ilical moment came while 
ocurator's chamber, where 
boxwasdiflcovered. "Hur- 
opcn it," they cried. 
I the key ?" 

«ii't it ; it is not even here," 
: F.Olivaint. " Our father 
>r, who is absent, has it with 
iien came the tempest ; one 
rothers was sent off with 
ids, arms in hand, to hunt 
iher procurator, and bring 
t alive or dead. In the 
Caubert really did arrive, 
cd the box. It was emp- 
jrally. the siege had sup- 
ill receipts and increased 
iscs ; for a long time the 
ad lived only by borrow- 
Tc are robbed," Lagrange 



exclaimed. " All right, the superior 
and the steward are my prisoners, 
in the name of the Commune, Off 
to the prefecture of police!" F. 
Lefebvre begged to be taken with 
his brethren. "No, no," was llie 
answer. " You stay here and hold 
this house in the name of the Com- 
mune." And actually the sentence 
was prophetic; for the house guarded 
by F. Lefebvre was spared with him. 
At about half-past eleven o'clock 
the two prisoners departed, never 
to return; ibey sought in vain for 
a carriage, to make the long tran- 
sit. As they passed out, F. Oli- 
vaint saw, in the crowd in the street, 
a group of compassionate friends ; 
he saluted them with a smile, as if 
to say -. " Weep not for me." 

Lagrange and his company quar- 
tered themselves at the Place Vcn- 
dome, as proud of their prowess 
that night as if they had c.iptured 
Versail les ; a single piquet of arm- 
ed men took the prisoners to the 
prefecture, and there, instead of 
being placed with the others in the 
common hall, they were immediate- 
ly and secretly locked up in the 
cells of the Conciergerie. 

" FF. Olivaint and Caubert are in 
prison," F. Lefebvre wrote to our 
author at Versailles. "They ab- 
solutely would not take me. I am 
alone at the house, with Brother 
Bouitle, both fearless, thank God ! 
The others are dispersed, and come 
from time lo lime to see me. I 
have placed the Blessed Sacrament 
in the gallery near my room, and, 
when they return, 1 shall consume 
the sacred hosts. The church will 
be closed. They are arresting the 
priests. Monseigneur himself is at 
the prefecture of police; they say 
these are the hostages, I am told. 
Pray, pray for me, my father ! Oh ! 
how happy I should be to give my 
life for ouv Lord'." 



i 



Sio 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



F. Ducoiidray accepted his im- 
prisonment without any surprise. 
** Before long," he had said, on 
March 19, to the Prince de Broglie — 
•* before long our churches will be 
closed, our houses devastated, our 
persons arrested, and God knows 
who will regain his liberty. The 
things which are to be done will 
have a particular character of ha- 
tred to God, and — that which is very 
sad for a priest to say — there will 
prove to be no other argument for 
the miserable ones who are to be 
masters of Paris than the cannon. 
I have lived for seven months in 
the very midst of these men, and I 
have not met with one heart or one 
honest mind among them.** 

" For six months,*' he wrote un- 
der date of Feb. 20, " I have seen 
only grief and mourning. . . . My 
God! must I say to you that I 
can still hope } Paris has lost the 
last fibre of moral and religious 
sense. Its population is mad, de- 
lirious. Can we hope for the re- 
turn of divine mercy when this im- 
mense city thinks only of founding 
a society based on the absence of 
religion ^nd on the hatred of God ? 
Only a miracle can help us out of 
the abyss in which we are plunged. 
I hold my peace. . . . My heart is 
too heavy, and my soul too gloomy.** 

F. Olivaint, loving his country 
not less, was filled with joy from 
the very moment of his arrest. 
''^ Ibaut gaudentes^'* he said with 
sparkling eyes to the archbishop*s 
secretary, who passed his grating — 
^^ Idaut gaudentes ; it is for the same 
Master !** " France,** he said, " like 
the world, requires to be ransomed 
by blood — not the blood of crimi- 
nals, which sinks into the ground, 
and remains mute and barren, but 
the blood of the just, which cries 
to heaven, invoking justice and 
imploring mercy." 



" There must be victims,'* 
Caubert. " It is God who has 
them.*' 

On the evening of Holy 
day there came a change, 
archbishop, the president, B 
FF. Ducoudray, Clerc, and ( 
gy, each in a separate compj 
of a prison carriage, were co 
from the Conciergerie to the 
of Mazas. F. Olivaint and 
bert were left alone at the ( 
gerie^ in separate cells, d( 
from all possible commun 

" And from this hour," < 
Ponlevoy, in tender rememb 
" I seem to myself to be real] 
ing an episode of the Cata 
The church is ever fruitful 
erous souls, but it is the h 
trial that more than any la} 
the depths of the heart ; an< 
one side, there is in the mj 
patience beyond all grief, 1 
in the Christian a charity si 
than death itself.'* 

A system of corresponds 
organized outside those now 
ed prison walls, and contin 
the very end, consoling and ; 
ing the captives, and lay 
treasures for the faithful f 
wide through the edifyinj 
notes thus preserved. And 
on Thursday, April 13, safe 
were found to convey to the 
ers at the Conciergerie not si 
consolation, but the Consok 
self. Only a few hours aft 
was accomplished, FF. Oliva 
Caubert were removed to 
whither three of their order 
have seen, had preceded the 

The prison of Mazas, • 
boulevard of the same na 
constructed on the system 
At its door all motion cease 
itself fades out; the isolai 



Tke yesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



S" 



the unfortunate detained 
buried alive. But the 
devotion of the faithful 
to pierce even these 
lis, and letters were again 
3ick and forth between 
oned priests and their 
hren. These letters con- 
facts, but, put together, 
st exquisite journal of the 
e of the saintly captives, 
iray opens this series of 
a formal one to his su- 
ing an account of the 
ind of his own personal 
. "You know our his- 
its sadness," he writes, 
ass much time in prayer, 
: in suffering. Isolation, 
uncertainty, and, above 
nation of not being able 
te Mass — this is indeed 

possible communication 
ftivis mas. They are 

to me, in the same cor- 

is all I know. 

the part it is the will of 
lould perform. For us, 
ily to follow the apostle's 
'* In omnibus exhibeamus 
, sicui Dei minisirosy in 
tiia^ in iribulationibus^ . . . 
tSy in seditionibuSy . . . per 
ignobiliiaiem^per in/ami- 
n famany * 

my friends," F. Olivaint 
le of his brethren, " that 
id anything to complain 
. pretty good ; not a 
)f ennui in my retreat, 
ontinue up to the very 

I know nothing of my 
s." " I thank you from 
of my heart," to another, 
• charity to the poor 

thinii^ let us exhibit ourselves as 
fGod, in much patience, in tribu- 
irisans, in seditions, . . . tli rough 
honor, through infamy and gootl 
. vi. 4-4. 



prisoners. Here is a work I did 
not fully comprehend until I was in 
prison. How well you practise it — 
I might almost say too well ! . . . No, 
the time does not seem long to me." 
..." In reality," he writes again, 
" I do very well in body ; and as for 
the spirit, it seems to me that I am 
making a retreat of benediction, 
Deo gratias,** . . . Later on : "I 
am at the twenty-fourth day of my 
retreat. I had never hoped that a 
retreat of a month would be grant- 
ed me ; and see, now I am touching 
that term. Well, if we do not re- 
gain our liberty by the end of the 
month, I shall not, I hope, lose any- 
thing in this way by the prolonga- 
tion of the trial. You will under- 
stand that here we have no news 
to give. And those frightful cannon 
that never cease grumbling! But 
that, too, reminds me to pray for 
our poor country. If it were re- 
quired to give my miserable life to 
put an end to its troubles, how 
quickly I would make the sacri- 
fice !" 

Those cannon jarred on the ears 
of the other captives. " We hear 
day and night the roar of cannon," 
F. Clerc wrote to his brother. 
" I conclude that the siege and my 
detention will not end to-morrow. . . . 
People talk of the cloister of reli- 
gious houses ; that of Mazas is not 
to be despised. . . . We have 
neither Mass nor sacraments. 
Never, I well believe, did prisoners 
more desire them. I pray to the 
good God, I study, I read, I write 
a little, and I find time goes quick- 
ly, even at Mazas. ... Do not 
take further measures to see me; 
I fear further efforts would bring 
you annoyance, and I have little 
hope of the result. These gates 
will be opened by another hand 
than yours ; and, if they open not, 
we know well that 'we mw^X. \i^ 



512 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



resigned. ... I am proud and 
happy to suffer for the name I bear. 
You know well the blow did not 
take me by surprise. I did not 
desire to evade it, and I wish to 
support it. I do not hope for the 
deliverance of which you speak. . . . 
The less I am master of myself, the 
more I am in the hands of God ; 
there will happen to me what he 
wills, and he will give me to do 
that which he wishes I should do. 
Omnia possum in eo qui me confer^ 
tatr 

F. Caubert writes in the same 
tone : " My health up to the pre- 
sent remains good. For the rest, I 
have all that is necessary, and even 
over. Besides, the moral serves to 
strengthen the physical in giving 
courage and strength. Now, this 
comes to me because I am full of 
confidence in God, and most happy 
to do his will in all that he really 
demands of me. For the rest, the 
prison rule, in spite of its stem and 
austere side, is not in itself injuri- 
ous to the health. They have us 
take the air every day for an hour, 
solitarily, and each in his turn. 
The delicate stomachs can obtam 
the food they need. Twice a week 
they give us soup and a bit of beef. 
The house is conducted with pro- 
priety, order, and regularity. . . . 
We can visit the doctor or the 
apothecary daily. There is a li- 
brary comprising a pretty good 
number of books of great variety, 
and any one can ask for them to 
pass the time. As for the details 
of the m^nagiy that which they 
bring me is quite sufficient, and I 
need no more. It simplifies mat- 
ters not to have my cell encum- 
bered, otherwise I should get things 
a little pclNmell." 

To hoar these good fathers, every- 
thing was right, everybody good to 
^/icm. Undoubtedly they suffer^ 



but, as they are patient, the] 
less than others ; as they hav» 
they endure better than < 
finally, as they love Christ cr 
their joy is greater that 
pain. A Frenchman and a 
conquered by hard treatm 
most distressing privation ! 
Starving, dying by inches, in 
and in prison, under the 
hawk, at the stake, in hun§ 
thirst, in burning India 
snows of Canada, at the m 
Western savages or Paris rev( 
ists, it is ever the same thing- 
thing is right and nice an 
much better than could be 
ed. The story, fresh in our 
of our own early missionar 
iles of the first Revolution, p 
us to hear the sweet patieno 
American forests echoing to 
the prison of Mazas. God 
Ad majorem Dei gloriam. 

M. Ponlevoy, who had the 
curiosity to visit the prison 
zas on a holiday, when it 
easily be inspected, says : 
those three stories of lone 
dors, with double galleries, 
ing around a centre when 
there was a chapel — ah ! 
Commune had but had a 
the humanity to leave to tl 
tives the divine Prisoner 
tabernacle — on both sides, 
the floors, the doors loade 
bolts and provided with 
gratings, and those narrow c 
which the inventory could b 
in a single glance ! Facing 
trance, the grated window, 
measured the air and light ; 
comer the hammock ; oppos 
little table, with just room 
for a straw chair ; behind tli 
a plank for a cupboard, a 
and some pieces of coarse 
ery completed the fumitui 
for the famous promenade s« 



The JeSHit Martyrs of the Cod 



kid in ihcir leltL-rs, it was a 
IHigular prison-yard, shut in 
(ting in front, and walls on 
k, without shelter anywhere, 
tother seat than a stone in 

Er. During their solilary 
the captives could abso- 
C: no one, unless the guard 
e arch who held them in 
isce." 

lie human heart is still hu- 
^wever resigned (he will. 
1 they would, the prison was 
riion, and Mazas certainly 
IB like Calvary than paradise. 
\ Christians are not stoics, 
L martyr himself feels the 
% of the flesh, that he may 
)t it by the vigor of the spirit. 
t poor heart !" writes brave 
iudray. " It sometimes wil! 
I|ed to escape and to bound. 
Iginatian willingly takes its 
fleiiher lets itself be ruled 
tby reason as I would wish. 
Kome, at times, certain Ots 
psions of weariness, the suf- 
jf the soul, throwing it into 
I, discouragement, uneasi- 
B disgust. ' Magnum est et 

fium, lam humano quant lii- 
earere solatia el pro lionore 
er exilium cordis velle sus- 
There is matter in that one 
kends only when one feels it. 
the good thought, when 
,the house, to put into 
•X a small volume contain- 
AVw Testament and the 
. 1 have read S. Paul 
What a great and admir- 
ttl It expands my soul to 
br it has been ' in laboribus 
\iniareeribusabundaiitius, '\ 
Ics himself. And I, though 

tXrtM, • »lf y greit tIiIuo lo know 
kU conwIiHon. hummn u vtW » dl- 
lan wllllMly for tbc i-lary of Cod 



I am yet but a earcere una, I boast 
of suffering somewhat. But if we 
are those of whom it is written: 
' Eritis odio omnibus propter nomen 
maim,'* how contemptible our tri- 
bvilations in comparison with those 
of the great apostle !" " I am still," 
he wrote at another time. May g, 
"more ill omened than the greatest 
pessimist. You tell me they fix the 
2oth as the final term of the civil 
war. I much fear it will be pro- 
longed even to the 30th. Militory 
operations go slowly. The war be- 
yond the ramparts offers difficul- 
ties; the war of the streeEs h.is its 
difficulties also — most bloody ones, 
alas ! . , . We touch upon the 
week of great events, or, at least, the 
beginning of great events. , . . 
What a punishment! It was ex- 
pected. It is here." 

Two or three human consola- 
tions were vouchsafed the prison- 
ers, after a time. On May 5 they 
were permitted to read several of 
the daily papers approved by the 
Commune, and about the same 
lime F. Ducoudray had the ines- 
timable privilege of twice seeing 
and saluting, at a short distance, F. 
Clerc, and of once seeing far off 
F, Bengy, his beloved brethren and. 
fellow-prisoners. 

In May another favor was vouch- 
safed, F. Clerc's brother had been 
incessant in his attempts to obtain 
an interview with him, but without 
any success; at last a dear friend, 
a lady, received permission to visit 
the prisoner, and, as a French lady 
must needs have an escort, she 
took M. Clerc for hers. This was 
an inexpressible happiness to the 
noble-liearted priest, and his thanks 
to God for the favor were bound- 
less. F. Caubert, whose simple 
and exquisite letters, full of golden 



5H 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



thoughts, we would gladly linger 
over if there were only space 
enough, received, May ii, a vi- 
sit from the Minister Plenipoten- 
tiary of the United States, which 
was very agreeable to him. ** It 
appears," he said, " that I had been 
recommended to him by some per- 
son of his acquaintance. He came 
to inquire most cordially, in true 
American style, how I got along, 
and if I had need of anything." 

Here, in uncertainty, inaction, 
and shut out from all the world, 
these brave men made light of all 
the trials and privations to which 
their bodies were so long and pain- 
fully subjected. The Communists 
knew too much, however, to think 
of breaking their spirit by bodily 
suffering; they had the means of 
creating cruel anguish in the heart 
of every priest within those prison 
walls, and well they knew how to 
use it. From every cell came a 
cry such as no rack or stake 
could draw from them. 

On Easter Sunday, fifth day of 
their confinement, F. Clerc wrote 
to his brother : " To-day is the 
feast of feasts, the Pasch of the 
Christians, the day the Lord has 
made. For us there is no Mass to 
say or hear." Just at the hour of 
leavingthe Conciergcrie^YY . Olivaint 
and Caubert had the happiness, so 
longed for and so unexpected, of 
receiving the " Consoler himself." 
Then came the long days at Mazas, 
and no such consolation possible. 
'* Oh ! if we could but soon ascend 
the altar!" cries F. Ducoudray in 
the early days at Mazas. " Here is 
a privation to which I can never 
become accustomed.'* 

** Here," F. Clerc wrote May 5 — 
" here no confession, no Mass, not 
even on Sunday. We are lodged, 
fed — it is enough for animals." 

**/ pass my time,'* F. I)v\co\\dTaY 



again, " praying much, suffering 
some ; for the privation of the Holy 
Mass, the isolation, the separation, 
are cruel, but I see not the end." 

On May 8 an order was pro- 
mulgated which put an end to all 
visits ; on that very day F. Ducou- 
dray had expected to receive our 
Lord himself. " What a sacrifice I" 
he exclaims. " I have offered to 
our Lord this hard trial, incom- 
parably more painful yesterday 
than ever, on account of the pre- 
cious ])ledge of the love of the di- 
vine Master. I seek to make my 
poor heart the altar on which 1 
sacrifice. I shall add that of yes- 
terday as new fuel to the sacrifice.' 

" Six Sundays passed in dark- 
ness," writes F. Olivaint, May 
14. ** How many days without 
ascending to the altar !'* And the 
next day: "I am at the forty-first 
day of my retreat. After to-day. 
I intend to meditate only on the 
Eucharist. Is it not the best 
means of consoling myself that 1 
cannot ascend to the altar.' IH 
were a little bird, I would go some- 
where every morning to hear Mass 
and then I would willingly come 
back to my cage." 

The fathers outside the prison 
walls, understanding well the long- 
ing indicated by these and sinfiil^r 
expressions, had endeavored »" 
every way to find means to answer 
their desires. But it required i^* 
finite precautions to secure the 
faithful and sure transmission 
through all the formalities of ^i>^' 
veillance. What is there prudenc«? 
and love together may not accom- 
plish.? At last the doors openetJ- 
the prisoners came not out, but the 
Redeemer entered. Towards nud- 
day of the 15th the Long-Desire" 
arrived. That tells all. O^ly ^^; 
Ducoudray, Olivaint, and Cl^^'. 
could be reached at first. Each ^' 



Tki Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



515 



as given four sacred hosts, 
1 preserved and carried on 
St, as on a living altar, the 
is /ieari and his heritage for 

ty. 

e is no more prison," F. 
rote to his brother, "no 
litude; and I have confi- 
at if our Lord permits the 
to satisfy their malice, and 
V hours to prevail, he will 
them in that very moment 
r his name by the feeblest 
t of his instruments." 
igain. May 22, an opportu- 
found to reach the cap- 
Two feeble but intrepid 
ravcrsed the vast, deserted 
to Mazas. This time all 
> had been taken, and each 
received a share — four sa- 
;ts wrapped in a corporal, 
ihroud, duly enclosed in a 
X with a silk case and a 
order that it might be car- 
md the neck. Coming at 
ir, the Saviour seemed to 
1 : " I return, not to live 
1, but to carry you with 
or the end was at hand, 
nger for a few moments 
last letters gathered here 
t fragrant, fadeless wreath. 
6th F. Clcrc wrote his last 
ily his nunc di mitt is : 
my God, how good thou 
)w true it is that the mercy 
eart will never fail ! . . . 
)t dared conceive the ho[)e 
\ blessing — to i)ossess our 
have him for companion 
ptivity, to carry him on my 
d to rest on his, as he per- 
) his beloved John ! Yes, 
) much for me, and my 
cannot compass it. And 
. But is it not true that 
and all the saints together 
)t conceive the Eucharist ? 
od of the Eucharist .' how 



good he is, how compassionate, how 
tender I Does it not seem as if he 
made again the reproach : Yon have 
asked nothing in my name ; ask noiVy 
and you shall receive 7 I have him 
now without having asked ; I have 
him now, and I will never leave him 
more, and my desire, fainting for 
want of hope, is reanimated, and will 
only increase in the measure that 
possession lasts. 

" Ah ! prison, dear prison, thou 
whose walls I have kissed, saying, 
Bona cmx, what happiness thou 
hast won me ! Thou art no lone- 
er a prison; thou art a chapel. 
Thou art no longer even a solitude, 
because I am not alone : but niv 
Lord and my King, my Master and 
my God, lives here with me. It is 
not only in thought that I approach 
him ; it is not only by grace that he 
approaches me; but he has really 
and corporally come to find and 
console the poor prisoner. He 
wished to keep him company ; and 
can he not do it, all-powerful as he 
is.^ . . . Oh ! lost forever, my pri- 
son, which wins for me the honor 
to carry my Lord upon my heart, 
not as a sign, but the reality of my 
union with him. 

" In the first days I demanded 
with great earnestness that our 
Lord should call me to a more ex- 
cellent testimony to his name. 
The worst days are not even yet 
])assed ; on the contrary, they are 
coming near, and they will be so 
evil that the goodness of God will 
be obliged to shorten them ; but, at 
all events, we arc now drawing near 
to them. I had from the first the 
hope that God would give me the 
grace to die well ; at present my 
hope has become a true and solid 
confidence. It seems to me that I 
am ])repared for anything through 
Him who sustains me and will ac- 
company me even v\wto deaX\v. \^'^ 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



517 



r should have compassion 
sinners, and offer something 
r intention. And then is 
priest the friend of God, 
uld he not, by this title, 
limself to obtaining for his 
; reconciliation with God, 
er of all — the father so full 
Iness and so ready for in- 
e — especially when he hears 
Importuned by the voice of 



n» 



ce little account of the time 
imprisonment," he wrote 
' I prefer to leave all that in 
ds of God, and to give up 
he care of all that concerns 
e knows better than I what 
useful for my soul. I seek 
mber often that one glori- 
so much more, the more 
suffers for his love and to 
ish his holy will. In real- 
submitting to the trial, we 
in an admirable manner 
hilation of ourself ... Is 
so by the sacrifice of our- 
it we best imitate our 
It is true that my soul has 
reached to that perfection 
a love so pure and so de- 
It is necessary to pass 
trials to reach this union 
)d. He sends them, in his 
s, to purify the soul and to 
iown the obstacles which 
themselves to this union, 
r me, that I may draw this 
om my present trial." 
rapidly-written words from 
lint were the last greeting 
5 of the tenderest hearts and 
: souls in the world. " What 
)le events !" he wrote. May 
'. Lefebvre. " How well I 
md the weary souls of other 
o fled to the desert ! But 
th much more to stay in the 
f perils and difficulties to 
many unfortunates from 



shipwreck. My health is always 
good, and, after forty-six days, I am 
not tired of my retreat — just the 
contrary." To F. Chauveau : 
" Thanks from my heart. Yes, we 
are nearing the end, by the grace 
of God. Let us seek to be ready 
for all that comes. Confidence and 
prayer! How good our Lord is! 
If you but knew how, especially for 
several days past, my little cell has 
become sweet to me! Forsan et 
hac olim meminisse juvabit. Who 
knows that I may not regret it some 
day ? I think just as you do — that 
Eugene [Count Eugene de Germi- 
ny] should not interfere ; but in the 
end, if, by the favor of M. Urbain 
and his associates, I have need of 
help, I will ask for Eugene. In 
any case, thank him for me. Ten- 
derest remembrances to Armand; 
many thanks to all ; benedictions to 
our friends and benefactors. I be- 
lieve that all of our own here are 
doing well. For me, I am perfect- 
ly sustained. Once more our Lord 
is good! Yours from the heart. . . . 
May 19, '71." 

On Monday, the 2 2d, the order 
was given to proceed at once, and 
on the spot, to the execution of all 
the hostages confined at Mazas. 
This was kept concealed from the 
prisoners, but they could not help 
suspecting it, from the additional 
gloom growing every moment hea- 
vier and more ominous throughout 
that ever-gloomy building. The 
guards came and went, exchanging 
mysterious words among themselves, 
replying to the questions of the 
condemned by threatening allusion, 
or by an affected silence even more 
significant. However, the director 
of the prison, moved by a sentiment 
of humanity, or perhaps of pru- 
dence, ventured to represent to the 
imperious Commune that an execu- 
tion in a simple house ol dt\.tTv\\ow 



Si8 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Cofnmune, 



would be contrary to all forms and 
precedents ; and consequently they 
were ordered to La Roquette, the 
prison for those condemned to 
death. It was on this day that the 
two pious women succeeded in 
reaching Mazas, and giving to each 
of the Jesuit priests there four sa- 
cred hosts, with conveniences for 
carrying them around the neck. 

Nearly all were transferred to La 
Roquette late in the evening of 
May 2 2d; but there were so many, 
the wagons were not large enough 
to hold all, and some were left at 
Mazas until the next day. What a 
moment that must have been when 
the prisoners, so long in solitude, 
not even knowing who were their 
companions in misfortune, came 
from their cells, and, meeting in the 
office, beheld and recognized one 
another ! Priests, religious, laymen, 
all surrounded the Archbishop of 
Paris. 

The transit was long and painful. 
The prisoners, forty in number, 
were crowded into baggage- wagons 
belonging to the railway of Lyon, 
and exposed to the gaze and the 
insults of all. They had to cross 
the populous quarters of the Fau- 
bourg Saint Antoine and the Bastile, 
where the insurrection was still 
mistress. The convoy went at a 
walk, between two lines of armed 
men, followed by the grossest in- 
sults and by a maddened multitude. 
** Alas ! monscigneur," said a priest, 
leaning towards the archbishop, 
**look at your people now." 

When they reached La Roquette 
that night, they were assembled at 
once, without any other formality, 
in the hall, called by name, and 
shown by a person with a lantern 
to a long corridor on the lower 
floor ; and as each one passed on in 
the order named, a door opened 
and closed upon a captive. The 



darkness was intense; but 
to remember that in some o 
there was the Real Presen 
ding light and peace. 'I 
mune was in desperate st 
it was at first intended tc 
the victims as soon as the 
arrive at La Roquette ; b 
hours were gained thrc 
jealousy of the director, 
cells was a bed, and such a 
pile of straw and a cove 
that was all ; no tables, nc 
chair. Still, Roquette w; 
than Mazas, for the cells 
vaults, and, though one w; 
up, he was not entombed, 
sides, they were permitte 
each other by means of t 
between every two cells, a 
creation, which they were a 
take in a corridor toget 
even in some unoccupied c 
ing into the corridor. F 
scarce from the first ; eve 
was rare. F. Olivaint sha 
little things which remaine 
with the archbishop, and 
happiness, also, of giving 
Bread of the Strong, for w 
prelate was overcome wi 
tude. 

Every hour the Commun 
ing ground. It had only 
left for crime, and it haste: 
its dying breath, to order tl 
tion en masse of the hosta^ 
Roquette. This was mo( 
sixty at first. At any p 
Commune demanded the 
the priests — those hated i 
had troubled the world i 
teen hundred years. 

About eight o'clock in 
ning of May 24, when the ] 
were in their cells, there w; 
a confused noise in the di 
the voices of men and of < 
a clamor and laughing t 
still more terrible, mixing \ 



( 

W nearer, and some fifty rascals, 
W -Avengers of the Republic, Garibal- 
ci/ans, soldiers with all kinds of arms, 
iVational Guards with all sorts of 
rostumes, gamins of Paris, poured 
into the prison, hungry for the 
Mood of six victims, their share. 
They rushed the whole length of 
the corridor containing the cells 
i>f our dear prisoners, and ranged 
themselves at the head of a small 
spiral staircase which led to the 
chrntin de rofiife. As they passed, 
each prisoner was ])clted through 
the grating of his cell with a run- 
ning fire of insult and sentence of 
death. 

ill en some one, assuming the 

office of herald, summoned the 

prisoners to be ready and to re- 

>*poncI each one as his name was 

<"alle<i. After that, as each name 

'^as |3ronounced, a door opened, 

and 5^^ victim presented himself. 

* '• ^onjeau, FK. Duguerry, Clerc, 

I'uco vidray, Allard, and Archbishop 

i>arl>^5y were the six chosen. All 

^'^^^ present, all were ready, and, in 

1"^ c>rder named, the procession 

«*cg:i.^-^ 'Pl^g archbishop and his 

*-^"*l^ anions, 'preceded and followed 
"y ^Wis frightful escort, descended 
the cJark, narrow staircase one by 
^"^^^ So unrestrained was the 

inscfc^^j^^g of the captors that their 

.^^^"^^^i'r was obliged to interfere. 

^^"^Tirades," he cried, "we have 

r^"^^thing better to do than to 

ins^^^ them — that is, to shoot them. 

^^ the command of the Com- 
ma 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



519 



fix. 



e. 

^ o place of execution had been 

^ upon. They would have liked 

^ ^^avc had it on the spot, but that 

V^ld give too many witnesses ; the 

^^^^ cheminde roruh was in view of 

^^ prison windows, and the occu- 

V*^tit$ of the cells on every floor 

^-^Uld see all, hear all. So they 



passed to the second, where they 
would be sheltered by high rara- 
l)arts. The victims were ranged 
in a line at the extreme end of this 
path, at the foot of the great out- 
side wall. 

Those left behind knelt, prayed, 
and held their breath. The fire of 
a platoon was heard, followed by a 
few scattered shots, then cries of 
Vive la Commune ! which told that 
all was over. There were martyrs 
now, not victims. 

Towards morning the bodies 
were thrown into a hand-cart and 
carried to P^re la Chaise, where 
they were tossed into a ditch ; no 
coffins, no ceremony of any kind. 
"What matters it," F. Olivaint had 
said and proved — " what matters 
it to a Jesuit, who daily sacrifices 
his heart, once to sacrifice his 
head .>" 

Two days passed, and Friday 
came, rainy, and the prisoners 
were confined to their corridor. 
As they were taking their noon-day 
recreation, a delegate of the Com- 
mune appeared, and, standing in 
their midst, called off fifteen names. 
F. Olivaint was the first. ** Present/* 
he answered, crossing the corridor. 
F. Caubert was second, and F. de 
Bengy third. This last name was 
badly written, and worse pronounc- 
ed. " If you mean to say de Bengy ^ 
he replied, " it is I, and I am 
here." 

The condemned men asked to be 
allowed to go for a moment to their 
cells, as some had slippers on, and 
no hats. ** No,*' was the response, 
** for what remains for you to do you 
are well enough as you are." New 
victims were added from other 
parts of the prison until there were 
fifty in all, the number required by 
the Commune. 

These were taken a long road to 
Belleville, a fautwurg at a great 



$20 



The Jesuit Martyrs of the Commune. 



distance, in order, probably, to 
excite the passions of the mob, 
and rouse them once more. 

The procession started at about 
four o'clock from La Roquette. 
First came a guard bareheaded, who 
loudly announced that these were 
Versaillais, made prisoners that 
morning. The escort consisted of 
five hundred armed men, National 
Guards, to whom were added, for 
this genial occasion, the En/ants 
Perdus of Bergeret and rowdies 
under various names. Presently 
the women, veritable furies, and the 
children joined in, howling, shriek- 
ing, imprecating, blaspheming. The 
crowd increasing in numbers and 
insolence, the guards were obliged 
to interfere to protect the prisoners, 
not from insult, but from extreme 
violence. The fury of the mob 
constantly demanded the moment 
of execution ; a military band was 
added to the procession to drown 
the clamor and make the crowd 
more willing to wait. Finally they 
reached the entrance to the Cit^ 
Vincetmes. The passage is narrow, 
the crowd was enormous, and grow- 
ing ever more furious as they near- 
ed the end. An aged priest, who 
could not keep up, was shot and 
killed by a woman, and dragged to 
the place of general execution. 
After a time, they found some 
grounds laid out for country parties 
or picnics, and an enclosure, un- 
covered, which was intended for a 
dancing-hall. The fifty prisoners 
were forced into this, jammed 



savagely against th<e n 
the crowd showered n 
upon them. Then, at 
o'clock, there took pla 
absolutely indescribabl 
execution, but a slaugh 
were not shot, but massa 
discharge followed anol 
was an attempt made 
platoons, but it was badl 
The heroines of the 
climbed the walls, urg 
men and insulting t 
The tumult at its heigh 
about fifteen minutes. 
o'clock all was ended, 
were left stretched upon 
until the next day, whei 
thrown into a cellar or % 

It was the death-th 
Commune. The blood 
had cried to heaven, a 
lifted up her head. Th 
was Pentecost ; the Coi 
crushed, the doors of 
were opened, the bod 
martyrs were recoverec 
Wednesday, May 31, 
church, for two men 
like the rest, was op< 
more, and the funeral 
of the five of their ordei 
prisonment we have so 
lowed celebrated with 
solemnity. Their remai 
pose in the Jesuit cha 
Rue de Sevres. 

"There must be vici 
God who has chosen thei 
recognized the divine cal 
forth rejoicing. Ibaut g 



Aniar and Zara. 521 



ANTAR AND ZARA; 

OR, 

"THE ONLY TRUE LOVERS/' 

AN EASTERN ROMANCE NARRATED IN SONGS. 

BY AUPREY DB VBRB. 

PART III. 

HE SANG. 
I. 

Beside the well she stood, and water drew : 
The bowl, high held in both her hands, I drained ; 

She smiled, and sparkles showered of gehd dew 
On my hot hair, and brows with travel stained. 

" O maiden ! by thy lambs, and by thy kids, 
And by that holy, hospitable hand, 
Know'st thou her name whom Love to name forbids, 
That fairest fair one of the far-off land ?" 

Her eyes grew large ; in wonder half, half ruth 
She spake, like one who sorrowed, yet forgave- 
" Our land a land of beauty is, O youth I 

Her maids are fair and good ; her sons are brave." 

" maiden ! by those eyes, and quivering lids, 

Forgive! From thee Love hides not his sweet lore: 
Breathe it to none — not even thy lambs and kids — " 
Then whispered I thy name, but told no more. 



II. 



How base the soldier's revel o'er his wine ! 

The tale around the encampment fire ; the song I 
Would I might hear, O maid ! no voice but thine, 

Or clash of swords that meet to right the wrong! 



522 Auiar and Zara. 

Wliy must his earthlier nature taint, or vex 
Man's race ? His heart is brave ; his thoughts are large 5 

Benigner angels guard thy happier sex, 
The angels that have innocence in charge. 

The brightest of that band I saw in dream 
To thee make way : a lily stem she bore : 

She vanished, lost in thee, as gleam in gleam 
Is lost : thou glittered'st brighter than before. 



III. 

Who shall ascend into thy realm, O Love ? 

It is a garden on a mountain steep : 
From heaven it hangs, the woods, the clouds above ; 

Sees many rivers into ocean creep. 

Round it are icy spires ; that vale they guard ; 

But who can breathe the airs that o*er it blow ? 
Within it blooms the rose, and drops the nard ; 

Bu( who can clasp the roses of the snow ? 

The bird that sings there sings as sings a bride ; 
But who her mystic chaunt can understand ? 
O maid, I saw thee ere we met, and cried, 
** The land she treads on is a virgin land !*' 



IV. 

Gladdening, as if in founts of Eden dipped. 
Thy beauty cheers and strengthens hearts forlorn, 

Not like the shafts of Islam, venom-tipt ; — 
Dove's eyes thou hast, the glances of the mom. 

Thy father's joy art thou, thy mother's boast ; 

Upon the dusty track by pilgrims trod 
Laugheth the cripple; and the warlike host 

Divides before thee, giving thanks to God. 

The merchants praise thee, and the wandering guest- 
" Her veil down streams with such a humble prj^e, 
Fairer is that alone than all the West 
Irreverent boasts of charms that scorn to hide 1" 



^ Antdr and Zara. 523 

T. 

** Is thy love fairer than each other maiden ?" 

The young niaids ask me. Answer find I none : 
I know but this ; — she shines on hearts grief-laden 
Like visitant from star more near the sun. 

Above her vesture's hem a lustre hovers : 

Whiter 'her veil than earliest white of dawn. 
Now lifted as on sighs of happy lovers, 

Around her now, like mist o'er Hesper, drawn. 

Sweet is her voice, as though with saint and angel 

Her converse had been ever, and were still : 
With her she seems to waft some high evangel, ^ 

So light her step, so frank with all good-will. 

Let her be child, or girl, or maid, or woman — 

I know not what she is. Alone I know 
She moves o'er earth like creature more tiyin human, 

Missioned from God to spread his peace below. 



VI. 

When, travel-worn, on thee I chance to muse, 
Breeze-like the fragrance cOmes across my heart 

Of spring-flowers breathing sweetness through their dews; 
So blissful and so bountiful thou art. 

That hour I sing no song ; but all my soul 

Inly with laughter loud of music rings : 
The anthems of a spirit o*er me roll ; 

Of virtue, loveliness, and love he sings. 

All light, the fields of duty round me spread ; 

Beyond them honor sits, with thee beside : 
A heaven all glory flashes overhead ; 

An earth all rapture trembles like a bntfe.* 



VII. 



Changed is my love from what it was when first 
Forth from my heart that dream of fair and good. 

Like Eve from side of sleeping Adam, burst. 
And by me, when I woke, in glory stood. 



524 Aniar and 2^ra. 

That dream wert thou ! A dream, and yet how tnicl 
Still, still I see thee oft beside that brook. 

Standing 'mid lilies in the evening dew, 
And in thy hand a little open book. 

Dear are such memories ; dearer far than these 
Art thou — now known ; a lovely human soul 

Running on levels of some spirit-breeze 
With wingM feet to virtue's glittering goal. 

The songs and sufferings of our native land, 
The faith that lifts her high all griefs above, 

These, and thy daily tasks of heart and hand, 
Thee too have raised, and with thee raised my love. 



VIII. 



My hand, made strong by years of manly strife, 
Has taught my heart to love in manly sort ; 

I know thee now — a maid — one day a wife ; 
No more a phantom from the fairy court. 

Mine Arab sires their towers cross-crowned had raised 
Like thine, on crag and peak, and dwelt therein, 

Hundreds of years ere "first in scorn they gazed 
Far down on crescent flags of Saladin. 

Seldom for us the unequal strife hath ceased : 
Age after age that martyr-crown we bear. 

Here in our old untamed, inviolate East, 
The Church for three short centuries bore elsewhere. 

Wife of our race must share the heroic mould : 
A mother 'mid our mothers with calm eye 

Must look on death : like that great heart of old 
Must give her own — if God so wills — to die ! 



IX. 



From things that be around thee stand apart, 
For I thy lover am, and fight afar : 

A sword I send thee, that betwixt thy heart 
And alien things henceforth there may be war. 



Antar and Zara. 525 

I send thee not the trophies I have won, 

Tokens of town redeemed, or rescued shrine : 
I send a sword ; thy Hfe is now begun : 

Look up ! In heaven, too, hangs the sword, a Sign ! 

With this commandment have I bound thine eyes, 
That, fixed and set, henceforth no more they swerve : 

Mine are they. She my life who glorifies 
On me must gaze not, but that cause I serve ! 



X. 

In single fight we met : the invader fell ; 

Two hosts stood mute, one gloomy, both amazed ; 
His eyes, the eyes of one that hears his knell, 

On me, and not my lifted sword, were raised. 

Forth from that shivered helm outstreamed afar 
His locks dust-stained. Forth from those eyes there shonCy 

Baleful in death, hate's never-setting star : 
He hoped no mercy, and he asked for none. 

Then cried my heart, " A sister's hands have twined. 
How oft ! those locks ; a mother's lips have pressed : 

Perhaps this morn the cassia-shaking wind 
Waved them, rich-scented, o'er his true love's breast " 

** Foe of my race," I said, " arrise ; live free ; 

But lift no more against the Faith thy sword I" 
Was it thy prayer, or but the thought of thee, 
That sentenced chieftain rescued and restored? 



526 



A Glimpse of i/ie Green Isle. 



A GLIMPSE OF THE GREEN ISLE. 



II. 



After mature reflection, the 
Lady from Idaho pronounced the 
Dublin ladies the most beautiful in 
Europe. I consider the judgment 
an important one. If the fair ar- 
biter had any prejudice, it could 
only be a general one against the 
recognition of beauty in others of 
her sex. I have been informed by 
young gentlemen of my acquaint- 
ance who profess a thorough know- 
ledge of womankind that such a 
prejudice is not unusual in femi- 
nine minds. I think Madame 
Idaho was rather astonished at the 
result of her observations. It is 
possible that, before her visit to 
Ireland, she supposed that feminine 
beauty in Ireland offered only one 
style : that of the robustious or 
** Irish w^asherwoman " type. She 
did not say so, however. While I 
agreed with her, in general, in her 
estimate of the Dublin beauties, * 
I ventured to ask if their lovely 
feet were not a trifle too flat and 
too large for perfect symmetry. 

" Not at all," was the reply. 
" It is the horrid, clumsy, broad- 
toed English chaussure that makes 
the ladies' feet look so broad and 
fiat. If they wore American brode- 
ijuins^ their feet would look as 
small, in proportion, as — ahem ! — as 
those of any other nation." 

No more on those feet. 

Of the various manifestations of 
Irish beauty, the most engaging is 
the union of black or dark-brown 
hair with «oft blue eyes, a skin 
with the whiteness of milk, and 
cheeks with the bloom of the rose. 



It is inexpressibly soft ai 
tive. And that wondei 
that decks the cheek of ] 
age ! Is it the soft moist 
climate which makes th( 
green, even in the winter c 
that causes the check to 
rosily, even in the wint 
age ? 

A magnificent jeuncs. 
sterner sex may also b( 
promenade in Grafton St 
afternoon. Bright, intellii 
ing, of splendid physi 
dressed, riot " flashy," th( 
of the university and 
colleges — the picked yoi 
country — are not inferior 
ance to any class of youi 
the great educational ii 
either at home or abroa 
have an amiable weakness 
colored Jouvins and si 
glasses. You shall not 
out of twenty unprovid( 
glazing for the left eye. 
armed with canes — for u 
as ornament. I wit 
'* Town and Gown " row 
ary of 187-, in which the 
vigorous service. A li 
had fallen. Snow is a 
cious thing in Ireland. I 
last long, and mustbe use 
The foolish janitors had 
snow into little heaps, 
temptation too strong f 
graduates. Snow-ballir 
menced. The young ! 
paid their compliments tc 
through the railings o\ 
Green. The unwashed y^ 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



527 



the town replied vigor- 
he fun grew fast and fii- 
i the delightful excitement 
oment some of the stu- 
t having the fear of the 
ore their eyes, paid their 
nts to some of the dons, 
)ened to cross the outer 
e in cap and gown, with 
of no conten:ptible solid- 
t excitement increased, 
nsmen went outside the 
rounds, and charged on 

ragabrashes who were 
outside. The police in- 
in the interest of order, 
attacked by both parties, 
^man is the natural enemv 
Lident as well as of the 
The police proceeded 
some arrests among the 
* the gownsmen, and be- 
ishing their clubs. Snow- 
thrown aside, and canes 
. It was a sight to see 
go up and down. The 
succeed in rescuing the 
from the police, and re- 
i the walls, taking a cap- 
man with them, and cheer- 
mph. The police invade 
e precincts, and rush to 
; of their captured com- 
cy are driven out, and the 
students follow them into 
. The police suddenly 
eir pursuers, seize one of 
t leaders, and, by a pretty 
rategy, lift him on an out- 
nd drive off with him at 
to the nearest police sta- 
icue was out of the ques- 
coup was executed so 
Everybody rushes after 
id the green is deserted. 

bat cessa fautc de combattants." 

week of "hearings'* at 
court and intense excite- 
)ng the university men, 



the ringleaders were fined. The 
fines were paid at once. 1 he caj)- 
tured policeman, who was a little 
battered and bruised, received ten 
pounds from the students for " stick- 
ing-plaster." The board wisely let 
off the offenders with a reprimand, 
and the trouble ended in a grand 
display of fireworks by the stu- 
dents. 

Old Trinity is an imposing struc- 
ture. Life-size statues of Burke 
and Goldsmith are placed at either 
side of the principal entrance. The 
college grounds cover about thirty 
acres — a beautiful green spot in the 
heart of the city. In the centre of 
the outer quadrangle is a pretty 
campanile. The provost has a 
pleasant residence within the col- 
lege limits. Entry into the grounds 
is free to all. A chief porter, in a 
swallow-tailed coat and black-velvet 
jockey-cap, watches over the printri- 
pal entrance. The examination-hall, 
the library, the lecture-rooms, the 
museum, etc., are each under 
charge of a. special Cerberus in a 
jockey-cap, who shows you the 
room or building under his particu- 
lar charge. Each Cerberus expects 
a gratuity. * He will be very obse- 
quious if he gets what his modesty 
considers a sufficient douceur^ and 
the reverse if he does not. The 
new museum building is a fine edi- 
fice. The entrance-hall and prin- 
cipal stair-case are remarkable for 
the splendid specimens of every 
variety of native marble they con- 
tain. The old rooms, where the 
museum now is, arc damp and 
cheerless. There is an interestini( 
collection of ancient Irish weapons, 
ornaments, etc. What is said to 
have been the harp of Brian Bo- 
roihme will be pointed out to you 
by the jockey-capped janitor, who 
will also inform you that, though 
the public is admitted, tl\<i colVte- 



528 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



tion is intended for the use of tlic 
students, and not as an exhibition 
of curiosities. 

Lectures, to which the public are 
admitted free, are given twice a 
week by the various professors dur- 
ing term-time. I had the pleasure 
of attending some lectures by Sir 
Robert Stewart, the professor of 
music, and one by llic professor of 
ancient history. The latter gentle- 
man handled Mr. Froude in an 
eminently courteous and scholarly 
manner, but at the same lime most 
decidedly "without gloves." His 
lectures, however, were but poorly 
attended, while Sir Robert cram- 
med the examination -hail with the 
taste and fashion of Dublin, from 
the lady-lieutenant down. All 
flocked to hear his comparison of 
the Scotch and Irish bag-pipes, il- 
lusirat-ed by performers on these 
instruments. Lady Spencer, it 
seems, has taken the Irish bag- 
pipes under her patronage. Her 
ladyship seems to be a very ami- 
able and charming person, but as to 
her taste in musical instruments — 
well ! dtguslihis tton. 

Trinity College is on the east 
side of College Greefl. On the 
north is the principal fa9ade of 
the old Parliament House. It was 
sold to the Bank of Ireland after 
the Union. The House of Com- 
mons is now the teller's office. 
The principal facade is of the same 
order. It is grandly simple and 
impressive. The serai-circular col- 
onnades of Ionic columns produce a 
noble effect. This building is said 
to be the finest development of the 
order among modern structures in 
Hurope. I am inclined to think 
that this pretension is not without 
foundation. The dingy appear- 
ance of all public buildings in Ire- 
land and throughout the British 
lsliDds--\.he effect of smoke and 



almost continual rain— dettacU 
greatly from their effect. A pot- 
ter in livery, with a scailet wiisl- 
coat and a nose to match, shows 
you the House of Lords. A staiuv 
of George III. stands where the 
throne formerly stood. In ^1 
other respects the room remains 
as it was when Ireland had "a 
Parliament House of her o»n." 
Tapestries of the Siege of Derrj 
and the Battle of the Boyne ut 
hungon the walls. If yougiveyour 
red-breasted conductor a sufficieni 
gratuity, he will ask you to "take* 
chair," that you may be able tossj 
" you had a seat in the House of 

One must not leave College 
Green without paying his compli- 
ments to the equestrian statue <S 
William III., which stands newly 
opposite the Bank of Ireland. The 
king is costumed en Remain. Tlie 
bronze representative of the glo- 
rious and pious Dutchman and hii 
charger have suffered severely *' 
the hands of their enemies. The 1 
steed's fore-leg, which is raised, M , 
in the act of stepping, has bee* 
broken off more than once, and r*' 
placed in contempt of proporlio*' 
A curious critic has calcolattd tI»*V 
if the leg were straightened out. '^ 
would prove to be about half a ft^. 
longer than the other legs. A gi**' 
ed wreath on the brows of the stai ^ 
gives it rather a "gingcrbreac^* 
appearance. 

At the end of College Street issi— 
bronie statue of Thomas Moor"^ 
The Dublin critics call it " a glooti^* 
horror that murders the memory "C^ 
the poet. The unrivalled songst^=' 
is enveloped in a long cloak, on- " 
holds a tablet and pcQcU. H 
seems to be taking an iaveatory oV- 
the cabs and "outstdea " that pas^ 
his station. The statue remind — ' 
ed me of th'a\ of Mr, Lini 



>c<M| 



A G/hitfisc of the Green hU. 



S29 



liare. Both Iii.ve l!ie same 
eaten, " Ancient Mariner " 
:e. even to tbc irowsers 
nautical extent. At the 
stmorelandStreet — which 
luation of College Street — 
ofWilliam Smith O'Brien, 
iiite respectable in design, 

not lack spirit in execu- 
e artist saw that volu- 
rowsers are incompatible 
xe or marble. 
inutes' walk brings us to 

Hall— formerly the Ex- 
(ituaied on Cork Hill. 
ne liuilding of Porlland 
i a Corinthian portico of 
olumns. It is surmounted 
la. In the hall is a statue 
n by Chantrey, one of 
t by Hogan, of Dr. Lucas 
ilias, and of the Third 
jT Van Nost. If you wish 
Council Chamber — which 
ng more attractive than 
of the various lord-may- 
tanell among the number 
and crusty old porter in 
and brass buttons will ad- 
m^ennant finanei:. Even 
ibolus will not soften this 
Cerberus. 

BOW close by the Cork Hi!l 
io"thc Castle." Afigure of 
r Fortitude — I really for- 
— surmounts ibe gate, and 
of the Coldstream Guards 
ntry. He will not stop 
liry is free to all. About 

the morning is a good 
isi'l the castle-yard. At 
the guard is relieved, and 
cent mililary band will 
jur ears with most excel- 

Mlc ii a rambling structure, 
() a poor quarter of the 
lerc are two quadrangles ; 
i uid the lower castle- 
I the upper are the apart- 



ments of ilie viceroy; in the low- 
er, the offices and the castle chapel. 
The only portion of the original 
building now standing is the Rccotd 
Tower, anciently known as the Ward 
Tower. Irish prisoners of state 
were here formerly confined. Gen- 
eral Arthur O'Connor, I believe, 
was the last stale prisoner who had 
to endure its hospitality. 

The castle chapel is really a 
Gothic gem. It is built of Irisli 
limestone and oak. The carving in 
the interior is exquisite. The win- 
dows bear the arms of the various 
lord-lieu tenants in stained glass. 
The verger— a patriarciial-looking 
Englishman in a long, gray beard 
— was very polite and attentive. 
He looked so " respectable," so 
venerable, that we hesitated to offer 
him a gratuity, lest we might offend 
him. He soon undeceived us on 
this point, for he accepted an Eng- 
lish shilling; and pocketed it with 
an expression of thanks. The 
traveller through the three king- 
doms never fails to discovera great 
many very respectable-looking per- 
sons who are not above receiving 
gratuities of sums from a three- 
penny piece upwards. 

S. Patrick's Cathedral is situat- 
ed in a poor and squalid portion 
of the city. The poor buildings 
which cluster close around it mar 
its general effect. It was closed 
when w« reached it, but a silver 
key will open S. Patrick's, like 
most other buildings, at most hours. 
We were informed that in one of 
the dingy tenements hard by we 
should find a person who would 
admit us. We did find him— a 
man still young, dressed in very 
rusty black. He smelled very 
strongly of whiskey, entre nous. 
The interior of the cathedral is 
simple and grand. In the choir 
hang the helmets, swords, a.Tii\iw.\- 



i 






A Glimpse of Uu Green Isle. 



I 



ners of the Knights of S. Patrick. 
■|he spot where Swift and Stella 
sleep was the one most interesting 
to us, and ihilher our guide led us 
at once. Swift's memorial is a 
)jlain slab of marble aflixed to one 
of tile jiiUars. He is buried in 
front of it. The church is damp 
and cold. Our guide seems to 
feel the need of another stimulant. 
His voice trembles as he reads 
the caustic dean's inscription on 
Marshal Schoraberg's tomb; for 
our guide has picked up some 
l.alin — off the tomb-stones, proba- 
bly. The dean made several ap- 
])licatIons to the descendants of 
Schoinberg for funds to raise a 
onument to their deceased an- 
sior. Itnf they never vouchsafed 
a reply to the dean. He finally 
put up a tablet at his own expense. 
The inscription, which was written 
by him, shows that he was very 
bitter on the subject. The place 
where Swift lies now needs a little 
x:are. Our conductor said he had 
called attention lo it in vain; but, 
as I said before, he smelt strongly 
of the native beverage. There is a 
very fine monument to the officers 
and men of the i8th Royal Irish 
whp fell in the Indian Rebellion. 
But the oldest and most remarkable 
monument in the church is ihat of 
lioyle, the first Earl of Cork. It is 
from twenty to thirty feet high, and 
represents the earl and countess 
lying side by side, surrounded by 
their children, thirteen in number, 
if I remember rightly. The figures 
arc kneeling. They are life-size, 
and are colored. 

S. Patrick's has been recently 
restored in its original style by a 
wealthy brewer of Dublin at a 
cost of seven hundred thousiind 
;dollars. It procured him a bar- 
onetcy. The grandeur of the in- 
.terior is not marred by \ie\vs. The 



movable seats — such i 
in Notre Dame and the Mad 
are adopted. A pregnant i 
posted on each chair. It 
the public that " the future 
tation " of the cathedral 
solely on the voluntary c 
tions made by the public 
Offertory. Pity the sorrow 
disendowed Irish Church! 

We were not able to visi 
Church and the torab of 
cient filibuster, Sirongbo^t 
church was closed for rep 
wealthy distiller hasundert 
restoration of this cathedr 
own expense. It is said 
also expects to get a h: 
for his money, like his ri 
manufacturer of " Foker's 
Money is a glorious thing 
has plenty of it. Tom Stun 
sells just enough of man' 
stealing enemy to ckc out ; 
able living, is a low. disn 
fellow. Hob Shallow, wht 
faclures the liquid madness, 
and makes a fortune by s 
to Tom Stumps and his 1 
comes a distinguished p: 
public benefactor, and " Sir 
Shallow, Esq., Justice of th 
and coram." 

The cathedral in Marll 
Street is in the Grecian styli 
portico of Ionic columns, i 
lion, as we are told, of the ii 
the Temple of Theseus at 
^lassive columns separatel 
and aisles. The intei" 
tions arc of great richiu. 
humble judgment, then 
the florid. 

The Four Courts, 
Qua)', rise in solem^ 
over the Liffty. 
stands on the site 
Monastery of S. Sav^j 
finished in 1800. The o 
has a line portico of sx%M 



A G/iiH/ise of the Green IsU. 



531 



umtounled by a rich ped- 
In the left stands a slaiue 
Oa either side are sta- 
Btice and Merry. At the 
s of the facades are re- 
;ures of Wisdom and Au- 
Phe main building is ftank- 
pacious quadrangles en- 
arcades of stone. The 
es are entered by broad 
gateways. The main 
;ul3r in shape, and about 
feet in diameter. The 
iirls," Chancery, Queen's 
xchcquer, and Common 
n into this hall. It is a 
ting place in term-time. 
'ilh plenty of briefs, and 
lawyers without briefs, 
in there, the former hav- 
id interviews with their 
c latter dawdling about 
ing glasses on their eyes, 
iheir wigs and gowns, 
; oranges and "currant- 
he court -rooms a re small, 
tble, badly lighted, and 
led. The hall is cov- 
lantern and a dome sup- 
Corinthian pillars. In 
1 between the windows 
ical aUi-ielievi — Justice, 
Liberty, Law, etc., and 
of Moses. I.ycurgus, 
^ Other great law-givers, 
ght sessions a colossal 
Truth, holding a torch 
s, illuminate.s the hall, 
entrances to the court- 
bas-reliefs of subjects in 
Ml Irish history. The 
OS statues of Lord Plun- 
:her legal celebrities, 
islom-house is on Cus- 
( Quay, four or five 
tof the Four Courts, and, 
:tei building, looks upon 
The riverfront is about 
V thirty yards long. 
"Ipric. The Union 



of England and Ireland is allegori- 
cally represented in allo-reUci-o. 
The sister kingdoms are sailini; 
in the same shell, while Neptum; 
drives away l-'aniJne and Despair. 
The building is surmounted by 
a lofty dome which bears a statue 
of Hope. 

Dublin is well supplied with 
means of locomotion at cheap 
rates, There are omnibuses, street- 
railroads, outsides, insides, covered 
cars, and four-wheelers. The four- 
wheeler is something the same us 
the New York coupi. The fare< 
for cars or coupis are sixpence 
English per trip for two persons, 
sixpence for each additional per- 
son, and an additional sixpence for 
each stoppage or "set-down." Tht* 
street-cars, or " tramway cars," 
have seats on the roof, which are 
a few cents cheaper than the seats 
in the interior. The "top seats" 
are much used by all classes in fine 
weather. The city ordinances arc 
very strict regarding cabmen and 
car-drivers, and the magistrates 
show the "jarveys" no mercy 
when they are proved to have 
made overcharges or illegal de- 
mands. The drivers are consequent- 
ly very careful in their dealings with 
the general public. If you have 
a trans-Atlantic flavor about you. 
"jarvey" will expect a gratuity. 
You give him his exact fare. In 
order to keep within the law, he 
does not make a demand for a 
greater sum, but, allowing the coin 
lo rest on his open palm, he looks 
at it with an air of superb disdain, 
and then, eyeing you with a side- 
long glance, he asks with an air of 

" .\n' what's this for, sir?" 
"For your fare," you reply 

sharply, with a determination not 

to be imposed upon. 

"Iluniph'." he sa'js, "SVwxe'w"* 



532 

ii mighty long dhrive for half a bob. 
t'.iitl), it's liard for a poor divil lo 
in.ikc a livin' nowadays " 

Ten to one you agree with him, 
;ind give him an additional three- 
l)ence or sixpence, which lie re- 
leives wi(h enthusiasiic wishes 
that your life may be prolonged to 
an indefinite extent. 

Our party patronized the four- 
wheelers extensively, but never had 
the hardihood to veniiire on an 
"outside" in daylight. We were 
averse to public display. During 
nur stay in Ireland we tried the 
" outside " on one occasion only ; 
then it was against our will. 
Fortunately, it was at night. We 
reached Dublin, from a visit to 
Home friends in ihe south, by the 
to P.M. train. Al! the couf't's and 
covered cars were engaged. Our 
lodgings were about two miles 
from the railway station. Walk- 
ing, with the travelling "traps" 
necessary on British railroads, was 
"lit of the question. We were 
compelled to take an "outside." 

"How do you feel.'" I asked 
ilie Lady from Idaho after we were 
sealed and had started. 

" Rather out of place," she re- 
[liied. "I feel as if I ought to be 
a little intoxicated." 

Her answer expressed my feeling 
exactly. It seemed to me that I 
was going '* on the biggest kind of 
a spree," 

Railroads furnish rapid transit 
to suburban retreats where reside 
professional and commercial men 
whose business is in the city. One 
can live in thepleasant little village 
of Kingstown, the harbor of Dub- 
lin, six miles from the cily, and 
reach Dublin in fifteen minutes. 
Trains nm each way every half- 
hour. It has taken me an hour 
and a half to come from Eighty-sixth 
Sfrcel to Ihe City Hall by tV\e sUeeV- 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



cars. This was when wr* 
no accidents, and made a good 
But New York has the worst 
motive arrangemcnls of any ei 
the world, and immeasuraU] 
dearest. 

1 had counted npon find! 
great many beggars in Irelan 
expected, whenever I alighted 
roach or car, to have to rui 
gauntlet of a crowd of hungr 
titioners. I was most agre 
disappointed. During my M. 
Ireland I was asked for chari 
the public streets only on« 
was in Dublin, by a wretched- 
ing woman with a sick child. 

A fine view of Dublin i» obi: 
from one of ibe eminences ii 
Phcenix Paik. It takes in th 
tire line of quays. This vien 
something of a reduced and sn 
blackened effect of Paris. 
Phoenix is one of the finest and 
extensive parks in the world 
covers nearly eighteen hiin 
acres. It is true that art hnf 
done much for it, but nature 
done a great deal. It poss 
some of the most beautiful chi 
lerislics of English park seen* 
beautiful green lawns, dotted 
clumps of trees. Large herds of 
course swiftly over the upland 
stop in groups, half frightenei 
reconnoitre, in a coy side-gll 
the intruder into their doi 
Charming rides, drives, and * 
invite Ibe dwellers in the cil 
pure air and healthful exercise 
portion of the park is Tailed 
into a "People's Garden," H 
poor as well as rich hare frw 
gress, and can gladden their V 
weary eyes with the sight of g 
ing shrubs and budding Av 
and graceful water-fowl saiKni 
the pretty meres. A lofty m 
ment to the Duke of WeHing" 
^o^ vossesBcd of any a 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



S33 



— crowns one of the knolls, 
right of the main avenue 
ceregal Lodge. Near it is 
nn, mounted by a phoenix, 
liy the celebrated Lord 
cid. who first caused the 
»e thrown open to the peo- 
ne English Government 
nt to Ireland a viceroy 

less prejudices against the 
je was sent to govern. 
ire in his celebrated letters 
1 of " bis friends the Irish," 
: "They always liked me, 
ed them." The Viceregal 
itli its dependent buildings 
ghtful Slimmer retreat. I 
wonder that the viceroy 
c gUd to see the return of 
lal he might get away from 

locality in which the cas- 
lituated. The Hibernian 
ir soldiers' children is sitii- 
he lower extremity of the 

oological Gardens are not 
:be King's Bridge entrance. 
Ection is a fair one, but the 
.mate docs not agree with 
als, and they have (he same 
mc ap])earance as their fel- 
lers in the Regent's Park, 
ihants have a faded, mil- 
Lppcarance. The furred 
irc suggestive of worn-out 
ks. In neither the Dublin 
London Gardens do they 
>nght and sleek as, under 
Iter sky and more genial 
tre of Paris, in the Jardin 
■es and the Jardin d'Ac- 
Du. The collection of 
(ood. Among them is a 
I which the keeper inforin- 
E lx>m in the gardens. 
, he is an Irish lion !" 
of our parly, haxarding a 
oke. There was no re- 
loni the keeper. Not the 
pple of a smile. Decided- 



ly, the Irish in Ireland are becom- 
ing a serious people. 

Between the Under Secretary's 
Lodge and the Hibernian School is 
the historical tract known as " The 
Fifteen Acres." It was a celebrat- 
ed duelling-ground in the old days, 
when a "crooked look" was fol- 
lowed by an invitation to pistols 
and coffee. There it was that " the 
Queen's Bench went out with ilie 
Common Pleas," and the " Chan- 
cery winged the Exchequer." It 
was there that Daniel O'Connell 
met Mr. d'Esterre, and killed him. 
Beyond the park lie the famous 
"Strawberry Beds," where the 
Dubliners crowd, in the season, to 
enjoy their "sweet strawberries 
smothered in cream." 

An aninibus plies regularly be- 
tween the citji and Ihe Botanical 
Garden.s at GUsnevin ; but it is bet- 
ter to take a four-wheeler, and suit 
your oivn time and convenience. 
Make your bargain with Jehu be- 
fore you start, however. The gar- 
dens are about thirty acres in ex- 
tent. The cemetery where lie the 
ashes of the great orators, Curran 
and .O'Connell, b at Glasnevin. 
to O'Connell is an 
of that puzzle to antiqua- 
rians — the Irish Round Tower. 
The effect of the mcnument is not 
good. It seemed to me grote.squc 
and out of place. I could nut at 
first explain to myself why it pro- 
duced such a harsh, unplcasing ef- 
fect. A glance at the veritable 
Tower of Clondalkin enlightened 
me. The mock tower wants ihe 
mellowing touch of artist-centuries 
to soften down its hard, new out- 
lines, and make it seem in keeping 
with the repose that reigns in the 
City of the Dead. 

K pilgrimage to the birthplace 
of Thomas Moore was a labor of 
Jove which we \novtv\'ied oMi^cV'^t'. 



534 



A Glitnpic 'f the Greeft Isle. 



1 



would be among the first performed 
after reaching Dublin. We learn- 
ed that the spot where the bard 
first saw the light was in Anngiers 
Street, generally pronounced by 
the Dubtiners Aingers Street. 
Kverybody we asked professed to 
know all about it, yet nobody could 
teli us the number of the house, 
Anngiers Street is not a very long 
street. We concluded to go through 
it from end to end, and at either 
side, examining every house in de- 
tail. Anngiers Street commences 
at Stephen Street, in rear of the 
cnstle, and extends to Bishop Street. 
It is not a particularly clean street. 
It is only just to say, however, that 
it is no dirtier than continental, 
iranaallnntic, or Britannic streets 
of like degree. We began our pil- 
grimage at the wrong end, but our 
patient search was at length re- 
garded. The house is No. u, at 
le corner of Anngiers Street and 
Little Longford Street, It was 
then occupied by " Thomas Healy, 
Wine and Spirit Merchant." Ac- 
:ording to some of little Tom's 
biographers, the old house has al- 
ways been devoted to the sale of 
intoxicating beverages. His father 
was what Uncle S.im calls by the 
undignified name of "rumseller." 
' honor and shame from no con- 
n rise," and Tom's muse may 
her seductive, anacreontic 
blush to his early associations. 

A weather-soiled and smoke- 
blackened bust of the poet occu- 
pies a niche between the windows 
of the second story. The house 
has been recently painted and re- 
novated. When these repairs were 
comiTienced, the bust was removed 
by the proprietor, and was not re- 
placed at their completion. The 
worthy vender of wine anti spirits 
who occupied the house, though he 
i*eJieved in filling bumpers fair, atii 



their power of smoolhin]^ 
of Care, was probably rathe 
by the continual visits of 
to the shrine of the poe 
sacrifices of these pilgrims 
rosy niuse were most probab' 
ly theoretical. They did no 
round the wine," or order a 
sent to their address in il 
They look none of those 
niing glasses " generative ol 
electric flame." A plague i 
pilgrims! say I, marry ami 
The bust of the bard shall r 
er be a beacon for them. 
statesmen and critics who si 
base of Nelson's Pillar soon 
that the niche was empty, 
poetical ire was raised to 
pleasant degree. They I 
such influences to bear on t 
prietor of the Cradle of Gen 
the bust was at once restore 
accustomed niche. 

The Dubliners have a pas 
flowers and rock-work, 
available foot of ground i 
and in rear of their houses 
voted to the cultivation of 
and the building of miniatui 
tos. The city is spreadii 
fast, and rows of cottages arc 
ing in the suburbs on all sid 
general, the houses arc not w 
Americans would call comfi 
The fire-places are verj' sm; 
coal is scarce and dear, and 
die of kiDdling-wc»od» comp< 
half a dozen chips not mucfa 
than matches, is an object 
chase, Tlie grates seem coi 
ed to throw out smoke inst 
heat. In this they are well 
ed by the moist, heavy atmo 
Living isgood and cheap, bov 
about one-fourth cheaper tl 
in our principal cities c 
of the Atlantic, Liquoi 
in quality and moderauj 
dulKing of all kind^ i 




A GliffUpse of the Gtienlsle. 



S3S 



ess than in New York, and 
"shoddy." The English 
of wearing flowers in the 
hole prevails in Dublin, 
mmerce in flowers is there- 
tensive, and the shops de- 

that charming traffic make 
ul displays of floral trea- 

The Irish fruit, however, 
e exception of strawberries, 
jrries, and currants, is inferior 
American apples are for 
all fruiterers', at prices very 
reater than those of New 

Ing in ** bog-oak " is quite 
>rtant trade in Dublin. In- 
may much more probably 
rd an art. I have seen some 
istic specimens of bog-wood 
nts — statuettes, groups, etc. 
chains, brooches, and brace- 
Irish bog-oak were very 
ible a year or two since, 
ishion extended even to 

1 and Paris. 

Dublin streets are dull at 
The quality of gas supplied 
f is poor. Early closing is 
general, and all the principal 
re closed at dark. Doubt- 
\ is better for the clerks and 
n, and more economical for 
nployers. But it is not so 



pleasant for that large class of the 
community who love to saunter 
along the lighted streets in the 
evening, and feast their eyes on the 
treasures in the illuminated shop- 
windows. There is little to tempt 
the tourist into the Dublin streets 
at night. I should advise him — or 
particularly her — ^to avoid prome- 
nading on Saturday evening. I 
regret to say that evening is very 
generally observed by handicrafts- 
men and laborers, and even by 
shopmen and clerks, as a Bac- 
chanalian festival. The number 
of persons who sacrifice to the rosy 
god at the week's end is lamentably 
great. Monday is a workmen's 
holiday, and it is very hard to get 
mechanics to work on that day. 

The unsavory localities of Dub- 
lin are designated by strange 
names. Here are a few by way of 
example: Bow Lane, near the 
Insane Hospital founded by Dean 
Swifl, who, as he says or sings, 

*« Left the littie wealth he had 
To build a house for fools or mad. 
To show, by one satiric touch 
No nation wanted it so much "; 

Cook's Lane, Paradise Row, Cuff 
Street, Bride Alley, Lung Lane, 
Smoke Alley, Black Horse Lane, 
Bull Alley, Pill Lane, Marrowbone 
Lane, Pig Town, and Stony Batter. 



53^ Om Corpus CMsH. 



ONE CORPUS CHRISTI. 

" Flowers ? Are they for a bride ?" he said. 
And wondered if that graceful head, 
Now bent to catch the soft perfume. 
Was soon to wear their tender bloom ; 
But when she raised her modest eyes, 
And answered him in half surprise, 

** No, they are for our Lord," he smiled. 
And thought : '^ This is indeed a child." 

" Give me the loveliest," she said 

^ Delicate white and rosy red, 
And heliotrope and mignonette. 
All that you know and I forget ; 
And heap these crimson roses, so : 
Yes, they are costly, that I know ; 
But what can be too fair or sweet 
To strew beneath His sacred feet ?" 

The light was fading ; broken flowers 
Lay scattered through the aisles in showers ; 
For all their fragrant wealth that day 
Had marked the Master's glorious way, 
And now, before the altar-rail, 
A girl knelt, motionless and pale. 

A line of sunlight touched her hair. 

Her slender hands were clasped in prayer; 

In silent bliss the moments passed. 

For she had lingered to the last. 

Unconscious, in that holy spot. 

Of eyes that watched and wearied not. 

" How beautiful !" the whispered thought, 

All human, all of earth, she caught ; 

And reading what that thought expressed 

By the one key-note in her breast. 

Uplifting her adoring head, 
" Is He not beautiful ?" she said. 

A thrill of awe, a flush of shame , 
He knelt, and named his Saviour's name. 
Softly she glided from the place : 
He never looked upon her face ; 
Low bent to earth his suppliant head^ 
** O Lord I make me a child," he said 



Rglaiio Mtuns in Marylandianu 



$37 



RELATIO ITINERIS IN MARYLANDIAM. 

NA&&ATIVB OF A VOYAGE TO MA&YLAND. 1633. 



BY P. ANDREW WHITB, S.J. 



St beautiful chapter in 

history of North Araer- 
^tting forth the coloniza- 

Maryland, Terra Ma- 

she was pre-eminently 

Land of the Sanctuary. 

is is, strange to say, one 

read and least known 
Iters of our early histo- 

American knows all 
^uritan Pilgrim Fathers, 
lyfiower^ and Plymouth 
ill the facts and fictions 
the settlement of New 
Most Americans de- 
jve, upon the authority 
;land orators and histo- 
le Pilgrim Fathers afore- 
le founders of the civil 
s liberty now organized 
t republic, mistaking a 
ctarian ascendency and 

for a contest for the 
pies of religious liberty. 
■ fact, the Puritan Pil- 

in intense horror the 
Dies now so generously 
them. They wanted, 
y, but supremacy. It 
Catholic Maryland that 
uality was truly estab- 

by the design of the 
roprietary. Lord Balti- 
)y the legislative enact- 
le freemen of the pro- 
rordially invited all per- 
uted for their religious 
id not only a refuge in 
>ut all the rights and 
:ivil and religious, en- 



joyed by themselves, the founders 
of the colony. 

Here, and here only, then, do we 
see the first rays of true civil and 
religious liberty in the American 
colonies — a glimmer of light in old 
S. Mary's like Portia's candle : 

" Portia— T\aX. ligbt we see is burning in my 

hall. 
How fitf UiAt liule candle Uirows his beams I 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world." 

If now, indeed, the greater glory 
dims the less, we must not forget 
the light of the candle in the then 
surrounding darkness. 

Everything connected with the 
early history of Maryland is, and 
ought to be, deeply interesting to 
every American of liberal culture 
or sentiment. We are pleased to 
see that the Maryland Historical 
Society is making earnest efforts to 
gather and save all the fragmentary 
lore pertaining thereto. The vol- 
ume we now have in hand bears 
evidence of the fact. We give the 
title-page in full, as a summary of 
its substance : 

"Fund Publication, No. 7."— 
Relatio Itiruris in Marylandiam. 
Declaratio Colonics Domini Baronis 
de Baltimoro, Excerpta ex Diver sis 
Litteris Missionariorum^ ab anno 
1635, ^^ annum 1638. (Seal of 
Maryland Historical Society.) 
" Narrative of a Voyage to Mary- 
land. By F. Andrew W:hite, S.J. 
An Account of the Colony of the 
Lord Baron of Baltimore. Ex- 
tracts from diffeteivl V^\X^t^ oi xci\^- 



538 



Relaiio liineris in 



sionaries, from the year 1635 to the 
year 1677. Edited by the Rev. E. 
A. Dalrymple, S.T.D. Baltimore, 
February, 1874. Baltimore : John 
Murphy & Co. (Printers to the 
Maryland Historical Society)." 

The Historical Society gives us 
a neat octavo volume of nearly 200 
pages, issued in a style that would 
do credit to any publishing house 
in America, or, for that matter, in 
Europe either. 

The learned editor. Dr. Dal- 
rymple, tells us in the preface where 
and how these valuable documents 
were obtained : " About the year 
1832 the Rev. William McSherry, 
S.J., discovered, in the archives of 
the * Domus Professa* of the Society 
in Rome, the originals of the MSS. 
which are named on the title-page. 
He carefully copied these MSS., 
and placed the copies in the library 
of Georgetown College, D. C, of 
which institution (being at the same 
time the provincial of the society 
in Maryland) he afterwards be- 
came the honored president." 

Translations were made and 
printed of these manuscripts ; but, 
copies being nearly exhausted, the 
Historical Society determined to 
make a new issue, accompanying 
the new translation with the Latin 
text, as far as that could be obtain- 
ed, some pages of the original tran- 
scripts being unfortunately lost. 
The present volume is of the new 
issue, and it is little to say that its 
contents are intensely interesting. 

It is quite charming to follow 
good F. White, missionary, saint, 
scholar, " vir non minus sanctitate 
vitae, quam doctrina conspicuus," 
in his humble and earnest and 
successful labors among the savage 
aborigines of Maryland. His great 
soul was given up to his holy mis- 
sion. We follow the little fleet,' 
the Ark and the Devt (w\\at beau- 



tiful and significant names— the 
ark of Noah, and the dcve sent 
forth by the patriarch !), over the 
waste of waters, where they had not 
only the dangers of the sea, but 
Turks and piraiesy to dread, even 
from the British Channel onward 
over the whole Virginian Ocean. 

On the 25th of March, a.d. 1634, 
the pious missionaries celebrated, 
as they believed, the first Mass ever 
said in Maryland. But it seems 
that some of their own order had 
preceded them on this field ; for as 
early as 1570 F. Segura and other 
Spanish Jesuits from Florida were 
endeavoring to bring the Indian 
tribes on the shores of the Chesa- 
peake into the Christian fold, when 
they were ruthlessly murdered be- 
fore the rustic altar on which they 
had daily offered the Holy Sacrifice 
for the traitors who slew them 
( Woodstock Letters), 

The colonists in S. Mary's soon 
made friendly relations with the 
Indians, and the missionaries had 
the inexpressible happiness of 
bringing many over to the true 
faith. The fathers would often- 
times leave the dwellings of the 
whites to abide entirely with the 
Indians, though the governor 
disapproved of remote exc\irsions. 
on account of the treachery of 
hostile tribes, who were always 
hovering around the borders. The 
fathers, moreover, had no Hg^^ 
duties in attending to the spiritw^ 
wants of the colonists themselves* 
who were largely, but by no wx:^^ 
exclusively, good Catholics. 

In those primitive days, when vl 
the freemen of the province met »o 
general assembly for the purposes 
of legislation, F. White and ^^ 
colleagues were summoned to ^^ 
part in the sessions ; but they de- 
clined the honor, and, as "tbey 
earnestly requested to be excused 



Rd.ifio hin 



s in Marylandia) 



539 



■ubi 



ig part in 
if the colony, tlieir re- 
granted." They could 
•ork more effeclivcly, ad 
*ei gloriam, in (he nidc 
p*am where tliey had 
an altar, than in the 
legislative assembly, 
iltimore obtained lands 
Indians by purchase, and 
quest, and colonists and 
md missionaries were 
on the most friendly 
jeiher. The Indians 
strangers to their dishes, 
omini, and roasting earsi, 
and fish, and oysters; 
.irn, during a season of 
! Indians were supplied 
Qt over-abundant stores 
nists. The natives then 
ticlined lo strong pota- 
ley are especially careful 
from wine and warm 
are not easily persuaded 
em, except some whom 
h have corrupted with 
lices." Alas! from that 
lis how many untold 
of the children of the 
; been sent, body and 
trdiiion by the infusion 
lion among them of 
es! 

sionariea give accounts 
ors with a naivety that is 
We can see them start- 
; broad river in a little 
:her, an interpreter, and 
man of all work, with 
ies of bread and cheese, 
com and beans, with a 
ine for religious ptirpos- 
: with the sacred utensils, 
as an altar for perform- 
:e, and another casket 
for the Indians— bells, 
ling-hooks, needles and 
other such commodities, 
a tent to cover them 



when beyond the reaeh of English 
residents, and, after a weary day's 
work, ihev lie down liy the open 
fire to take their rest. " If fear of 
rain threatens, we erect our hut, and 
cover it with a larger mat spread 
over; nor, praise be to God, do we 
enjoy this humble fare and hard 
couch with a less joyful mind than 
more luxurious provisions in Eu- 
rope." In fact, they are so happy 
in their work that they think Cod 
gives them already a foretaste of 
the blessed life of the future. 

Upon one of these excursions :i 
friendly Indian was pursued by 
enemies and transfixed with n 
spear; tliey "pierced him through 
from the right side to the left, at 
a hand's breath below the arm-pit, 
near the heart itself, with a wound 
two fingers broad at each side." 
Some of the man's friends were 
converts, and ihey called in F. 
White to prepare him for death. 
The missionary gave him suitable 
instructions, taught hira short pray- 
ers, and received him into the 
church, and, touching his wounds 
with relics of the most holy cross, 
took his leave, directing the by- 
standers, when he should breath his 
last, to lake him lo the chapel for the 
purpose of burial. The next day 
this same Indian, with a compan- 
ion, followed the father in a boat, 
showed him the red spots where 
the wounds were of the previous 
day, exclaiming " that he is entire- 
ly well, nor from the hour at which 
the father had left yesterday had 
he ceased to invoke the most holy 
name of Jesus, to whom he attri- 
buted his recovered health." 

The people of the lower counties 
of Maryland have always had a 
reputation for culture, refinement, 
and good manners. They appear 
to have these traits by inheritance. 
" The Catholics who \\\c \t\ \!^e 



Relath Iliiieris in Marylandlam. 



colony," writes a missionary (a.D. 
1640), "are not inferior in piety to 
tlio5e who live in other countries ; 
but in urbanity of manners, ac- 
cording to the judgment of those 
who have visited the other colo- 
nies, are considered far superior to 

We find we are extending what 
was intended for a brief notice into 
a regular article, for which the read- 
er may or not thank us; an abid- 
ing and essential interest in the 
cause must be our apology. We 
will say but little more, though 
the theme admits of vast expan- 

In Lord Baltimore's Dedamtio, or 
account of the colony — which, by 
the way, is very much couUur de 
rote ("It is sad to contrast ihe 
glowing accounts of Maryland in 
the Dedaralio and the painful ex- 
perience of the missionaries," says 
the editor with great justice)- — 
we find him inviting his country, 
men to go to his colony, not only 
10 better their material interests, 
but also to spread the seeds of re- 
ligion and piety — a work, he says, 
digiium angciis,iiignum Anglis. Tliis 
recalls to mind the happy witticism 
of the great pontiff who sent Augus- 
tine to perform the same work with 
the English themselves. 

There is scarcely a page of this 
new issue of the Jidalio, and the 
accompanying letters, that does not 
invite special interest. Surely 
those missionaries were men of 
God, living and dying to serve him 
only. " I would rather," writes 
F. Brock, laboring in the conver- 
sion of these Indians, "expire on the 
bare ground, deprived of all hunjan 
succor, and perishing with hunger, 
than once think of abandoning this 
holy work of God from fear of 
want." Within a few weeks after 
MTiting tliai letter, worn out with 



privations, he went to rest from hit 
labors. 

Good F. White, seized by Qu- 
borne's rebel soldiers, was sent in 
irons to England, where he died 
like a saint, as he had lived. "Hit 
self-denial, privations, and suffti- 
ings," says Dr. Dalrymple, liiiBSelf 
a Protestant minister, "and the 
touching patience and checrfulnca 
with which they were all endured, 
move our profound respect and 
admiration. F. White deserves 1 
high place of honor amongst tk 
many heroic missionaries of llie 
Society of Jesus," What wonder- 
ful men they were indeed, the old 
Jesuit missionaries! Wc of tlw 
present day could scarcely believe 
their lives possible but for the 
F. De Smets and kindred s[Miits 
who repeat them even in our o«ii 
day. Zaadamus virot glorinti..- 
Omnes isti in. genaa/ifie sua g"ili> 
glotiam adepli j««/."— Eccles. cap- 
sliv. 

We may repeat that the Mary- 
land Hbtorical Society has done 
a good work in bringing out ll>i^ 
volume anew; and its agcnis, edi- 
tor, translator, and publisher have 
all done their work in the row' 
creditable manner. We obKr*e<l 
in the translation, excellent as it i5> 
some few points open to criticisio; 
as,c^„ p. 10," To the k'ny Jiet.f*; 
titer. General Mulius Vitdltifku 
The comma is misplaced bel««? 
father and general. On p. il " 
is said, speaking of S. ClenKHi. 
" who, because lie had been iie*i"' 
an anchor and thrown into the Kli 
obtained the crown of martyrdo™' 
A man is not a martyr because 0' 
his execution in any fashiooi b"' 
because of the principles for whi"* 
he suffers. We find, on p. u.''" 
word Sabbalnm rendered SaU^' ' 
instead of Saturday, which »W'' 
convey the true idea in thii JT" 




Oh the Wing. 



54t 



be some other slight in- 

of the same or a similar 

upon the whole, they are 

It, and the translation is 

creditable rendering of 

we would say that if the 



reader would wish to spend a few 
hours, safely, profitably, and plea- 
santly in field and camp, with true 
soldiers of the cross, let him ob- 
tain and read the Relmtio liuu^ 
risy with the accompan3ring docu- 
ments. 



ON THE WING, 



A SOUTHERN FLIGHT. 



IV. 



*' DB PIL BN AICMJILLB." * 



:ime we had been a fort- 

L— R , the senti- 

he dolce far niente] of 
IS seemed gradually to 
ssion of Mary and my- 
:tched a little, and Mary 
loggia, reading occasion- 
dreaming a great deal. 
> still absent ; having, in 
mjustifiable way, under- 
miplete tour in the Ab- 
)mpanied by his friend, 
dio Gandolfi, who had 
rendezvous at Monte 
)ne day, however, when 
ne from a delightful ram- 
r the gardens of the Villa 
>rice,'* Mary greeted me 
cclamation : 

will arrive the day after 
, and Don Emidio is com- 



im. 



>f 



tght it had been settled 
iio was to go back to 

I by whom, my dear 
:onclude he has changed 



roTerb : From Uiread to oecdlt. 
ur« of doliiff DoUilag. 



" Well ! I know how it will be : 
we shall have none of Frank's soci- 
ety ; lie wi4l for ever be making ex- 
cursions with Don Emidio where 
we cannot go/* 

" Their distant excursions are 
over ; and we want them for all the 
places we have to visit near Naples. 
Up to now we have been so taken 
up with the Vemons that I have 
not cared for much more than the 
walk backwards and forwards to 
their house and our own. But we 
have a great deal to see, and I am 
longing to begin." 

" Oh ! Don Emidio has seen it 
already a dozen times. It would 
only bore him to go over it again.'' 

I cannot conceive what made me 
say this to Mary. I think I was 
cross. I know I was tired and hot 
with my walk. She made no an- 
swer for a few seconds ; but I felt 
she was looking at me. And so I 
did that stupid thing which one 
always hates doing and cannot the 
least prevent — I blushed. Having 
thus made myseli look like a fool, 
I glanced at Mary, and our eyes 
met. 



542 



Oh the Wing. 



'* Do you dislike Don Emidio, 
Jane, that you speak in that way ?" 

'^ Dear me ! no, not at all. I only 
did not suppose he would care to 
go over all the old places again." 

** It is not always the places ; it 
is sometimes the company that is 
the chief attraction." 

** Oh ! yes ; I know Don Emidio 
is devoted to Frank." 

** I think he likes us all, Jane." 

" No one can help liking you, 
Mary ; and I dare say he does not 
r//Vlike me." 

** Is that all you think about it, 
my dear?" 

** Of course it is. What more is 
there to think about it ?" And then, 
as I knew I was blushing again, I 
went out of the room to take off 
my hat. But I did not care to go 
back to Mary directly, for fear she 
should say anything more to make 
me cross. So I ran down to Villa 
Casinelli to have a chat with the 
Vernons. I found them all in a 
state of very great excitement. Ida 
was looking anxious, her eyes glis- 
tening like diamonds, and a bright, 
hectic spot on each cheek — which 
I never like to see, knowing how 
delicate she is. Elizabeth, who is 
always calm and gentle, and rather 
slow in speaking and moving, was 
sitting opposite Ida, with her large, 
dark velvet eyes full of tears. As 
I entered, Ida started up, exclaim- 
ing: 

/* O Jane! what do you think 
those dreadful Casinelli have done 
now ? This morning, before any- 
body was up, they cut down the 
chapel bell, which was hung outside 
the door on our floor, near the ser- 
vants* rooms, so that Lucia might 
ring it every morning. And now, 
to-day, a feast-day, on which the 
congregation was.su re to be numer- 
ous, when Lucia went to ring the 
bell for the first time (you know we 



always ring it thrice), she found 
that the rope was left dangling, 
but no bell. After hunting about 
everywhere, one of the Camerota, 
the father of your Paolino, found it 
tied to a fig-tree on the terrace 
just above the chapel. The m- 
tadini* are in a wild state of indig- 
nation, and I really am at a loss 
to imagine what will happen next; 
for what with the insult to religion. 
the annoyance to Padre Cataldo. 
and the constant anxiety to our- 
selves, I begin to think we shall 
have to throw it all up, and leave 
this place." 

I had already heard a great deal 
about the Casinelli and their ex- 
traordinary conduct. Indeed, ever 
since we had been near neighbors 
to the Vernons, the ins and outs 
of this intricate and truly Italian 
intrigue had formed one of the 
chief themes of out daily conversa- 
tions. But to enable my readers tu 
follow the plots and stratagems of 
this Macchiavelian family, I must 
give an account of th6 whole group. 
My story will represent a stale ot 
things not, I imagine, to be found 
anywhere out of Italy. Every 
nation has its characteristics, \^ 
qualities, and their corresponding 
defects. The peculiar finesse and 
acuteness of the Italians mak<^ 
them the best constructors of ^ 
plot that imagination can con- 
ceive, and give them a proportion- 
ate facility for carrying it on and 
working it out. They are natur^jl 
bom actors. And they can so 
identify themselves with the charat* 
ler they wish to assume that not 
only is it exceedingly difficult i<^ 
the most diligent observer to detect 
the false from the true, but I doubj 
if even they themselves do not end 
in interiorly confusing the two s*' 



bCo efface all moral 
demarcation- Tliey can 
itnselves a false conscience 
{antic scale, and end in 
BS believing the lies they 
tnted. 

insisting of seven daugh- 
two sons, all equally en- 
ith the faculty of assuming 
01 for days or weeks, but 
or for a whole life. The 
i and determinate object 
ine persons is, as is usual 
ians, to make money. To 
■eahh, and always more 
>11 means seem lawful to 
d no stratagem too low. 
se, garden, and vineyards 
:1]i make altogether a nice 
liable Utile property, and, 
, it belongs to them all^ — 
,ch has a share in it. They 
;ly agreed that more will 
1 by their alt holding to- 
ts regards the properly, 
my division, especially as 
moall. They reserve a few 
I the ground floor of the 
their own use, though their 
! is principally in Naples, 
ir two sets of apartments 
)Usa they let lo strangers. 
der lo make sure of all the 
may come to the net, the 
iihcr is Slated to be the 
one of the suites of rooms, 
of the sisters of the other. 
;r professes to be a very 
if virtue, and will receive 
Its who do not hear an 
1 reputation, and who can- 
give evidence of a more 
rely respectable position 
hey must be well, and even 
mnected. The brother, on 
ary, is quite ready to part 
rooms to anybodv who 
I renL " What do'js be 
>..they are. or what 



Oji the Wing, 543 

they do, so long as he gets hi^ 
money?" And in the case of the 
honest man happening to have ,1 
preference for the brother's rooms, 
while Ihe gay Lothario has set hi-; 
heart on the spinster's domain, ho \ 
presto, the proprietorship is qui'-k- 
ly Changed; the brother owns the 
sister's side of the house, while lli<.* 
sister is ihe fair possessor of the 
brother's portion. If you are sci 
ill advised as to look dubious and 
express an impression that it had 
been otherwise, you are met with .1 
calm, indulgent smile at your evi- 
dent deficiency of intelligence : 
" Dear me ! no. Were you not aware 
it was nothing of the kind ? Somc 
repairs necessary to be made in my 
brother's rooms had led tohis hold- 
ing mine for a time. He wantoil 
them for a friend of his. I regrel- 
ted the fact ; but 1 was not ac- 
quainted with the character of the 
tenant when I conceded my roonn 
lo my brother, becausel was myself 
called from home" (or some sui h 
reason), "and was unable to atteml 
to the letting. I deeply regretted 
thef.ict; but it was done without 
my knowledge." And thus they 
turn aboiU; always contriving to 
run with the hare, and hunt wiih 
ihe hounds. As a rule, it is the 
sister who ci'nies forward and acts 
as padrona * when the parties 
wishing to hire either set of rooms 
are evidently respectable. If ihev 
are the reverse, the rooms are let 
nevertheless, but then il is the 
brother who meets the storm. And 
thus they enacl the little man and 
woman who come out of the clock : 
the lady in fair weather, the gentle- 
man in great-coat and mnbrelbi 
when ic is wet. 

I am not aware of what the Casi- 
nelli family motto is; but it ought 



544 



Oft the Wing. 



lo be, " Divide and govern." For 
they adopt the same double-surface 
l-rocess as regards politics. Oni; 
iirother is a. staunch Boiirbonist. 
the other a fervent Liberal. In 
jiiiblic eaeh bewails the opiQions 
ul' the other. And thus, between 
the two, they catch the favor' of 
both parlies, and divide the spoils 
between them. If circumstances 
call for extreme measures in order 
to gain some end in view, the 
whole family will combine together 
to fait upon one particular member 
who, for the lime being, represents 
some political view at that moment 
discredited. Their iaraentations 
liver the one black sheep are long 
and loud. Everybody's sympathy 
is appealed lo ; everybody must 
lend an ear to the terrible calamity 
which has befallen their illustrious 
family, inasmuch as one of the race 
has been, or is, guilty of — , whatever 
the crime in question may be. 
Such grief, such indignation, ex- 
pressed on ihe highest moral 
grounds, attracts attention, procures 
small favors from compassionating 
friends, creates at least an interest, 
and adds lo their importance ,xnd 
consideration; while all the time 
the black sheep himself is privy to 
the whole affair, and receives, in the 
secrecy of the domestic circle, his 
full share of indemnification for 
having stood as whipping-boy for 
the rest of the family. He keeps 
qiiiot for a little while, as being 
Tinder a cloud. Then presently he 
reappears to enjoy the results of 
his own condemnation. The elder 
brother and sister, who are the 
prima donna and tenor of the do- 
mestic comic opera, are always snid 
lo be on bad terms with each 
other; not that they are so in re- 
ality, but because, if one has made 
a bad bargain or inconveniently of- 
fended anybody, the other can im- 



mediately step forward, pretending 
severely to blame the delinquenL 
and offering his or her services t<^ 
repair the injury, or, in the case c^j 
a bad bargain having been mad^ 
insisting on a readjustment of l>ip' 
case; not from personal motives, 
ha\Hng, as he or she slates, no intf. 
rest in the matter, but solely from 
a sense of justice. In short, thty 
" hedge " in a way that would 
make their fortune a thousand 
times over at Epsom or Ascot, 
No matter what horse loses, ihey , 
are sure to have made up thtif 
book in such a way that they rausi 
win something out of whatever hap- 
pens. And, meanwhile, the membel 
of the family who appears lo lh( 
outsider to take his part against all 
his own kith and kin obtain! the 1 
eternal gratitude of the deludcAin- 
dividual, who is not aware that be 
has been assisting at a family ia- 
trigue, based upon his own misfm^ 
tune, and intimately and minaielr 
combined by the whole set of iheu- 
When the Vemons wished to rent 
one of the suites of aparimenis, ii 
was the elder sister who came 'oi- 
ward with expressions of the wann- 
est delight. What she had long 
desired had been that some familj 
should reside there who had » 
chaplain, and that thus their pretty 
little ch.ipei, entirely cut out in the 
tufa rock on the sands of the sea- 
shore, which rock forms the foun- 
dation of the house, would again 
come into use. She was eloquf' 
in describing how that fofroet'f 
that chapel had been so useful '" 
the numerous vigitatuoli and ihc' 
families living on and near the 
premises. They themselves, she 
stated, were no longer rich enoug'' 
to afford themselves so great a con- 
solation, now that the one brolbe' 
who had been in the priesthiWJ 
was dead. She was quite certai" 



Oh tlu Wing. 



545 



re Cataldo was a saint; 
her part, no one but the 
should inhabit that part 
>use, for their mere pre- 
ild bring a blessing on all 

She even talked of re- 
rhatever was wanting in 
1, and doing it up. It had 
^ neglected, and the cob- 
ig in festoons from the 

effective carving above 
on the coved roof and the 
he subject of the bas- 
is the Assumption, and, 
•ughly done, it had a very 
ect, scrolls and angels' 
ing intermixed with the 

figures, and the whole 
ed in white picked out 
it blue. A great deal was 
t the reparations, and the 
who did not then know 
: of people they had to 

imagined all that was re- 
r the use of the chapel 

found. They soon dis- 
heir mistake, and, beyond 
eaning done, they had to 
almost everything. As 
;e Vemons had prepared 
lest Casinelli brought all 
Is to look at it, that they 
mire the piety of her 
d learn the sacrifices they 
I in order to afford this 
•n to the neighborhood ! 
»ely judging that unfore- 
umstances might occur 
uld show their interests 
ray to make more money 

in another direction, the 
ither was directed to as- 
:e another tone. He was 
deputed to act the sceptic 
casion, and make super- 
marks about his sister's 

piety, and the inconve- 
i folly of these extremes 
on. He shrugged his 

about it, and lamented 

^OL. XIX.— 3S 



that, not being master, he could do 
nothing to refrain her from so rash- 
ly committing herself to possible 
expenses, and even to probable diffi- 
culties with the present government, 
from the presence of a zealous and 
hard-woftking Jesuit father. At the 
same time, he gave no handle 
against himself in the matter, but 
preserved an outwardly civil man- 
ner towards the Vemons, and a 
cold regret towards Padre Cataldo. 
As time went on, the Vernons dis- 
covered that there was an ever-in- 
creasing difficulty about all that 
was requisite for the altar. The 
altar linen was withdrawn, and they 
had to find their own. The vest- 
ments were borrowed one day, and 
never returned. By the time we 
arrived, almost everything for the 
service of the altar was the proper- 
ty of the Vemons; and Ida's ac- 
tive fingers had achieved the hap- 
piest results from very limited ma- 
terials. 

Meanwhile, there could be no 
doubt of the good that was being 
done in the neighborhood from the 
reopening of the little chapel and 
the active piety of Padre Cataldo. 
The parish church is a long way off, 
and up a very steep hill. The re- 
sult is that few of the little children 
and women could get to church at 
all. There is a chapel, dedicated 
to Our Lady of Dolors, by the 
roadside at Posilippo, but it is very 
small.' And there is another built 
by the Minutoli when, for love of 
the poor, they left their beautiful 
villa of " Mon Caprice," and raised 
an asylum for the aged poor, and a 
house to which they themselves re- 
tired, giving away all they could 
spare from their own modest re- 
quirements. But this also is some- 
what at a distance ; and, moreover, 
the population is large, and the ac- 
commodation altogeth^i bu\. V19X1V) . 



Oh the Wing. 



I have seldom seen more fervor 
in\l devotion than in the little cha- 
nel at Casinelli. hewn out of a rock, 
with it 5 simple decorations and a 
fe^ natural dowers on the altar. 
There was ao masic* and I cannot 
for a niomen: pretend that there 
was the <Li;rite>t approach to har- 
inonv :a the lotid* harsh« powerful 
4iv>u::iTa:wbic!i the Italian peasant- 
rv are cvntent to mistake for sing- 
-Tri. Bur. ar least, there was real 
iev'?c:cn» as they sat with eves fixed 
*rr the T?reacJter. who so beaatifuUv 
-ii:c A'* earnestly discoursed to them 
ts a rather mi^ht to his children. 
I >avt» otbftt seen the tears stream- 
rr^ viowT their cheeks; and then 
•rt,>itt ttrue to time we would hear 
yt nrst this and then that hardened 
virrTTcr \hhv> came creeping back to 
his or her duties^ and making us all 
;i!avl. Several small boys served at 
cho altar: and as the honor was 
highly [>riied» they had been made 
to come in rotation to obviate 
vjiiarrcls. One small creature of 
atKUit four years of age, and who 
havl <.iuite the most marvellous eyes 
.tnvl the longest lashes I ever saw, 
w.u specially pertinacious about his 
vii^hts. In short, there was some- 
thing touchingly primitive and real 
about the whole thing which could 
not fail deeply to impress us who 
came as strangers into this little 
seaside sanctuary. As we sat wait- 
ing for the priest to arrive, or in 
the silent parts of the Mass, we 
could hear the waves lapping the 
yellow sands just outside the half- 
closed door. This was the public 
entrance ; and sometimes, in rough 
weather, I think it must have entail- 
ed a little sprinkling of salt water 
on the worshippers. We entered 
the chapel by a flight of marble 
hiair-i, in a tower which led from 
I he inner court of the Villa Casi- 
hiHii iind which stairs browght us 



into an aisle of the chapel, cut fur- ] 
ther in the rock, and consequently 
always somewhat dark. I remember 
Mary's going to Mass before break- 
fast, and having desired Paolino to 
bring her coffee, and put it in one 
of the niches of the marble itair- 
case ; which he did, greatly amused 
and pleased at so unusual a pro- 
ceeding. It was never, however, re- 
peated, for the wind blew fVesh and 
cold, and the Vernons were almost 
hurt at what might look like a mis- 
trust of their ever-ready and abun- 
dant hospitality. 

There was altogether somethin|^ 
about the arrangement and poo- 
tion of the chapel so unlike the. 
beaten ways of everyday life that,; 
united as it is with the memory of 
the beautiful short addresses of 
the father and the devotion of the, 
people, it remains in our minds ; 
heightened by a tinge of romance. 
And now there was the fatal appre- 
hension that all this was to be de- 
stroyed. 

It was some little time before 
Mary and I could quite make 
out what this suddenly-developed 
though long smouldering hostility 
to Padre Cataldo and the Vernons 
could mean, the Casinelli had ap- 
peared so anxious to be civil to the 
latter, and had professed such de- 
light at first that the chapel should 
be reopened. At length we learnt 
the facts of the case, which were as 
follows : The Vernons had been 
residing at Casinelli for about two 
years, and doing a great deal of 
good in their immediate neighbor- 
hood, when an Italian gentleman, 
a strong Liberal, and openly pro- 
fessing infidelity, applied for the 
set of apartments corresponding to 
those occupied by the Vernons. 
In this case it was the brother who 
appeared as the owner, and who. 
careless of all save his rent, let it ^( 






On the Wing. 



547 



e MartorelH, as we will 
itleman in question and 
io accompanied him. 
course, was a grand op- 
for the sister * to come 
the family comedy, and 
part. So with loud he- 
ld great disturbance of 
household, she took to 
nd sent for all her ac- 
s to come and bewail 
;he wickedness of her 
iO had let the apartments 
ople — not even respect- 
so brought a slur on his 
jse. Everybody was en- 
pray that the brother's 
might be touched and 
lion effected, 
the meanwhile, nothing 
by any member of the 
prevent the MartorelH 
ig quiet possession, as 
a property which belongs 
Casinelli, and about the 
which, therefore, every 
^oice. This case was so 
ne, and was so likely, to 
Casinelli into disrepute, 
found necessary to drill 
mbers of the family to 
rt of outraged propriety, 
all the seven sisters re- 
laintance with the new- 
lile they redoubled their 
to the Vernons, weary- 
/ith reiterated invectives 
; Martorelli, and osten- 
joing the whole round 
len, rather than run the 
eting them in the avenue 
is to the principal en- 

ths elapsed, and during 
the brother was a con- 
t at the Martorelli's, 
e and more he evinced 
absence of civility to- 
Vemons, and especially 
adre Cataldo. On one 



occasion, as the brother returned 
from dining with the Martorelli, 
he said something positively insult- 
ing to the Vernons, whom he met 
in the garden. This was overheard 
by some of vignaiuoli!^ and was re- 
peated to the seven sisters, who 
accordingly went in a body, the 
next day, to call on the Vernons, 
with redoubled regrets about their 
brother and about the vicinity of 
such objectionable people as the 
Martorelli, who, however, they re- 
joiced to add, would certainly 
vacate the apartment in another 
month. The Vernons, knowing no 
reason to doubt their statement, 
were naturally gratified to hear it, 
as the garden belonged equally to 
all the inhabitants of the house, ex- 
cept a very small portion assigned 
to each family, only sufficient for 
the cultivation of a few flowers. 
Time, however, wore on, and another 
six months had expired without 
making any difference as regarded 
the presence of the Martorelli. 

Far from showing any signs of 
intended departure, Signor Marto- 
relli was allowed to undertake sev- 
eral improvements in the house 
and garden at his own expense. 
About the same time some of the 
sisters called on Padre Cataldo, 
and, without making any allusion 
to the works that were being car- 
ried on by their tenant, they in- 
formed him, with every demonstra- 
tion of zeal, that the lady xrho re- 
sided in the house with him had 
shown some signs of a better state 
of feeling than the gentleman ; and 
that, in short, she was a very inter- 
esting person — one about whose wel- 
fare they could not but feel anxious. 
They added that, when she saw 
people going to and from the chapel, 
she was* noticed to sigh deeply, 

^ The keepenoC v>ieT\A«^%xd» 



548 



On the Wing, 



and had actually expressed surprise 
that no one had ever invited her to 
enter the chapel ; while, on the 
other hand, their brother was al- 
ways taunting them with a want of 
real charity in having avoided any 
intercourse with this perhaps re- 
pentant sister. They had therefore, 
they asserted, after many misgiv- 
ings, come in a body to consult his 
reverence as to what he would ad- 
vise them to do. Personally, they 
could have no wish to know such 
l)eople; but here, possibly, was a 
question of the salvation of a soul, 
and all selfish sentiments must be 
laid aside for that. Perhaps their 
knowing her might do good ; did 
his reverence not think that, with 
such an end in view, they ought 
to sacrifice their natural aversion, 
and call on the interesting lady.? 
Of course the only reply that a 
priest could make to such a ques- 
tion was that no consideration 
should stand in the way when any 
hope of doing good is in question. 
And then all the seven damsels, 
breaking forth in expressions of 
submission to his advice, and ap- 
pearing to take it as if the initiative 
had come from him, with pious 
phrases and low courtesies, left his 
reverence's presence. From that 
day the greatest intimacy and con- 
stant intercourse sprang up between 
the two families. The seven sisters 
and the young lady were insepara- 
ble. Signor Martorelli*s sentiments 
and principles were deeply bewail- 
ed ; but if her husband, as he is call- 
ed, and as we hope he is, showed so 
little religion, at least she was a 
promising subject; and whenever 
they saw the Vemons, it was always 
to relate the growing success of their 
happy manoeuvre. Time, however, 
sped on his way, and no 'practical 
results followed. Signora Marto- 
reiii entered no churcVi, 'wYvWe V\i^ 



man threw off the mask, and 

began to do the devil's work 

the pious coniadini* of the 

He would send for two or tl 

the young lads at the hour c 

on Sundays and feast da) 

promise them a trifling sum 

stead of going to church, the] 

execute some commission f( 

When they hesitated, he 

laugh at their scruples, and ; 

their attachment to the Je 

ther, and their caring to h 

jects of devotion like a ro 

the picture of a saint. By ( 

his discourses to them beca 

pregnated with positive bias] 

he grew bolder in his expi 

of hatred against religion, an 

virulent in his attacks on the 

ters of the church. At ler 

had messages conveyed to tl 

nons, to the effect that the 1 

Mass (which was never rung 

8 o'clock) was an intolerab 

sance to him; and he thr 

hints of revenge if it was n 

continued. Whenever it wa 

suddenly furious sounds pro 

from his part of the house. 

really it would seem as 

wretched man were seized w 

rage of the possessed, an( 

when that bell sounded, thi 

entered into him. The V( 

servants became the objects c 

terious threats and of vile • 

nies. A wretched peasar 

bribed to frighten one of tl 

night ; and a more daring 

but who afterwards repente( 

tears, was induced, by promi 

money, to fire at Padre C 

one evening as he was enteri 

avenue where the man stooc 

cealed. 

At length the climax was i 
ed which I have related a 



Oh the Wing. 



JKof this chapter, and the 
t was cut down in the 
I hung upon a fig-tree. I 
a long time with Ida and 
, discussing what would 
tsl course to pursue ; and 
got so far in the history 
[ass bell, I think I had 
rj' it on to the end, though 
d me beyond many of the 
dents of our stay at Posi- 
t was decided that Ida 
rite very civilly but very 

the elder sister, remon- 
i the bell being removed. 
rs rose up in a body, and 
ler intoned a loud lainen- 
ei the wickedness of the 
t was their desire the bell 
I replaced, and that in all 
e reverend father should 
fcrhe thought proper. It 
ssible to say who had re- 
,C bell; no one could so 
fucss who could be at the 
If so much wickedness ; 
was quite overwhelming, 
: sister, true to her tradi- 
1 habits, retired to bed, 

her friends of the cir- 

r, and gathered them 
t couch for two days of 

and condolence. The 

of course, replaced by 
lusting Vcrnons ; but the 

Martotelli only escaped 
punishment at the hands 
dignant contadim through 
Bstrances and commands 

Cataldo, who, in this in- 
lad unusual difficulty in 
tU orders obeyed, and in 
,lls that had 
^d upon him from being 

by his loving but hot- 
Lalian penitents. 

,t Sunday morning Mary 

I had far less faith in the 
ef any sincerity in the 
'Cn the Vernons, 



listened anitiousJy for the first 
sound of the Mass bell. My watch 
was, I suppose, in advance of the 
right time; for it was five minutes 
past eight, and I had not heard a 
sound, when Mary came running in 
with the joyful exclamation that it 
was all right, and that the bell was 
pealing loud. The good Posilippi- 
ans looked out of their cavernous 
houses, and peeped from their win- 
dows; and as we stood at our garden 
door, we could hear them calling to 
each other just as Mary had done 
to me — that the bad man had not 
dared again to cut down the bell in 
the night. 

It was not long, however, before 
Martorelli, whose rage knew no 
bounds, began to express his 
threats against the Vernons, and 
especially against their chaplain, 
too loudly to escape notice. The 
father himself was well aware of 
these threats, because they never 
failed to be repeated by the people 
about the place, who were all de- 
voted to him, Of course he avoid- 
ed tellit»g the Vernons, for three 
girls and one aged lady could do 
little in the matter, except feel very 
anxious for his safety. On the 
other hand, he was not the man to 
avenge, or even protect, himself. 
But as he was constantly out till 
late in the evening, preaching at 
different churches, giving retreats, 
and visiting the sick, several of 
the men. who formed part of llie 
congregation decided that he was 
never to be allowed to go down 
that treacherous winding path 
which leads from the StradaNuova 
through the vineyards and garden to 
Casinelli, except accompanied by 
one of them. The terrace.^ are 
admirably adapted for shooting 
down upon your enemy, as he 
passes just beneath you, while you 
lie concealed amongst the beans 



550 



On the Wing. 



above. At length some of the 
wiser and more authoritative of 
the men, disgusted at the annoy- 
ances to which the females of the 
Vernon household were exposed, 
and at the threats against Padre 
Cataldo's life, had Martorelli sum- 
moned before the magistrates as 
a disturber of the peace. This 
strong measure kept him quiet for 
some time; and it was during 
this happy interval that Frank and 
Don Emidio Gandolfi returned 
from their long wanderings, Frank, 
of course, to take up his abode with 
us, and Don Emidio to return to 
his Neapolitan villa, his principal 
residence being in Rome. 

The day of their return we were 
all sitting in the loggia together 
watching the evening light, which, 
falling on the rocks of Sorrento 
and on the island of Capri, seemed 
to turn them into pink topaz set 
in a sapphire sea. I was eagerly re- 
lating the history of the bell to our 
two gentlemen, and, forgetting that 
Don Emidio was an Italian, I 
launched out in strong expressions 
against the cunning and intrigue of 
the whole nation. In the midst of 
my harangue I suddenly looked up, 
and there was Don Emidio leaning 
forward with his elbows on his 
knees, his hands loosely clasped, 
his deep, calm eyes fixed on my eager 
face, and a slight, sly smile curving 
his well-defined mouth. I stopped 
dead short, and blushed to the eyes. 
We were so used to seeing him with 
us, and to hearing him talk in his 
perfect English, that, in the heat of 
my discourse, I forgot I was abus- 
ing his countrymen. Frank laugh- 
ed outright when, looking at Don 
Emidio, he saw the expression 
which had so suddenly arrested 
me, and Mary alone looked sorry 
for me. 

" O Don Emidio !" I exclaimed, 



" I forgot you were not one * 
forgot you were an Italian. 

" It needs no apology, si 
I agree with a great deal 
say. In the first place, y 
chiefly of Neapolitans. I 
half a Neapolitan. And, 5 
whatever you may think ol 
you are too just not to 
there are many honest men 
them.'* 

" You are very kind t( 
off so easily. No one w 
Padre Cataldo, who is a Ne 
could fail to believe in the 
ity of honest Italians." 

" Excuse me, signorina, 
that you would be near) 
wrong in taking Padre Ca 
a guarantee for there beir 
men amongst us as you \ 
in believing us all rogues 
you have met with people 
Casinelli." 

" Why so r 

" Because saints are as 
exception to the generalit 
accomplished Macchiaveli 
the Casinelli." 

"You are right," saic 
" But do you not think thr 
the French are specially 
to vanity, so the Italians : 
trigue V 

" I do. It is the revers 
medal. The French are j 
and the drawback to tha 
conceit. The Italians ar< 
and the corresponding « 
cunning." 

" As Emidio is too sensi 
thin-skinned at our spea 
our thoughts," interruptec 
** I must say that I hav( 
thought the Italians great 
city." 

" The Italian does not ca 
you an untruth about a trifl 
did so, it would be from car 
rather than from purpose. 1 



! sees his way, or thinks he 
to accomplishing some dis- 
1 important end, then the full 
) of his close-knit mind and 
vellous faculty of mental in- 
ion are brought to bear. He 
nipulous because he is pas- 
Not passionate only as a 

burst, but condensed, sus- 
tassion. The object he has in 
tmatter what it be, becomes 
ct ofhis passion, and gradual- 
laves around it the web of his 
eing. Wiih fixed, undeviat- 
lose, he bends all things to 
tl. If truth will serve him, he 
lloylmth; where that fails, 
rill be as readily adopted. 
Tlooks mountains and val- 
lls and barriers, in pursuit 
d ; or rather he sees through 
I if they were merely a mist, 
a his unflinching gaze on 
! is resolved to obtain be- 
em. So long as his purpose 
mged, nothing will stay his 
i. Once that changed, no 
low or why — out of his own 
hrough the will of others — 
whole fabric of deceit pass- 
him like a mantle loosely 
from his shoulders, only to 
aed when next required." 

seem to me to have made 
ery clearly. Emidio," said 
^ Now, what is the good side 
lisagreeable picture.'" 

good side is the strength 
and the power of sustained 
centrated thought and pur- 
fum all that in the right 
1, and you will find it leads 
a long list of heroic saints, 
d in no country, and equal- 
' in Spain, where some of 
characteristics exist." 

surely," said 1, " France 

great land of saints." 
lonbt. But, generally speak- 
)oursc there are exceptions), 



Oh the Wing. 551 

they belong to a different category. 
The greatest contemplatives have 
been Italian or Spanish." 

" But, Don Eraidio, I don't like to 
think that nationality, which seems 
to include temperament, and even 
climate, can have anything to do 
with the making of God's saints." 

" And why, signorina, should you 
object to it when He who makes 
his saints makes also the climate 
and the temperament .' He has 
linked the outer and inner world 
too closely together for us to have 
any reason to be astonished that 
he should observe certain general 
laws in connection with the gifts of 
his higliest graces." 

Mary started forward from the 
depths of her arm-chair, and said 
eagerly : " Then do you really think 
that t!ie slower temperament and 
depressing climate of England, for 
example, have prevented, and will 
prevent, our country from being 
honored by great saints.'" 

" I am very far from thinking It. 
On the contrary, and strange a'^ 
it may appear atfirst sight, therearc 
certain characteristics amongst the 
EngUsti which assimilate them, in 
my mind, to the Italians in a way I 
nevercould assimilate the French. I 
allude to your steadiness of purpose 
and to your reserved and silent 
habits. These qualities, when laid 
hold of by grace, tend to lead to 
contemplation and mystic holiness, 
much as do the qualities we have 
spoken of among Italians." 

"Then, I suppose, the extraor- 
dinary energy and versatility of the 
Frencli are likely to make them 
more active than contemplative." 

" Just so, signorina, and yet 
there have been wonderful ex- 
ceptions ; and I should be wrong 
in making out anything like a 
rigid rule. In the first place, 
' ilie wind blowelK vihiite \i. \.\^v 



55* 



On the Wimi: 



eth ' ; and, in the next, the demar- 
cations of national character are 
not sufficiently strong to necessitate 
any given development of even 
mere natural qualities, much less 
of spiritual qualities.'* 

" I suppose, in short, all you really 
mean, Don Emidio," resumed Mary, 
" is that, when it pleases God to 
make a saint in the full acceptation 
of the term, he makes use of natural 
conditions blended with the super- 
natural." 

"God always works with a me- 
thod, signora — ^by rule and mea- 
sure. We cannot solve all the 
divine problems; but we know 
that they are according to truth 
and justice." 

Don Emidio's last words seemed 
to shut us all up in silent thought. 
Frank went on puffing at his cigar in 
a way which set my wicked imagi- 
nation wondering how far smoking 
was conducive to meditation. But 
then I never heard of a saint who 
smoked. Perhaps if any very holy 
man, whose canonization was in pro- 
gress, had been given to smoking, 
the devil's advocate would lay hold 
of it, and try to destroy the cause. I 
do not think tobacco was much in 
vogue when the great modem saints 
lived. S. Philip Neri, for instance, 
that large-hearted, " large-sleeved "* 
saint — I wonder if, in these days, he 
would have smoked ? But then he 
was a priest. That makes a great 
difference. I think a layman might 
have an occasional cigar. There 
is that dear old Frank lighting his 
second. But Don Emidio has had 
only two tiny cigarettes. What 
nonsense runs in my head ! And, 
meanwhile, the red lights have all 
died away. Capri lies like a large, 
dense cloud on the bosom of the 
sea; and though all the sunlight 

^ Literal transUtion of an Italian term meaning 
wUtout narrow prejudice. 



has faded from the sky, the 
strange color of mingled pur 
orange that seems to flasj 
the water, and that I nev 
anywhere except in the Bay 
pies. Presently we are 
from our reverie by the soi 
voices ; and Ida's tall figure 
by the open window looki 
upon us, while Elizabeth and 
are behind. 

"How silent you all arc 
claims Ida with a laugh, 
afraid we shall disturb you." 

" Oh ! it is only that Don ! 
has been talking to us sc 
about heroic sanctity that 
all in a state of depressioi 
the consciousness that we h 
hope of ever reaching it." 

" I am quite sure you nev 
if you set about it in this me! 
ly fashion. Besides, noboc 
saint till he is dead ; an 
knows but what you may 
pray at my tomb yet ?** 

" Voursy Ida dear.?" said 
quite gravely. 

" Why not ? There are s( 
kinds of saints; and I m 
come out as quite a new > 
But that is not what I air 
about. Padre Cataldo is g 
see the poor man I told M 
this morning. He has got th< 
and, when he is delirious, h( 
calling so piteously for the 
that this is the second time 
he has had to toil up our hil 
to him, besides all his othei 
As soon as the man is pacif 
promised to come here. H 
us at dinner that to-morrow 
a free day, and that for or 
could make an excursion w 
if we liked to go to Baiae." 

It was soon all settled. I tl 
it strange the two gentlemen c 
wish to ride, but preferred c 
in the carriage with us. F 



Ok the Wing. 



553 



onged to be on horseback, 
their place, I would have 
Padre Cataldo looked in 
oment to learn our plans, 
D Don Emidio took leave 
He had a long H-ay to drive 

r villa is on ihe Vomero, is 

lignorina; it is at Capo di 
Do you prefer the Vo- 

dear, no. I think Capo di 
ery beautiful." 
ts holding my hand, as he 
»e good-night. 1 thought 
odd question it was to ask 
lat could it matter which I 
It? I told Mary I thought 
idio was sometimes a little 
tnd hardly knew what he 
ng. But 1 suppose Mary 
Igrec with me, for she only 
ud made no answer. 
lest morning I overheard 
lenting to Frank about the 
which Paolino disturbed 
beginning, as early as half- 
, firing at the little birds in 
en. 1 used to envy that 

faculty for early rising. 
: streak of light through 
Eilcss window saw Paolino 
kit. And then be would 
Ing out into ibe garden, 
tver the low wall that di- 
r entrance from the main 
ling all his comrades on 
r to their work, whistling 
iling to bis sisters, who 
I portion of the villa where 
riginally thought of taking 
Is but for its dirty and 
I condition. Tiiese noises 
in the morning, and close 
ndows, were bad enough ; 
1 to these the constant ilr- 
gun was added, Mary's 
if endurance failed. It 
V* bwn a waste of feeling 



to compassionate the birds, who 
flew away from Paolino's aim with 
perfect impunity. It was therefore 
from no apprehensions for the few 
songsters of a garden in Southern 
Italy that we complained. Hut all 
day long Paolino was absent at in- 
opportune moments, attempting a 
hopeless massacre of sparrows and 
finches. He had often been scold- 
ed about it, but the instinct of s|xirt 
in the boy was superior to any fear 
of being found fault with. When 
at length it reached such a pilch 
that Mary even was induced to 
complain, Paolino had to endure a 
sharp scolding from Frank. The 
result of which was that, a few 
hours after, he took the gun, with 
tears in his eyes, to Monica, re- 
questing her to carry it to his fa- 
ther, that through him it might be 
returned to the friend who had 
lent him the fata! weapon. He al- 
leged that he had not the moral 
courage to have the gim in his pos- 
session, and yet refrain from inordi- 
nate use of it ; and thus, as he said, 
the only way was to put the occa- 
sion out of bis reach. The little 
birds enjoyed peaceful matins ever 
after, and Paolino rose wonderfully 
in our esteem. 

The roomy landau and the imp- 
ish coachman were ready early to 
take us on our long excursion; 
while Pascarillo, the coachman's 
master, and the owner of many 
carriages, provided another convey- 
ance for the rest of the parly. Don 
Emidio went with Mary, Ida, and 
myself; Padre Cataldo and Frank 
with Mrs. Vernon and the other 
girls. We took the Posilippo rond, 
intending to return by the (jroito 
of Pu:!iuoli. Nothing can be more 
beautiful than the view wliieh 
greets you at the to|> of the hill, and 
which, in a steep winding dcsceni, 
brings you to llie town of PuimnU. 



554 O" '^ Wing. 

■\o the left is a high bank of ver- 
dure covered with flowering shrubs, 
and here and there a goat browsing 
on some almost inaccessible peak. 
The sea always seemed to me to be 
even bluer here than in the Bay of 
Naples. We drive past places 
bearing some of the grandest names 
of anliqiiily; Puzzuoli itself was 
once a "little Rome"; Cicero's 
villa was here; here Sylla died. 
'J'eniples unrivalled in beauty cov- 
ered those hill-sides, and villas 
with umbrageous frees were dotted 
all over those flat plains where the 
willows wave their long, yellow 
twigs amid rows of tail poplars, 
and here and there a plane-tree. 
Here are the market gardens that 
supply Naples, or rather a portion 
of them. But all the land is full of 
Kulphur springs, and it is only in 
certain seasons of the year that 
Puzzuoli and its neighborhood is 
fit for habitation. Then Neapoli- 
tans and strangers come to take the 
sulphur baths, the hateful vapors 
of which catch our breath as we 
pass. I have a growing sense of 
everything being unreal around me ; 
and no length of time or habit re- 
moves the impression. The sea 
has swallowed up one-half of the 
spots sacred to classic memories. 
But where are the trees of Cicero's 
villa that Pliny praises? What 
wild havoc or gradual but most 
obliterating change has availed to 
wipe away all but the faintest traces 
of what once was looked on as a 
paradise? Fire and water alike 
have combined to erase the last 
relics of that luxurious pagan time. 
The volcanic action in all this part 
of Italy and the encroaching ocean 
have sufficed to wipe out all but 
the faintest indications of a state of 
luxury, wealth, architectural beau- 
ty, and lavish decoration to which 
old P/ioenicia, Greece, and Rome 



had lent their aid in the long count 
of ages. Never was ruin greater, 
perhaps, since the beginning of ibe 
Christian era. Sodom and Go- 
morrah, Nineveh and Babylon. hi« 
passed away more entirely. But in 
Puzzuoli, Misenum, CumK, snii 
Baia; the ruin Js more pathetic, 
from the fact th.il enough remiins 
to betray how vast those villas and 
baths and temples once were, and 
how absolutely the aggressive foitt 
of silent nature has overpofercd 
and swept away or buried iht 
proud achievements of man. 

We proceed from one marvel of 
destruction to another. The Mart 
Morto is to our right, shrunk to i 
tiny lake ; and yet this was to lu»( 
been, when completed, the great 
port for Roman merchandise- 'fit 
same melancholy feeling of ult« 
destruction and radical change in 
the whole aspect of the country 
fills the mind wherever we turn; 
and through all the excursions « 
made in this neighborhood, I new 
found it less ; while Mary, who haJ 
been here many years ago, recol- 
lected having experienced tbesaoie 
impression, and found that it rem"!- 
ed upon her, if possible, with full*' 
force. It may be as well to reffliao 
my readers that the ancient nww 
of Piuzuoli was Futeolt, And pff' 
haps in no one place are cron^e^ ' 
within a circumference of abou' 
twelve miles around It, so matiyan^ 
such intimate associations wilhp*' 
gan Rome and the old classic lif^ 
The crumbling tnfa-b.inks by '*" 
road-side are filled with rectang"^' 
Roman bricks, the remains of l"*'^ 
connected with the villa resid*"" 
ces and temples of antiquity. A'*"' 
there are considerable remain^ ° 
Columbaria and large tombs. , * 
pa.ssed beneath the Areo Fel»^ 
and, clambering up a high b***^ 
reached the cottage of a vigm ' 






Oh the Wing. 



5S5 



and rested beneath an elm-tree 
while I made a drawing of Lago 
Fusaro and part of the Elysian 
Fields. We saw the Lake of Lucri- 
nus^ but the oysters are gone. We 
shuddered as we approached Aver- 
nus. The dense forest which once 
flung its black shadows on the 
waters has long ago been felled or 
died away. The wholesome mid- 
day sun shot laughing beams on the 
clear surface, disarmed of all preter- 
natural horror. The Elysian Fields 
are, indeed, a smiling plain of land 
partially cultivated, and partially 
covered with trees and bnish-wood, 
the king's favorite hunting-grounds. 
We women refused to enter the 
Sibyl's cave, liking neither damp 
nor sulphurous smells. The horrors 
of the surroundings are all swept 
away. The little birds fly over the 
once deadly Lake of Avernus as 
safely as from Paolino's harmless 
gun ; and as we look back through 
the dim avenue of misty ages, it is 
curious to reflect that what is a 
dream of the past to ourselves was 
hardly less so to. others who are 
now but shadowy representatives 
of a world gone by to us; for it 
was Agrippa whose engineering 
robbed Avernus of many of its ter- 
rors, and probably disturbed even 
the placid oysters of Lucrinus. 
Thus the sense of -unreality grows 
upon us, as we visit one spot after 
another, and find the green tendrils 
of the young vine, the blue-purple 
blossoms of the vetch, and bright 
scarlet poppies covering with gay 
garlands the few vestiges of a world 
that is dead and gone. Yet even 
here I am tempted to repeat, " I^ 
pa«>se n'est pas mort, il n*est qu'ab- 
sent/'* and yet how far absent! 
How the old gods have died away 
from their own sylvan scenes, and 

• TlM pMt il ftbteot, bvt not dMd. 



the nymphs fled, shamefaced, from 
lakes no longer solitary! Victor 
Emanuel will scare no dryads 
from their leafy bowers, and is 
hardly the man to trace the small 
footprint of the chaste huntress on 
the yielding moss, as he pursues 
the wild boar through what were 
doubtless once her covei^ No 
laughing Bacchante peeps behind 
the trailing vine, or dances, with 
light, flowing tresses and scanty 
tunic, to the trilling of double pipes. 
The goats are here, but the satyrs 
are absent. The vines show pro- 
mise of rich grapes ; but Bacchus, 
grape-crowned, with the skin of the 
spotted pard across his sun-bronzed 
chest, and the tragic melancholy 
of liquid eyes with sleepy lids, is 
nowhere found ; foe, be it remem- 
bered, the god of wine was no 
drunken lout, but rather one who, 
at least in his ripe youth, was but 
quickened and inspired by the 
blood of the red grape. 

The myths and fables have long 
ceased. As myths, they held a di- 
vine truth, dimly shadowed forth. 
As fables, they degenerated, like all 
half-truths, into wholesale errors. 
Then human depravity swept over 
them, and left its poisonous slime 
o'er all. We go back to the memo- 
ry of those times with mingled feel- 
ings of wonder and of pain. But 
amid the decaying fragments of 
classic lore there shines forth one 
little incident which quickens our 
pulse, and bridges over all the suc- 
ceeding ages with a touch of feeling 
that obliterates time and space. The 
words are few, but they are dearer to 
us than the epics of Virgil, or the let- 
ters of Cicero, or all else that may 
grace the memory of this lovely land: 
'* The south wind blowing, we came 
the second day to Puteoli, where, 
finding brethren, we were desired 
to tarry with them seven days.*' 



SS6 



On the Wing. 



" Finding brethren !" Yes, even 
here, beneath the shade of marble 
porticos, temple, and fane devoted 
to an infamous religion, the Name 
that is above every name was whis- 
pered by a few. The sign of the 
cross was secretly made by quiet 
inhabitants of Puzzuoli's noisy 
streets,' the Virgin Mother was re- 
vered, and the words of S. Paul and 
S. Luke listened to as a message 
from above. And how little the 
citizens of Puteoli knew' of the di- 
vine mysteries which were going on 
among them ! And now, as if the 
wicked city had been in eyery sense 
too near the gate of hell, the vol- 
canic flames have penetrated the 
earth^s thin crust on all sides, and 
flung down and devoured the traces 
of brilliant, triumphant, and over- 
bearing vice, leaving in its place 
a handful of Christian peasants 
and a few relics prized by the 
scholar and the antiquarian. 

I must own to my readers that I 
am chiefly repeating Don £midio*s 
words, and that, as we approach- 
ed Baiae, I with startling indecorum 
exclaimed : " But it must not be 
forgotten that we have come here 
to eat oysters, whether or not the 
Lake of Lucrinus produces them." 
We did eat oysters. We alighted 
at the humblest little wayside inn 
close to the shore. We sat beneath 
the trellised vine that covered the 
vast loggia. The lemons were ga- 
thered, as sauce for the oysters, in 
the garden below ; the ruins of the 




610 

we 



circular temple of Venus or Mercir. u* 

ry shone, deep red, in the light 

the setting sun. The merry I 

lord and a half-dozen nondesc 

servants, men and maids, propo 

to dance the tarantella for 

The women happened to 1 

beauty, and the men youth. 

that was not our reason for dec 

ing the pleasure. The dance 

doubtless innocent enough; b 

was not often we were favo^ 

with the company of " Nostro J 

Prete," our uncle priest, and 

thought it more decorous not:, to 

order dances in his presence. I 

must explain to my readers fc liat 

the peasantry in South Italy ccbu U a 

priest uncle when they do not ^^aU 

him father; and that in some^ o^ 

our excursions, when Padre Cat£3^^° 

re- 

a>'s 
to 

:hey 
on- 
to 
St! 
clc 
ac- 
the 
avc 
ted 
'm. 
ed 





bargained about carriages or 
freshment (and which must al 
be done if you do not wan 
be scandalously overcharged), 
always protested that for no 
sideration wpuld they attemp 
impose on their uncle pri 
Happily for us, our reverend u 
was a Neapolitan, and too well 
quainted with the true value of 
services we received for us to hs-- 
any apprehension of being chea 
in any expedition organized by h 
Perhaps our host himself surmi 
our reason for declining the tarc^^' 
tella^ for he did not press it ; a ^ 
returning to our carriage, we dro '^'^ 
home by moonlight through t 
Grotto of Puzzuoli. 




Switeerland in 1873. 



SWITZERLAND IN 1873. 



LAKE OF LUCERNE. 



iras a lovely evening as we 
away, a happy, lively parly, 
Lucerne. Our minds were 
the enihiisiasm for his na- 
nd which Herr H "s de- 



i had e 



:iled, 1 



t for c 



iteristic of the Lake of the 
; Cantons we were as yet 
unpr^ared, namely, its 
\\ and wonderful variety, 
ry traveller viewing it from 
ae readily admits its extreme 
■, Its interest is acknowledg- 
forehand, according to the 
r 01 lesser degree in which 
ne can clothe its shores with 
c memories, but its remarka- 
'ersity of scenery is a feature 
lly ignored until seen, al- 
I amongst Swiss lakes it is 

respect pre-eminent. And 
Kuliarity is mainly atlribula- 

its geographical formation. 
ling, as it does, of divisions 
etcly distinct one from the 
they lead us on, as if design- 
rranged in the most artistic 
T, in a series of "surprises," 
me picture to another, on an 
jcrcasing scale of beauty. 
,t part of the lake which is 
t to Lucerne may be said to 
Ute in shape a Maltese cross, 
lal do its proportions appear 
passing observer. In charac- 
;s and detail, however, it dif- 
idcly. The northern shores, 
1 spreading round two of 
tns in undulating hills, may 
idly be called flat compared 

mngnificeni line of Alpine 
towering aJoin; the southern 



extremity. At one of the angles 
of the cross stands Mount Pilatus, 
5,900 feet high — at the opposite 
one the Rigi, 5.541 feet above ihe 
sea — like two seniinds guarding the 
entrance to the territory beyond. 
The tourist sailing straight onwatds 
from Lucerne is fain lo believe 
that the lake ends where a spur of 
the Rigi seems to stretch across the 
southern bay, right before him. 
No other explanation appears pos- 
sible until the spot itself is reach- 
ed, when suddenly a channel, hi- 
therto unperceived, opens lo the 
right, between that mountain and 
the opposite shore — the two pro- 
montories thus disclosed rejoicing 
in the rather ignoble appellation of 
"Die Nasen," or "The Nosts." 
Wliat a beautiful and perfectly 
different view is then discloseti, as 
the steamer darts through the 
narrow strait to the village of 
Buochs, at the fool of its own 
Buochserhorn, the base of which is 
covered with comfortable farm- 
houses, embosomed in iheir or- 
chards, changing step by step into 
chdlets as they ascend to the higher 
pastures ! At once we have got 
into another country. A land- 
locked bay, that to the eye seems 
nearly circular, bordered on one 
side liy the pretipilous but wooded 
mountains. of UnlerwaldL-n, and on 
the opposite by the southern peaks 
and slopes of the Rigi, between 
whose folds nestles pretty (jersau, 
not large enough to be called a 
town nor unimportant enough for 
ii village. A sunny, ^icactiful 



5S8 



Sivitserlattd in 1873. 



picture — a " happy lake of Ras- 
selas " — from which no exit is 
visible, nor, we might suppose, 
ever need be sought for! At the 
further end, ton-ering in the dis- 
tance, snow-clad summits peer 
above the clouds; but, more strik- 
ing than all, rise two curiously- 
pointed peaks close by, which stand, 
we are told, right above the white 
houses of Schwyz, So here we are 
truly in the cradle of Switzerland 
— the genuine " Urschweiz" ! And 
as we sail towards firitnneii (the 
port of Schwyz, three miles inland) 
we try to trace their resemblance 
to a bishop's distinctive mark, 
which has given to these two bare 
rocks, nearly five thousand feet 
high^ the familiar name of "The 
Mitres." 

But where is the land of Tel!— 
Uri and theRiiii? — for again oitr 
course seems barred at Bnmnen : 
valleys, meadows, and a back- 
ground of mountains alone lie be- 
fore us. Once more turn round 
on the quay of Brunnen, at a sharp 
angle to the right, and say, can a 
more exquisite picture anywhere be 
found ! Here, in this bay of Uri — 
for so this part is named — in- 
stead of (he great expanse near 
Lucerne, the lake has narrowed 
into a space not wider than a val- 
ley, whilst huge mountains jut for- 
ward, and, dipping perpendicularly 
into the green waters beneath, barely 
leave room in some spots for the 
road, which is an engineering 
achievement of recent years, whilst 
in others it must needs be carried 
on through tunnels and open 
galleries. Right in front, the Uri 
Rothslock rears its lofty head, with 
its glacier — a transparent wall of 
ice three hundred feet in height — 
sparkling in the sun. Tell's home 
lies within its folds. But close by, 
jasl opposite, is the RlUi. almost 



undistinguishable until the steamer 
passes near it. At the head of the 
bay, on its broad, green nieiidoKS, 
lies Aldorf, below the Bristenstock, 
which alone, when we reach ihsi 
spot, hides from us the niigbiy 
Gothard. A paradise ii iniiji 
seems on a brilliant sunny diy, 
with a people worthy of such aland 
and nurtured into excellence aaildst 
this noble nature. But we have 
not reached them yet, and have lo 
see and hear of oihers before we 
come to this quarter. 

Like every other pari of Swiltef- 
land, the shores of Lucerne Lake 
are thickly inhabited. No signs 
of poverty are anywhere visible, 
and an air of comfort is diffuwd 
over the whole district. The ino^l 
fruitful portion, however, is pre-em- 
inently the strip of land lying at the 
base of the Rigi, where the straight 
wall of the mountain rises precipi- 
tately facing the north. So pro- 
verbial is its fertility that it is call- 
ed the "Garden of Lucerne," and 
through winter and summer thai 
town is supplied with fruit and ve- 
getables by the peasants of this 
neighborhood. The steamers which 
now navigate the lake carry them 
thither in numbers with their pro- 
duce on every market-day. Of its 
numerous villages, Weggis held ihc 
first place until the last three years. 
when the engineers of the wonder- 
ful Rigi Railway Hxed on Yitznaii. 
three miles further on, for their 
station. Up to that period, no one 
ever thought of this out-of-the-way 
little vilinge, lying in a sheltered 
nook close under the Rigi-Nasc. 
Weggis, on the other hand, was the 
starling-point for all aspirants 10 
sunsets on the Kulm : the chief 
place for horses and guides, and 
full, in consequence, of animation 
and importance. But the nrorJd 
on rapidly nawai 



Swifscrland tit 1873. 



tiers, therefore, are much 
: for few, except the timid, 
ost determined seekers of 
iiresque, think of choosing 
c lo the summit, when both 
i trouble can be saved by 
pay ascent to those hun- 
r summer tourists whose 
ns are made at high-pres- 
ed. Vitznau, consequent- 
y advancing in importance, 
price of land has risen in 
dibly short space of time 
y centimes lo five francs 
e. No buildings, however, 
t been attempted, except 
ty hotels ; and it was to one 
opened this season on the 
dge, that we had telegraph- 
loms. But it was not large 
to accommodate all our 

my friend Anna I. and 

djoumed at night to tbe 
>ne, situated further back 
church, 

^ening continued fine, and 
noon shone on the calm 
hiUt we supped under the 
of the inn, every one was 
id contented. The young 
declared ihey felt " most 
:," we elders " sehr £es- 
" (very sesthetic), as Heine 
sad all looked fonvard 
lAdence to the morrow. 
1 was, by sleeping here, lo 
he first train, which is gen- 
E least crowded, and, hall- 
LltUbad, thence to explore 
r parts of the Rigi. It had 

!vised by Herr H 

ingly devised," he secretly 

. C , " in order to hu- 

nervcs of the ladies, al- 
Higer in the early morning, 
cH he knew, though he 
conceal this fact from us, 
I sorely tried by the akrm- 

t As to a change of 
^icver dreamt of it. 



There had been such a spell of fine 
days and lovely moonlights that 
nothing else was taken into ac- 
count. But, alas for presumptuous 
confidence! What was our dismay 
on awaking to hear the unwel- 
come sounds of rain! Patter I 
palter! drop after drop, it felt 
against the window ; and, rising in 
trepidation, the painful fact became 
evident ihat a steady downpour 
had commenced. There was no 
wind, but such thick c;ouds rolled 
down from the mountain and spread 
over the lake that the opposite 
shore was soon invisible. It might 
pass off, and we determined to have 
patience; so, when the bell tolled 
for Mass at half-past seven o'clock, 
seizing our umbrellas we rushed 
across ihe cemetery, which separa- 
ted our hotel from the church. 
This latter, as suited to so small a 
village, is not large nor rich-looking 
— on the contrary ; but all was very 
clean, the building solidly con- 
structed, and the c0ngreg.1t ion, de- 
spile the rain, fairly large, and 
most attentive. Everything was 
arranged, too, on the same system 
as elsewhere. The cemetery full 
of holy-water stoups, with a sepa- 
rate corner for the children, the 
church doors open all day long, the 
lighted lamp betokening the Bless- 
ed Sacrament, and men and women 
often, as we noticed, passing in and 
out, to say a prayer in its divint- 
presence. 

At half-past nine the train was in 
start, but the rain grew heavier 
each minute, and no one, we sup- 
posed, could ihink of ascending the 
mountain in such weather. At the 
appointed time, however, the steam- 
ers arrived from both ends of the 
lake, with their ship-loads of enter- 
prising tourists. How we pitied 
thera! To have come so far in 
this weather, only to be disa^iy'^w.V 



560 



Switserlaud in 1875. 



ed — for no one surely could land 
on such a day! But experience 
has since taught us differently, and 
shown that in no part of Switzer- 
land, or perhaps of any other coun- 
try, does thid class so pertinacious- 
ly defy the elements as on the 
Lucerne Lake and the Rigi Railway. 
To-day, from behind our hotel 
windows, we watched hundreds 
rushing on shore, in their water- 
proofs, and with dripping umbrel- 
las, to the railway station — adven- 
turous spirits, who trusted to their 
good stars to drive away the clouds 
from the mountain«top on their ar- 
rival ; or, if the views should fail 
them, at least to go through the 
** sensation " of this singular rail- 
way. And, in this one respect, no 
(»ne could be disappointed. A 
** Kensation " it certainly would be : 
whether pleasant or terrifying must 
d(;i>cnd on each individual tempera- 
ment. 

And now the sloping engines 
emerged from their night's hiding- 
place, and we too began to sKare 
the general excitement. One by 
one our party ran to the pretty 
station, and there stood examining 
the proceedings. So fascinating did 
the attraction become, that every 
time there was an arrival or de- 
parture whilst we remained at Vitz- 
nau, books, writing, and all other oc- 
cupations were hastily thrown aside 
to scamper off to the still novel 
sight. But a very unwise course 
this proved ; for, instead of reassur- 
ing our feeble nerves, the disincli- 
nation to make a personal experi- 
ence of the ascent visibly increased 
as the day wore on. And what 
wonder ! The engines were unlike 
any we had ever seen; shaped in 
a slanting fashion to fit the moun- 
tain side. There were five, but 
of these each one was attached 
to onJy one carriage, which con- 



tains cross benches for fift 
gers (with an ominous pi 
quest " not to move !"), \ 
open sides, so that nothii 
obstruct the view to tho! 
nerves might retain theix 
ary tranquillity. Five su 
compose each departuri 
should the arrivals exceec 
unlucky " last " are left I 
Vitznau to wait patientl 
next trains — two or thr 
later. And now we ur 
the cause of the rush on si 
the violent squeezing bet 
rails of the ticket office, vi 
so much puzzled and amu 

In mid-season this c 
happens, it being a case 
come, first served." Eve 
all the carriages were fu 
rule, therefore, i*^ is calcul 
on an average between i 
1,200 tourists daily asi 
Rigi during the summer 
from this point alone, 
went at a short interval 
each train ; the engine no 
ing, but pushing the car 
fore it — mounting slowl; 
appearances, but withal 
for in less than five mini 
were lost to sight ; dim 
high above the church-tc 
then above the cottage 
one by one here overtop 
lage. It took away one 
to look at them : a seemir 
ing of Providence thus 
mountain walls and prec 
the measure of from 18* 
perhaps all the more awe- 
to day by reason of the 
and the mysterious cl 
they boldly pierced throug 

As yet, no serious acci 
happened. Let us hope 1 
may! The principle of < 
tion, with a central note 
tightly grasped by a cog-n 



Switzerland in 1873. 



561 



powerful brakes belonging 
:arriage, seem !o promise 
'he trains, too, proceed in 
> slowly, and with such 
bat a man is always able 
I front of the first carriage, 
king was it to watch the 
ins two hours later; the 
owing a horn as they 
e height above the village, 
;hing into the station with 
countenance that seemed 
perils met and conquered, 
bllowed by the sloping en- 
:ing helpless and distorted 
cached the level ground. 
nd serious - looking men 
ards and engine-drivers 
unlike the daring beings 
care we so thoughtlessly 
XX precious lives in every- 
fay travelling. In walk 
I, too, ihey have a moun- 
nd bearing, at once telling 
' life to which they were 
id bred," and reminding 
intrusion of our material 
to their hitherto simple 
So far, however, it does 
ir to have interfered with 
habits. Heing what the 
dl a "cul de sac," with- 
a road over the proraon- 
ersau, there is no tempta- 
gerhcre.and the trains and 
ice made to fit in so ex- 
t, except in the case of 
rabcrs. or for a hasty lun- 
r iravellersever do remain. 
truck ussomuchduringour 
slay as tlie sudden relapse 
irdinary quiet which took 
Htznau the moment train 
r passed on . 

iture of its position will 
mt this pretty village from 
ng much of its original 
. It consists of but forty 
luses situated on a narrow 
Ball atrip of land, between 
VOL. XIX. — j6 



the precipitous Rigi cliffs on one 
side and the lake on the other, so 
that room does not exist for very 
large extension. Only this summer 
it narrowly escaped destruction from 
the effects of a thunder-storm 
higher up. such as had not been 
known for years. The stream over- 
flowed into a torrent, carrying all 
before it, and the villagers and rail- 
way otficials had to turn out in the 
middle of the night to open chan- 
nels and raise embankments, and 
only succeeded by great exertions 
in arresting destruction. Person- 
ally, I should fear the rocks rolling 
from above more, as they have 
often done at Weggis — but of this 
the natives seem to take no ac- 
count. We were told that there is 
one point on the road between this 
and Weggis — to which larger village 
the Viiznau children go to school, 
three miles distant — where stones 
fall so constantly that the little 
ones are always on the look-out, 
and make a run when ihey see 
them approaching. Vet this pretty 
spot has many attractions, especially 
for invalids. We met a gentleman 
lately who had passed a winter here, 
and was loud in its praises. No- 
thing can exceed the morality and 
sobriety of the people ; the winter 
climate, too, is perfect — he and the 
parish priest had made observations 
together during one season, which 
proved that the temperature is as 
mild as that of Montreux and of 
other sheltered spots on this side 
of the Alps. Fruit grows here 
abundantly, even figs and melons, 
as in Italy, and flowers thrive 
equally well. One of the prettiest 
features in the place was the num- 
berless girls in front of the station 
with snnall baskets of each — the 
grapes having just arrived from 
Italy over the St. Gothard, and. 
come hither by the sma.m^'t&-, \i->i.v 



J 



562 



Svjitserland in 1873. 



the " Tresh figs " and " beautiful 
peaches " which they offer in excel- 
lent English are genuine Viunau 
productions. 

The day advanced, yet there 
seemed no cessation of the down- 
pour, and all were in despair at be- 
ing thus caught at such a spot, with- 
out the resources even of a large 
hotel. At last " a happy thought " 
suggested the idea of our abandon- 

Rigi altogether! "Let us 

move on to Gersau," said one — 

"just round the corner! " broke in 

another weather-bound traveller, 

J who gave a glowing report of its 

and comforts. Even the 
young people, who in the morning 
were so anxious for the railroad ex- 
citement, were worn out by waiting 
and the little likelihood of a change, 

ner said than done" was 
therefore the result of our conversa- 
tion, and the telegraph had ordered 

IS, and our luggage was on 
board the steamer, before we almost 
reflected on the consequences, 
what matter if we never saw 
the Rigi ! It vras more than likely 
, those travellers would never reach 
the lop in that dreadful railway, and 
our vexed spirits refused to recog- 
nize the attractions of anything on 
Buch an afternoon but the prospec- 
tive charms of comfortable salons 
and piles of the latest newspapers, 
which we prophetically beheld 
awaiting ns at Gersau. In twenty 
! minutes we had crossed to Buochs, 

I tried in vain to discover the land- 
scape thence — so lovely from this 
point in fair weather — through the 
heavy mist of rain and cloud hang- 
ing over the lake, and found our- 
selves lodged in " the palatial hotel " 
(as the prospectus calls it) at Ger- 
sau, close alongside the water's 
edge. 
No sooner were we fairly landed 
than the curtain of cloud Vi^^anVo 



1 

I 
I 



rise, and we clearly behajl 
posite shore. Half an h( 
wards, we were discussing 
sible return of fine weati 
a sudden commotion to 
around us. Waiters rusl 
and left closing window 
maids even shutting shutti 
out any apparent reason, 
mented beings, not givin 
selves time to answer our q 
At last, they declared tha 
of wind was approaching, 
we could perceive no sym 
it, and truly, as they foretc 
soon came rushing by oat 
sudden squalls against wh 
ly guide-books have so ma 
of warning. Small wa' 
rapidly, and in less than 
hour, without one drop of 
whole surface of the lak 
commotion. Then came 
excitement! — half the villa 
the travellers crowded to t 
and every eye fixed on ll 
of the lake told of a tinj 
extreme danger. Had th 
still continued, it could 
have been seen, but now 
well-manned craft pulled o 
rescue. It took a long 
reach the sinking boat, for 
is wider here than it st 
at last Iheie was a cry o 
shore when three men wer 
jump from one to the olhe 
certain did we then feci 
safety that only a few r 
greet their arrival 
subsided, and later that e 
moon struggled — thoug) 
to reassert her empire. 

The Gersau Hotel is 
excellent, owing 10 the si 
rection of Herr Mlillcr, 01 
potentates of the placet * 
majority of hotel-keepen 
these Forest Cantons. He) 
lUc (iv,e at. the Rigi-Sel 



2 



1 873. 



S«3 



! Gersau, equally 
)r Its comfort ; but laCe- 
f, which calls ilseJf the 
ttium (one of the sup- 
ings of ihe word Rigi), 
sed it together with 
; mountain. We found 
stablishment full, many 
! down from the high- 
19," and amongst the 

or three acquaint- 
itughed at our fear of 

and general lack of 

risls as rain, especially 
to the end than to the 
if their rambles. We 
)ad humor at the trick 
id played us, and plan- 
inoyed we all retired 
that night. 

uit porte conseil," and 
resisting a sunshiny 
The Angelus-bell once 
us, but this time to sun 
ESS. Again the church 
y, its bell ringing for 
en o'clock Mass. Anna 
y answered its bidding. 
1-si/ed parish church, 
, unarchitectural style 
isual in these parts, but 
itty effect with its lofly 
ising against the high 
ehind it. To-day, the 
or the dead, and the 

1 all full, as at Lucerne ; 
dressed men on one 
he women knelt on the 
it most struck us, hoiv- 
he children ; the boys 

the men, and about 
in the two front bench- 

These were in cliarge 
■looking young school- 
ose sweet, placid coun- 
ted to tell of pleasant 
ler youthful scholars, 
imed that the children, 
;ed to attend school by 



law, are not compelled to attend 
Mass, but that, as a rule, they do 
so both by their own and their 
parents' desire. Nothing could be 
tidier than the little maidens' ap- 
pearance; their frocks clean, and 
their hair neatly plaited round theit 
heads, all according to the s.imr 
pattern, probably as iheir mothers 
had done before them; and so at- 
tentive and reverential were they, 
that although we strangers knelt 
ri^ht behind them, not one ever 
turned to look at us. Each hid 
her prayer-book, which she read at- 
tentively, and, besides, her rosary 
wound round her hand when not 
in use, all in the same fashion and 
of the same pattern. This small 
inpident carried our thoughts back 
swiftly to another land, recalling a 
sermon we had heard in London 
by the Archbishop of Westminster, 
when, after speaking of the olden 
days of the true faith in England, 
and the culi>ability of its first dis- 
turbars, he made allowance for the 
" invincible ignorance " of the mass 
of its people nowadays; "for," 
exclaimed his grace, " who has 
there been since then to leach the 
little maidens their rosary, and to 
bring them to our Lord antf his 
blessed Mother.'" and we thank- 
ed God, as we beheld the Gersau 
children making their genuflections 
with serious little countenances, 
that there is still one nook at least 
left in this world where the demon 
of heresy and unbelief has not pene- 
trated, and where piety and rever- 
ence are, from earliest childhood, 
taught to go hand-in-hand with 
modem life. At the offertory of 
the Mass another peculiarity occur- 
red. Suddenly, an elderly woman 
rose, and, going forward, was fol- 
lowed by all the other women in 
ihe church, who, in single file, ad- 
vanced towards X'fte a.\U.t, ■«3S».ti& 



i 



5^4 



Switserland in 1873. 



N 



th 



round it by a passage at the back, 
laid an offering on the altar itself, 
and then quietly returned to their 
places. The oldest man, on the 
other side, now rose, and followed 
by all the men, in like manner pro- 
ceeded through the same ceremony, 
only varied by their passing round 
the altar from the contrary side, and 
depositing, as did some of the wo- 
men too, an offering besides on a 
small table in front of the choir. 
It was weeks before I could learn 
the origin of this custom, but then, 
opening by chance an old history 
of Switzerland, I found this rule 
quoted from an ancient document, 
which purported to regulate the re- 
lations between pastor and people 
some centuries ago. There it lyas 
stated that the offering for the 
priest should be laid on the altar 
itself, and that fur the sacristan on 

small table outside — so steadily 
and closely do these conservative- 
republicans still keep, even in 
■form, to the pattern of their ances- 
tors. 

The Mass being only one of 

immemoralion and not of burial, 
the congregation soon dispersed to 
their different avocations. Jn this 
way^tourisls are so often deceived, 
when, coming in at a late hoiir, 
they find foreign churches empty. 

1 remember a Protestant lady 
who had passed three winters in 
Rome once asking me seriously if 
CatftOlics ever went to holy com- 
muifion. I thought her mind must 
be wandering, but discovered on 
enquiry that she had never been in- 
side a church, even in Rome, before 
eleven o'clock or later; therefore, 
gh many were hearing Mass, 
she had noticed none ai holy 
communion. It had never occur- 
■ted to her that, contrary to her 
'9*roiestant custom, Masses were 
^gun, and devout Catholvcs re- 



ceived holy communion *i 
same churches, long bcf 
probably was awake each r 
So in the present instance, 
gregation, consisting of » 
men and women, might ha 
through half their daily occi 
before any traveller at 
thought of looking in at the 
" wondering at its desolatlo 
The sun was strean>tng ir 
ly through an open side-d 
viiing us to depart by th 
What a beautiful sight me 
the threshold ! The lake, 
and sunny, framed in by su 
ing green slopes and peaks, 1 
in front, separated only 
public road to Brunnen 
beautiful little cemetery be 
to tile church. Here were 
of pretty monuments, the r 
in stone, but some in white 
in excellent taste, bordere 
flowers, or delicately twinec 
with creeping roses and ivj 
children's corner lay to th 
and there an old wom: 
sprinkling holy water and 
ing flowers on some of the 
graves, which lay betweet 
and the handsome tombs 
pathway from the church- 
the road — a path that quite 
a " via sacra " of Gersau n 
ties. Judging from thes 
population would seem to 
of Camenziads and KQttel 
occasional Mdller figured 
tombstone, but otherwise i 
safely be assumed that wl 
not Camenzind was Katlel- 
Ktittel, Camenzind. The 
even if only seen once, wou 
attracted notice — Camenzi 
pecially, had a non-lo<ai son 
we willingly jumped at the < 
sion -that it may be one o: 
which, according to Herr \ 
tticot^ , wvU exist in ihei 



Svfitzerland in 1873. 



S65 



equally to be found in 
and Northern valleys 10 

That tliey are the living 
of Gersau admits of little 
r every house above the 
run is certain on enquiry 
he property of this fami- 
manu factory, too, at the 
; village belongs to them. 
ul resting-place tliey cer- 
ve between their church 
»ke, which every Camen- 

KUItel must have been 
pon from their tenderest 
many centuries past. 
lur party met at breakfast, 
using to see what a com- 
nge the sun and general 
i had effected. All were 
:nt on retracing our steps 
tie railroad being the only 
; in the foreground. The 
'ould not consent to give 
n any account, but the el- 
hesitatcd, daunted by yes- 
ECOUections. Opportunely, 
Equaintance proposed a so- 
tconqucredall difficulties, 
stcd that the younger folk 
tke the railway, and the 
ing on to the nest steam- 
ion — ^Veggis — get horses 
1 thence ascend by road 
1-fashioned style. What 
I was among the latter 
luld lose in "sensation" 
rd that we should gain in 
»nd pieturesqueness, and 
■uiting all parties, was at 
pted. 

[ an hour to spare before 
ner wa.i due, we strolled 
the village. No wonder 
au has an individuality of 
for it is a rare specimen 
d Almost to our own day of 

age communes Hcrr H 

en to us of, which, taking 
; of the debts and embar- 
I of their feudal lords, had 



purchased exemption from them 
early in the middle ages. Indeed, 
none of these small communities 
retained their independence down 
to late times with the exception of 
Gersau. " It was forgotten, hidden 
away in its beautiful retreat," say 
some; "steady, self-respecting, and 
not quarrelsome," say others, with 
more likelihood of truth. At all 
events, the fact is undeniable that 
it owned obedience to none but its 
own local authorities. Tradition 
says, and the date is proudly re- 
corded on the wail of the town- 
hal! — a true peasant town-hall, only 
one degree superior to the sur- 
rounding houses — that the pea- 
sants of Gersau, having put aside 
their savings for this purpose dur- 
ing ten years, bought their freedom 
from the Goui^ls von Moos, for the 
sum of 690 Pfund pfenninge, " in 
1390. Years before, in i3S9t they 
had made a treaty with the four 
Forest Cantons, and were acknowl- 
edged by them as confederates, 
which singular position this small 
community retained until the 
French invasion of 1798, since 
which time they have been incor- 
porated with the Canton of Schwyz. 
The place is, literally, nothing 
more than a large village, said to 
contain only 2,376 inhabitants, but, 
seen from the lake with the anima- 
tion given to it by the tourist life, 
and the manufactories of the Ca- 
menzinds along the shore, it makes 
the effect of a much larger popula- 
tion and of a very thriving town. 
Penetrating, however, as we did to 
the original background of houses, 
we found them of quite another 
character. Swiss peasant dwell- 
ings, in general, are more comfort- 
able than those of almost any coun- 
try, and so capacious as to be thor- 
oughly patriarchal, often sheltering 
numberless cW\\dtctv atvi ^xi-aV 



SwiteerUtHd in 1873, 



^ 
^ 



children together under th« one 
roof. These of Gersaii look like 
true family strongholds; as if they 
contained in themselves the his- 
tories of many generations, and 
everything seemed so stationary, so 
unmoved and immovable, that we 
coutd not help thinking of Haw- 
thorne's description of an English 
country village, where he fancied 
he saw the grandfathers and grand- 
mothers marrying over and over 
again in their descendants, so com- 
pletely had the place and people a 
centenarian air about them. Pret- 
ty it was, too, to see these pii:tu- 
resque homes extending one above 
the other up the defile behind, 
amidst their orchards and fresh 
green pasture -grounds, headed by 
the Rigi-Scheideck Hotel, which 
crowns the summit and looks quite 
aear, though it is not so in reality. 
The intercourse between the two 
now gives Gersau much stirring im- 
portance, but, as in the case of 
'egg is, the advance of "civiliza- 
'tion " is likely to prove of perma- 
nent injury to it. Next year a rail- 
road, branching off from Kaltbad, 
is to be finished along the brow to 
the Scheideck, wheti the stream of 
tourists will of course flow in that 
direction. And perhaps nowhere 
could there be more excuse for 
abandoning "picturesque old ways." 
Although it seemed a short ascent, 
and we saw a merry party starting 
from the Pension Mliller on horse- 
back, intending to dine and sleep 
at (be top, we found on enquiry 
that it would take them at least 
two and a half hours to reach the 
Scheideck, and between three and 
four hours for (he unfortunate car- 
riers who followed soon after laden 
with the ladies' huge trunks. No- 
thing could be more painful than 
to see these men, some quite 
old, staggering under lUe weiglu. 



and to know what 
awaited them higher up.a 
sent there is no re 
nor any other means of"l| 
and the whole supplies I 
large establishment at the tc 
to be taken up by these carrii 
was fortunate for the ladies' 
ness that they had started 
their luggage, for the sight 
have completely spoiled the w 
one's trunks always receive 
arrival when you are lempied 
with them even for a short 
tender-hearted, as they ce 
looked, the finery would do 
have been left to repose quit 
side the lake below. 

The thunder-storm of wh 
had heard so much at ^ 
committed even greater mis< 
Gersau this summer. Twi 
streams here unite, and an 1 
mass of water rolling dowi 
the hillside that night, ini 
them lo a violent torrent, 
broke down the strong ei 
raent, carrying all befor 
sweeping two houses into tl 
and flooding the manufaci 
the first floor. A poor 
and two children were also 
ed ; in fine, the damage do: 
very great. There had m 
time for repairs when we vi 
and the broken walls and 
cd stones told their ow 
" Appeals," too, were hung 
all sides, but also many noi 
" thanks " from the comni 
every one who had helped 
occasion, worded in the sanw 
ing style we had noticed 
Lucerne papers — giving « 
agreeable impression of the 
simplicity and dignity of th 
community. As we steanx 
back again round the R.i{ 
the sun was resting on ttM 
spot, inhabited by the c 




Switserlaiid in 1S73. 



567 



original hard-working pea- 
nd it seemed as if the spirits 
ner Cameniinds, Klitlels, 
lilere must look down ap- 
iy on their posterity, who 
; yet ashamed lo profess 
lilh, nor unwilling to have 
lildren still taught how lo 
ibertf with religion, and 
nerve the two treasures in- 

inly there is no magician 
olio — and none who so well 
low to make himself valued 
sional fits of absence. Un- 
ioiliience, Vitznau was to- 
itlier place, an ideal picture 
stir : 



of n 



!, combined with a tranquil 

which we could not have 
td, veiled in cloud and mist 
id been on the day before, 
dy looked like an old friend. 

only the acquaintance of 
|r. There were the curious 
f showing themselves ready 
B the dangers of the ascent; 
tty station with its fruit and 
^rls ind photograph stall; 

church, and the two hotels, 
; bright and clean — all stand- 
; in relief against the pre- 
( cliff behind, and surround- 
iixuriant chestnut and wal- 
!M, and patches of green, 
ed up by the recent rain. 
the Nase-promontory was 
with timber down to the 
md the water rcflcctiuj^ the 
■M only of another lighter 

ihdt beautiful transparent 
which is now known as 
le Nil." One felt too that 
lure could never be much 
, there being no space for 
uildingB, or the factory life 
■Itbough it tells of employ- 
ith its own peculiar charms, 

Rtbe picturesque beauty 
Hte at Gersau. More- 



over, the brightness was enhanced 
by the national flag uC Switzerland 
floating over the hotel, looking 
more red and striking then ever 
against the green background, 
Yes ! striking is the true word for 
it, not showy — nor flaunting its im- 
portance like the tricolor and 
many another particolored Stand- 
ard of our own days, but solemn 
and yet attractive, one quite im- 
possible not to notice wherever 
or however seen. It had always 
suggested some history to my mind, 
with its white cross on the red 
ground, which could not have been 
adopted without a purpose, but 
since yesterday it had acquired a 
new and deep interest, for one of 
the pamphlets Herr H had be- 
stowed on me in Lucerne treated 
of nothing but this same (lag- It 
was a sermon preached before the 
" Pius-Verein" or " Pius Union " 
of Switzerland, at the general meet- 
ing, which took place at Einsic- 
dlcn in the summer of 1873, en- 
titled the " Wappenschild " or 
"coat-of-arms " of the Swiss " Pius 
Union." During the rain of yester- 
day I had read it through, and 
most interesting it was to note 
the very characteristics he had 
foretold that we should observe 
pervading all sermons in these 
parts : the constant allusions to 
iheir beautiful nature and unin- 
terrupted reference to their past 
history. 

It commenced by recording how 
tlie " Pius-Verein " had been found- 
ed in 1854 by some devout Catho- 
lics who could not stand by quietly 
noticing the evil tendencies of the 
age without protesting, and who 
had, in consequence, " assembled 
on the shore of the tranquil lake of 
the Forest Cantons, where 500 years 
previously their forefathers had met 
together in order lo shake off tVve. 



568 



Switzerland in 1873. 



hated yokeof the Austrian governors 
and imperial Vogts." It then pro- 
ceeded in most eloquent language 
to give the reasons why, amongst a. 
variety of liags, none could be found 
which corresponded so completely 
to the sentiments of the associates 
as the national standard of Switz- 
erland — the while cross on the red 
ground, 

■'The white cross had originally 
been chosen," said the preacher, 
"as being the emblem of purity 
and innocence," and the honesty, 
uprightness, and union of their an- 
cestors in that distant age were 
forcibly dwelt upon for the imita- 
tion of their descendants, whilst he 
drew a lamentable picture of the 
divisions and ineffective schemes 
of the present day. The second 
part explained that these ancestors 
had placed this white cross on a 
red field— first, because red, being 
the color of blood, was the symbol 
of bravery, and was justly claimed 
by those same ancestors, who had 
made Swiss courage a proverb, and 
who had so often shed their hearts' 
blood in defence of liberty and of 
their faith; for through Christian 
liberty alone could civil liberty be 
attained. New " Vogts " or " gov- 
ernors," continued the preacher, 
" threaten our land nowadays, but 
let us manfully resist, and conquer 
them. The Lardenberg* of ava- 
rice which formerly seized the oxen 
of a poor man, and put his eyes out, 
to-day tries to blind the poor by a 
godless press and scandalous liter- 
ature, robbing them of their most 
precious possessions — of their 
churches, convents, priests, and 
schools. Let us fight against this 
vice in ourselves, in our families 
and our communes. Sundays and 

*Sce Zxha'i.ttt'tmilsrxe/SviiUrrla'ui, pi^e 
45, t-i ftll Lbeie olntiQWri in the uprtalog igalnit 



holidays displease them, and instead 
of church-services and hymns they 
wish to hear of nothing but labor 
on these days. Let us then be 
more strict than ever in the sancti- 
fication of the Sunday, and give 
our enemies the example of disin- 
terested love and charity! The 
" Wolfenschiess " of sensuality and 
self-indulgence is more likely 10 
bring our beloved land under tiw 
slavery of Satan now than 500 
years ago — a worthy underlaiing, 
therefore, for the ' Pius-Verem ' 
would be the establishment of 
temperance societies, , , , Awi 
let us courageously fight the third 
' Landvogt ' — the Gessier of luiuiy, 
wealth, and despotism. , . . Com- 
merce and industry are the sourKt 
of public prosperity, but let not the 
golden calf of gain become the god 
of our XlXth century. Let not 
our factories become modem 
Zwinglius, nor their proprietor* 
force others to bend the knee to 
the hai of self-interest, nor to ofFet 
up the sacrifice of Iheir fteedoi^ 
and liberty of speedh. The re^ 
field with its white cross will remind 
us in all this of our forefather^ 
example. 

" Red, too, is the color of lire,aii^ 
symbolises love of country. It re- 
minds us of the fifty men of Schwyi, 
who decided the fate of that first 
fight for freedom, the great battle 
of Morgarten— of the love of fa- 
therland shown by an Arnold von 
Winkeiried, an Adrian von Buben- 
berg, a Nicholas von dcr Flue, and 
the many thousand others who left 
wife, children, trades, and home, to 
seek the death of heroes for love 
of country. Compare their con- 
duct with the boastful toasts of the 
present day, and see the difference 
between deeds and words. They 
reproach us only because we do not 
boast with these boasters, and tliai 



Sivitzerland in 1 8 73. 



569 



lo give our 'Union 'areli- 
haracter- . . . But history 
ge us differently! Let us 
ide show love and charity 

those also who differ from 
elief; love our confeder- 
feUow- Christians ; maintain 
md of union — and in this 
ground of the white cross 
Ihe sign of fraternal love 
mony." 

', the preacher showed how 
rpilies the aurora or the 
f day," alluding to the 
near Murten, where, after 
prayer recited by the com- 
the sun broke through the 
ank of clouds, lighting up 
ion in brilliant colors, and 
der, Hans von Hallwyl, ex- 
■ Up, confederates, and for- 
n God lights us lo vic- 

1 prophecy which proved 
> true. A firm trust and 

on the Lord gave soul, 
and strength to our ances- 
1 never were they deceived. 
I preserved our fatherland 
Bvellous manner, and why 
re despair ? Great should 
hopes of a belter future. 
; every reason, then, ought 
ooae the white cross on the 
as the flag of our Pius-Ve- 
K US show to our Lord and 
irld that we seek nothing for 
I, but, treading in the foot- 
our forefathers, only strix-e 
tarclfare of our fatherland. 
d will be with us! and we 
|te the intercession of the 
iVirgin Mary, and of the 
■of our Union. S. Charles 
IB and Nicholas von der 
i . Let us hold firm to our 
^failh. and then, when the 
be Son of God— our Holy 
Inr "coat-of-arms" — shall 
tnnidst the clouds, may it 
b triumph on that dreadful 



day into the eternal fatherland of 
heaven !" 

Fresh from the impression of 
these eloquent words, it was im- 
possible not to look on this beauti- 
ful flag to-day with increasing admi- 
ration, nay affection, Hut my 
reveries were cut short by the 

young C s, whose approaching 

railway ascent caused them intense 

excitement. George C , the son, 

especially, became full of anima- 
tion when he undertook to procure 
the tickets for his sisters at the of- 
fice. Stationing himself close to the 
gangway, he bade them follow at 
their leisure, as he would jump on 
shore and put his experience of 
yesterday's many long hours to 
profit. Accordingly, the instant 
the steamer came alongside the 
quay, he got ahead of all the other 
passengers, and giving one bound 
to the office, proudly flourished his 
tickets for the first carriage to us 
who remained on board, long be- 
fore the untaught crowd thought 
of moving. A few who knew bet- 
ter, like himself, made a rush too, 
and one old man tripped and fell, 
whilst another leaped over him, 
without allowing himself time to 
help his companion — so selfish does 
excitement and locomotion make 
all ages and ranks! We likewise 
moved on, and so rapidly, that 
there was barely time to see the 
start of the first train containing 
our young friends, who were wav- 
ing handkerchiefs to us, as their 
carriage seemed to creep above the 
church-tower up the mountain, or to 
note the fruitful garden-land stretch- 
ing along the shore with the precipi- 
tous wall of rock above, extending 
the whole length of this side of the 
Rigi, when in a few minutes we 
reached our landing-place at Weg- 
gis, and found ourselves sitting in 
the garden of the " Golden Lwa.,'* 




ODD STORIES. 



THE PKILOSOPHBRS OF THE DRAGON'S BOWrU. 



In the reign of King, and in the 
Dragon's Bower of the beautiful 
tea-garden of the statesman Kung, 
had assembled the philosophers 
Tung, Bang, Sing, Lung, Witig, 
Hang, with the rich mandarins Bo 
and Sho, Sipping that exquisite 
beverage which, as yielded by a 
choice herb grown only in the 
fiower-sprinkled garden of Kung, has 
imparted to the Hi-Tca philosophy 
the peculiar intellectual flavor which 
distinguishes it from the Lo-Tea 
doctrine, they discussed the prob- 
lems of existence. Only a vague, 
brief record has been preserved of 
that eventful meeting, so well called 
by Yung Sing, the poet, " the shock 
of minds," and which, it was long 
maintained by the Hi-Tea school, 
had solved the mysteries of preor- 
dained genesis and circumstantial 
fixture. The dialogue tnrned upon 
that profound saying of the old man 
of Chow, the wise Lautze — "The 
Tau which can be tau-ed is not the 
eternal Tau." Vainly havingsought 
in his own poor wit the meaning of 
this sublime sentence, the mandniin 
Sho begged the six sages, in the 
grace of their princely hearts, and 
with thelightof their shining minds, 
to make it clear to his benighted in- 
telligence. 

Tung : Tau is the unbounded 
entity. 

Bang : Thunder without sound. 

Sing: Unsung music of all things. 

Lung : Breath of life without 

i/re. 



Hang: Justice of accident!. 
Wing: Eternal entity of na 

entity. 

"In short," added Tung, "ll 
supreme principle Tau is the ui 
circumscribed limit of i 
the order of disorder ; 
diction which reconciles ; the pwM 
into which all storms subside; [ht 
mother and father of action; tkt 
source of the unworshipped mi- 
worshipping worship, and of poifM 
beyond dominion." 

The mandarin Shoacknofftedged 
this to be a grand definiliwi of 
Tau ; but, being a collector of iIk ' 
imperial revenues, prayed to be in- 
formed of the use and value of 
Tau in the practical adminisirstion 
of the affairs of men; for to »« 
his worthless life he could not at 
{begging the favor of the assemblw I 
wisdom) how Tau was of any uk ' 
whatever. " It's of no use," wiJ 
Wing; "and there's thebeauiyof 

"Then what is the U« of 
mentioning it ?" tartly added Hsufr 
a devoted admirer of the TW 
theory. At this arose an admii*" 
ble wrangle over the question ■ 
use and beauty, in that b^pfJ 
style of wit which only the grt*j 
Hi-Tea school of wisdom ow" 
boast. Its upshot was that inittt' 
resolved itself into the final i"^ 
sponsibilily of all things. 

"But woe to that mortal." ^)^ 
Tung. " who carries not aboul b^ 
the talisman of wisdom whicj 




verything its infinite ma- 
ho, groaning in the pri- 
o( the senses, sees not 
I day-beam in all things. 
he sees not; with life he 
He haih the six becloud- 
ngfoolse." 

wise man," said Bang, 
fate. Torrents, tempests, 
:s, are but blustering fic- 
ling is true but his cour- 
;d in his will, his condi- 
tory ; .tnd if he falls, he 
le elements his kindred. 
ure his home." 
s countenance of the phi- 
Tung was observed to 
m yellow to pale green, 
of great agony caused by 
interior workings; for, it 
tard lold, his morning re- 
leen poisoned by an igno- 
and a bad doctor. Lost 
oughts, the sages heeded 
aans. 

B should the sage rejoice," 
" His spirit should take 
he feast of events, the 
>medy of life. Does for- 
t him ? Let him be glad 
ks another. Is his friend 
et him be glad that he is 
oy. In every event we 
aily discover reason for 
or deap.iir." 

ig had finished speaking, 
entcd tile from the roof 
ragon's Bower, loosened 
those disturbances of the 
unknown to the learned 
e East, fell upon the bare 
e philosopher Hang, who, 
ricnce of a severe fright, 
! away helpless from the 
ing smiled. Sing laughed, 
;eptible scorn was on the 
eg- 

id Lung, he who had been 
Kgliunt thinker: "What 
mything bei- 



•BMRi 



torus. 571 

ter than life, friends ? Here we 
live, responsible neither to be nor 
to do nor to die ; life anJ fate stand 
pledged for us. Do we fall out of 
the charmed circle .' We are caught 
up into another. Do we die? Then 
we live again; or, if we do not," 
continued Lung, gasping, " so much 
the better. What so excellent as 
life; what so merciful as death.'" 
Here a painful fit of coughing com- 
pelled the philosopher to pause. 

But what now most drew the at- 
tention of the company was the en- 
trance of the statesman Kung, who. 
in a voice of dignified emotion, in- 
formed the wise Sing that his bro- 
ther had been suddenly seized and 
decapitated on a charge of conspi- 
racy, and all his immense fortune 
confiscated to the state, save a 
portion awarded to his betrayer. 
Pangs and groans shook the bosom 
of the sage, as he left the tea-t.ible ; 
for his brother's bounty had been 
the mainstay of his life. 

"O friends 1" cried Kung, "the 
law is inexorable ; it kills its child 
and devours its mother,and swallows 
the substance of ils benefactors; 
but the state reigns and the king 
lives, and the land is happy. 
Praised be the king!" 

"Praised be justice!" echoed 
Hang, w-ho had counselled the as- 
tute Kung in the preparation of his 
criminal code. "Justice reigns in 
King, and acts through Kung. 
What is nature but justice, and 
what are her thousand-fold acci- 
dents but exccutionem ? Every 
man gravitates to his fate, and 
every fate is a judgment. The 
king makes death : he can do no 
wrong: let no man mourn." Long 
after the piercing mind of Hang 
had perished under the terrors of 
that great instrument which his ge- 
nius invented for the reform of 
mankind; long aftei \.\\e ia.\i.\ft 



572 Odd . 

Kung had yielded iip his life to the 
demands of state (for he had put to 
death by mistake the favorite dog 
of his imperial master), these sen- 
tences, which seem to tear to 
pieces the leading tenet of the Lo- 
Tea doctrines as the dragon tears 
the bull, were remembered in the 
realm of King. 

Spake at last that strange sage 
whose eyes are as starlight to the 
darkness of common minds, and 
whose vision seeks the abode of 
Tau. " Since we but dream wc 
live," said Wing, "let us live to 
dream well. In reason are tlie pil- 
lars of our temple; in imagination 
is its worship. Happy are ye who, 
out of the toils of vain science and 
hard action, take rest in the bower 
of fancy, the pavilion of dreams, 
the garden of poetry, or roam the 
royal hunting-grounds of imagina- 
tion to capture logic in the chase 
of pleasure, and find wisdom by 
seeking delight. Thrice fortunate 
ye," continued the star-eyed Wing, 
taking another whiff from his pipe 
of opium, "who, when the caprices 
of power have driven you from 
doctrine, can retreat upon your 
dreams. Life is a fiction; let us 
dream that it is the truth." Such 
was the curious doctrine of that 
wonderful man, whose visions of 
demons and the powers of the air 
have so often filled the imperial 
stage, and who died in the frenzy of 
his powerful mind. 

Therefined mandarin Bo — he who, 
for his reticence, had been entrusted 
with so many affairs of stale — heard 
all these words of the learned, and 
spoke not. " All men and things," 
he said to himself, "serve him who 
listens, and rcbist him who talks. 
Shrewd is he who gains with- 
out giving," Immersed in these 



thoughts, the silent mandarin coaU 
only nod his head to a remark of 
the mandarin Sho, that life was g 
business of profit and loss, and iht 
best speculations were always prac- 
tical. What man can foretell bis 
fate } The frank and candid Sho, 
whose manners concealed his pur- 
pose, lost his head for speculaiing 
with the king's money- The secret 
Bo, through his love of silence, for- 
got to send his kinsman Bang i 
physician who would have savnJ 
his life, and so was disinherited. 
and died a beggar. 

The thinkers of Lo-Tea, having 
taken the measure of these lod 
other events subsequent to thegreU 
dialogue of the Dragon's Boirw, 
could not avoid the boast that their 
humble philosophy was better than 
a proud one; whereupon the in/ii- 
riated statesman Kung sent a nam- 
ber of them into exile. 

When the old philosopher of 
Chow heard of these sayings and 
doings, he murmured : " Half-tnitlli 
are contradicted, whole truths are 
verified. There is no conrigt 
without right fear; no good silenM 
without true speech; no aspiration 
without reverence; no dignity with- 
out humility; no good vilham 
affection; and philosophy has no 
room for a cold heart and a vain 
mind. But life is not contradict- 
ed, though lives are slain. T« 

O sages! how by thinking shall 
ye add a foot to your stature? And 
how shall it avail ye when a britt. 
as it were, dropped down hy a tor- 
nado centre-wise, so to s|>eak, o" 
a shaven head, shall fracture yo"' 
systems of philosophy ? ^^1"' 
withstands the accidents of <*" 
save the divine Truth, which i*"* 
accident ? 



New Publicatiffm. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



locTRiNE OF S. Catherine of 
Transl.-iicd from ibe Iialian. 
Ji : The Calholic Publicailon 
1S74. I Tol. llmo, pp. 418. 
icrinRS ire a wondetful group 
(emnk Minis. The one of 
3 roaiTied lady, and this cir- 
will undoubledly make hci 
r Inleresling to ibose who are 
condition, and sometimes are 
envy those who live in the 
rhe remarkable Life of this 
npanicd by her Spiritual Dia- 
■ first publiElied in English, 
in additional inletcsl, in the 
its leadeis, on account of the 
n by F. Hecker, which is dated 
ici, 7. 1873. The translation 
■everal years ago, and leri, in 
[ a rongh draught, by a lady 
a for her high culture and vir- 
ile Mrs. Ripley. It has been 
ed with care, and made as ac- 
ossiblc. 

k itself has long been very 
d ranks next to the writings 
\ among the spiritual treatises 
ulhors. lis spirituality is of a 
order, stiiied for those who, 
necessity ot by their own free 
trying to climb tho rugged 
Uount Carme]. 

rtAJtCBMKTEflYINTHEXIXTH 

'■ ; or, The Last War-cry of the 
lists. ByMgr. Gaume. Trans- 
the Rev. R. Bicnnan, A.M.. 
trcface by the Very Rev. T. S, 
V.G. New York ; Beniigcr 
»74- 

ume attacks, with his usual 
rigor and saicasm, in this vol- 
errible travesty of funeral ob- 
rich ftlhcisls are wont 10 per- 
be burial of what they regard 
Ads of earth, the carcases of 
bIs. These enemies of the 
t Kre Dot content wiih the en- 
' the civil right 10 live and die 
\ tlicmselves, but they must 
apt to desecrate the cemeteries 
iu,>n(l I^Jnlcrfcre with their 



tight to live and die. and be buried like 
rational and immortal beings wlio expect 
a resiirteclion from the dead. It is high- 
ly iinponant thai the eyes 0/ all men who 
have any glimmGring of rc.TBon and re- 
ligious belief left should be opened 10 
the loathsome wickedness and brutality 
of the sect of atheists and communists 
who arc everywhere conspiring for the 
desirucIiOQ of society and the human 
race. This book will serve as an eye- 
opener to all who read it atientivclj-. 
We trust itwil! also act as an antidote to 
the heathenish and revolting notions re- 
specting the burning of the bodies of the 
dead which liavc of late been so oQen- 
sively presented in many newspapers. 

The book has been well translated and 
neatly printed, We cannot, however, ad- 
mire the grave-yard view on [he cover, 
which reminds us of the car-doors on the 
Camden and Amboy Railway, with a 
grave-stone and a wecping.witlow. 

Life of S. Thomas of Vilij^sova ; with 
an Introduction by F. Middlcton, 
O.S.A. Philadelphia: P. F. Cunning- 
ham & Son. 1874. 

This is a reprint of one of the Oralo- 
rian Scries, and gives a sufficiently good 
biography of the great Archbishop of 
Valenlia, which is better Imnslatcd tlian 
most of its companion volumes. The 
introduction is quite a learned and elo- 
quently-written paper, chleSy valuable 
on account of its information respecting 
learned and able members of the Au- 
gustinian Order who were champions of 
the faith against the modern heresies. 

On some Popui^h Errors concerkinc 
PoLirtcsAN'P REi-tciON. By the Right 
Hon. Lord Robert Montagu, M.P. 
London: Burns & Oatcs. 1974. (For 
sale by The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety.) 

The papular errors attacked and re- 
futed in tliis collection of essays are such 
as relate to politicaJ ethics, the mutual 
bearings of religion and law, church and 
state, civil marriage, education — in a 
word, they arc the eriors ot the parly of 



574 



New PuUkatums. 



revolution, the so-called principles of 
1789. Lord Robert Montagu has made 
a work by F. Franco, S.J., the basis of his 
own, which is neither,, strictly speaking, 
original, nor yet a translation or compen- 
dium of F. Franco's work. The Pro- 
testant and secular papers are tust now 
peculiarly inquisitive about the doctrines 
of sound and instructed Catholics on 
these mixed questions. It is not very 
easy to satisfy them by mere newspaper 
and magazine articles written in haste 
and under the pressure of editorial labors. 
Here is a book where they may find the 
information they are in quest of, and 
where Catholics also may gain much in- 
struction. We have no reason to wish 
to withhold the full, clear, and unreserved 
statement of our Catholic doctrines on 
any subject from our non-Catholic fellow- 
citixens. The great difficulty lies in the 
universal confusion of ideas on these 
subjects, and the general want of willing- 
ness to inquire and discuss thoroughly 
and fairly. The European Catholic press 
is fairly teeming with books and articles 
of the most consummate ability on these 
burning questions of the day, and we 
welcome every effort made by those who 
write in English to place these products 
of sound learning and thought before 
our own reading public. This book is 
an e£fbrt of that kind, and we hope it will 
be read by a great number of both Cath- 
olics and non-Catholics who wish to in- 
form themselves about the true issues 
between the church on one side, Cassar- 
ism and revolution on the other. 

This is the first volume of " S. Joseph's 
Theological Library " Series, edited by 
the Fathers of the Society of Jesus, and 
is to be followed by several others. 

The Sacres) Anthology. A Book of 
Ethnical Scriptures Collected and Edit- 
ed by Moncure Daniel Conway. New 
York : Henry Holt & Co. 1874. 
As a specimen of the typographical art, 
this book is superb. The literary taste 
and skill exhibited in its preparation are 
also of a high order. Its contents are, 
moreover, specimens of the productions 
of genius and wisdom gathered from all 
time and all cultivated nations, including 
many passages from the inspired writings. 
So far, the book is one which maybe val- 
uable to one who knows how to use it, 
and is competent to discriminate between 
the truth and the error which it contains. 
jVr«- * •% the intention of the author 



and the real scope of the vc 
radically anti- Christian and as 
The very idea of presenting a o 
ation of the Divine Scripture 
the sacred writings, legends, 2 
sophical works of heathens, is t 
religions on a common level 
index the author, with the per 
tion of a neological sciolist, tali 
assert as a fact the want of ge 
and authenticity of a great p 
books of the Bible. As a mer 
this is in defiance of sound crit 
has been often exploded. To p 
such an opinion, in defiance of 
ing of the whole Christian work 
thing certain and unquestionat 
pie impudence, and is as unsc 
it is irreligious. In the extrac 
ism the author has adroitly 
whole a pantheistic issue. 

The ignorant, the unwary, 
who wisli to escape from the sc 
sponsibility to God may be dc 
this kind of art. But really, : 
view of a true and comprehensi' 
all that can be gathered from 
gionsand imperfect philosophi 
those things which resemble, 
which are partly or wholly dis 
the divine philosophy of revel 
Christian theology, confirms a 
the divine truth of the Old 
Testaments and the concurren 
tradition of the church of God 
creation of man. Proudhon 
when he said that a man who 
must be an atheist or an ultr 
MThoever stands by what is po 
is ready to follow it to its con: 
belongs logically to the Catl 
Whoever takes the negative be 
atheists ^md materialists. Or 
startling proof that the great ma 
who reject the Catholic Churc 
are not ready to renounce th( 
Christian, are sliding downw: 
multiplication of books like thi 
much worse than this, publisli 
principal firms, and everywher 
ed along with works professc 
tian and pious. We suppose 
of these gentlemen profess to 
tians. Where is their consci< 
when, for the sake of money, th 
inate the works of Renan, Strai 
ner, and other infidels and athe 
are sapping the foundations < 
and morality, and poisoning 
mind ? Where is the public < 



denies this? And why da not 
•suol periodicals, newspapers, 
b<l con«eniioDS, pulpits and lec- 
niTums, TMOund with a fty of 
kmlng and denunciation ? Have 
t all interest and sU courage 
htter, or are they going over lo 
(J? 

Ka or St. Gnecorv. London ; 
* OatM 1874. (For sale by 
Uholic PublicBiton Society.) 
Ij the Great is illuslrinus among 
m. and even among the doctors 
hireh, (or his geniu>i. There is 
•lie flavor in his writings whicli 
ar 10 ihcro. Edited and publish* 
the utmost care and tbe most 
lerary taste, lilce all the boolis a( 
m, this Toltime adds one more 
Die treasury of English Catholic 
[which is now so rapidly filling 
I publication o( entire works of 
R presents the evidences of the 
Ycllgion in the most convincing 
I is therefore a way of prnpagat- 
hllh in some respects superior 
nlnaiy method of controversy. 
p most valuable for Catholics as 
t of iDCreaslng and di^epening 
Eirledge of our holy faiih. It is 
^d that a tilste for books of this 
fa will become more general 
lading Catholics, and that ill 
t the means of doing ro will in 

i" promote their general circula- 
; A Tale or the Days of 
t Tiis Apostate. Translated 
fee Italian of F. John Joseph 
K S.J, Philadelphia: P. F. 
I^ham St Son. 1S74. 
P^torlcal romance, which is not 
fennslated, but condensed and 
b>-}udiciously, we think, for it is 
hg enough as it is— is much su- 
l [he most of simitar worlis of 
{Knded on early Christian hislo- 

Jfull of informaiion which only 
nun could give with accuracy, 
ivenis it describes are of thrill- 
The Mtistiigcr ef tht 
llMrf, from wliose pages the 
i I« reprinted, we have already 
.' 1 to say. Is as distinguished 
IrHTf excellence as it is for its 
plKly. We tiope to see much 
mportnnl con. 



The Cathomc Church is its Relatii>\* 
TO H uman Proci^ss. a Lecture by 
the Bev. J. J. Moiiarly, A.M.. Chat- 
ham Village. N. Y. Albany; Van 
Benthuysen. 

This pamphlet, which has as neat an 
appearance as if it had been printed in 
London or Boston, is a good specimen 
of a ivell-writien popular lecture, of just 
the sort to please and instruct an otdi- 
naty au-Uiencc. Out familiar friend, ibt 
New Zealander, who is an indefatigable 
traveller, and whom we last saw in a 
Fiench costume in the columns of a 
Paris newspaper, turns up again in the 
lecture. Lord Macaulay would have 
been astonished, when he drew the picture 
of this venerable per!iDnage silling on a 
broken arch of London bridge. If he 
could have foreseen how many would 
ma.ke use of it to adorn their discourse. 
We can say nothing, however, to F. Mo- 
riarly, which docs not recoil upon our- 
selves ; for have we not done the same 
thing? 

Catholics and Roman Catholics. By 
an Old Catholic fBishop Coxc). Buf- 
falo ; Martin Taylor. 
This reply lo Dr. Ryan's pamphlet 
seems lo have elated the spirits of our 
Episcopal i.in friends no little. It is 
receiving due attention at present in the 
columns of the Catholic paper at RulTalo. 
and no doubt the articles published in 
that paper will appear in 3 pamphlet form 
when they are completed. Etiquette will 
not allow us to interfere in this contro- 
versy until the principals have done with 
it. If anj-ihing is iefl (or us to say after 
thai, we m.iy pay our respects to Dr. 
Cose in this magaiine. 

The Baltimore Gun Club. From the 
French o( Jules Vcrno. Freely trans- 
lated hy Edward Roth. Pliiladelphta : 
King & Baird, Publishers, 607 San 



It 1 



nSt. 



D impro 



I Ulet 



n fulu 



Jules Verne, but Mr. Rolh has, i 
whole, been successful in making his 
celebrat'Cd story of the great Columbiad 
and the shot fired liom Florida to the 
moon eweo more American and more in- 
tercsiing to Americans thnn before. Dt 
la Ttrrr i h Lmu has been translated 
previously, but Mr. Roth has mvtcd'atie'i 



576 



New 



tome little points of his own» and local 
traits which it would have been almost 
impossible for a foreigner to seize. 

Thrologia M oralis Novissna Eccix- 
si/C DocTORis S. Alphonsi, in Com- 
pendium Redacta, et USUI Venejla- 
BiLis Clrri Americani Accommodata. 
Auctore A. Konings, C.SS.R. Pars 
Prima. Bostonlse : Typis Patiicii Do- 
nahoe. 1874. 

This is the first instalment of what pro- 
mises to be a valuable work, and one 
which has been much needed. The trea- 
tises on moral theology hitherto in use 
in this country are, with the exception of 
Archbishop Kenrick's, which is not in a 
very convenient form for a text-book, of 
European origin, and are unsatisfactory 
in America both by excess and defect. 
In this first part of F. Koning*s work, 
containing the treatises, '* De Actibus 
Humanis, de Conscientia, de Legibus, 
do Poccatis, de Virtutibas," there is not, 
of course, so much opportunity for the 
introduction of matter peculiar to this 
country as in those which will follow. 
The objection may be made to the book 
that the various opinions of theolo- 
gians are not always given on contro- 
verted points; but this is unavoidable 
in a treitiso merely intended as an expo- 
nent of S. Alphonsus. The sjrstem advo- 
cated is that of oquiprobabilism. 

Children OP Mary. Baltimore: Kelly, 

Piet & Co, 

Seven simple and interesting biogra- 
phies of }*oung pupils of the Maison des 
Oiseaux, Paris. The book is nicely 
bound and suited for a premium. 



there is a great demand for dra 
are suitable for such occasioi 
supply is not always easy. It 
fisvor to those concerned in 
these plajrs when the managers 
vent theatres publish some go( 
Those before us are from Mt. S 
The author has shown a gre; 
judgment and good taste, ant 
dramatic and poetic talent, 
lisher has brought them out i 
dress. They will do well for p 
ily theatricals, as well as for sc 
make also a nice little volume 
sent. 

The Letter-books of Sir Aml/ 
Keeper of Mary, Queen 
Edited by John Morris, Pri 
Society of Jesus. London : 
Oates. (For sale by The Cat 
lication Society). 
The heart of our late friend, B 
would have leapt up at sight of 
and his pen would have given 
another racy article, had it 
while he was still in this m 
The letters in this collection ai 
them newly discovered and nov 
lished. They throw new light 
lany of Walsingham, and thus 
something to the already num( 
uments in the Marian controTC 



School Hygiene. By Dr. R. 
van. New York : D. Appl< 
Dr. 0*Suliivan*s pamphlet i 
which all persons having the 
of schools will find worthy t< 
fully read and preserved. 



Twelve Tales for the Yotrxc Lon- 
don : Bums & Oates. (For sale by 
The Catholic Publication Society.) 
This is the second volume of Mrs. Par- 
sons*s •• Twelve Tales for the Young," the 
first volume having appeared several years 
ago. They are what the title indicates, and 
we may add are very good and instruc- 
tive. 

Silvia, and other Dramas. By a Sister 

of Charity. New York : P. M. Haverty. 

The plays performed by the young 

ladies in our convent schools are often 

very pretty and entertaining spectacles to 

those who can apprect.ite the charm of 

/ii/iocence and simplicity. (M <^ut«e 



Bric-a-Brac Series — Person^ 

ISCENCES. By Chorley, Pla 

Young. Edited by Richa 

Stoddard. New York : 

Armstrong & Co. 1874. 

An agreeable volume of ch 

and anecdote about many w 

persons, with other miscellane 

brae, very well printed, and 1 

uncommonly pretty binding. 

last department of art the rec 

of publishers are enough to fil 

astonishment ; but success is n 

they may be regarded as at 

illustrate the metaph3rstcal dei 

ens rationis. Something reallj 

therefore always doubly welcoi 



<fi 






HB>il 



2pfRi\ 



<^. 



THE 



THOLIC WORLD 



VOL, XIX.. No. 113.— AUGUST, 1874. 



MATTER. 



s has been written on 
ancient and modem 
rs, the last word about 
ition has not yet been 
old school of metaphy- 
spite of its high intellec- 
nentSy could not unravel 
xing subject, because it 
sufficient knowledge of 
ts. The modern scien- 
other hand, in spite of 
nowlcdge of facts, can 
I the ultimate consequen- 
i in them, because he is 
icquainted with the old 
)f philosophical specula- 
as all the questions con- 
I the constitution of mat- 
metaphysical character, 
^rimental science cannot 
m ; it can only supply 
o the philosopher for 
ion. In the study of 
hilosophy observation 
he spontaneous revela- 
ture, experiment verifies 
Is the results of observa- 
>mpelling nature to act 
lite conditions, and spe- 



culation discovers the relations in- 
tervening between effects and ef- 
fects, as also between effects and 
causes, thus paving the way to the 
determination of the nature of 
causes from the nature of their ef- 
fects. 

We are of opinion that the scien- 
tific materials gathered from obser- 
vation and experiment since the 
discovery of universal attraction 
are quite sufficient for the purpose 
of determining the constitution of 
matter ; and we presume that, un- 
der the guidance of positive science, 
we may safely engage in a full phi- 
losophical investigation of this in- 
teresting subject. • We are not ig- 
norant that the treatment of this 
great question has always present- 
ed, and still presents, many diffi- 
culties and dangers, against which 
proper precautions are to be taken. 
Sometimes the phenomena on 
which our reasonings must be bas- 
ed are so complex that it might be 
doubted whether they reveal more 
than they mask the truths which 
we aspire to discover. Again, we 



ling to Act of Congren in the year 1874, by Rev. \. T, Hmcu^n^Xik VYl« OffiicA ^ 
the LibnriMa of Congren« at Wathingtoo, D. C. 



578 



M€aur. 



are very easily misled by the out- 
ward appearance of things, and 
blinded in a measure by deep-root- 
ed prejudices of our infancy, which, 
besides being shared by ail classes 
of persons, have in their favor the 
almost irrefragable sanction of the 
popular language. Moreover, many 
conflicting hypotheses have been 
advanced by philosophers of differ- 
ent schools in their attempt at solv- 
ing the questions concerning the 
nature of material things ; and thus 
the subject of our discussion comes 
before us with an accompaniment 
of many elaborate theories, old and 
new, which it becomes our duty to 
subject to a careful criticism, lest 
they overcloud the intellect and 
obstruct our vision of truth. For- 
tunately, however, as we shall see 
hi the sequel, only three of those 
theories can be considered to have 
a real claim to the attention of the 
modem philosopher, and each of 
them, by proper management, can 
be made to yield a fair portion of 
truth. 

We propose to commence with 
the consideration of those natural 
facts from which the true nature 
and the essential constitution of 
material substance can be most 
easily ascertained. We shall then 
determine accurately the essence 
of matter, examine its constituents 
in particular, and point out their 
necessary relations, according to 
the scholastic method. And, lastly, 
we shall inquire what, in the light 
of modern science, must be the 
philosophical theory of the genera- 
tion and corruption of material 
compounds. 

I. 

Existence of matter. — The first 
foundation of what we shall say 
hereafter is that matter, or material 
substance, really exists. By " mat- 
ter " we mean a being wVv'vcVv \s iVit 



proper subject of local m< 
Ens mobile^ as the ancient 
phers define it. Hence, if 
local motion, there is matte 
since local motion is unc 
the existence of matter is 
undeniable. 

It is all very well for the 
to say that we perceive not 
phenomena. Local mover 
course, is only a phenomen 
evidently such a pher 
would be ynpossible, if not 
isted which could receive I 
tion. But that which can 
local motion we call matte 
therefore what we call r 
something real in the worl< 

Origin of matter, — Der 
Epicurus, and other pagan 
phers taught that matter i 
and uncreated. This old i 
been utterly dispelled by I 
of Christian philosophy ; 3 
been lately revived, and is st 
propagated in our own days 
of infidel scribblers, who 
in the name of science, to 
with what they call the 
notion of a Creator. It mj 
fore be useful to say he 
words about the continge 
the creation of matter. ^ 
already shown, in an articl 
extrinsic principles of bei; 
the changeableness of a th 
sufficient proof of its con 
of nothing, inasmuch as 
ness is the true extrinsic ] 
of passivity and potential 
matter is evidently passive 
tential, it directly follows t 
ter has come out of nothin 

But since unbelievers art 
losophers, though they ca 
selves so, and may not Ix 
realize the value of an i 
based on metaphysical 

^ Gkthouc Woild for Febramry, ii 



ice we hear them repeal with- 
l lliat science — their degrad- 
ence — has done away with 
gdream of creation, we deem 
^ient to appeal to science it- 
id bring forward from it a 
loof of the fact of creation. 
Iroof is to be found in the 
institntlon of the primitive 
|es of bodies, as Prof. Clerk- 
(1 has recently shown in a 
loiarkablc lecture on mole- 
j His scientific argument is 
l^d in the following passage : 
f molecule, though inde- 
)}e, is not a hard, rigid body, 
gjable of internal movements, 

r these are excited, it emits 
wave-length of which is 
ire for the lime of vibration 
felecule. By means of the 

Pope the wave-length of 
kinds of light may be com- 
B within one ten-thousandth 
|o this way it has been as- 
td not only that molecules 
jtom every specimen of hy- 
9ur laboratories have the 
I of periods of vibration, 
t light having the same set 
KJs of vibration Is emitted 
I suQ and from the fixed 
■e thus assured that 
I of the same nature as 
lour hydrogen exist in those 
regions, or at least did cx- 
the ligltt by which we 
s emitted. . . . Light, 
s the sole evidence of 
tence of these distant worlds, 
>a1so that each of them is 
ncdccules of the same kind 
I which wc find on earth. 
lUle of hydrogen, for exam- 
^hef in Sirius or Arcturus, 
iu vibrations in precisely 
time. Each molecule, 

m O- Mtlttitri. aM'ttti beloretbt 
.n HI ttnUfaiA. by Prof. Clerk- 
HMurt . Scpleoi b er 



579 



therefore, throughout the i 
bears impressed on it the stamp 
of a metric system as distinctly as 
does the metre of the Archives of 
Paris or the double royal cubit of 
the temple of Karnac, No theory 
of evolution can be formed to ac- 
count for the similarity of mole- 
cules; for evolution necessarily im- 
plies continuous change, and the 
molecule is incapable of growth or 
decay, of generation or destruction. 
None of the processes of nature, 
since the time when nature began, 
have produced the slightest differ- 
ence in the properties of any mole- 
cule. We are therefore unable to 
ascribe either the existence of the 
molecules or the identity of their 
properties to the operation of any 
of the causes which we £all natural. 
On the other hand, the exact equal- 
ity of each molecule to all others 
of the same kind gives it, as Sir 
John Herschel has well said, the es- 
sential character of a manufactured 
article, and precludes the idea of 
its being eternal and self-existent. 
Thus we have been led, along a 
strictly scientific path, very near to 
the paint at which science nuisi 
stop. Not that science is debarred 
from studying the internal mecha- 
nism of a molecule which she can- 
not take to pieces, any more than 
from investigating an organism 
which she cannot put together. 
But in. tracing back the history of 
matter science is arrested when she 
assures herself, on the one hand, 
that th« molecule has been made. 
and, on the other, that it ha^ 
not been made byanyoflhe pro- 
cesses -we call natural. Science is 
incompetent to reason upon Iho 
creation of matter itself out ol 
nothing.* We have reached thc 



lui. ■■ tb1* very puuse t 



$80 



Mmmt. 



utmost limit of our thinking facul« 
ties when we have admitted that, 
because matter cannot be eternal 
and self-existent, it must have been 
created. That matter, as such, 
should have certain fundamental 
properties, that it should exist in 
space and be capable of motion, 
that its motion should be persistent, 
and so on, are truths which may, 
for anything we know, be of the 
kind which metaphysicians call 
necessary. We may use our know- 
ledge of such truths for purposes 
of deduction, but we have no data 
for speculating as to their origin. 
But that there should be exactly so 
much matter and no more in every 
molecule of hydrogen is a fact of a 
very different order. . . . Natural 
causes, as we know, are at work, 
which tend to modify, if they do 
not at length destroy, all the ar- 
rangements and dimensions of the 
earth, and of the whole solar sys- 
tem. But though, in the course of 
ages, catastrophes have occurred, 
and may yet occur, in the heavens ; 
though ancient systems may be dis- 
solved, and new systems evolved 
out of their ruins, the molecules 
out of which those systems are 
built, the foundation-stones of the 
material universe, remain unbroken 
and unworn. They continue to 
this day as they were created, per- 
fect in number and measure and 
weight, and from the ineffaceable 
characters impressed on them we 
may learn that those aspirations 
after accuracy in measurement, 
truth in statement, and justice in 
action, which we reckon among our 
noblest attributes as men, are ours 
because they are essential constitu- 
ents of the image of Him who, in 
the beginning, created not only the 
heaven and the earth, but the mate- 
rials of which heaven and earth 
consist. " 



Such is the verdict of 
ence as interpreted by th 
English mathematician ai 
philosopher. The whole 
structive and interesting 
think we have no need of 
ing for the length of the q 

Essential properties of 
The constituents of thins 
vealed to us by their p 
For, as every being acts 
as it is in act, and sufTei 
ing as it is in potency, 
activity and the passii 
which a being is endowe< 
easily find out the spec 
of the act and of the 
which constitute its me 
essence. Hence, if we w 
certain the essential co 
of material substance, we 
ascertain and thorough) 
stand the properties i^ 
common to all material si 
and without which no 
substance can be concei 
doing this we must guai 
confounding, as many sci* 
the essential properties 
with the general propert 
dies. Extension, impen 
divisibility, porosity, etc. 
eral properties of bodie 
does not follow that tht 
sential properties of mat 
stance as such, as they ; 
from accidental compositi 
properties alone are 
which are altogether 
unchangeable, and invoh 
principles of the substa 
such properties, as we sha 
so far as material substan 
cemed, the three followir 
power to produce local m 
sivity for receiving loca 
and inertia. These thre 
ties correspond to the t 
stituents of material subst 

There are philosophers 



Ttiey I 



Biings have any active 
' ihal malCer is 
'«nd they cannot see how 
j- can be reconciled with 
P T4icre arc others, on the 
Sy, who, for a similar reason, 
linable to deny the activity 
fcs, deny their inertia. From 
K are going to say it will 
^fest that these philosophers 
lever known exactly what is 
kin nstCitral science by the 
i'ol matter. 

kr writers, especially those of 
I school, while admitting the 
Ibsential properties of mailer 
ire have just mentioned, con- 
Ht material substance has a 
Mmporlant and connatural, 
pisential, property — viz., ^an- 
il extension — without which, 
kf, nothing material can be 
Kd. They further teach, 
jttuld fain have us believe, 
H material substance is en- 
hwith extension and resist- 
ind many of them think 
Rension and resistance con- 
fthe essence of matter. This 
inion is very common among 
l^hical writers, and deserves 
itt careful examination, as it 
Kry heavily on an essential 
|r the controversy in which 
K to engage. 

Ms sec, then, first, what we 
I'lhink regarding the activity, 
bsivity, and the inertia of 
B and, when we have done 
Bese, we shall take up the 
n of material continuity, of 
Hre hope to give a full analy- 
ra satisfactory solution. 
mifjft finssiiify, and inertia. — 
■ciaJ character by which the 
nena of the material world 
lognized consists in their be- 
nght about |iy local motion. 
It a. well-known fact that in 
[purely material no change 



fer. 581 

takes place but through local move- 
ments ; so that we cannot even con- 
ceive a change in the material 
world without a displacement of 
mailer. Hence all the actions of 
matter upon matter tend to produce 
local movement, or to modify it: 
and all passion of the matter acted 
on is a reception of movement. 

Tha.t all material substances pos- 
sess activity, passivity, and inertia 
is quite certain on experimental 
grounds. No conclusion is better 
established in science than that all 
the particles of matter act on oni- 
another according 10 a fixed law. 
and receive from one another their 
determination [o move from placi' 
lo place, while they are incapable 
of setting themselves in movement 
or modifying the movement receiv- 
ed from without. Now, It is clear 
that they cannot act without bein^ 
adive, nor receive the action with- 
out being /(Wj/wrf, nor be incapable 
of modifying their oNvn state with- 
out being inert. 

This shows that activity and 
inertia do not exclude one another, 
A particle of matter is said to 1k> 
active inasmuch as it has the power 
of causing the movement of any 
other particle; and is said to be 
inert inasmuch as it has no power 
of giving movement to itself It is 
plain that these two things are very 
farfrombeingcontradictory. Those 
philosophers, therefore, who have 
apprehended an irreconcilable op- 
position between the two, must 
have attached to the term " inertia " 
a meaning quite different from th;it 
recognized by physical science- 

Balines remarks, in his Fun^\mcn- 
tal Philosophy, * that there is no- 
thing perfectly still either on eartli 
or in the heavens; and for tins 
reason he expresses the opinion 



^ 



Maiitr. 



that all bodies have a constant 
tendency to move. And as he can- 
not see how such a tendency can 
be reconciled with the inertia of 
matter, he comes to the conclusion 
that bodies are not inert. But it is 
scarcely necessary to remark that 
the constant tendency to move 
which we observe in bodies is the 
result of universal attraction, and 
not of a self-acting power inhering 
in the matter of which the bodies 
consist ; and therefore such a ten- 
dency does not in the least inter- 
fere with the inertia of matter. A 
simple reference to the laws of 
motion suffices to convince the 
most superficial student that such 
is the case. 

Malebranche goes to the other 
extreme. He supposes that bodies 
have no activity of any kind, and 
that accordingly all the phenomena 
we witness in the physical world 
are produced by God alone. This 
theory, as every one will acknow- 
ledge, is supremely extravagant and 
itnphilosophical. It leads to ideal- 
ism and to pantheism. To ideal- 
ism, because, if bodies do not act, 
there is no reason why they should 
exist ; as nothing can be admitted 
to exist throughout creation which 
has no aptitude to manifest in its 
own reality a reflex of the Creator's 
perfections. And since manifesta- 
tion is action, no created being can 
be destitute of active power. This 
argument drawn from the end of 
creation may be supplemented by 
another drawn from the impossibil- 
ity of our knowing the existence of 
bodies if they do not act. For, if 
bodies do not act on our senses, 
we cannot refer to bodies for the 
causality of our sensations; and 
thus the only link by which we 
have the means of connecting our 
subjective impressions with tx- 
terior objects will be deslio>(^d. 



Hence, if bodies are not i 
there is no reason why they ! 
be admitted to exist, and we i 
cordingly condemned to an t 
idealism. Nor can we ^scap 
theism. For, if the impressi< 
receive from outside are caui 
God alone, we cannot but coi 
that whatever we see outside 
has no other objectivity tha 
of the divine substance its< 
pearing under different 
Now, this is a pantheistic do 
Therefore the theory which 
the activity of bodies leads t 
theism. We will say nothin] 
about this preposterous d< 
and its absurd consequences, 
common sense, without ne 
further argument, condemns 
ever calls in question the 
and objectivity of our kno^ 
concerning the exterior work 
But, while we admit with 
physicists, and indeed with al 
kind, that material substa 
competent, through its natu 
tivity, to cause local moti( 
must guard against the opin 
the materialists, who prcten 
the active power of matter i 
competent, under certain 
tions and through certain c 
nations, to produce thought, 
thing, perhaps, can be more 
sistent with reason than th 
sumption. Were matter not 
the hypothesis might deser 
amination; but an i/i^r/ th 
substance is such an en< 
that it cannot, even hypothel 
be entertained. The thinki 
culty evidently implies self- 
power, whereas inertia evi 
excludes it ; and therefore, s 
as we keep in mind that mt 
inert, we cannot, without e 
inconsistency, extend the rat 
its activity to immanent opcr 
b^t must confine it to the ex 



(ion of local motion. Let 
II remark that, of all ihe ar- 
y usually employed in psy- 
f against tile materialistic 
tsis, this one tJraii-n from the 
pf matter is the most valu- 
^t is the most simple and in- 
(eriible. 

^ertia of matter is so unl- 
{ admitted that it is hardly 
fy to say a word about it. 
i, indeed, is more certain in 
(than that matter, when at 
■cot but remain so until it 
ifram witliout a determina- 
^move ; and likewise that, 
^rmined to move with any 
i &nd in any direction, it 
But move with that velocity 
piBt direcliou until it receive 

flher determination from 
This incapability of 
Ig its own stale constitutes, 
*ve already stated, the iner- 
Iptter, and is the very foun- 
ftf mechanical science. 
|i the natural passivity of ma- 
Ubstance, wc need only say 

Eusists in its capability of 
I when it is acted on, any 
jlal determination to move 
(direction and with any ve- 
, That matter has this pas- 
^ an obvious experimental 
^nd that matter has no other 
except this one we shall 
another place, 
hile, it is evident from 
,ing considerations that all 
active, passive, and inert, 
iplcof activity, in every be- 
esscntial act, and the princi- 
istviiy its essential term, 
a real passive potency ; * 
activity and the passivity 
ire a necessary result of the 
constitution ofmaterial sub- 
ind are therefore essential 

NMOLIC WOILD. H*n^, llTt, p. It7. 



properties of the same. The iner- 
tia of matter is also a necessary re- 
sult of the essential constitution of 
material substance ; for the only 
reason why an element of matter 
cannot give motion to itself is to 
be found in the mutual relation of 
its essential principles, which is of 
such a nature that the principle of 
passivity cannot be influenced by 
any exertion of tlie active principle, 
of which it is the intrinsic term. 
Now, this relation, for which we 
shall fully account hereafter, be- 
longs to the essence of the sub- 
stance as truly and as necessarily 
as the essential principles them- 
selves. Hence the inertia of mat- 
ter is an essential property of mat- 
ter no less than its activity and 
passivity. 

Aitian at a <listance. — The activi- 
ty of material substance is a very 
interesting subject of investigation ; 
its nature, its mode of working, the 
law of its exertion, and the condi- 
tions on which the production of 
its effects depends, give rise to 
many important questions, which, 
owing to philosophical discords, 
have not yet received a satisfactory 
solution. The first of these ques- 
tions is ; Does material substance act 
at a distance, or does H require, as a 
conditian sine gua noit far acting, a 
mathematical contact of its matter 
with t/i-e matter acted upon t 

Philosophers and scientists have 
often examined this grave subject, 
but their opinions are still divided. 
Those philosophers who form 
their physical views from the scho- 
lastic system, commonly hold that 
a true material contact is an indis- 
pensable condition for the action 
of matter upon matter, and think it 
to be an evident truth. Bui. physi- 
cists, " with few exceptions," as 
Prof. Faraday remarks, admit that 
all action of matter upon matter i.4 



584 

an actio in iHs/arts, and he liimself 
supports llie same docirine, al- 
though suggesting that it should be 
expressed in somewhat differenl 
terms. We propose to show that 
this latter solution is the only one 
consistent with the principles both 
of science and of philosophy. And 
as the opposite view owes its ori- 
gin, and in a great measure its 
plausibility, to the known theory 
of kinetic forces as deduced from 
the impact of bodies, we shall argue 
from the same theory in support 
of our conclusion. 

Here is our argument. When a 
body impinges upon another body, 
if any communication of movement 
is made by a true and immediiate 
contact of matter with matter. Its 
duration must be limited to that 
indivisible instant of time in which 
the distance between the struggling 
particles of matter becomes =: o. 
But in an indivisible instant of time 
no finite velocity can be commu- 
nicated. And therefore no real 
movement can be caused in the im- 
pact of bodies by a true and iiome- 
Oiate contact of matter with m.at- 
ter. 

We think that this argument ad- 
mits of no reply. Its major propo- 
sition is the statement of an obvi- 
ous geometric truth. Nor can it 
be gainsaid by assuming that the 
duration of the action can be pro- 
longed ; for the action, in the opin- 
ion of those against whom we now 
are arguing, is supposed to require 
true material contact; and it is 
plain that two particles of matter 
coming into contact cannot remain 
in contact for any length of time, 
however inappreciable, unless in 
the very first instant of their meet- 
ing their velocities have become 
equal; it being evident that two 
particles of matter animated by dif- 
fereat velocities cannot fiiesevs'e 



for any length of time the same m- 
lation in space. To assume, then- 
fore, that the contact can be pn>- 
longed, is to assume tliat from ibc 
very first instant of the collision 
the unequal velocities of the ntni- 
gling particles have been equaliio]. 
or, in other terms, that the vclocitt 
imparted has been communicattii 
in the very 6rst instant of the im- 
pact- But if so, then the assump- 
tion of a prolonged contact, ui 
means of communicating the vfio- 
city, is altogether useless, and in- 
volves an evident contradiccioe. 
It is therefore necessary to concdit 
that, if the velocity is communictt- 
ed by a true and immediate cont«l 
of matter with matter, the comnw- 
nication must be made in an indi- 
visible instant of time. 

The minor proposition of out 
syllogism is equally evident. For 
it is one of the fundamental axioms 
of mechanics that actions, all other 
things being equal, are proportioct- 
a! to their respective duration; 
whence it is plain that an nrliw 
of which the duration is infinitesi- 
mal cannot produce more than a" 
infinitesimal effect. And therefor' 
no finite velocity can be product^ 
by true material contact. 

Against this argument four (^ 
jections may be advanced: Ki* 
that although in the contact of OO* 
point with another point no 6n»*' 
velocity can be communicated, y^ 
in the case of a multitude of nl3K*^ 
rial points coming into coUisiC^* 
the effect might be appreciable' 
Secondly, that a particle of matl^^ 
may be carried straight away 1^ 
another particle which I'mpinfic^ 
upon it with sufficient veloril^ 
Thirdly, that a distinction is lot<^ 
made between continuous and in^ 
stantaneoiis actions, and that, U' 
though a continuous action produ * 
ces an effect proportional to rt*-" 



n, is in the case of univer- 
ftclion, yet instantaneous 
as in the case of impact, 
K necessarily follow the 
V. Lastly, that even admit- 
I impossiliility of producing 
lelocity in an inRnitesinial 
t time, yet finite velocity 
(till be (ommuriicated in an 
limal unit of time without 
IV production, as modern 



\fi first objeclion we answer 
Bach material point cannot, 
instant of the contact, ac- 
Itore than an infinitesimal 
\ the whole multitude will 
Jy an infinitesimal velocity; 
K no movement will ensue. 
ke second we answer that 
le cannot be carried straight 
■less it receives a communi- 
|f finite velocity; and such 
Itinication, as we have al- 
|i)own, cannot be made in 
pnt of the contact, 
third objeclion we answer 
jing that there is any rigor- 
tttontaneous action. When 
Us speak of " instantaneous " 
t they mean actions having 
ii duration, which, however, 
Wt that it cannot be appre- 
W measured by our means 
ervation. And therefore 
jcalled an " instantaneous " 
U nothing but a continu- 
(ion of a short duration, 
fc- difference of duration is 
BITercncc in kind; and ac- 
\f, if actions are proportion- 
Mr duration when their du- 
I longer, they are no less so 
liBir duration is shorter. 
Mast objection takes for 
j that there can be a com- 
pon of velocity without pro- 
i'of velocity; which amounts 
jig thai the velocity of the 
log body is transmitted I'lien- 



•ter. 585 

tiirally to the body impinged upon. 
This is, however, a mere delusion. 
The velocity acquired by the 
body impinged upon has no pre- 
vious existence in the imping- 
ing body; and accordingly its 
communication implies its real 
production, as we have proved in 
one of our past articles.* 

The aelio in liistans can also be 
proved from the very nature of 
material activity. It is generally 
admitted that the active power of 
matter is either attr.ictive or repul- 
sive; for all men of science agree 
that the movements of the material 
world are brought about by attrac- 
tions and repulsions. Now, attrac- 
tion and repulsion do not imply 
a material contact between the 
agent and the patient, but, on the 
contrary, exclude it ; and therefore 
all the movements of the material 
world are due to actions at a dis- 
tance. That attraction exclude? 
material contact is quite evident, 
for attraction produces movement 
by causing the approach of one 
body to anotlier ; and it is evident 
that no approach will be possible 
if the bodies are already in immedi- 
ate contact. It is therefore an es- 
sential condition for the possibility 
of attraction that the agent be not 
in immediate contact with the 
patient. And as for repulsion, it '\s 
knoivn that it serves to keep the 
molecules of a body distant from 
one another, and consequently it is 
exercised al molecular distances. 
This is especially evident in the 
case of elastic fluids. For repul- 
sion obtains among the molecuk-^ 
of such fiuids, whether the said 
molecules be pressed nearer or lei 
further apart. And therefore re- 
pulsion, 100, is exercised without 
material contact. 



I 

I 



S86 Ma. 

Some modern physicists try to 
do away wilh repulsion, nnd ex- 
plain the pressure exercised by 
a gas against the vessel in which 
it is confined by saying that the 
easeous molecules are continually 
Hying about in all directions, and 
continually impinging on the inte- 
rior surface of the recipient, where 
their excursions are intercepted, 
and that this continuous series of 
impacts constitutes what we call 
the pressure of the gas on the ves- 
sel. 

But this new theory cannot hear 
one moment's examination. It is 
wholly gratuitous ; it disregards me- 
chanical principles by admitting 
that the movement of the mole- 
cules can go on unabated in spite 
of repeated impacts, and it assumes 
that the momentum of a moving 
molecule is its active power; which 
is utterly false, as we will show la- 
ter. 

Other physicists have tried to get 
rid of attraction, also, by assuming 
Ihat those effects which we ascribe 
to attraction nre to be attributed to 
ethereal pressure. This hypotiie- 
»% has no better foundation than 
the preceding one, and is equally 
untenable for many reasons which 
we shall explain hereafter. 

The actio in dislans can also be 
directly proved by the consider- 
ation of statical forces. We know 
that the action which tends to com- 
municate movement in a given 
direction cannot be frustrated or 
netitralized, except by an action of 
the same intensity applied in an 
opposite direction. It is evident, 
on the other hand, that, if the first 
requires an immediate contact of 
matter with matter, the second also 
must be subject to the same condi- 
tion. Now, this latter is altogether 

dependent of such a condition. 
Accordingly, the former also — that 



L inoepei 



is, the action which tend) 

municate the movement — H 
pendent of a true materia 
tact. 

The minor proposition i 
syllogism may be proved as fi 
Let a small cube of han 
be placed on a smooth, h6i 
plate of cast-iron lying on i 
The cube will remain at i 
the plate, notwithstanding . 
tion of gravity upon it, b 
while the cube lends to f 
presses the plate, the action 
plate frustrates that tendcn 
keeps the equilibrium. Ni 
cube and the plate do not ii 
atcly touch one another wit 
matter; for we know that tl 
be brought nearer than thi 
We may place, for instanci 
cond cube on the top of i1 
and thus increase the pres: 
the plate, and cause the plai 
to react wilh an increased in 
ISut it is obvious that neithe 
two actions can become ii 
unless the cube is brought 
to the plate; for the resista 
the plate cannot be luodifi 
less some of the previous 
tions be altered ; and sii 
two surfaces have remain 
same, no other condition 
conceived to be changed 
their relative distance. It i 
fore a change, and in fact a ■ 
tion, of the distance betw 
cube and the plate that em 
change of the action. Wh 
see that, even in the case oi 
called physical contact, bo 
not touch one another wi 
matter. This shows that 
contact does not exclude d 
and therefore, when we i 
two bodies touch ( 
fact We express i 
bodies are 
that Ihty cannot 




ftheir meUailar arrangfiucnl 

Ifsturieii by tktir mutual ac- 

iTlierefore tlie hypothesis 

Ihie material contact of ni.it- 

Ipmatter is needed for caus- 

Hbr hindering movement is 

blable with fact. 

fifarlher development of this 

Ire may add that one of the 

ty conditions for the equili- 

If the cube on the plate is, 

■action of the plate have a 

li opposite to the action of 

h Now, no direction whal- 

\ be conceived but between 

iincl, and therefore distant, 

t Accordingly, there cannot 

'least doubt that all the 

(elonging to the surface of 

be are renlly distant from 

!thc neighboring surface of 

be. Wlicnce we conclude 

tat their mutual action is 

d at a distance. 

? proofs of the same truth 

B drawn, if necessary, from 

BSiderationa. Faraday, from 

iomena of electric conduc- 

\ led to the conclusion that 

jm of matter, though oc- 

a mere point in space, has a 

faction extending ihrough- 

iriiole solar system.* Bos- 

■ from the law of continuity, 

rates that movement is not 

iicated through material 

And mechanical writers 

I- consider all dynamical 

that is, all accelerating or 

J actions — as functions of 

i; which shows that all 

ICtions depend on distance, 

f for tbeir direction, but 

iheir intensity. We have 

of developing these proofs, 

link that the preceding ar- 

' are abundantly sufficient 

•fnnMif Imlilnr EltclrU Cn^ar- 

\nBmttkimNat,raU.. p. i, d. i>. 



lo convince all intelligent readers 
of the truth of our conclusion, viz. : 

1. That dis 
conditi 
upon matter; 

2. That the contact between the 
agent and the object acted on is 
not material, but virtual, inasmuch 
as it is by its active power {virlus), 
and not by its matter, that the 
agent reaches the matter of the ob- 
ject acted upon ; 

3. Hence that any material sub- 
stance, which is anywhere by rea- 
son of its matter, has within itself 
a power prepared to act where the 
substance itself is not present by its 

As the ae/w in dislitns shocks 
vulgar prejudices, and has there- 
fore many decided adversaries, it is 
plain that we must be ready to 
meet a great number of objections. 
l''or the present we respectfully in- 
vite those who consider the action 
at a distance as an obvious impos- 
sibility to examine carefully the 
arguments by which we have es- 
tablished the impossibility of the 
action by material contact. As to 
their own reasons for a contrary 
opinion, we hope to answer them 
satisfactorily as soon as we have 
done with the explanation of a few 
other preliminaries. 

Power and velocity. — The ques- 
tion which now presents itself is 
the following : Is vtloaly the active 
pim'er a/ malarial substance ? This 
question has some importance in 
the present state of science, on ac- 
count of the confusion generally 
made by physical writers between 
powers, forces, actions, and move- 
ments. We answer that, although 
active power and velocity are now 
generally considered as synony- 
mous, they arc quite different things. 
Here are our reasons : 

In the first pVacc, \t. w -^V-^q- 



J 



;88 Mai 

sophically evident that the result of 
an action and the principle of the 
action cannot be of the same na- 
ture. But velocity is certainly the 
result of an action, whilst the active 
power is the principle of the action. 
And therefore velocity and active 
l>owercannolbeof the same nature. 
But surely, if velocity has not the 
nature of an active power, it is not 
an active power, as every one must 
admit. 

In the second place, the active 
power of creatures, be they materi- 
al or immaterial, is the power by 
the exertion of which they mani- 
fest themselves and their natural 
perfection, ihtis leading us to the 
knowledge of the existence and the 
perfections of our Creator, such a 
knowledge being the end of crea- 
tion, Active power is therefore 
not an accidental and changeable 
nlTeclion, but an essential, primitive, 
and permanent appurtenance of all 
created substances; nor does it 
come from interaction of creatures, 
but only from creation itself; so 
timt wc might well apply to it what 
S, Paul says of the power of kings 
and rulers: "There is no power 
except from God." And accord- 
ingly velocity, which is an accident- 
al and changeable affection of mat- 
ter, cannot be llie active power of 
the material substance. 

In the third place, if velocity 
were the active principle of matter, 
matter would have no definite na- 
ture of iti own. For "nature"is 
defined as the principle of motion ; 
and material substance would be 
destitute of such a principle; for 
velocity, by which it is aasumed 
that it would cause movement, has 
no part in the constitution of the 
lubstance itself. Hence we must 
conclude that either material sub- 
itance has no definite nature of its 
uwn, or, if this cannot be adrailVcd, 



the active power of matterisDDtiu I 
velocity. 

In the fourth place, a man ol 
matter at rest acts on the bodjb 
which it is supported, and exertisn 
a pressure against it ; and thewfeic 
matter is active independenllj o( 
actual movement; which conclu- 
sively shows that the active pom 
of matter has nothing common with 

Lastly, velocity is an accidenlil 
mode; and nothing accidental pt«- 
sesses active power, as has betd 
shown in one of our philosopWdi 
articles.* 

Thus it appears that the aetin 
power of material substance is nd 
its velocity. Those physicists who 
acknowledge no other powers b 
"masses multiplied by velocilits" 
are therefore wholly mistaken. Tht 
product of 3 mass into its velocii* 
does not represent an active power, 
and not even a dynamical forcCp bii' 
simply the quantity of an eflisi 
produced by a previous action. Il 
is true that a mas-; animated b; 
velocity can /& jvork, which i 
mass at rest cannot do. Bui *t 
have shown in the article just men- 
tioned that such a work is done, 
not by velocity, but by the n 
power^ inherent in the body, tbt 
velocity being only a condilHU 
a'lte qua nan. Nor does il mittet 
that the work done by a body it ' 
function of its velocity. Thisontr 
proves that the gre.-iter the velocilT 
of the body, the greater is tht re- 
sistance required to exhaust it. 

Sphere of action. — The B«t 
question is : Has ma/fera sphirt^ 
action t That is, Dots a pHaai^ 
element of mailer act around stuif 
with equal itilensily en all otMtr^ 
ments equally distant frbm ilt 

The answer must be affirmaiiw- 



c Would. W«trt, a„. 



J 



[, since the active principle 
[rial substance is destined, 
ire stated, to produce local 
. it is evident that its 
St proceed from a term 
a point in space, and reacii 
trms tr.arking other similar 
Local movement, in fact, 
libe produced, unless the 
yUed on be determined by 
Bt to follow a certain direc- 
Ihc direction of the move- 
3e imparted by the 
(hich imparts the movement. 
" E direction of the move- 
ind of the action which 
[, cannot evidently be con- 
without two distinct points, 
I marked in space by the 
khe other by the patient. 
(the exertion of the active 
Iter necessarily pro- 
Kfin a point in space to 
loints in space. Whether 
Inla be rigorously unextend- 
I mathematically indivisible 
inquire in another article; 
let at present is only to show 
[isity ai a local term from 
ihe direction of the action 
broceed towards other local 

Lbeing understood, we can 

IV that the point from which 

n of a material element is 

i is the centre of a sphere 

■, in other terms, that 

; elements of matter 

I sphere of which they oc- 

K centre. This proposition 

that material elements not 

t all around, or in every 

. also that they act 

(ual intensity at equal dis- 

This we show in the fol- 

jnanner. 

tarlh, the planets, and the 

I in all directions, and the 

^of their respective actions, 

things being equal, de- 



(er. 589 

penda on their distance from the 
bodies acted on; so that, all other 
things being equal, to equal dis- 
tances equal actions correspond. 
That such actions really proceed 
from the earth, the planets, and the 
sun respectively there can be no 
doubt. For to no other sources 
can the actions be referred than to 
those bodies from which both their 
direction and their intensity pro- 
ceed. Now, the action by which 
a planet is attracted is directed to 
the centre of the sun, and the ac- 
tion by which a satellite is retained 
in its orbit is directed to the centre 
of the planet to which it belongs. 
On the other hand, the intensity of 
all such actions varies only with 
the distance of the planet from the 
sun, and of the saleliile from the 
planet. Whence we conchide that 
the actions which we attribute to 
these bodies are really their own. 

Now, if such great bodies as the 
sun, the earth, and all the planets 
act thus in a sphere, it is manifest 
that every particle of matter in 
their mass acts in a sphere. For 
the action of the whole mass, being 
only a resultant of the particular 
actions of all the component ele- 
ments, cannot but follow the na- 
ture of its components; and there- 
fore, from the fuel that the action 
of the whole mass is directed in a 
sphere, and has equal intensity at 
equal distances, we must conclude 
that all the component actions are 
similarly directed, and have equal in- 
tensities at equal distances. Hence 
every element of matter has a 
sphere of action, and acts all 
around itself with equal actions on 
alt otUer elements equally distant 
from it. 

This conclusion applies to all 
matter. For we have proved, on 
the one hand, that matter cannot 
act except at a distance, acid^OTi 



the other, we can show by s. gener- 
al argument that the actions them- 
selves must be equH at equal dis- 
tances around each centre of activ- 
ity. Ii is evident, in fact, that the 
actions of any material element on 
any other must be equal when the 
local relation between the elements 
is the same. But whatever be the 
position in space of the element 
acted on, its local relation to the 
Other clement remains the same 
whenever the distance between 
them is not altered ; for so !ong as 
we consider two elements only, no 
other local relation can be conceiv- 
ed to exist between them than that 
of distance ; and therefore a change 
of position in space which does 
not alter the distance of the two 
elements leaves them in the same 
relation witli one another, however 
much it may alter their relation to 
other surrounding matter. Since, 
then, the elements which are ar- 
ranged spherically around a given 
element are all equally distant 
from it, they are all equally related 
to it, and are all acted on in the 
same manner. And therefore all 
material element acts with equal 
intensity on all other elements 
equally distant from it. 

The trutli of this proposition 
being very generally acknowledged 
by astronomers and physicists, we 
need not dwell on it any longer. 
We must, however, mention and 
solve two objections which have 
been advanced against it. The 
first is, that the cohesion of the 
molecules in a certain number of 
bodies is more energetic in some 
directions than in others ; as in 
crystals, which are cleavable only 
in definite planes. This would 
lend to show that material elements 
do not always act in a sphere. 
The second objection is, that the 
action of the sun and ot Vhe v\a.u- 



^s ; am 
; aclij 

11 bM 



ets, on which the dem 
our proposition is grouu 
be denied. Some modet 
cists, in fact, bold that wha 
sist in calling " univeisa 
tion " is not attraction, 
an ethereal pressure exci 
the celestial bodic 
be the real case, the i 
ter in a sphere will 1 
question. 

In answer to the Grsf c 
we say that elements of ma 
molecules of bodies are i 
confounded. The moleci 
pable of internal moven 
we have alre.idy reroark< 
therefore every molecule 
of a number of primitive 
having a distinct and ind 
existence in space. Henc 
lion of a molecule is not 
action, but is the resultai 
actions proceeding from t 
tinct elements ; and it is p 
if such elements are mac 
proach the centre of the 
in one direction more thi 
other, the resultant of ihei 
will be greater in one 
than in another, and the r 
ing molecules will adhere 
other more firmly in one 
than in another. This ii 
of molecular actions di 
however, extend beyond t 
of molecular distances; f 
the distance is great (ant 
call great those distances 
parison with which the dia 
a molecule is of no Bccoun 
distinct centres of elcmer 
tion may be admitted to 
with the centre of the mole 
all their spheres to coalesce 
sphere. And thus at sot 
distances all molecix] 
than all primitive elci 

The second objectiool 




hr assumption that ihe uui- 
[ ether, owing to the centri- 
Ibrce called into existence by 
iation of the celestial bodies. 
Iced, around each of them, to 
bity directly proportional to 
Stance from the centre of the 
ia. Hence they suppose that 
Sher which surrounds and 
b the earth must be denser 
B hemisphere where there is 
(han on that where there is day, 
ke the former is more distant 
^e sun than the latter; and 
fefcr that on the former hemi- 
fcthe pressure of the ether must 
ifcterthan onthelaller; which 
kthem to the conclusion that 
Irth must move towards the 
Ith a velocity proportional to 
Berence between the two pres- 
1: Such isthe theory by which 
ImodeTn thinkers tried io 
tat universal attraction. We 
mot go far to show the utter 
gity of this rash conception, as 
bet common phenomena and 
Bfit elementary principles of 
Inics supply ua with abundant 
I of its falsity. Centrifugal 
Hb necessarily perpendicular 
I axis of the rotation, and is 
Itional to the radius of the 
hdescribett Hence its inten- 
mich is a maximum on the 

t of the revolving body, di- 
Ets from the equator to the 
liwhere it becomes = o. If, 
ether surrounding the 

[or any other celestial body) 
by centrifugal force a 
It density at a greater distance 
ibe earth, the effect must be 
)r at the equator than in any 
from the equator to the 

nd bodies must accordingly 

I greater weight, and fall with 

impetus, at the equator 

UiylKtitudc. Moreover, all 



bodies should fall in the direction 
of the pressure — that is, perpen- 
dicularly to the axis of rotation, 
and not perpendicularly to the hori- 
zon. Then, also, the pressure of 
the ether being proportional to the 
surface of the falling body, of two 
equal masses having different sur- 
faces, the one whose surface is greater 
should fall with a greater impetus. 
Now, all this is contrary to fact. 

The preceding remarks suffice to 
annihilate the theory. We might 
add that centrifugal forces are not 
active powers, as the theory as- 
sumes, but only components of the 
rotatory movement, and affections 
of the rotating matter. Hence, if 
the ether surrounding the earth 
does not rotate with it, its conden- 
sation through centrifugal force is a 
patent impossibility ; while, if the 
ether rotates with the earth, its 
condensation through centrifugal 
force -will again be impossible, inas- 
much as its centrifugal force will be 
greater and greater in proportion 
as its distance from Ihe carfh is 
greater. It is rarefaction, not con- 
densation, that would take place in 
this latter hypothesis. One word 
more. If the mere difference of 
the pressures exercised by the 
ether on the two hemispheres of .n 
planet is sufficient to communicate 
to it a considerable centripetal ve- 
locity, as the theory asserts, how 
can we escape the conclusion that 
all progress of a planet in its orbit 
should have been checked long ago 
by the total pressure of the same 
ether on its advancing hemi- 



sphe 



;? 



strange indeed that a the- 
ory so preposterous in its assump- 
tions and so absurd in its conse- 
quences can have found favor with 
scientific writers in the full light of 
this nineteenth century! 



S0^ Antar mat Zara. 



ANTAR AND ZARA; 

UK. 

"THE ONLY TRUE LOVERS.- 

AN XASTSRN ROMANCE NARftATKD IN 80M08. 
BY AUBRBV DB VBKB. 

PART IV. 



SUK SANO. 



I. 



Ir came: it reached me from afar : 
I kissed the seal, the cords unwove ; 

Came wafted from the fields of war 
On all the odorous airs of love. 

Close hid I sang ; close hid I sighed 

In places where no echoes were, 
Where dashed the streams through gorges wide, 

And sprays leaned back on moistened air. 

I sang a song, half sighs, yet proud, 
And smothered by those downward rills, 

A music proud, and yet not loud, 
As when her babe a mother stills. 



II. 

Behold ! for thee, and for thy love 
I fain would make my spirit fair : 

For this I strive ; for this I strove : 
My toil, though late, shall blossom bear. 

Before thy fece the plant shall rise. 
In thy fair presence bloom and flower : 

O love me! Thou art great and wise : — 
HeaTl-g;ce2Axits& is the woman's dower. 



Antar and Zara. 1593 

Thou mad'st me as a warrior young 

That yearns to flesh a maiden sword, 
That burns for battle with tlie strong, 

That pants to crush some rebel horde. 

Rebels I count all things in me 
That bear no impress of my King 1 
^ Fair is a great king's jealousy ; 

His worth he knoweth " ; thus I sing. 



in 

I stood upon a rock what time 
The moon rushed up above the plain : 

The crags were white like frosty rime ; 
Her .beams upon me fell like rain. 

It was her harvest month of might: 
The vales and villages were glad ; 

I cried — my palms against the light — 
Like one with sudden pinions clad, 

** Whom seek'st thou, O thou rising moon 
That broad'nest like a warrior's shield ? 
Whom seest thou ? Thou shalt see him soon, 
My Warrior 'mid the tented field I 

'' He reaches now some gorge's mouth ; 
Upon his helmet thou shalt shine j — 
Seest thouy O moon, from north to south, 
Another loved one like to mine ? " 



IV. 

No merchant from the isles of spice 
Who stands in hushed hareem or hall 

Who parts his goods, and names the price, 
Was I, O friend ! I gave thee all. 

When from me I had all things cast 

Except thy gifts, that hour I found 
A gift I, too, might give at last — 
The being thou had*st made and crowned 1 
XIX. — 3S 



584 

an actio in (tislans, and he liim&elf 
supports llie same doctrine, al- 
though suggesting that it should be 
expressed in somewhat different 
terms. We propose to show that 
this latter soltition is the only one 
consistent with the principles both 
of science and of philosophy. And 
as the opposite view owes its ori- 
gin, and in a great measure its 
plausibility, to the known theory 
of kinetic forces as deduced from 
the impact of bodies, we shall argue 
from the same theory in support 
of our conclusion. 

Here is our argument. When a 
hody impinges upon another body, 
if any communication of movement 
is made by a true and immcdi-ate 
contact of matter with matter, its 
duration must be limited to that 
indivisible instant of time in which 
the distance between the struggling 
particles of matter becomes ^ o. 
But in an indivisible instant of time 
no finite velocity can be commu- 
nicated. And therefore no real 
movement can be caused in the im- 
pact of bodies by a true and imme- 
diate contact of matter with mat- 

We think that this argument ad- 
mits of no reply. Its major propo- 
iition is the statement of an obvi- 
ous geometric truth. Nor can it 
be gainsaid by assuming that Che 
duration of the action can be pro- 
longed ; for the action, in the opin- 
ion of those against whom we now 
are arguing, is supposed to require 
true material contact ; and it is 
plain that two particles of matter 
coming into contact cannot remain 
in contact for any length of time, 
however inappreciable, unless in 
the very first instant of their meet- 
ing their velocities have become 
equal; it being evident that two 
particles of matteranimated by dif- 
fereat velocities cannot pTesccve 



for any length of time the suncR- 
lation in space. To assume, ibtw- 
fore, that the contact can be pio- 
longed, is to assume that from Ibi 
very first instant of the colliaiwi 
the unequal velocities of tlic nnif 
gling particles have been eqiialiud, 
or, in other terms, that the veloat* 
imparted has been communicaltd 
in the very first instant of the im- 
pact. Hut if so, then the assumfi- 
tion of a prolonged contact, U i 
means of communicating the velo- 
city, is altogether useless, ttnd ii- 
volves an evident contradictin. 
It is therefore necessary to coacc^ 
that, if the velocity is comraimifit- 
ed by a true and immediate coatiet 
of matter with matter, the comni- 
nication must be made in an indi- 
visible instant of time. 

The minor proposition of « 
syllogism is equally evident. F«r 
it is one of the fundamental axioo* 
of mechanics that actions, all oCIht 
things being equal, are proportlot- 
al to their respective duration; 
whence it is plain that an acliw 
of which the duration is infinittsi- 
mal cannot produce more than w 
infinitesimal effect. And iherefoK 
no finite velocity can be produc«t 
by true material contact, 

Against this argument four eh- 
jections may be advanced: PiW- 
that although in the contact oftM 
point with another point no fiiuK 
velocity can be communicated|f« 
in the case of a multitude offiloc- 
rial points coming into coIHsioO 
the effect might be apprecilbk- 
Secondly, that a particle of nuiC 
may be carried straight away M 
another particle which impinff* 
upon it with sufficient velocity 
Thirdly, Chat a distinction is»t* 
made between continuous and '"" 
stantaneous actions, and that, "- 
though a continuous action pwJ"" 
ces an effect proportion^ 




Mhe case of univer- 
ictton, yet instanlaneoiis 
IS in the case of impact, 

necessarily follow the 
Lastiv, that even admit- 
impossibility of producing 
locity in an infinitesimal 
lime, yei finite velocity 
ill be communUaUd in an 
mal unit of lime without 

jtroduclion, as modern 
. assume. 

; first objection we answer 
Bch material point cannot, 
istant of the contact, ac- 
»re than an infinitesimal 
the whole multitude will 
J an infinitesimal velocity; 
no movement will ensue. 
s second we answer that 
; cannot be carried straight 
,es5 it receives a communi- 
finite velocity; and such 

lOwn, cannot be made in 
Bt of the contact, 
iird objection we answer 
ng that there is any rigor- 
tontaneouii action. When 
I speak of " instantaneous " 
they mean actions having 
duration, which, however, 
rl that it cannot be appre- 
r measured by our means 
rvalion. And therefore 
ailed an " instantaneous " 

nothing but a coniinu- 
on of a short duration. 

difference of duration is 
(Terence in kind ; and ac- 
r,if actions are proporlion- 
Ir duration when their du- 
longer, liiey are no less so 
lir duration is shorter. 
last objection takes for 
that there can be a corn- 
on of velocity without pro- 
)f velocity; whicii amounts 
; that the velocity of the 
ig body is transmitted iden- 



Ur. 585 

tically to the body impinged upon. 
This is, however, a mere delusion. 
The velocity acquired by the 
body impinged upon has no pre- 
vious existence in the imping- 
ing body ; and accordingly its 
communication implies its real 
production, as we have proved in 
one of our past articles.' 

The atfio in ifistans can also be 
proved from the very nature of 
material activity. It is generally 
admitted that the active power of 
mailer is either attractive or repul- 
sive ; for all men of science agree 
that the movements of the material 
world are brought about by attrac- 
tions and repulsions. Now, attrac- 
tion and repulsion do not imply 
a material contact between the 
agent and the patient, but, on the 
contrary, exclude it ; and therefore 
all the movements of the material 
world are due to actions at a dis- 
tance. That attraction excludes 
material contact is quite evident. 
for attraction produces movemenl 
by causing the approach of one 
body to another; and it is evident 
that no approach will be possible 
if the bodies are already in immedi- 
ate contact. It is therefore an es- 
sential condition for the possibility 
of attraction that the agent be not 
in immediate contact with the 
patient. And as for repulsion, it is 
known that it serves to keep tht 
molecules of a body distant from 
one another, and consequently it is 
exercised at molecular distances. 
This is especially evident in the 
case of clastic fluids. For repul- 
sion obtains among the moleeidc- 
of such fluids, whether the said 
molecules be pressed nearer or Ici 
furtlier apart. And therefore ti-- 
pulsion, too, is exercised without 
material contact. 






WdHU), UuCb, >^*.VK(ift1*M- 



S96 



Ma$tet. 



Some modern physicists try to 
do away with repulsion, and ex- 
plain the pressure exercised by 
a gas against the vessel .in which 
it is confined by saying that the 
gaseous molecules are continually 
flying aboiit in all direc^nS|j^4 
continually impinging on the inte- 
rior surface of the recipient, where 
their excursions are intercepted, 
and that this continuous series of 
impacts constitutes what we call 
the pressure of the gas on the ves- 
sel. 

But this new theory cannot bear 
one moment's examination. It is 
wholly gratuitous ; it disregards me- 
chanical principles by admitting 
that the movement of the mole- 
cules can go on unabated in spite 
of repeated impacts, and it assumes 
that the momentum of a moving 
molecule is its active power ; which 
is utterly false, as we will show la- 
tor. 

Other physicists have tried to get 
rid of attraction, also, by assuming 
that those effects which we ascribe 
to attraction are to be attributed to 
ethereal pressure. This hypothe- 
sis has no better foundation than 
the preceding one, and is equally 
untenable for many reasons which 
we shall explain hereafter. 

The €utio in distans can also be 
directly proved by the consider- 
.-ition of statical forces. We know 
that the action which tends to com- 
municate movement in a given 
direction cannot be frustrated or 
neutralized, except by an action of 
the same intensity applied in an 
opposite direction. It is evident, 
on the other hand, that, if the first 
requires an immediate contact of 
matter with matter, the second also 
must be subject to the same condi- 
tion. Now, this latter is altogether 
independent of such a condition. 
/Iccordingiyi the former also — ^that 



is, the action which tends to com- 
municate the movement — ^is inde- 
pendent of a true materisd con- 
tact. 

The minor proposition of tlas 
syllogism may be proved as follows: 
L^t a small cub^ of hani steel 
be placed, on a smoodi, fi&irizontal 
plate of cast iron lying on a table. 
The cube will remain at rest on 
the plate, notwithstanding the ao 
tion of gravity upon it, becatisei 
while the cube tends to fall and 
presses the plate, the action of the 
plate frustrates that tendency, and 
keeps the equilibrium. Now, the 
cube and the plate do not immedi- 
ately touch one another with their 
matter ; for we know that they caa 
be brought nearer than they are. 
We may place, for instance, a $^ 
cond cube on the top of the first, 
and thus increase the pressure on 
the plate, and cause the plate itself 
to react with an increased intensity. 
But it is obvious that neither of the 
two actions can become intenser, 
unless the cube is brought nearer 
to the plate ; for the resistance of 
the plate cannot be modified, un- 
less some of the previous condi- 
tions be altered ; and since the 
two surfaces have remained the 
same, no other condition can be 
conceived to be changed except 
their relative distance. It is theI^ 
fore a change, and in fact a dimioQ- 
tion, of the distance between the 
cube and the plate that entails the 
change of the action. Whence we 
see that, even in the case of the so- 
called physiceU contact, bodies do 
not touch one another with their 
matter. This shows that physical 
contact does not exclude distance; 
and therefore, when we say that 
two bodies touch one another, the 
fact We express is that the two 
bodies are so near to one anoth^ 
that th^ cannoi {^prooch wttr^^ 



tteir molecular arrangement 
\turbed by Ihetr mutual ac- 
fherefore the hypothesis 
lie material contact of mnt- 
matter is needed for caus- 
br hindering movement is 
liable with fact, 
irther development of this 
B may add that one of the 
y conditions for the e<|uili- 
f the cube on the plate is, 
action of the plate have a 
\ opposite to the 'action of 



No- 



what- 



, be conceived but between 
inct, and therefore distant, 

Accordingly, there cannot 
least doubt that all the 
elonging to the surface of 
e are really distant from 

the neighboring surface of 
>e. Whence we conclude 
at their mutual action is 
d at a distance, 
'proofs of the same truth 
e drawn, if necessary, from 
hsideralions. Faraday, from 
(omcna of electric coniUic- 
I led to the conclusion that 
)m of matter, though oc- 
S mere point in space, has n 
faction extending through- 
vhole solar system.* Bos- 

from the law of continuity, 
hiEes that movement is not 
itated through material 
And mechanical writers 
) consider all dynamical 
Uiat is, all accelerating or 
jl actions — as functions of 
\\ which shows that all 
btions depend on distance, 
r for their direction, but 

their intensity, We have 
of developing these proofs, 
link tliat the preceding ar- 
' are abundantly sufficient 



ttr. 587 

to convince all intelligent readers 
of the truth of our conclusion, viz. : 

1. That distance is a necessary 
conditicin of the action of matter 
upon matter ; 

2. That the contact between the 
agent and the object acted on is 
not material, but virtual, inasmuch 
as it is by its active power (virtus), 
and not by its matter, that the 
agent reaches the matter of the ob- 
ject acted upon ; 

3. Hence that any material sub- 
stance, which is anywhere by rea- 
son of its matter, has within itself 
a power prepared to act where the 
substance itself is not present by its 
matter. 

As the aetia in distans shocks 
vulgar prejudices, and has there- 
fore many decided adversaries, it is 
plain that we must be ready to 
meet a great number of objections. 
For the present we respectfully in- 
vite those who consider the action 
at a distance as an obvious impos- 
sibility to exainine carefully the 
arguments by which we have es- 
tablished the impossibility of the 
action by material contact. As to 
their own reasons for a contrary 
opinion, we hope to answer them 
satisfactorily as soon as we have 
done with the explanation of a few 
other preliminaries. 

Power and velocity. — The ques- 
tion which now presents itself is 
the following : Is velocity Iheactivc 
pinver of material substance } This 
tjuestion has some importance in 
the present state of science, on ac- 
count of the confusion generally 
made by physical writers between 
powers, forces, actions, and move- 
ments. We answer that, although 
active power and velocity are now 
generally considered as synony- 
mous, lliey are quite different things. 
Here are our reasons : 

In the first \ilaec, \t w V^"\n- 



SS8 Mai 

sophically evident that the result of 
an action and the principle of the 
action cannot be of the same na- 
ture. But velocity is certainly the 
result of an action, whilst the active 
power is the principle of the action. 
And therefore velocity and active 
power cannot be of the same nature. 
But surdy. if velocity has not the 
nature of an active power, it is not 
an active power, as every one must 
admit. 

In the second place, the active 
power of creatures, be they materi- 
al or immaterial, is the power by 
the exertion of which they mani- 
fest themselves and their natural 
perfection, thus leading us to the 
knowledge of the existence and the 
perfections of our Creator, such a 
knowledge being the end of crea- 
tion. Active power is therefore 
not an accidental and changeable 
affection, but an essential, primitive, 
and permanent appurtenance of all 
created substances; nor does it 
come from interaction of creatures, 
but only from creation itself; so 
tiiat we might well apply to it what 
S. Paul says of the power of kings 
and rulers: "There is no power 
except from God." And accord- 
ingly velocity, which is an accident- 
al and changeable affection of mat- 
ter, cannot be the active power of 
the material substance. 

In the third place, if velocity 
were the active principle of matter, 
matter would have no definite Jia- 
ture of its own. For "nature " is 
defined as the principle of motion ; 
and material substance would be 
destitute of such a principle; for 
velocity, by which it is assumed 
that it would cause movement, has 
no part in the constitution of the 
substance itself Hence we must 
conclude that either material sub- 
stance has no definite nature of its 
own, or, if tliis cannot be admvaed, 



the active power of matter is nut in I 
velocity. 

In the fourth place, a maa of 
matter at rest acts on the bodjby 
which it is supported, and exercises 
a pressure against it ; and thertferc 
matter is active independcnl!yo[ 
actual movement; which conclu- 
sively shows that the active pottr 
of matter has nothing common * 
its velocity. 

Lastly, velocity is an accidoiul 
mode; and nothing accidental pos- 
sesses active power, as has brts 
shown in one of our philosopbial 
articles.* 

Thus it appears that the acti« 
power of material substance is W* 
its velocity. Those physicists «l» 
acknowledge no other powen bl< 
"masses multiplied by velocilio* 
are therefore wholly mistaken. Tlit 
product of a mass into its velocity 
does not represent an active power, 
and not even a dynamical force, but 
simply the quantity of an tS«: 
produced by a previous action, I' 
is true that a mass animated bv 
velocity can «<? -U'orJt, which > 
mass at rest cannot do. But « 
have shown in the article just men- 
tioned that such a work is done, 
not by velocity, but by the naWnl 
powers inherent in the body. tl» 
velocity being only a condiliu 
iine qua nan. Nor does it nwlter 
that the work done by a bodyi* '■ 
function of its velocity. ThisonlT 
proves that the greater the velociir 
of the body, the greater is the K- 
sistance required to exhaust it. 

Sphere of action.— The M« 
question is ; Has matter a ^htrt*! 
action f That is, Does a pHmH^ 
elemeni of matter ael around Hs^ 
with equal intensity on aU other *" 
ments equally distant from Ut 

The answer roust be affirnul'^- 




It, since the active principle 
trial substance is destined, 
re staled, to produce local 
mt, it is evident that its 
EDust proceed from a term 
[ a point in space, and reach 
imis marking other similar 
Local movement, in fact, 
be produced, unless the 
(cd on be determined by 
tt to follow a certain direc- 
I the direction of the move- 
lust be imparted by the 
bich imparts the movement. 
ic direction of the move- 
ad of the action which 
^cannot evidently be con- 
rithout two distinct points, 
I marked in space by the 
he other by the patient. 
the exertion of the active 
rf matter necessarily pro- 
^m a point in space to 
^nts in space. Whether 
Idis be rigorously unextend- 
mathematically indivisible 
linquire in another article; 
Ct at present is only to show 
isity of a local term from 
he direction of the action 
rocced towards other local 

being understood, we can 
Iw that the point from which 
m of a material element is 
r is the centre of a sphere 
^, or, in other terms, that 
bitive elements of matter 
sphere of which they oc- 
icenCre. This proposition 
plat material elements not 
^all around, or in every 
I, but also that they act 
■al intensity at equal dis- 
i'Hiis wc show in the fol- 
lanner. 

hrlh, the planets, and the 
Sn all directions, and the 
rof their respective actions, 
\ things being equal, de- 



ter. 589 

penda on their distance from the 
bodies acted on; so that, all other 
things being equal, to equal dis- 
tances equal actions correspond. 
That such actions really proceed 
from the earth, the planets, and the 
sun respectively there can be no 
doubt, For to no other sources 
can the actions be referred than to 
those bodies from which both their 
direction and their intensity pro- 
ceed. Now, the action by which 
a planet is attracted is directed to 
the centre of the sun, and the ac- 
tion by which a satellite is retained 
in its orbit is directed to the centre 
of the planet to which it belongs. 
On the other hand, the intensity of 
all such actions varies only with 
the distance of the planet from the 
sun, and of the satellite from the 
planet. Whence we conclude that 
the actions which we attribute to 
these bodies are really their own. 

Now, if such great bodies as the 
sun, the earth, and all the planets 
act thus in a sphere, it is manifest 
that every particle of matter in 
their mass acts in a sphere. For 
the action of the whole mass, being 
only a resultant of the particular 
actions of all the component ele- 
ments, cannot but follow the na- 
ture of its components ; and there- 
fore, from the fact that the action 
of the whole mass is directed in a 
sphere, and has equal intensity at 
equal distances, we must conclude 
that all the component actions are 
similarly directed, and have equal in- 
tensities at equal distances. Hence 
every element of matter has a 
sphere of action, and acta all 
around itself with equal actions on 
all other elements equally distant 

This conclusion applies to all 
matter. For we have proved, on 
the one hand, that matter cannot 
act except at a disiancc, Mid^siTv 



n^ 



Matter. 



the other, we can show by a gener- 
al argument that the actions them- 
selves must be equ^ at equal dis- 
tances around each centre of activ- 
ity. It is evident, in fact, that the 
actions of any material element on 
any other must be equal when the 
local relation between the elements 
is the same. But whatever be the 
position in space of the element 
acted on, its local relation to the 
other element remains the same 
whenever the distance between 
them is not altered ; for so long as 
we consider two elements only, no 
other local relation can be conceiv- 
ed to exist between them than that 
of distance ; and therefore a change 
of position in space which does 
not alter the distance of the two 
elements leaves them in the same 
relation with one another, however 
much it may alter their relation to 
other surrounding matter. Since, 
then, the elements which are ar- 
ranged spherically around a given 
element are all equally distant 
from it, they are all equally related 
to it, and are all acted on in the 
same manner. And therefore all 
material element acts with equal 
intensity on all other elements 
equally distant from it. 
• The truth of this proposition 
being very generally acknowledged 
by astronomers and physicists, we 
need not dwell on it any longer. 
We must, however, mention and 
solve two objections which have 
been advanced against it. The 
first is, that the cohesion of the 
molecules in a certain number of 
bodies is more energetic in some 
directions than in others ; as in 
crystals, which are cleavable only 
in definite planes. This would 
tend to show that material elements 
do not always act in a sphere. 
The second objection is, that the 
kciioti ot the sun and of the plan- 



ets, on which the demonsi 
our proposition is groui 
be denied. Some mode 
cists, in fact, hold that wh; 
sist in calling " univer& 
tion " is not attraction, 
an ethereal pressure exc 
the celestial bodies ; ai 
be the real case, the actic 
ter in a sphere will be < 
question. 

In answer to the first 
we say that elements of m 
molecules of bodies are 
confounded. The molec 
pable of internal move 
we have already remarl 
therefore every molecule 
of a number of primitive 
having a distinct and inc 
existence in space. Hen- 
tion of a molecule is not 
action, but is the results 
actions proceeding from 
tinct elements ; and it is ] 
if such elements are ma 
proach the centre of the 
in one direction more ih 
other, the resultant of tht 
will be greater in one 
than in another, and the 
ing molecules will adher 
other more firmly in one 
than in another. This i 
of molecular actions c 
however, extend beyond 
of molecular distances ; 
the distance is great (an 
call^r^^ those distances 
parison with which the di; 
a molecule is of no accoui 
distinct centres of eleme 
tion may be admitted to 
with the centre of the mol 
all their spheres to coalesc 
sphere. And thus at su< 
distances all molecules 
than all primitive elemec 
a sphere. 

The second objection re 



ir assumption that the unU 
cthcr, owing to the centri- 
brce called into existence by 
[ation of the celestial bodies, 
iced, around each of them, to 
BIy directly proportional to 
Ranee from the centre of the 
U. Hencelhey suppose that 
[her which surrounds and 
I the earth must be denser 
! hemisphere where there is 
kan on that where there isday, 
le the former is more distant 
tke sun than the latter ; and 
ifer that on the former hemi- 
Ithc pressure of the ether must 
iterthon on the latter; which 
'them to the conclusion that 
Hh must move towards the 
hh a velocity proportional to 
(fcrence between the two pres- 
\ Such isthe theory by which 
jinodern thinkers tried to 
|Bt universal attraction. We 
|U)t go far to show the utter 
Kty of this rash conception, as 
pst common phenomena and 
tat elementary principles of 
tales supply us with abundant 
r of its falsity. Centrifugal 
iB necessarily perpendicular 
I axis of the rotation, and is 
Itional to the radius of the 
^scribed. Hence its inten- 
nich is a tnaximum on the 
W of the revoiving body, di- 
(es from the equator to the 
jwhere it becomes = o. If, 
Mie ether surrounding the 
Cor any other celestial body) 
M by centrifugal force a 
r density at a greater distance 
fibe earth, the effect must be 
k at ihc equator than in any 
from the equator to the 
lod bodies mtist accordingly 
Igreater weight, and fall with 
impetus, at the equator 
y latitude. Moreover, all 



bodies should fall in the direction 
of the pressure — that is, perpen- 
dicularly to the axis of rotation, 
and not perpendicularly to the hori- 
zon. Then, also, the pressure of 
the ether being proportional to the 
surface of the falling body, of two 
equal masses having different sur- 
faces, the one whose surface is greater 
should fall with a greater impetus. 
Now, all this is contrary to fact. 

The preceding remarks suffice to 
annihilate the theory. We might 
add that centrifugal forces are not 
active powers, as the theory as- 
sumes, but only components of the 
rotatory movement, and affections 
of the rotating matter. Hence, if 
the ether surrounding the eartli 
does not rotate with it, its conden- 
sation through centrifugal force is a 
patent impossibility ; while, if the 
ether rotates with the earth, its 
condensation through centrifugal 
force will again be impossible, inas- 
much as its centrifugal force will be 
greater and greater in proportion 
as its distance from the earlTi is 
greater. It is rarefaction, not con- 
densation, that would take place in 
this latter hypothesis. One word 
more. If the mete difference of 
the pressures, exercised by the 
ether on the two hemispheres of a 
planet is sufficient lo communicate 
to it a considerable centripetal ve- 
locity, as the theory asserts, how 
can wc escape the conclusion that 
all progress of a planet in its orbit 
should have been checked long ago 
by the to/ai pressure of the same 
ether on its advancing hemi- 
sphere ? 

It is strange indeed that a the- 
ory so preposterous in its assump- 
tions and so absurd in its conse- 
quences can have found favor with 
scientific writers in the full light of 
this nineteenth century ! 



Afitar and Zara. igOS 

Thou mad'st me as a warrior young 

That yearns to flesh a maiden sword, 
That bums for battle with the strong, 

That pants to crush some rebel horde. 

Rebels I count all things in me 
That bear no impress of my King I 
^ Fair is a great king's jealousy ; 

His worth he knoweth " ; thus I sing. 



Ill 

I stood upon a rock what time 
The moon rushed up above the plain : 

The crags were white like frosty rime ; 
Her .beams upon me fell like rain. 

It was her harvest month of might : 
The vales and village^ were glad ; 

I cried — my palms against the light- 
Like one with sudden pinions clad, 

**^ Whom seek'st tbou» O thou rising moon 
That broad'nest like a warrior's shield ? 
Whom seest thou ? Thou shalt see him soon, 
My Warrior 'mid the tented field 1 

" He reaches now some gorge's mouth ; 
Upon his helmet thou^shalt shine ^ — 
Seest thouy O moon» from north to south, 
Another loved one like to mine ? " 



IV. 

No merchant from the isles of spice 
Who stands in hushed hareem or hall 

Who parts his goods, and names the price, 
Was I, O friend ! I gave thee alL 

When from me I had all things cast 

Except thy gifts, that liour I found 
A gift I, too, might give at last — 
The being thou had'st made and crowned ! 
X.— j8 



594- AtUar and Zara. 



I am not nothing since thy vow 
Enriched roy heart. 77^at wealth is mine : 
<* Nothing " I call myself, that thou 

May'st hear, O love ! and call me thine. 



V. 

High on the hills I sat at dawn 

Where cedar caverns, branching, breathe 
Tlieir darkness o'er the dewy lawn, 

While slowly bloomed in heaven a wreath 

Of eastern lilies. 3oon the sun 

Ascended o'er the far sea-tide 
Smiting to glory billows dun 

And clouds and trees ; and loud I cried, 

'' Thou too shalt rise, my sun — thou too— 
O'er darkUng hearts in power shalt rise, 
And flame on souls, and flash on dew 
Of tears that dim expectant eyes." 

And every wind from vale and glen 
Sang loud, ** He, too, shall rise and shine 1 

A wanior he, a chief of men, 
A prince with might ; and he is thine." 



VI. 

Men praised my words. Thy spirit dwells 
Within me, strangely linked with mine : 

At times my mind's remotest cells 

Brighten with thoughts less mine than thine. 

A gleam of thee on me they cast : 

They wear thy look ; they catch thy tone : 

A kingdom in my breast thou hast : — 
The words they praised were not mine own. 



VII. 



A chance was that — our meeting first ? 

At mom I read a quaint old book 
That told of maiden palace-nursed 

Who met a ^^nnce beside a brook. 



Ant at and Zara. 595 

•* Beside mtr brook the lilies blow," 

I mused, " green-girt, and silver-tipped " ; 
And, dreaming of their bells of snow, 
At eve adown the rocks I tripped. 

Sudden I saw thee ! — saw thee take 

Toward me thy path I I turned, and fled : 

So swiftly pushed I through the brake 
My girdle dropped : — still on I sped. 

Had I but guessed that past the dates 
Tiiat hour the stranger youth made way, 

I ne*er had left my maiden mates 
Beside that brook, alone^ to stray. 



VIII. 

Surely my thoughts, ere yet we met, 
Even then were loyal to their lord ; 

The tides of all my being set 

Towards thee with blind yet just accord. 

When first 1 kenned, through showers aslant, 

The snowy Lebanonian line, 
When first I heard the night-bird's chant. 

Even then my beating heart was thine. 

When minstrels sang the sacred strife, 
And thus I wept, '' The land made free 

By warrior's sword is as a wife 
Whose head is on her husband's knee,*' 

Then, too, I nursed this hope sublime : 
My breast unconscious turned to thee : 

Let no one say there lived a time 
When thou wert nothing unto me f 



IX. 



How often, dimmed by grateful tears, 
I see that convent near the snow 

Wherein I lived those seven sweet years, 
And seven times saw the lilies blow \ 



^9'^ AfUar amd Z^irtu 



There sent to couch on pavements cold, 

Fearless to suffer and to dare, 
And reverence learn from nuns darkrStoled 

Who live in penance and in prayer. 

There, too, of love they saog^^-there, too — 
Ah 1 not this love of maid and youth ! 

To that first love oh ! keep me true, 
Thou Who art Love at once and Truth ! 

Have I not heard of hearts that nuraod 
This human love, yet wronged tbeir troth ? 

That first, great love they outraged first :- 
Falsehood to that was death ta.both ! 



X. 

Now glorious grows my Warrior's natne : 

The very babes his praises spread : 
But late released, this mom they caniilb 
' Around me, damouiing, <* Give us bread T' 

Hj^ light was on them ! Freed by hkn, 
A land redeemed I saw them tread I 

I gazed on them with eyes tear- dim r 
I blessed them, and I gave them bread. 

** What nun is this ?" our ancients sought : 
" This chief we know not can we trust ?•* 

Thou gav'st them back, unbribed, unbought, 
Their towers &r ofi^ their state alugusL 

Thou gav'st to warriors proved of yote 
Victory, by carnage imdisgraced ; 

To matrons hearts unpierced by war;. 
To maids their nuptials high and chaste. 

To others, these : — but what to me ? 

I speak it not : I know it well : 
The fawn whose head is on my knee 

As well as I that gift might tell ! 



Tkt Veil Withdrawn. 



597 



T ri 



THE VEIL WITHDRAWN. 

iOV, FKOM THB FKXirCM OP MADAMS CIATBX, AOTHOK OF **A tlSTBft*S tTOKT," 



PUIU]IAIIGB,".KTC. 



X. 



as the first to return to 
d put an end to my 
id ill-timed reverie. 
2, however, you do not 
y resolution is to be at- 

\.\iQ jciiatura^'* she said, 
ords immediately recall- 
a sense of all that had 
e the previous hour. I 
m instant, and then re- 
know too well what you 
ould think of a vocation 
ich an origin." 
et I cannot deny," she 
t it has had a certain in- 

my destiny ; for, thanks 
iura^ I have had a heavy, 

cross to bear. It is not 

of this cross I wish to 
world, but to embrace it 
;ly and experience more 
)lessings it has revealed 

s above my comprehen- 
a. I no longer under- 

now very well, however, 
>t, that love is the chief 
f happiness?" said she 

[ believe that. Happi- 
>ts chiefly in loving and 
ed, I imagine. Every- 
is merely accessory." 
ou know what is acces- 
all importance when the 
rt and soul are absorbed 
dorcd and adorable be- 

. . but the difficulty is 



to love thus though I say this hesi- 
tatingly, lest it seem ungrateful to 
Lorenzo." 

" You are right, Ginevra. It is 
very difficult, and even impossible, 
in this world, as you will some day 
realize more fully than you do 
now." 

We were both silent for a few 
moments. 

" And my father," I at last re- 
sumed — " what will my poor father 
say to this separation ?" 

"What would he say, I beg to 
know, if a noble, wealthy man — in 
fact, a great lord like Lorenzo — 
should ask my hand on condition 
of carrying me away, like you, be- 
yond the mountains and the sea? 
Do you think he would refuse? 
Well, neither will he refuse Him 
who demands my heart and life. 
For, after all, is not he alone 
great — the only Lord ? . . . But 
of course my father will decide the 
matter. It will be when and as 
he wishes." 

This conversation gave me a 
glimpse of a world into which the 
hour had not yet come for me to 
penetrate, and I was diverted from 
the thoughts it awakened in my 
soul by the excitement and agita- 
tion that followed. But every 
word of this last conversation re- 
mained fixed in my memory ; where- 
as the incidents and impressions of 
the following day only seem like a 
dream — yes, like a dream when I 
recall the confusion of that last 
day, the prcpaialiotvs \ioOci tot xd?|- 



$9« 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



wedding and my journey (for I 
was to leave my father's house and 
my native land nearly at the same 
lime), Ottavia's feverish excite- 
ment, and the quiet activity of Li- 
via, who thought of everything, and 
arranged everything calmly and in 
order. Then there was a succes- 
sion of calls from our young friends 
and relatives, who, according to 
the custom in our country, could 
not be present at the wedding, and 
therefore came to take leave of me 
on the eve, and admire at their 
leisure the rich presents of the 
bridegroom, especially the jewels, 
which were unusually splendid. 
Among these young girls I par- 
ticularly remember my two cousins, 
Mariuccia and Teresina, who, as 
well as their mother, Donna Clelia, 
experienced many conflicting emo- 
tions on the occasion of their young 
cousin s brilliant marriage. Bat in- 
terest and curiosity finally over- 
came the grain of ill-humor which 
ray aunt especially could not help 
feeling at seeing me attain a rank 
and position which her most ambi- 
tious flights could not hope for her 
daughters to obtain. Donna Clelia 
was my father's sister, but she did 
not resemble him in the least. She 
was married to a wealthy man of 
an obscure family, and, as she was 
remarkable for nothing but her 
ability as a manager and her kind 
heart, she had passed her life in a 
different sphere from that my father 
had attained by his talents and 
celebrity. This sometimes caused 
a temporary feeling of spite, but 
she was in the main an excellent 
woman and a good mother. 

At length the great day came 
and nearly passed away; for it was 
not till night came on — that is, 
al)out nine o'clock in the evening — 
that the ceremony took place. 
The large salon was UluminaiXtd 



with all the lights in the crystal 
chandelier, and at the farther end 
of the room an altar had been 
placed, adorned with lights and 
flowers. Before it stood good old 
Don Placido, awaiting those he was 
to unite. His long, white beard 
and Capuchin habit formed a singu- 
lar contrast to the elegant toilets 
around him and the total lack of 
any religious aspect — as was proper 
at a wedding in the midst of a bril- 
liant assembly like this, and in a 
place better fitted for worldly gayct) 
than the celebration of a holy rite. 
Don Fabrizio soon appeared, 
leading the pale, trembling bride 
clothed in white, and wearing on 
her forehead a coronet of diamonds 
whose flairons indicated her new 
rank. Every eye was fastened on 
her, as she knelt beside the bride- 
groom at the feet oT the venerable 
old priest who had baptized her, 
and was now waiting to bless her 
marriage. I only remember that 
the very moment when Don Placi- 
do was joining our hands Liria's 
words occurred to my mind : ** You 
are going to pronounce the most 
fearful vow there is in the w^orld," 
and my voice failed me. Lorenro, 
on the contrary, spoke unhesitat- 
ingly and with perfect distinctness. 
Don Placido then addressed us a 
few words that affected me to tears, 
for he spoke of her who was not 
here to accompany her child to the 
altar ; and this sorrowful recollec- 
tion, alluded to in language so 
touching, made me forget every- 
thing else, and for a few momeD^^ 
entirely absorbed me. I cannot 
recollect anything more till, 1^*"' 
ing on Lorenzo's arm, I descended 
the grand staircase, in order to g'^ 
to the palace he owned at a short 
distance, and where he had lat^^X 
resided. The night was glorious, the 
a\t ^o^ axvd balmy, and I took a ^^^^ 



The Veil Withdra-WH. 



599 



I carriage with nothing 
me but my lace veil. My 
firess was becoming, notwith- 
% my paleness, and the dia- 
I was covered with sparkled 
light of Ihe torches borne 
»ttendants. A murmur of 
;ion ran through the crowd 
(ppcarance; and when Lo- 
»ok a seat at my side, the 
Dunded with cheers and 
latic exclamalions. We at 
off amid cries of "' Ewiva i 
" Bniiva il dura 1" " Ev- 
I duchessal"* ... We 
but not alone. According 
custom, we were preceded, 
fenied, and followed by a 
kf relatives and friends who 
d the house which I now 
for the first time. I was 
to receive them a!l, listen 
n, reply, and, above all, do 
Ors of a place more familiar 
y one there llian lo my- 

old palace had been very 
cent once, but it was now 
dilapidated condition into 
!1 buildings for a long time 
lilcd generally fall. On 
Easion the walls were cov- 
ith ricli hangings, and on 
Ide there was a profusion 
tandfloivers. It was bril- 
iltuminated without, and 
I Ihe open windows of the 
toie the sound of ravishing 
In the garden, For this 
\ at least, they had succeed- 
iving to this ancient habi- 
bot only a sumptuous and 
I aspect, but one really fairy- 

Inot seem surprising tliat, 
I'lmd excited as I had been, 
Ksncy of such a soMe was 
int to my feelings. it may 

BT«lhc>|Kiu>n! Lonit lice ilic duke! 
Dl* ducbtu !" 



not even seem astonishing that, in 
spite of all that was apparently 
combined to intoxicate me wilh 
joy and pride, a scene so brilliant, 
so little in accordance with the 
solemn emotions of the day, should 
have produced an entirely opposilt,- 
effect on me. The transition had 
been too sudden and abrupt. This 
was the first time but once 1 had 
ever been in the gay world, and 
the recollections associated with 
that occasion were the most terri- 
ble of my life, as well as the mos! 
deeply graven on my memory. Ii 
is not strange, therefore, that I fell 
a painful depression of spirits, as 
well as a fearful embarrassmeni 
and an. irresistible desire to escapt- 
from them all — even from Lorenzo 
himself, whose radiant look seemed 
so unahle to comprehend my feel- 
ings that I could not turn to him 
for the sympathy that had hereto- 
fore inspired me with so much 
confidence in him. I looked 
around in vain for a glimpse of 
my compassionate sister; but she 
had been made no exception i-i 
the custom forbidding young girls 
to be present at nuptial festi- 
vals. My fulher, after escorting 
me to the door of my new home, 
had returned, not being able to 
overcome his repugnance to mingle 
in the world. Mario that evening 
was cold and sarcastic. 1 fell, 
therefore, alone and frightened, 
and quite overcome by emotion 
and fatigue. In addition to thi.s. I 
had a severe headache from ihc 
weight of the coronet I wore, and, 
feeling nearly ready to faint, 1 went 
to one of the balconies, when, per- 
ceiving some steps leading to ;i 
vast loggia, I hastily descended, anrl 
almost ran to seat myself on a 
stone bench at the end of the 
terrace which overlooked a pan of 
the gardcTi raore icXuei a.'ft.i oV- 



i 



6oo 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



scure than the rest. There I felt 
I could breathe freely. Away 
from the crowd and the dazzling 
lights, the sound of the music 
faintly heard at a distance, and 
looking up with delight through 
the foliage at the tranquil heavens 
brilliant with stars, I took ofif the 
rich diadem that burdened my 
head, and felt relieved as the 
evening wind blew back my hair 
and cooled my brow. I leaned 
my head against my clasped hands, 
and did what had hitherto seem- 
ed impossible — I collected my 
thoughts a moment : I reflected 
and prayed. 

I was married. My past life was 
at an end. A new and untried 
life had begun. What had it in re- 
serve for me ? What lay in the fu- 
ture, seemingly so brilliant, but in 
reality so dark ? I could not tell, 
and at this moment I felt a vague 
terror rather than joyful anticipa- 
tions. For the second time that 
evening Livia's voice seemed to re- 
sound in my ears, and this time to 
echo the words my mother had 
written. I seemed to make them 
some promise I hardly comprehend- 
ed myself, and I murmured the 
words : " Rather die ! . . ." 

Lorenzo's voice recalled me to 
myself. His eyes, which had never 
lost sight of me, immediately per- 
ceived my absence, and he was now 
at my side. He was alarmed at 
first at the sight of my tears, my 
disordered hair, and the coronet 
lying on the stone bench beside me, 
but was reassured when I looked up 
with an appealing expression, and 
understood me without giving me 
the trouble to speak. 

"Poor Ginevr%!" he softly said 
in a caressing tone of protection 
which he so well knew how to as- 



sume. " Yes, you arc right. This 
display is foolish, this crowd is 
odious, and has been too much for 
your strength. And how absurd," 
he continued, *' to hide this golden 
hair, and burden so young and fair 
a brow with heavy jewels ! You did 
not need them, my Ginevra. Yoa 
were certainly charming with the 
coronet on, but much more so as 
you are. . . . Ah ! do not shake 
your head. You must allow me to 
say what I please now. You no 
longer have the right to impose si- 
lence on me, and I am no longer 
bound to obey you. ..." 

So saying, he led me slowly back 
to the house, but, instead of return- 
ing to the rooms still crowded with 
company, he took me another way 
leading to a boudoir of a circular 
form, which was ornamented with 
particular care. The gilding, the 
mirrors, and the paintings did not 
seem to have suffered from the ef- 
fects of time like the rest of the 
house. Nothing was wanting that 
could give this little room a com- 
fortable and sumptuous aspect. 
The soft light of a lamp suspend- 
ed from the ceiling was diffused 
throughout the room, and perfect 
silence reigned. 

" This is your room, Ginevra," 
said Lorenzo, carelessly throwing 
on one of the tables the circlet of 
diamonds be held in his hands. 
" Here you can quietly repose un- 
disturbed by the crowd. There is 
absolutely nothing to disturb yott 
here ; the music itself can scarcely 
be heard. I will leave yoa» i^T 
Ginevra, to explain your absence 
and endure till the end of the eve- 
ning the fearful task it pleases them 
to impose on us, but froin which, ^^ 
least, they must allow me to deliver 
you." 



The Vt'il Withdrawn. 



lllowing day, as the breeze 
, I was standing beside 
on the deck of the ship 
bearing us away. I had 
nd me all 1 had hitherto 
nd loved, and my eyes were 
ill from my last farewells, 
looking at ihe receding 
I Sicily, and the magnificent 
satre of Messina rising np 
I, which presents so inipos- 
ppearance when seen from 
We soon passed between 
famous whirlpools which 
3rd a comparison for those 
1 voyageurs over the sea of 
escape one only to fall into 
r — a comparison figurative- 
spt, though in reality it is 
lubtful if in our day any 
t ever falls either into 
r Charybdis. 

'nothing more was to be 
1 night came on with its 
nd starry heavens, reveal- 
■ ihe outline like a silvery 
hich marked the coast of 
consented at last to leave 
( where I had been stand- 
onless, and took a seal un- 
awning Lorenzo had had 
.for me on deck. During 
I of calm repose I enjoyed 
ly first and almost only 
perfect happiness ! — I was 
.' with renewed hope and 
ce while listening to the 
big accents of the husband 
Jul I was, as he depicted 
le in language whose magic 
lemed to open a whole life 
ire before me. After a few 
■t at Naples, we were to 
Icltghtful journey through 
I France. We should be- 
' the places and objects I 
ftften seen in imagination, 
ae names were so familiar 



to my memory. The interest I was 
capable of feeling in every subject, 
the curiosity so natural to the 
young, find the undeveloped sense 
of the beautiful which Lorenzo 
knew so well how to draw out and 
gratify, the taste for art with which 
he was gifted — all these chords, as 
yet nearly untried, seemed to vi- 
brate within me as I listened to 
him. I was like a docile inslru- 
menl from which a skilful hand 
knows how to draw forth sounds 
hithert* unsuspected. As in cer- 
tain compositions of the great mas- 
ters, the same musical idea is persis- 
tently reproduced in the most va- 
ried modulations, so on a\\ sub- 
jects and on all occasions he found 
means to lead my heart back to the 
certain conviction of being loved — 
loved as much as in my most ambi- 
tious dreams I had ever imagined 
it would be sweet to be loved. At 
that moment Ihe vow so " fearful " 
seemed easy to keep; and if Livia's 
words had occurred to me then, 
they would doubtless have excited 
a smile ! . . . 

One false note, however, or at 
least a doubtful one, disturbed for 
an instant [he harmony that seemed 
to reign between us. 

Every one who has crossed, on a 
beautiful summer night, the sea 
that washes those enchanted shores, 
has doubtless experienced the un- 
definable impression of mingled de- 
light and peace, enthusiasm and 
dreaminess, that sometimes comes 
over one while watching the stars 
becoming more intense in their 
brilliancy, and the luminous sea 
like a widespread mirror reflecting 
the immensity of the heavens. We 
grew silent, and after a time I rose 
and went to the side of the ship to 
contemplate raoic i\i\V^ v'ftft \iea."iVi 



i 



602 



The Veil Withdrawn, 



of the night, and there, with up- 
lifted face and clasped hands, one 
of those inarticulate prayers rose 
from my heart in which the happi- 
ness of the present moment is con- 
founded with admiration for the 
wonders of the divine creation, and 
the soul truly feels itself greater 
than the entire universe, because 
it alone has the power to render 
thanks to Him who not only created 
it but the whole world. 

Lorenzo had followed me, and 
taken a seat on the bench that ran 
along the side of the ship, where, 
with his head leaning on o0e hand, 
and his back to the sea, he sat in- 
tently gazing at me. Filled with 
devout thoughts, I took his hand, 
and, pnessing it in mine, I said : 
" O my dear husband ! let us offer up 
one short prayer together — a pray- 
er of thanksgiving to God. . . ." 
His only reply was to seize both of 
my hands, and kiss them one after 
the other, and then to laugh gently, 
as one would at the prattling of a 
child ! . . . A sudden sensation 
of pain darted through my heart 
like an arrow; and if it had not 
been so dark, he might have seen 
how pale I at once turned. But he 
did not notice or suspect my emo- 
tion, though his eyes were fastened 
on my face. " Beatrice in snso, ed 
io in lei guardava^* * he said in his 
most caressing tone. Then he con- 
tinued : ** Your eyes are my heaven, 
Ginevra. I need not raise them any 
higher." 

The sentiment to which I had 
appealed was one so utterly un- 
known to him that he unconscious- 
ly destroyed the emotion I felt. 

" Ah ! Lorenzo," I exclaimed in 
my anguish, " Dante had a differ- 
ent meaning, or Beatrice would not 
have allowed him to use such lan- 



^ *' fiettrice upward gu«A, uA 1 oq U«i,^ 



n 



guage." Then I stopped, obeying 
for the first time the instinctive 
feeling, so painful but right, that 
checks every word on a woman's 
lips which, as has been so well ex- 
pressed, would be profaned if not 
understood. 

But this was rather instinctive 
than the result of thought with me. 
And though the ray of truth thjtf 
time was to reveal more fully was 
vivid, it was only transient, . * . 
and my momentary disappointment 
left no permanent impression' it 
the time, though I did not forget 
it, and the recollection came bick 
at a later day. 

Coming from Sicily, the sigbt of 
the Bay of Naples does not, of 
course, inspire the same degree of 
wonder and admiration felt bj 
those who come from the north; 
but it was with a feeling of delight 
my eyes wandered around, after 
passing Capri, and beheld at the 
right the wonderful chain of moun- 
tains at whose foot lies the charm- 
ing shore of Sorrento ; at the left 
Posilippo and all the pleasant 
villas that crown its height; in 
front the marked outline of Vesuvi- 
us standing out against the majestic 
Apennines in the distance; and, 
finally, Naples, smiling and lovdy. 
seated on the inner shore of its 
beautiful bay ! Whatever may be 
said as to the possibility of finding 
anywhere else in the world a pros- 
pect as magnificent as this, and 
even if it is true that there is one, it 
would be impossible to remember 
it when the view I have just <1^ 
scribed is presented to the eye fof 
the first time. 

While we were thus rapidly 
crossing the bay, and I was gaziflg 
on every side with delight, LofeW" 
zo pointed out the Villa Reale, be- 
yond which stood the hoose «^f 
'wt;!^ \x^ Vive in^ surrounded by ^ 



Tke Veil Withdrawn. 



&=3 



ihe country and all the ad- 
of the city, and wliicli, 
entered it for the first time, 
a beautiful frame to 
tny picture of ray future 

occasion we only remain- 
rtoiglit at Naples; but this 
icient to make me apprc- 
\ new home, and the pros- 
retuming to it an addilion- 
in the journey before 
is, in fact, only pleasant to 
ound the world when we 
in imagination a place 
us where some day we are 
rest and deposit the trea- 
re have accumulated. . . , 
for me, I was then far from 
g those 1 should have to 
;k when I returned to this 

lay after our arrival Loren- 
for the first time into 
jo, where 1 was filled with 
ment at the exquisite per- 
\f the productions I found 
1 had often heard him call- 
.1 artist, and I now realii- 
s no idle flattery. But I 
irily turned my eyes away 
tny of them, and stood gaz- 
h admiration at a statue 
incontestably the finest 
jallery. It represented a 
'rl whose flowing drapery 
vellous in execution and 
Her face, though perfectly 
1, had an expression of 
,d terror. A lamp stood 
ict, but the light had gone 

izo's pride as an artist had 
^n gratified with a more 
more nai've admiration 

nevra witj /" he exclaimed, 
ive hitherto liccn consid- 



ered an artist, what shall 1 be 

when I have you for my model and 
my judge ?" 

He then told me that this beauti- 
ful statue represented a vestal, but 
it lacked a pendant which he had 
never been able to execute. 

" But now," he added, " 1 am 
sure of succeeding. I have long 
sought a model for my second 
vestal, and at last I have found 
one.' 

He put my hair back with one 
hand, and, examining me attentive- 
ly with a thoughtful air, continued, 
as if talking to himself : "Yes, . . . 
these faultless features, the noble, 
dignified air of the head, the pro- 
found expression of the eyes, and 
the gravity of the mouth, consti- 
tute the very type I want. I could 
not find a belter combination of 
all I need for my noble, mysterious 
vestal — the vigilant, faithful guar- 
dian of the sacred fire. I will begin 
it to morrow." 

"Not here, will you?" said I, 
glancing uneasily at a Bacchante 
as unlike as possible to the statue 
I had been admiring, and which I 
could hardly believe came from 
the same hand. Lorenzo looked 
at me with astonishment, and hard- 
ly seemed to comprehend me. 
He only regarded such things from 
an artistic point of view — perhaps a 
valid excuse, but it was the second 
time within two days his uncom- 
mon penetration had been at fault. 
He was really skilful at reading a 
passing thought that had not been 
expressed, and in penetrating somf- 
what below the surface, but he win 
incapable of looking deeply into a 
soul, or of following it when it ro.-L- 
to certain heights. When I clearly 
made known my wishes, however, 
he immediately asisented to them, 
and took me into an adjoining room 
that was smaller. 



6o4 



The Vetl Witlidrawn, 



"Just as you please," he said. 
** You shall come here to sit to me, 
and I promise you, Ginevra, that 



there shall be nothing in this sttt* 
dio except what you are willing to 
look at." 



XII. 



During my first stay at Naples we 
made no visits, and our doors were 
closed against every one. It was our 
honeymoon. Lorenzo chose to pass 
it entirely alone with me, and I was 
far from wishing it otherwise. Every 
one respected our solitude. Never- 
theless, as soon as my arrival was 
known, Lorenzo's friends and ac- 
quaintances, with the proverbial 
courtesy of Neapolitan society, Sent 
me their cards as a sign of welcome. 
We looked them over together in 
the evening, and I thus learned 
the names of the acquaintances I 
should soon have to make. Loren- 
zo sometimes laughingly made com- 
ments on them which were more 
or less flattering and diffuse. One 
evening, however, he excited a feel- 
ing of surprise and uneasiness. I 
had, as usual, taken up the cards 
that had been left that day, when I 
saw him change color at the sight 
of one, which he snatched hastily 
from my hand, and tore into a thou- 
sand pieces. The extreme sudden- 
ness of the act checked the question 
I was on the point of asking. I re- 
mained silent, but the name I had 
read on the card was graven inef- 
faceably on my memory in conse- 
quence of the occurrence. I shall 
never forget it. Lorenzo quickly 
recovered himself at seeing my sur- 
prise, and told me it was the card 
of a foreign lady who had left Na- 
ples, and whose call I never need 
trouble myself to return. Then 
taking up the next card, he read 
aloud : 

" Stella d'Oria, Contessa di San 
Giulio." " Ah ! as for her," he 
exclaimed, " you will like her, I 



know, and I am willing you should 
become friends. I used to consi- 
der her a little too perfect to suit 
me, but I am of a different opmioo 
when it is a question of my 
wife. ..." 

The new statue was begun with- 
out any delay. I sat to him two or 
three hours every day, and in the 
evening we took long walks on the 
heights of Camaldoli, where we were 
most sure ofnot meeting any one. He 
enjoyed my admiration for the won- 
derful aspect of nature around us, 
and took pleasure in giving me a 
fresh surprise every day. And he 
was not yet tired of entertaining 
me with the varied events of his 
past life, and of witnessing the in- 
terest his conversation invariably 
excited in one who possessed an in- 
telligent but unstored mind. Com- 
plete harmony seemed to reign be- 
tween us, and yet more than once 
during the brief duration of these 
happy days it was suddenly disturh- 
ed by some discordant note which 
caused the vague uneasiness I have 
already spoken of that seemed like 
one of those momentary shooting 
pains that are the premonitions of 
some fixed, incurable disease. In 
both cases they are experienced a 
long time before the cause is under 
stood, and the disease is often far 
advanced before the tendency of 
these symptoms is clear and unmis- 
takable. 

The terrible chastisement that 
followed the gratification of my 
vanity on that one occasion had in- 
spired me, as I have said, with a 
kind of repugnance, if not terror, to 
have my face praised. This repug- 



Tke Veil Withdrawn. 



m the part of a young girl 
1 reason to be proud of her 
was an originality which 
rhaps given nie additional 
hi in Lorenzo's eyes. Now 
I wife, I could not, of course, 
dm to obey me and keep up 
reserve in our intercourse. 
how many times, especially 
long sittings in the 
longed to impose silence 
Ijl ■ . . How many times I 
»uni to tny forehead 
ler arranging my drapery 
idc, tinbraidingand putting 
hair to suit his own fancy, 
Ing me change my position 
■limes, lie would fall into an 
igainst which my whole 
jlted ! Was this the passion 

tngled tenderness and re- 
t I should have been as 

■ inspire as to experience ? 

■ really being loved as I bad 
b be? I sometimes asked 
8f bis admiration for the 
pns, face, and whole form 
' le was of 3. different nature. 

yet po so far as to won- 

Ih greater beauty than 

lOl easily rob me of a love 

BO frail a foundation. . . . 

tcly, we left Naples when 

ight was at an end, though 

i not half finished. 

Itte-h-tUt had not proved 

I had anticipated. I hop. 

from the journey, and this 

not disappointed. Lorenzo 

"lie of being the best and 

. illigent of guides cvery- 

bd such he was during our 

qmey through Ilitly, where 

mained long cnougli in 

to admire the monii- 

id museums, though we 

the beaten track of 

iourists. Lorenzo thought 

freed in everything relating 



to art and history, and yet he did 
not seem to realize that the church 
had also had its r6lc in the history 
of his country. Therefore one side 
of Italian history escaped hira en- 
tirely, and I do not know if, even at 
Rome, it had ever occurred to him 
there had been any change what- 
ever of religion between the build- 
ing of the Temple of Vesta and the 
time when the dome of Michael 
Angelo was raised in the air. Both 
are worthy of admiration in a differ- 
ent degree, and he regarded them 
with the same eye. But I did not 
then perceive all he left unexpress- 
ed. My thoughts and attention 
were absorbed by all there was 
around me to see. I was astonish- 
ed to find myself in a world so fruit- 
ful in sources of interest that perhaps 
there is no one man on earth able 
to investigate them all equally. 
One alone, independent of the rest, 
might really suffice for the study of 
a whole life-time. 

At length we arrived at Paris. 
Lorenzo, of course, had frequently 
made long visits there, and had a 
host of friends and acquaintances 
there as well as everywhere else- 
A few days after our arrival, I at- 
tended a large ball for the first 
time since my marriage, and the 
second in my life. I heard my 
name murmured on every side. I 
was surrounded with homage and 
overwhelmed with compliments. I 
was afterwards informed I had been 
the object of universal admiration ; 
that nothing was talked of but the 
beauty of the Duchessa di Valen- 
zano and her diamonds; and that 
a journal accustomed to give an 
account of the gayeties of the season 
had devoted a long paragraph to 
the description of my dress and 
person. 

All this was reported to us by a 
young cousin of Lorenzo's whow. 



6o6 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



name, in reality, was Landolfo Lan- 
dini, though his friends usually 
called him Lando Landi. He had 
lived in Paris several years, and 
considered himself almost a French- 
man. He had acquired the stamp 
of those people who have no aim in 
life — as easily imitated as they are 
unworthy of being so — and had 
wasted the natural cleverness and 
good-nature which redeemed some 
of his faults. He prided himself 
particularly on using the language 
of polite society, and was under the 
illusion that he completely disguis- 
ed his nationality. When he fell in 
with a fellow-countryman, however, 
he allowed his natural disposition 
to reassert itself, and indulged in a 
flow of language that might have 
been amusing to some, but to me 
was frivolous and tiresome, and, 
after listening to the account of my 
grand success the previous evening 
with a coolness that seemed to as- 
tonish him, I fell into a reverie that 
had more than one cause. Why 
had Lorenzo watched me so at- 
tentively all the evening before } It 
was the first time we had appear- 
ed in society together, and he was 
anxious I should create a sensation. 
He himself had carefully selected 
the dress I was to wear, and I was 
pleased with the admiration with 
which he regarded me. On this 
point I had no hesitation : I was 
anxious to please him^ but not to 
please ; and as to the gay world into 
which he now introduced me, I 
entered it with the pleasure and 
curiosity of a child, and the lively 
interest inspired by everything that 
is new; but I had become strange- 
ly insensible to the pleasure of be- 
ing admired, or even the gratifica- 
tion that springs from vanity. 

In alluding once more to this 
fact, I will add that it was the effect 
ol an exceptional grace ; for at no 



remote period of my youth had my 
mother detected the germ of thb 
poisonous plant which was to shed 
so baleful an influence over tk 
simplicity and uprightness of my 
nature. 

This plant had been swept away 
in a single tempestuous night, aod 
a divine hand had plucked out al- 
most its last root. Was this pea* 
liar grace (the forerunner of a much 
greater one I was to receive at a 
later day) granted me in answer to 
the prayer of my dying mother? 
Or was it to the sincere repentance 
that had so overwhelmed my soul? 
These things are among the mys- 
teries of divine mercy beyond one's 
power to fathom. But it is certain 
I was thus preserved from one of 
the greatest dangers that await 
most ladies in the fashionable 
world. I was very far from being 
invulnerable on all points, as the 
future showed only too plainly; but 
I was on this. 

Nevertheless, I had not been put 
to so decided a proof before. 
Never had I seen or imagined so 
brilliant a scene. I was delighted 
and charmed, and unhesitatingly 
gave myself up to the enjoyment 
of the evening; but the incense 
lavished on me added nothing to 
my pleasure. It only produced a 
certain timidity that lessened my 
ease and greatly diminished my 
enjoyment. I sincerely think if I 
had been less beautiful or more 
simply dressed — in a word, less ad- 
mired — I should have been happiw 
and much more at my ease. 

In my embarrassment I was 
glad to find Lorenzo always near 
me, and the more so because I had 
no idea it was not absolutely the 
custom. But I noticed with some 
surprise that he observed every 
movement I made with a strange 
attention, and listened to every 



[ uttered when addressed. 
I others did not perceive 
t I understood his quick, ob- 
, glance and the exprtssive 
I he knew so well how to 
, and I knew also the art 
Itch he could seem occupied 
at was going on at one end 
Bi, while his whole attention 
Wbed in what was said at the 
in short, I fell he had not 
^t of me a single instant the 
pvening, und that not one 
rords had escaped him. I 
td if his affection for me 
sole cause of this constant- 
led solicitude. This was 
fury cause of my uneasi- 
Isother arose from the con- 
f) that was actually going 
fy presence, which I tislen- 
(iritli pain, and as a pos- 
sess; for I could take no 
t 

could Lorenzo take any 
r in the trivial details, the 
ing gossip, and the doubtful 
r Landolfo Landini? . . . 
»uld he question him, reply 
he said, and encourage him 
tinue? And yet Lorenzo 
lery different person from 
tin. He was very far from 

an aimless life. He had 
ten long, dangerous journeys 
i entailed great exertion 
redible fatigue, in order to 
I his extensive and varied 
ge. He was capable of 
id application. Talents like 
d only be actjuired by pro- 
ndy of a hundred diR'erent 
, as well as by long, se- 

revering practice in the art 
he had become such a 
It. One can hardly con- 
l fiivolity in an artist, and 
} anomaly exists. I have 
:kcd it in others, as I 
Lorenzo — a 



Iked It 
MOW 



proof, doubtless, that to soar above 
the every-day world, and keep at 
such heights, talent and genius, no 
more than the sou!, should be se- 
parated from God ! 

The morning at length passed 
away, and about four o'clock we 
ordered the caliche for a long 
drive. The first hour was devoted 
to making numerous purchases. 
Lando Landi escorted us. ' Perfect 
familiarity with the shops of Paris 
was one of his specialties. Above 
all, he knew where to find those 
curiosities that are almost objects 
of art, and which have the gift, so 
precious to those who sell them, of 
inducing people who make the first 
purchase to continue indefinitely; 
for eat;h new object of that class 
acquires additional value in the 
eyes of a connoisseur, and in such 
matters, more than any other, tap- 
P^til vieitl en niangeanl* 

We remained more than an hour 
in the first shop we stopped at. 
Lorenzo was in his element. He 
was a genuine connoisseur in every- 
thing. He examined bronzes, por- 
celains, furniture of every epoch, 
carved wood from all countries, and 
old tapestry, with a sure and experi- 
enced eye, and the merchant, see- 
ing whom he had to deal with, 
brought out of his secret recesses 
treasures hidden from the vulgar, 
and multiplied temptations Loren- 
zo seemed very little inclined to 
resist. As for me, I took a seat 
beside the counter, and looked with 
indifference at the various objects 
that were spread out before me, 
but of which I was quite unable to 
perceive the value, which was some- 
what conventional. I was a little 
astonished at the number and value 
of Lorenzo's purchase.s, but, on the 
whole, the business did not interest 

■ The ippcUIt comei wlUi eitlDg. 



«Ql 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



mt much, and I felt glad when it 
was at an end. 

^ Bravo! Lorenzo," said Lando 
as soon as we re-entered the car- 
riage. " You don't do things half 
way. That is the way I like to see 
other people spend their money. 
It consoles me for not having any 
myself to throw out of the win- 
dow." 

** I have got to entirely refurnish 
my palace in Sicily," said Lorenzo, 
" as well as to decorate my house in 
Naples, which is quite unworthy of 
her who is to live in it." 

'* You are jesting, Lorenzo," said 
L **You know very well I think 
nothing is lacking." 

'*That is the consequence of 
your extreme youth, my dear cou- 
sin," said Lando. " Wait a while, 
and you will find out how much 
becomes indispensable to one who 
has lived in Paris." 

"At all events," said Lorenzo, 
" now or never is the time for me 
to gratify my fancy. I am just 
going to housekeeping. I have 
barely spent a third of my present 
fortune, and am perfectly confident 
as to that I shall have ; for every- 
body knows that a cause under- 
taken by Fabrizio dei Monti is a 
cause gained." 

At that instant a beautiful lady 
in a conspicuous dress passed us in 
an elegant calkehe^ and the conver- 
sation suddenly took a different 
turn. Lorenzo silently questioned 
his cousin with a look, and Lando 
began to give him in a low tone 
some information which an instinc- 
tive repugnance prevented me from 
listening to. . . • 

I began (perhaps unjustly) to 
conceive a strong dislike to this 
Cousin Landolfo, and I imagine he 
would have been very much aston- 
ished had he guessed with what eye 
I iiO\w looked at his face, generally 



considered so handsome, 
of a type often admired out < 
because somewhat differer 
that foreigners are accusto 
who have no idea to what i 
it is common in that coud 
dark complexion, rather ha 
eyes, fine teeth, and curl; 
hair, formed in my eyes a n 
pleasing combination, and, 
knowing a word they were 
I felt positively certain \ 
never in his life uttered a si 
should think worth listening 

At length we left the bou 
drove through the Champs ! 
and at last found ourselve 
shade of the Bois de Be 
While my two companioi 
conversing together m a lo 
I abandoned myself to the ] 
of being in a cool place ' 
could breathe more freely ; 
accustomed to going out du 
middle of the day in sumr 
heat had seemed overpc 
Apart from this, there was 
here to strike a person acci 
to the loveliest scenery 
world. Unused as I was t 
sian life, the charm of whic 
produces an impression that 
all others, the things I s: 
no other prestige in my ey 
what they were in ther 
Viewed in this light, the mi 
churches, and palaces seen: 
grand and magnificent thai 
we had seen before, and the 
nades less picturesque and 
ried. I missed particula 
lovely vistas which everywl 
Italy form the background 
picture, and attract the e] 
elevate the mind to son 
higher than the mere treasi 
history and art that have a< 
lated in all old Italian cities. 

And yet it cannot be denit 
Paris has the power of mat 



The Rock of Rest. 



609 



erred to any other place in 
Id. It speaks a different 
\ to every individual, and 
)rehended by all. It is 
ih treasures of every kind, 
s wherewithal to gratify 
iste indiscriminately, from 
ch is evil in its vilest form 
ccess of goodness amount- 
iblimity ; from the most re- 
itravagance of fashion to 
!me renunciation of chari- 
from pleasure in its most 
IS aspect to piety in its 
:rfect manifestations. It 
canity and vice more than 



would be dared anywhere else, and 
yet it prides itself on being able 
to produce examples of goodness, 
devotedness, and humility that are 
almost unparalleled. In a word, 
every one, for a different reason, 
feels more at home there than any- 
where else in the world. He who 
once learns to love Paris finds it 
difficult to like any other city as 
well; and he who has lived there 
finds it hard to resign himself to 
live in any other place. It is the 
one city on earth that has been able 
to vie with Rome in the honor of 
being the home of all nations. • . . 



TO BB CONTUIUBO. 



THE ROCK OF REST. 

S. Mattmbw zri. \%, 

Tossed on many a wave of doctrinei 

Restless, weary, ill at ease 
With belieifs that quiet others, 

But as vague to me as these ; 
I have done with idly chasing 
^ Phantom lights, that rise and fall ; 
Drift no more with drifting doctrinct— 

Grown indifferent to them all ! 

Shall I long regret the yisions 

Of a rest so inly wooed ? 
Shall I long go on deploring 

Creeds, that but opinions proved ? 
Quenched be every weak emotion ! 

Bring my futnre weal or woe. 
Weal nor woe shall blight or bless me~ 

Faith, nor creed, shall move me now I 

Murmuring thus, there came a whisper 

From the Friend who knew me best : 
** Seek the rock on which I builded : 

On that rock alone is rest/* 
Suddenly, with light supernal, 

Faith, the higher reason, came. 
And my foot touched base eternal — 

Benedictions on his name ! 



1LS.W. 



VOL. XIX. — 39 



Anglican Order 



ANGLICAN ORDERS. 



THE VALIDITY OF THE EDWARDINE 
RITE. 

Before entering upon the theology 
of the question, we must meet an ini- 
tio objection of Anglicans to our at- 
tempting to criticise the Edwardine 
rite. They insist that the question 
iias been settled long ago, and in 
iheir favor, by no less an authority 
than the Holy See and its legate, 
Cardinal Pole, The cardinal, they 
say, in accordance with instructions 
from Rome, admitted all the scliis- 
matical bishops and clergy, who were 
not irreconciiables, in the orders they 
liad received in schism, whetlier ac- 
cording to the Pontifical or accord- 
ing to the Edwardine rite. Great 
stress has been laid upon this by An- 
glican controversialists from Bram- 
hall down to Mr. Haddan j and cer- 
tainly, if it be a true statement of the 
case, the value of the objection can 
scarcely be overrated. Its truth must 
he decided by an appeal lo the Papal 
briefs and to the ofhcial acts of tlie 
legate. 

The bull of March 8, 1553-4, grant- 
ing full legatine faculties to Pole, au- 
thorizes him to deal nith two classes 
of the bishops and clergy — viz., of the 
clergy, those who have not received 
orders at all, and those who have 
received them ill ; that is to say, orders 
null and orders irregular (ordines quos 
nunquam, aut male susceperunt). The 
bishops, in like manner, who have 
received cathedral churches from 
Henry or Edward are divided into 
those on whom "the gift of conse- 
cration has been heretofore confer- 
red," and "those on whom it is not 
yet conferred" (munere consecra- 
tioJJB eis liactenus impeuso vel si 



illud eis nonduin impensum exsiittrii). 
The cases in which the ordination 
or consecration had been validli 
though irregularly conferred are »l» 
described as " received frum heretiol 
or schismatical bishops, or in oiiiB 
respects unduly" (quod iis ab eyis- 
copis hserelicis et schismaticis tst 
alias minus rite et non servali rormi 
ecclesis consuetd impensum ftui), 
By these l.ist words power is given 
" to consider cases in which the w- 
cient form of the sacrament had not 
been observed, and, if the form used 
was sufficient for validity, to admit it 
as such, and lo admit a peisoo or- 
dained in such a manner to'exetciM 
the orders so received." 

Canon Eslcourt shows that the 
" minus rile " cannot be intended to 
d^iigiiaU,as Mr. Haddan and Olliers 
have maintained, the Edtvardine or- 
ders. He appeals to the dispensi- 
lions granted to no less than eight 
bishops, all ordained according to 
the Pontifical in Henry Vlll.'stitnt. 
wherein their orders are rtfetied M 
as received "ab episcopi^ hftreiiciJ 
et schismaticis aut alias minus riU' 

In the faculties granted by Pole to 
his bishops for the absolution and 
rehabilitation of priests, he cartfuH; 
explains their limitation to cases in 
which " the form and intention of ihc 
church liave been preserved." ThiB 
it is clear " that though the catiiin)' 
had power to recognize ordinatioM 
in which some departure had I'M" 
made from the accustomed form, yf^ 
that, on examination, he found w 
other form in use which could be i<l- 
mitted by the church as valid." I" 
the same faculties he permits IheW^ 
dination, if they are otherwise * 



riw^^ 



Anglicnii Orders. 



whose orders are "null." He 
JKs llieiii as persons liolding 
ces without being ordaiiieil. 
1554, Bonner, Bishop of Bath 
fells, gave a commission to his 
general '• to deal witli inarrieil 
rho, in pretence and under 
»f priestly orders, had raslily 
iJawfuliy mingled themselves 
esiastical rights, and had ob- 
4e fa4lo parochial churches 
ire of souls and ecilesiasiicnl 
■, against the sacred sanctions 
Sinons aiiil ecclesiastical riglils, 
I deprive and remove ihem 
ffsaid churches and dignities." 
Bipossible to conjecture who 
ese unordained beneficiaries 
if they are not the Edwardine 

[cans, on the other hand, have 
: great deal of a certain testi- 

letter granted by Bonner to 
rliich speaks of the lattcr's sin 
^cr.tance, and of his sulise- 
whabilitaiioii by Bonner, and 
ion to the public exercise of 
Sesiastical ministry within the 

of London. As Scory is 

of as "our confrere, lately 
oi Chichester," it is urged that 
istry to the exercise of which 
restored must have been that 
lliop. Canon Estcourt, after 
t out certain grounds for sus- 
'the authenticity of this letter, 
I that Bonner's facuhies only 
(1 to the case of priests, " so 
>ry must have acknoivledged 
lity of his consecration, in 
I enable Bonner to deal with 
Ql " ; and. after all, " the letter 
) more than enable him to 
t Mass in churches within 
tesc of London " — in fact, to 

that uAice, and that ofKcc 
jich he had received " serva- 
t et intcntione ecclcslae." So 
IT the Holy See's approval of 
vjirdine orders. 



r.i[ 

Anglicans have tried to make out 
a charge of inconsistency against the 
Holy See, on the ground that it did 
not recognize the episcopate of Rid- 
lei", Latimer, and Ferrer — who were 
all three supposed to have been con- 
secrated according to the Roman 
Pontifical — but degraded them from 
the priesthood and inferior orders 
only. Canon Estcourt admits that 
Ferrer was treated merely as a priesi, 
but he shows that his consecration 
had been a medley rite, in which the 
order of the Pontifical was not fol- 
lowed. As to Latimer, he reniarks 
lliat there is no pretence for s.iying 
that he was not degraded from the 
episcopate; and that, with regard to 
Ridle}-, the great weight of authority 
makes for his having been degrad- 
ed from the episcopate. Cardinal 
Pole, tn his commission, ordered that 
both Ridley and Latimer should be 
degraded " from their promotion and 
dignity of bishops, priests, and all oth- 
er ecclesiastical orders." The Bishop 
ofLincoln.in his exhortation to Ridley, 
says : ■' Vou were made a bishop ac- 
cording to our laws." Heylin says 
that tliey were both degraded from 
the episcopate. The only authority 
for the contrary opinioi is Foxe, 
who makes the acting commissioner 
Brookes, Bishop of Gloucester, con- 
clude an address to Ridley thus: 
" We take you for no bishop, and 
therefore we will liie sooner have 
done with you," Foxe then proceeds 
to describe the actual cereinony as 
a degradation from the priesthood. 
Canon Estcourt's reviewer in the 
Dublin Rtvieiv of July, 1873, mai"- 
tains that Foxe was right. The re- 
viewer thinks that Ridley and Lati- 
mer were not degraded from Ihe 
episcopate, because the status epis- 
copalis was not recognized in those 
who, though i/rtAi/^ consecrated, had 
not received the Papal confirmation. 
Upon this wc retnatk, vsl, \\\4^ >!cv<i 



6l2 



Anglican Orders. 



ceremonies of degradation came into 
uie when it waj a very cooimon opin- 
ion in the churdi that degradation 
destroyeij t\\e poi^sias ordiitis. 2. TSat 
the form of degradation, in so many 
words, expresses the taking away ihc 
poUitas erdiius — "amovemus a te," 
'■ toliemus tibi," " potestalem offeren- 
di," " potestalem consecrandi " — and 
this in contradistinction to another 
form of perpetual suspension — " ab ex- 
ecutione poiestaiis." The ceremony 
aims at effecting the destruction of 
orders, so far as this is possible. It 
may be called a " destruction of or- 
ders," in ilic same sense that mortal 
sin is called tlie crucifixion of Christ 
anew. Indeed, in one place, Ibe 
clause, " quantum in nobis est," is in- 
troduced. 3. Degradation does not 
depend ujjon previous confirmation ; 
for Innocent II. {1139) thus deals 
witii those who had been consecrated 
bishops by the antipope Peter Leo, 
who therefore assuredly had never 
been confirmed or acknowledged in 
any way by tbe pope. After ex- 
claimii)^, " Quoscunque exaltaverat 
degradanius," etc., etc, " he violent- 
ly wrested their pastoral stafe from 
their hands, and ignominiously tore 
from tlieir shoulders the pontifical 
palls in which their high dignity re- 
sides. Their rings, too, which express 
I heir espousals with the church, 
showing them no mercy, he drew 
oft"* If the Bishop of Gloucester 
really acted as Foxe describes, he 
(lid so on his own responsibility, and 
in the tecdi of ecclesiastical prece- 
dent. 

Perhaps the most important and 
interesting portion of Canon Est- 
court's book is that in which he dis- 
cusses the theological value of the 
Eilwardine form. It is not merely 
of controversial importance, but is 
really calculated to throw light upon 

• Rx CA--t». Kanrinitic. i,p. Ho,rduim Cncil., 

urn. i. p ...,. 



the theology of orders, which, as 1 
Catholic contemporary well obMrvc^ 
is still in course of formation. 

Canon Estcourt, following Bene- 
dict XIV., Df Syn. Dioc, lib, viiL <a|), 
10, maintains, as the more piob^V 
opinion, i, that, in the ouc of tbc 
priesthood, the second imposition M 
hands, with tiie praver for the inlusion 
"of ihe virtue of the sacerdoul 
grace," is all tlial is really necessaj 
for validity; although, in practice,^ 
of the West must ordain again itA 
eonditione, if the tradition of the io- 
struments has been omitted. 2. TbU 
in ihe case of priests, the third itops- 
sition of hands, with ihewords,"Rfr 
ceive the Holy Ghost I'^hose sits 
thou dost remit, they are remitted 111 
to them; and whose sins ihourewin- 
est, they are reiaineil," is not t 
tial, and, if omitted, is to be supplied 
without repeating the rest, 3. Thll 
as to the episcopate, the ".\ccip( 
Spiritum Sanctum," with the imposi- 
tion of hands, is all that is esseniiali 
and, finally, he allows, in deference W 
tlie Holy Office (ffii iiifrd), thai ite 
form — i.e., the prayer immediately ac- 
companying the impodiion of baiuls 
— need not express the specific cJiai- 
acter or work of the order conferred, 
as, for instance, the Holy Sacrifice ta 
the ordination of a priest. 

Consistendy -vxCn lliese pnnuplo, 
Canon Estcourt admits that, w/«*«i 
words go, " Receive the Holy Ghost" 
is a sufficient form both for the epa- 
copate and the priesthood. A£ re- 
gards the episcopate, Uiis has beeit 
long a common opinion. As regardt 
the priesthood, the Sacred Congre- 
gation of the Inquisition, in 1704, de- 
cided that certain Abyssinians had 
been validly ordained priests by im- 
position of hands and the words, 
" Accipe Spiritum Sanctum." From 
this it follows that the Anglican forms 
for ordaining priests and bish*^ are, 
io far as words go, sulficicnt. . 



t. A|^ 



Anglica 

1549 to 1662, 
priesthood : '■ Receive the 
lost ; whose sins thou dost 
hey are forgiven ; and whose 
I dost retain, ihey are re- 
uid be thou a faiihfu! dis- 
' the word of God and of his 
fiiuents, in [he name of the 
Kc," For the episcopate : 
\c Holy Ghost, and remem- 
thou stir up the grace of 
ch is in lliee by imposilion 
1; for God hath not given us 
t of fear, but of power and 
soberness." In 1663, cer- 
Iges were introduced by the 
lurch party. In the form 
Uriesihood, after the words. 
Hiost " was fidded, " for the 
d work of a priest in tlie 
f God, now conimilted unto 
he imposition of our hands." 
form of liie episcopate was 
d, " Receive the Holy 
c the office and work of a 
t the church of God, now 
d unto ihce by ihe iuiposi- 
tr hands, in the name of the 
Ic." 

irse the value of Anglican 
secundum furmam " must 
^)Oii the value of the fonn 
finally stood. The subse- 
terations are important as 
fist, the dissalisfaclion of 
d Church party with the 
Dn which their orders de- 
ad, ttie low theological 
which satisfied them, after 

||d the material word.s of the 
le forms go, they are suffi- 
i^ they are words capable of 
(d in a sense in whicli they 
r sufficient — but the words 
^uous, Tlie form of ordi- 
tthough it need not express, 
lify or mean, the essential 
e order. Where it does not 
nic^ining on the face of it, 



■ Orders. 



<3i3 



we must look for it in the rite and 
liturgy of which it forms a part. This 
is not an appeal to the mere subjec- 
tive intention of the minister, but to 
ihe objective meaning of the words. 
Upon this principle we must, in or- 
der to get at the-value of the Angli- 
can forms, discover, ist, by an ex- 
aminaiion of the various admittedly 
valid rites of ordination, what such 
words should mean; id, by an ex- 
amination of the Anglican rite, what 
these words, in the position which 
they occupy in that tile, do or do 
not mean. 

Canon Estcourt examines the nu- 
merous riles which the Roman Church 
acknowledges to be valid, whether 
fallen out of use, and only to be 
found in. the pages of ancient sacra- 
mentaries, or still living and opera- 
tive, in East or West, among Catho- 
lics or among those who have sepa- 
rated from Catholic unity. He finds 
threequalitiesin which they all unite: 
1st, a recognition of the divine voca- 
tion or election of the ordained; ad, 
a recognition of the " virtus sacra- 
nientalis" of orders, as something 
quite distinct from and beyond the 
grace which is also given to the or- 
dained to actfuit himself worthily in 
tlie duties of his calling; 3d, a con- 
stant recognition of, and appeal to, 
the main scope and duty of orders — 
the offering of the Holy Sacniice. 

Canon Estcourt next proceeds to 
examine the Anglican liturgy and 
ordinal with special reference to 
these tliree points; i. The divine 
election. 3. The sacramental virtue. 
3. The Holy Sacrifice. And he finds 
that both the liturgy and the ordinal 
are tlie result of a deliberate manipu- 
lation of the ancient Catholic ritual 
previously in use, in order to Ihe exclu- 
sion of these three points, which con- 
lain the essential idea of holy orders. 

Ordination in the Auglical ritual 
no longer appea.U Vo & i\\\uft<i.tc- 



y the Lutheran new forni of 
on whicli Ii3d been introduceil 
ion to the two Catholic forms. 
.,Oiie is left ia doubt wlietlier 
Rty wonia have not shrivelled 
(.utlieran sense, in which sins 
, forgiven, but the forgiveness 
merely declared, 
njpossible to do justice in a 
to the exhaustive complete- 
'Canon Kstcourt's treatment 
forlion of iiiti subject. His 
):us of the Catholic missals 
.different editions of the £00^ 
wiea I^ayer in parallel col- 
lables us, as it were, to detect 
Kions of each several iieresy, 
Sppreciaie its share in what 
) called the passion of the 
; liturgy in England. A 
m from each of bis parallels 
tye as examples of, ist, the 
Bf tiie Lutheran First Book 
W inissjl; ad, the Zuinjjhan 
iBook upon the First Book ; 
compromise of 1661. 



_ «i- if»iil», do celebnteBOd 

KijF. of thy iniilie licTe heface tKy 

. I divine Mbjmiv, witli 

, rie- Ilitse Ihy holy gifu, 

By biMd af tne ruemarinl which 

lka>dl' — ■■" "■■■ ""- ■■-■" — "■-- ■ — 
frir-' 



Orders, 



6,5 




Canon Estcourt's argument again!t 
the validity of Anglican orders is no 
argument from lack of sufficient in- 
tention on the part of Anglicans. 
Neither do we thinic that such an ar- 
gument could be maintained, in ac-- 
cordance with the commonly-accept- 
ed principles of theology. If it is a 
suilicient mtention for valid baptism 10 
intend to administer the form of Chris- 
tian initiation, it is sulScient, in the case 
of orders, to intend to administer the 
form of Christian ordination, although 
the ceremony in eidter case may be 
regarded as merely an external form 
without any intrinsic value. It is 
only as a witness to the sense of the 
form that tlie intention of Anglicans 
is brouj;hl into court; and it is no: 
the intention with which they ordain 
at which we demur, but the intention 
with which they have altered the or- 
dination service and liturgy — i.t., the 
form of ordination and its context. 
Had iliese alterations been mcrtlv 
the result of an antiquarian Icanm^' 
towards a more primitive though Ii^ks 
perfect utterance of the same truth, 
or of a puritanic craving after sim- 
plicity, the irreverence would have 
been of the extremest kind, but still 
there would have been no grounds 
for disputing the orthodox sense, and 
60 the validily of the form. But, on 
the contrary, the very object of tlu' 
alterations, as Canon Estcourt has 



show 



i the eli 



of iJie 



orthodox doctrines of priesthood and 
sacrifice, and therefore of the signifi- 
cance upon which the validity of the 
form depends. 

The doubts which should beset 
the miads of iionest Anglicans on the 
subject of their orders, if they have 
the least scruple as to the orthodoxy 
of their position, are simply otcr- 
whclming. If they turn to the early 
church, they find that there are .at 
least a^ many precedents and author- 
ities foi regivrdivi^ as vwiW vVc o^&■^^^■ 



6i6 

tions of heretics 
for accepting them. Morinus' opin- 
ion is that such ordinations are in- 
valid, except where the church lias 
thought fit to dispense with the im- 
pedimeot ; and Morinus is a genuine 
student of antiquity, and no mere 
coiuroversiahsL True it is An gh- 
cans may appeal lo what is unde- 
niably the more common doctrine 
in the Roman Church — viz., that 
such oriiiuaiions are vahd — but then 
she unflinchingly condemns Anglicans, 
whereas she has never condemned 
Morinus. It is nothing to the pur- 
pose to say that the practice of the 
church prevents her using Morinus' 
opinion against Anghcnns — which is 
begging the question against Mori- 
nus; the point is, Can AngUcans es- 
cape using it against themselves? 
Again, when they direct their atten- 
tion to the special facts of their own 
Iiistory, their view is to the. last de- 
gree discouraging. Their latest an- 
t^tgonist, Canon Estcourt, has noto- 
riously given up to them every point 
to which they could make the renno- 
lest claim, and has broken and thrown 
away every vireapon to which the 
least exception couU! be taken ; and 
yet it has come to this : that tbcir 
only title to orders is a succession 
probably broken by the non-couse- 
craiion of Barlow, and an ambiguous 
form which, when read in the light 
of their mutilated ordinal and liturgy, 
is unlike any that has been accepted 
as even probably adequate either by 
l-:ast or West. 

Even if Anglicans could find their 
identical form, as far as words go, in 
approved ordinals, they could not 
argue from tliis the sufficiency of 
their own form. Mutilation and in- 
volntton, allhongh they contract with- 
in the same span, can never be iden- 
tical. You might as well pretend 
that there is no difference between a 
mamea from which you have pluclt- 



Artg/ican Orders. 



ed the leaves and an undeveloped 
bud. 

It is true that originally diScicnt 
portions of the church were allowed, 
in regard to orders, to give ei^re- 
sion to the same truth in variou! 
forms with various degrees of tx\i\i- 
citness ; but this can afibrd no pno* 
dent lo an individual church Ear mil' 
lilating a common form in onioO 
deny a common truth. 

THE ABYSSINIAN DECISION. 

We cannot conclude our reviei 
without noticing an important crili- 
cism made upon our author in ik 
shape of a k'ltiT to the Munth, Novel* 
ber-Deccmber, 1873, by the Rc- 
F. Jones, S.J. F. Jones, whilst t^ 
pressing his thorough concttrmKf 
with Canon Estcourt in every otIiB 
particular, thinks that he has aludi- 
ed an undue force to the deciMB 
of the holy office upon AbyBsoiw 
orders. 

Canon Estcourt has nnderstood 
the Sacred Congregation of the Inqui- 
sition, in their decree in 1 704, to hav< 
ruled that the form, " .A.ccipe Spirilum 
Sanctum," understood in the senK 
of the Abyssinian liturgical booh 
is valid for the priesthood, althuugh, 
in the particular case, no further « 
pression is given to this seme, 11 
least no expression within the limia 
of the form strictly so called — »A ll" 
verbal formula synchronous wilhllx 
matter. The decree which be W 
understands is as follows : 

Question : " The ordainer puw' 
hurriedly along a line of deacons, l>y' 
ing his hands upon the head of ««*. 
and saying, '.\ccipc Sptritum &«■ 
tum ■ ; are they validly ordained «» 
tat moiio e forma, and admissible Vi 
the exercise of their orders?" An- 
swer; "The ordination of a pw^ 
with the imposition of hands and ut- 
terance of the form as in the questtoa 
is undoubtedly valid." 



m 



Augiicait Orders. 



ones, whilst allowing thnt 
Eatcourt's interpretation is 
iral one accortliog to oniinary 
of criticism, insists that the 
"when interpreted in the 
-certain rules which arise out 
, is called the siylus curia," 
ndeed, the sufficiency of the 
go of hands as matter, when 
li the form, but does not ile- 
sufficiency of the particular 
Accipe Spiritum Sanctum," 
Bles in question are as follows : 
meaning of the answer de- 
pon the meaning of the i/u- 
'9. Nothing but what is di- 
todisdecided. 3, "Ifthereis 
I in the wording of a decision 
bpears inconsistent with the 
l^of Etn approved bodyof ihe- 
p— such teaching as amounts 
[theological probability — the 
is 10 be interpreted so as to 
ich teaching intact, unless 
kon should Itself show that 
led to condemn that leach- 
I to take away that proba- 
l'4. Such decisions are form- 
ite pre! lira pti on tliat every 
fcept the one in question is 
Ion the maxim, " Standuni 
galore actfls." 5. When the 
of an ordination is the sub- 
fcter of a decision , it must be 
i that the decision has been 
fer an inspection of the ordi- 
F" It is hardly safe to allege 
^ty of a decision (I speak 
I" a curial decision), particu- 
in the details of the case are 
Ipfecdy knowii to m, with- 
Ing ascertained the sense in 
fcr its promulgation, it was 
Ipd by those who were most 
Bt to measure its inipor- 
FWc shall examine these 
fcti we come to consider the 
ir F. Tones' application of 

I in hand. But first 



617 

of the Abyssinian deci- 
sion would have upon Canon Est- 
court's controversial position. 

Pp. 158-163. Canon Estcourt con- 
siders various objections made by 
Catholic controversialists to the An- 
glican form of the priesthood. He 
is considering the question of the 
form in its strict sense — \\z., that por- 
tion of the ordination formulary which 
is synchronous with the matter, wheth- 
er this last consist in die tradition of 
the instruments or in the imposuion 
of hands. One objection urged by 
Lequien, amongst others, is grounded 
upon the very common doctrine that 
the form of priestly ordination must 
express the principal effect of the sa- 
crament of order by making mention 
of tile priesthood in relation to the 
sacrifice, which is its principal object. 
Now, if, as F. Jones suggests was the 
case, ibc immutilated Coptic rile 
was in use in Abyssinia up to 1704, 
and the examples given by Ludolf 
and Monstgnor Beb are merely im- 
perfect copies; and if no decision as 
to the form was given in 1704, then, 
so far as anything has been shown 
to the contrary, Lequicn's objection 
holds good that no approved form 
for the priesthood fails to make an 
appeal to the Holy Sacrifice. 

And now as regards F. Jones" 
rules for interpreting die "stylus cii- 
rire," and their application to the 
Abyssinian decision. We have no cri- 
ticism to make upon Rules i and 2. 
They are sufficiendy obvious even to 
a non-expert. Rule 3 cannot, we 
think, be admitted without qualilica- 
don. ft is no doubt an important 
principle that the presumption is in 
favor of an interpretation wliich 
leaves intact a probable opinion, sup- 
posing that this is not the formal 
subject of the decision ; but we must 
not do violence to the natural sense 
of words, and it is quite possible that 
such a decision might completely 



AngUcan Orders. 



evacuate the probability of an opin- 
ion of which it took no Jirect cogni- 
zance whatever. The Council of 
Florence did not directly intend to 
condemn the opinion requiring as 
absolutely necessary the tradition of 
(lie instruments, yet effectively ic has 
(lone so. As to Rule 4, "Standum 
est pro valore actOs," its application 
to the case before us must depend 
upon whether the course indicated is 
equivalent to the introduction of a 
new "actus." To ask, as the dnbiura 
does, concerning the validity of " tal 
mode c furma," implies that this is 
given in its integrity. In the Abys- 
sinian case, it was a question whether 
certain persons were to be allowed 
to say Mass and perform other priest- 
ly functions, and the Sacred Congre- 
jjatiott allowed them. As to Rule 5, 
no doubt an inspection of the ordi- 
nals is to be presumed; but here the 
very contention of the ([uestioner is 
that the ordinal had not been follow- 
ed. Moreover, there was ample 
evidence, in the sacred books quoted 
by Ludolf auj Monsignor' lieb, ac- 
cessible to tile Sacred Congregation, 
and which, according to F. Jones' 
principle, we may assume it had be- 
fore it, that in Abyssinian hands tbe 
Coptic ritual had been seriously 
tampered with, Tlie translation 
from the Abyssinian, as given by the 
above-named writers, is certainly not 
an imperfect version of the Coptic, 
but a deliberate compilation from the 
Coptic form and that of the aposto- 
lic constitutions, which would hardly 
have been made except for ritual 
purposes. 

If we may accept the earliest and 
most precise evidence as to actual 
practice in Abyssinia — that of the 
missionary Francis Alvarez (1520), 
the one prayer used by the A buna, 
with (he imposition of hands, is not 
the form " Respice," but, in the Coptic 
loiiguc, the prayer " Dmoa ^ta.\.a 



qu:e infirma sanat." • Bi 
wortls, as Canon Estcourt pt 
p. 181, "in the Coptic and' 
rites, are said by the archA 
one of the assisting bishops.. 
Xestorian and ancient Greek, 
said by the bishop without i 
his hands ; and only in Uie 
Greek, the Maronite, and tt 
nian are they united with ti* 
tion of hands." This look«, 
Abyssinian ritual wa« a \ 
medley. 

This view is borne 01 
Godigno, S.J. {De AfyisiH 
p. 2n), who tells us that I 
Patriarch of Abyssinia, Ovi 
long as he lived in ^ihiopi 
doubted very much, aad n 
reason, if the Abyssinian pri 
been duly and lawfully 1 
inasmuch as the forms of con 
used by the Abuna mcrf sa, 
that they seemed to have AeeUi 
On which account, in thoa 
which belong to orders, aq 
require in the minister a re^ 
ter, he never could persuadl 
to use their offices, lest fa 
sacraments should be 

F. Jones tliinks that 1 
would certainly have noti^ 
corruptions, had they exisU 
Ctntrmtrsia Coptlca, coraf 
the information of Propaj 
1731. But Assemani was s 
upon to consider the corri^ 
Abyssinia ; for, as he tells J 
preface, the occasion of hi 
was the conversion of two ; 
monks of the Alexandrian 
of whose reordinaiion tb 
question. 

As to Rule 6, obviously 
can be more important tbi 
timate of a decision exp» 
contemporary theologians; 



Anglican Orders. 



619 



hterprel their silence. 
icfencr of the Coptic rite, 
', Jones, Asseinani ought to 
loied tlie authorization of a 
odch A furtiori authorized llie 
f We re[)Iy tliat Assemani had 
[ of far more obvious and 
^instances of ihe recognition 
Coptic n'te; that he had no 
jBuch indirect supjiort. The 
Kiou of the Abyssinian monl< 
hiaria, in 1594, sufRcienily 
\%t it waS impossible to judge 
hsinian ordinations by Ihe 
me, Assemani himseif ac- 
Kes,p. 727, that either Tecia 
bemory failed liim, or his or- 
pust have been '■ poco prati- 
%a Coptico o I'avessero in 

i^rte alterato," F. Godigno 
KVs ihat the reason of Tecla 
rdinaiion was the corrup- 
rite. On the other hand, 
r a great exaggeration to 
le missionaries made no- 
lyssinian orders, and that 
of rcordinalion was the 
m of the instruments, 
lennudes, the first of the 
iarchs, Ludolf (pars. ii. p. 
s Iha: he (Bcrmudcs) has 
I so many words, that he 
. the sacred orders, indud- 
;copate, with rl^ht of sue- 
tile patriarchate, from the 
rk, under condition that 
ould confirm it, and thai 
:on firmed and ratified all 
i. Again, the Porluguese 
I, one of the negotiators 
luits, tells the Abyssinian 
ie had been taught that, 
danger of deatii, and can- 
Catliolic priest, he must 
fisinians for communion.* 
', this Abyssinian decision 
yet made much mark in 
CAnon Estcourt is able 
e*Jip>r, 1 e. p, 3*7- 



to mention one work in which it oc- 
curs — a certain edition of the theology 
of Antoine, a Jesuit, and Prefect of 
Propaganda under Benedict XIV. 
But then there is a vast technical 
difference, anyhow, between a decision 
taking the shape of a practical rule 
of procedure and a speculative defi- 
nition. For more than a century 
after the Council of Florence, its 
recognition of Greek orders bad no 
perceptible influence upon the lan- 
guage of theologians concerning the 
matter of the priesthood. It lakes 
time to translate frorti 'the language 
of action into that of speculation; 
but who can deny that in any fair 
controversy such action must be 
discounted. 

It remains to be determined wheth- 
er, everything considered, the decision 
of the Sacred Office admits of K. 
Jones' interpretation ; whether the 
dubiuni can be understood, as lie 
suggests (p. 456), to turn exclusively 
upon these.two points: the non-trn- 
dilionof llieinslruraenlsand ihe devi- 
ation from the Coptic rite which pre- 
scribes that the bishop's hands shouhl 
be imposed upon . each ordinandia 
duringtlie whole of the form Respice, 
insle-id of during the one phrase, 
" Reple eum Spiritu Sancto," which F. 
Jones tTiinks the missionaries para- 
phrased by " Accipe Spiriium Sanc- 
tum." Now. we must say thai it is 
hardly probable that in r704 the mis- 
sionaries should be seriously exercised 
about the non-tradiliim of the instru- 
ments, Neither is it likely that they 
should have proposed, in the same 
breath, the two difficulties suggested 
by r. Jones ; for why should devia- 
tion from a rite.lhe substantial valid- 
ity of which they doubled, be a diffi- 
culty ? They ask about the validity 
of a form and a manner of imposing 
hands, which Ihey describe " lalmo do 
e forma." There may have been 
Other prayers used \tt \.\\t ^civ\k.c 






620 

ifom tlie Coplic onliiial and liturgy, 
but the dubium excludes tiiem from 
' tal forma.' 

F, Jones' notion tliat the " Accit-^ 
Spiritutu SaLUclum" is a mistransh 
tion of the Coptic " Replc eum Spirilu 
Sancto" — which is not found in ihe 
Abyssinian version^is, we llunk, quite 
untenable. No distinction was more 
thoroughly appreciated on both sides 
tiian tiiat between an im]>erative and 
a precatory form. The Patriarch of 
the Matoniies, in 1573, informs the 
pope : " In our Pontifical, the ordtrs 
are conferred without a form by 
way of prayer."* In i860, the mis- 
sionaries inform the Sacred Congre- 
gation "that the Monophysites be- 
lieve the essence of ordination con- 
■ists in llie expiration {jniiifiasieme) 
the ordaincr makes in the act of say- 
ing, ' Accipe Spiritum Sanctum." "f 
Amongst the various deviations from 
the Coptic rite which ."issemani notes 
in the evidence of Tecla Maria, the 
Abyssinian says of his ordainer, " Iti- 
sufHavit in faclem meam." I'his 
" insufBatio " almost implies an im- 
perative form, and so far isolates the 
words from any precatory formula- 
ries tliat may precede and follow 
them. Most probably this form was 
obtained from the missionaries with 
whom the Abyssinians had been so 
long in intercourse. 

Doubtless the Sacred Congrega- 
tion did not sanction the form " Ac- 
cipe Spiritum Sanctum " taken by 
itself simply, but specificated in the 
sense of the Abyssinian liturgy ; but 
this is exactly Canon Eslconrt's con- 
tention against Anglicans, 

In spite of F, Jones' shrewd and 
interesting observations, we are of 
opinion that Canon Estcourt's ap- 
preciation of the Abyssinian decision 
is the true one. At any rate, his in- 
terpretation is sufficiently probable 

• Auemnnl, Cumlrn. Ctfl.. p. iSj. 
t Silcfurl, Appeod. luiv. 



Angikan Orders. 



to make it most importsnt to shn 

that, even bo understood, it cannn 
Anglican orders, 



POSTSCKUTLU 

Since the above wa= written, the 
discussion has been continued in ibe 
Month by an answer from Cana 
Estcourt in January, and an elabo- 
rate rejoinder by F. Jones in Febns 
ary. Something of what we have 
written has been anticipated; bul,)ia 
the whole, we have thought it beiW 
to leave our article as it stands, ud 
content ourselves with appendiil 
such further remarks as may sciB 
called for. 

F, Jones, in his second letcw, 'Vr 
sists that Canon Estcourt has nit' 
taken what the missionaries propood 
as a solitary deviation from a wB- 
known and appro\ed rile for lix 
whole form used on the occasJon 
He proceeds to support his posibOli 
by italicizing the concluding wonU 
of the answer of the Holy Office al- 
lowing the missionaries to admit llu 
person so ordained " to the exerdic 
of his orders acconiing in Ike rile, ^ 
preved and exf argute J, in wkkk It 
was ordaitttd," " The Holy Officii 
then," he argues, " did not suppON 
that the Abyssinians were onlUDcd 
with only the words, 'Accipe Spiriliia 
Sanctum,' but presumed thai somerift 
and that an a/r/iwed t'lK, had been 6A 
lowed." 

Now, it is quite certain that ^ 
schismatical Abuna did not nuka 
use of a rite expurgated and appTor- 
ed by the Holy See; therefore llw 
word " rite " must refer to the si«t- 
dotal rite to the exercise of which the 
person in question was ordaincJi 
which rite he might use in its *•" 
purgated and approved fcinn; Iwt 
whether the bare words, Accipe Spif- 
itum Sanctum, were used, or the fii"- 
er Abyssinian or Coptic forms, •'" 
priest would have been ordaii ' 



Anglican Onkrs. 



62^ 



ih a view to the exercise 
\ had been ordained. 
le question whethei the 
turgy, as distinct from the 
5 approved, we cannot 
a conclusion in the ne- 
be drawn from the pas- 
nes quotes from the en- 
• Benedict XIV. The 
down that the Oriental 
I communion with Rome 
four rites — Greek, Arme- 
1, and Coptic; but he is 
y giving general heads. 
)pic, if approved, might 
been included under the 
The Melchite and Chal- 
es are approved; but in 
ration they are not distin- 
)m the Syrian and the 
hich they are respectively 
tions. Further on in this 
the pope says that 
Maronites, Armenians, 
Melchites had been giv- 
s in Rome, in order that 
erform their sacred offices 
•ding to his rite." We 
the Abyssinians also had 
n Rome, where we may 
,t they were allowed the 
ege. The fact that an 
edition of the iEthiopic 
brought out in Rome in 
some way to show that 
was approved.* This was 
the Oriental liturgies pub- 

uo, Exptic, Miu, (Venice* 1770 



lished in Rome, and may be found 
in various editions of the Bibliotheca 
Futrum (Paris, 1624, tom. vi.), to- 
gether with the iEthiopic rite of 
baptism and confirmation. This rite 
of confirmation affords a curious ex- 
ample of the unprincipled variations 
of iEthiopic ritual. It is almost the 
same as the Coptic rite published by 
Assemani, to which F. Jones refers, 
but it carefully eliminates the direct 
form, "Accipe Spiritum Sanctum," 
wherever it occurs ia the Coptic. 

We are inclined to believe that the 
Abuna sometimes ordained in the 
Coptic, sometimes in the Abyssinian, 
tongue ; but we must confess that the 
only direct testimony we have rati 
with on this point is in favor of the 
Coptic. Still, whatever was the lati- 
gtiage used, there is ample evidence 
to show that the Abyssinians were in 
the habit of materially diverging frotn 
the Coptic ordinal. To the testimo- 
nies of Oviedo and Alvarez, already 
quoted, we may add that of F. Sol- 
ler. Referring to F. Bernat's corre- 
spondence, he says that that father 
discusses " the different rite of ordi- 
nation and other points of difference 
between the Copts and Abyssin- 
ians. "• 

We submit that the Hoi/ Office 
had no grounds for assuming the use 
of the Coptic, or, indeed, of any spe- 
cific ritual in the case brought before 
them. 

^Ad. Samd. yunih.^ torn. ▼• p. sA 



6n 



On the Wing. 



ON THE WING. 



A SOUTHERN FLIGHT. 



V. 



*' Les Dieux Aaientftlort si voitinsde U terre 
QuHls y veoftient aoavent avec ou sans mytUre.**^ 



*^ There is no sense of desolation 
greater than that produced by the 
sight of a dismantled palace and a 
deserted garden." These were the 
words with which Don Emidio 
broke a long and somewhat sad 
silence which had fallen on our lit- 
tle party the day we went to Por- 
tici. 

It is a long drive of four miles 
on the rough pavement of huge 
slabs common to Naples and its 
environs. We passed over the bridge 
where S. Januarius had gone forth 
with cross and banners, incense and 
choristers, to meet the torrents of 
burning lava from Mount Vesuvi- 
us, and arrest the destruction of 
the city by prayer. It made me 
shudder to think how very near 
that destruction we had then been. 
For, of course, if the lava had once 
gone so far, there was no natural 
reason why it should not do so 
again, and even pass on further 
still. That bridge is now hardly 
outside the town. Indeed, town 
succeeds town, and the whole way 
from Naples to Portici is one long 
street, chiefly consisting of villas 
and handsome palaces, now sadly 
neglected, but probably still con- 
taining many treasures, and all 
with more or less of garden ground 
attached. 

Portici is a royal palace ; but for 
years none of the royal family have 



resided there, and it is u; 
ly for public offices. It 
see these magnificent buil 
nearly empty; and we 
wonder at the extraordina 
of the past when we re 
Portici is one only of m; 
beautiful royal resident 
are no longer kept up 
Caserta, which is said t 
largest palace in Europe, 
deserted. Don Emidio h 
us an anecdote in cc 
with it. Just before the r 
of i860 the palace h 
put in order, partially ref 
and redecorated, for the 
of Francis II. and his I 
ex- King and Queen of Na 
Amongst other valuat 
ments, in one room the y 
hangings attached with 
gold JUurS'dC'lis, When tl 
tion broke out, a Neapolit 
one of the very few of t 
noble families who turned 
their king, was appointed 
and readjust the palace 
usurper. The whole matte 
into his hands, in perfect cc 
no doubt, that he would s 
perly carried out. For s« 
the palace was closed to tl 
When again it was opene 
tain days, and those ^ 
known it before saw it a^ 
observed that all the gol 
dc'lis had disappeared. ( 
the fact provoked enquiry 



On the Wing. 



1 of them was ever rendered, 
, researches proved fruitless, 
doubled but that they had 
annexed " by llie liberal 
U, but, equally, no one dar- 
nim to task. For as annex- 
m a large scale was the 
'. the day, it did not answer 
'too closely into minor ex- 
bf the same. Nevertheless, 
iry got whispered abroad, 
(itpiilaiion, in consequence, 
|lcss golden than the miss- 

n-de-lis. 

Bay the duke was standing 

Eow in his own palace 
K [he courtyard, when 
tisan, who had already 
jhis bill more than once, 
b request payment. The 
fiio thought, or pretended 
I the charges in the bill were 
Bt, began to upbraid and 
lb man from the window, 
iRme moment the wife of 
be men-servants of the es- 
llfnt was crossing the yard. 
|e called to her, exclaiming, 
1b downright theft. But 
ftisans are ail thieves, are 
^ Donna Rafaele?" 
r excellency is a better 
I that than I am," was the 
lincc the greater ought to 
I lesser," 
bnder how the duke took 

Imidio gave me a knowing 
id shook his right hand 
his left elbow. We all 
^ but no description can 
the inimitable drollery of 
Ian pantomime. It is n 
i times more eloquent than 
r What expression, such as 
m yourself scarce," or " to 
fc," could convey what is 
B by that wagging of the 
Pbed hnnd under the elbow P 
I the thi 



: escapmg. 



the same in everything else. There 
is a gesture for all the emotions 
and most of the casualties of daily 
life. No beggar tells you he is ~ 
hungry ; but standing silently be- 
fore you, with a perfectly immov- 
able expression, he opens his mouth, 
and points downwards with his 
finger. A woman and half a do- 
zen children gathering round yon, 
and all doing the same thing, pro- 
duces an effect so curiously divid- 
ed between the ludicrous and the 
pathetic that it is far harder to re- 
fuse an alms than if ihe request 
were made in downright words. 
It is the same with the coachmen 
of the hired public carriages. You 
are driving rapidly along, and your 
coachman passes another whom he 
knows. In less than a second he 
has conveyed to his friend full in- 
formation of where he comes from, 
where he is going, and how soon 
he will be back, probably conclud- 
ing with the amount of the fare for 
which he has agreed to do the dis- 
tance; andall without a word being 
uttered. 

The Neapolitans carry the same 
extraordinary pantomimic power 
into all scenes and all places, in- 
cluding the pulpit, or, more likely, 
the platform, from which the priest 
delivers his Lenten or Month of 
Mary discourses. He walks to and 
fro in the heat of his argument, 
he sits down, and starts up again, 
he weeps, and he even laughs. It 
is often very striking; and it is bo 
natural, it belongs so essentially 
to the genius of the people, that 
it is never ridiculous, nor does it 
seem out of place. Of conrse some- 
times it is done less well and grace- 
fully than at others; but it is too 
thoroughly in unison with the 
language and habits of the people 
ever to appear incongruous. 

We were sitting on the low wa.U 



■ ^ 



On the Wing. 



of the outer steps leading to the 
tower entrance of a building at the 
-end of the Portici pleasure-grounds 
when this conversation occurred, 
I The tower belongs, I believe, to an 
Rcbservatory, and all around are the 
p-«tablcs, the barracks, and the ap- 
purtenances of the palace, now 
empty and silent. The grass grew 
high and iliick in the courtyard. 
The deep-red blossoms of the wild 
sorrel, with the sunlight shining 
I through them, looked like drops of 
■ blood among the grass. The oxeyed 
daisies boldly faced the blue, glar- 
ing sky. The low, long building 
used for stables was in front of us. 
Then a dark, dense wood of ilex 
and cork-trees, like a strong, black 
line. And beyond that no middle 
distance was visible, but stark and 
sudden rose the seamed and bar- 
ren sides of Mount Vesuvius. No 
beneficent and tender while cloud 

P broke the intense, raonoionons hiue 
of all the wide heavens. The sky, 
the grim mountain, the black wood, 
Aiid the deserted stables — that was 
idl; bathed in sunshine, spark- 
&lg with intense light, silent with 
brooding heat, and unspeakably 
desolate with a broad, unmodulat- 
ed, horrific beauty like the face of 
the sphinx. 
Suddenly there came over me a 
dinr, weird feeling of the ancient 
pagan world. There was an inner 
perception and consciousness that 
in some undefined way it was homo- 
geneous to the scene around me and 
to unredeemed man. It was cruel 
in its beauty; as poetic, but not 
picturesque, beauty so often is. 

I started up, and exclaimed, 
"Let us get back. The old gods 
are about this place, and I cannot 
stay." 

Time has not effaced the impres- 
sion, and I can recall the inner 
vision at any raoinent. 'Eia.i\V de- 



clared we should come agair 
have a picnic there with the 
nons. Biit I protested I ■ 
not be of the party. " By thi 
Jane," said Frank, *' why did 
beth not come?" 

" Because little Francesc 
was buried this morning, 
neither Ida nor Elizabeth ' 
leave the poor mother; 
Helen remained to keep Mrs. 
non company." 

Franceschiella was i. lovely 
of six years who had died 
fever the day before. She w, 
only child, and that fact, add 
her quite extraordinary beaur 
made the trial doubly hard ic 
for her adoring parents, Fo 
deed, it was little less than n 
tion that Franceschiella rcei 
not only in her own honi< 
from all her neighbors. We 
very much struck in this ins 
by the poetic nature of the 
Hans. The father was a vigiuti 
the mother did a little ni 
work, or took in washing; bi 
nobleman's child was ever 
carefully bathed and dressec 
nourished than this one da 
and that partly in consequen 
her angelic beauty and her i 
tine cliarni. The little ere 
ran every risk of being en 
spoilt by the amount of p 
and flattery that she receive 
all sides. On Sundays and 
days they always dressed h 
white with a red coral necli 
and the mother or the cc 
would weave a wreath of Hi 
to crown her beautiful, golden 
that fell below her waist. Sht 
deep violet eyes with black li 
and a milk-white skin. Sh< 
very forward for her age, and 
gularly Intelligent. But she 
surely never ueam to live loi 
VV\=, loii^h world. She came 



Oh ilu Wing. 



G2S 



itranger, and she remained 
;er all the time of her brief 
— as though some princess 
le distant lands of poetry 
lance had come for a brief 
dwell with common mortals, 
^as an inexpressible refine- 
all the little creature's ways 
vould have become a real 
) her and the occasion of 
trials had she lived long 
to find the harsh side of 
fling her angel wings. It 
mercy the child was taken 
efore the period of white 
.nd fresh flowers had come 
end. Life could have 
to her nothing but tempta- 
d anguish. But of course 
)ortion to her exceptional 
kvas the despair of the poor 
in seeing her fading before 
es. As little Franceschiel- 
been unaccustomed to re- 
or coercion of any kind, it 
:ceedingly difficult, during 
•rt illness, to induce her to 
i necessary remedies. And 
could be more touchingly 
il than the arguments used 
distracted parents to per- 
ler to swallow the nauseous 
;s. As usual, there was a 
near the bed, and an image 
Mater Dolorosa — the devo- 
the Neapolitans being very 
y to the Seven Sorrows of 
issed Virgin. They would 
poor little darling to take 
!dicine in honor of Our 
thirst on the cross, or of 
dy's anguish when His dead 
as laid in her arms. And 
ere not unmeaning or mere- 
:ical phrases, to which the 
)uld attach but little sense, 
rvere as household words 
; familiar to her childish 
s from the moment she 
sp, and woven into her life 
VOL. xix. — 40 



as the mysteries of the faith only 
are in lands altogether Catholic. 
But nothing was to avail to keep 
the pretty human flower from 
fading fast. And before a week 
had past little Franceschiella had 
taken flight ere any of the ugliness 
of mortal life had tarnished her 
sweet loveliness. They crowned 
her with roses, and laid her, dressed 
in white, in the little wooden coffin 
filled with flowers. Then »they 
flung handfuls of colored sugar- 
plums over her, and placed a white 
camellia between her still red lips, 
saying, as they did so, " She breathes 
flowers." And so they carried her, 
in the open bier, the uncovered, 
lovely face turned towards the 
heavens, and thus laid their dar- 
ling in the dark grave, but in 
the full hope of a bright resurrec- 
tion. 

The mother's anguish was ex- 
treme. The Neapolitan women are 
an excitable and highly nervous 
race; which arises, no doubt, in 
great measure from the climate, as 
every stranger knows who finds the 
effect produced on his nerves by 
this intoxicating atmosphere, which 
I have heard compared to drinking 
champagne. As in the case of the 
peasantry much self-control has 
not been inculcated, the result 
is the frequency of terrible ner- 
vous attacks producing convul- 
sions — what we should probably 
designate as very aggravated hys- 
teria. After Franceschiella's death 
the mother became subject to these 
attacks, and seemed incapable of 
receiving any consolation till hea- 
ven granted her the hope of again 
becoming a mother. On the day 
we went to Portici the Vernons 
had hardly left her. And it was 
very charming to see the Christian 
sense of equality on their side, and 
the deference and gratitude shown 



626 



On the Wing. 



them by their peasant neighbors oi^ 
the other. 

But why did Frank so particu- 
larly ask why Elizabeth had not 
come, instead of asking equally 
about Ida and Helen ? 

" You have, then, seen Medusa 
in the woods of Portici, Miss 
Jane ?" said Don Emidio sudden- 
ly to me, as we were driving home 
in absolute silence. 

I looked up out of my brown 
study to find his eyes fixed upon 
rae. '^ Do you mean that I am 
changed to stone V* 

" You are as silent as one." 

I laughed, and said, " At least, 
thank heaven, I am not malheureuse 
comme les pilrres* as the French 
say, though I may be as silent as 
they. I did not, however, see any- 
thing in those dark ilex groves. I 
only suddenly felt the awfulness of 
nature when you look at her in all 
her inexorable beauty, with the 
rhythm of her apparently changeless 
laws and her sublime disdain of 
man. She breathes and blossoms, 
she bums and thunders, she weeps 
and smiles, utterly independent of 
us all. She knows no weakness ; 
no decay touches her but such as 
she can repair. She embraces 
death, that she may produce life. 
She is ever fertile, ever lavish of her- 
self and of her gifts. But she never 
cares. Her mountains are gran- 
ite even to the feet of her Creator, as 
he climbs the heights of Calvary, 
Her noontide heavens are brass to 
the cravings of man's heart in his 
midday toil. She will not pause in 
the twenty-four hours of her inevita- 
ble day, though sundown should 
bring death to one and despair to 
many again and again. She treads 
her ever-victorious march over ruin- 
ed nations, buried cities, and broken 

* Ai unhappy as lh« tdoaea. 



hearts. Oh ! I could hate her— 
cruel power, terrible Pythor.css; 
mocking me with sunshine, scaring 
me with storms ; ever rejoicing in 
her strength, ever regardless oi inc. 
I cannot explain why these fhoiighb 
came to me, as across the dark 
wood I traced the violet scars un 
awful Vesuvius, and heard the loa 
whispers of the wind in the long 
grass at our feet. Suddenly faith 
seemed to die out of me. I forgot 
what I believe ; and back came 
trooping the pagan gods and tbc 
pagan world, with the strong feel- 
ing that pantheism is the inevitable 
religion of the natural man, and 
that were I not, thank God, a 
Christian and a Catholic, some form 
of it would grow into my mind, a.s 
the impress left by the face of na- 
ture. For a moment a dark cloud 
overshadowed me while I looked 
into the depths of the old pagan 
belief; and it became so real tonic 
that I shuddered. It has leftmc 
silent; that's all." 

"That's all!" repeated Don 
Emidio with a sly smile, and imi- 
tating my voice in a way that 1 
half thought was rather imperii- 
nent. " Allow me to tell you that 
I think that is a great deal. 1 do 
not imagine there are many youns; 
ladies who come out for a days 
pleasuring to the gardens of Portin 
or elsewhere, and indulge in such 
profound reflections as you do. 
I looked round; and saw that 
Frank and Mary were listening- 
Frank said : " I believe Jane »> 
quite right ; and she has so wc^^ 
described the effect which the as- 
pects of nature produce en the 
mind of man that I am convinced 
her words embody and express the 
riddle of the sphinx. The laws oi 
nature, taken without the doctrine 
of the Incarnation, which alone \^ 
the keystone to the whole crcatio"! 



On the Wutg. 



627 



enigma which is put be- 
understand and answer; 
ich, we perish." 
11 paganism was a falsified 
ion of the Incarnation ; 
for ever assuming a hu- 
, and the men becoming 
d Mary. "It had that 
nth in it which every sys- 
have to be built at all, 
in what monstrous form, 
uired revelation to tell us 
Word was made flesh and 
ngstmen.* And that alone 
ature. She is the herald, 
It, or rather the slave, of 
vhom and for whom all 
re created. She speeds 
r in the full vigor of those 
h were impressed upon 
first sprang from the hand 
rator. She does not stop 
ur griefs or our joys, for 
higher mission. But she 
[ to be terrible to us, for 
mveiled her face, and her 
IS forces no longer scare 
inexorable relentlessness. 
lission is to sing of God, 
t to Time the refrain of 

hen, do we sometimes pine 
npathy .^" said I. 
[iss Jane," exclaimed Don 
that is because we are for 
ng for sympathy in the 
ce and from the wrong 

Iways," I replied. What 
say so } And why did 
io change color and look 
xedly ? I was still won- 
in we reached home, 
id I were, as usual in the 
tting in the loggia. But 
not with us, and I miss- 
ial talk and the odor of 

has become of Frank 
ig, Mary ?" 



** He has gone down to see the 
Vernons, and said he should per- 
suade them to come to us." 

" I hope he will succeed, for I do 
not like his spending his evenings 
away from us. This is not the 
first nor the fourth time he has gone 
to Casinelli as soon as he got u]> 
from dinner." 

" Ah ! well, Jane, we must not be 
selfish. He has his life to live, as 
you have yours ; and I must expect 
one day to lose you both." 

I felt my heart stop, and then 
beat violently. What did Mary 
mean.^ And why did some veil 
seem suddenly to fall from my eyes } 
It was some moments before I 
spoke ; and then I tried to say in 
my ordinary voice : " You have 
some presentiment about Frank, 
Mary. What is it .^" 

" I have presentiments about both 
of you. But I do not want to 
force your confidence." 

In a moment I was kneeling by 
her side. " Dearest Mary, do you sup- 
pose I have any secrets from you ? 
I tell you everything. If I do not 
tell you more, it is because I know 
no more." It was a sudden impulse, 
dim but overwhelming, which made 
me add those strange words. Mary 
looked at me intently. " Has it 
never struck you that Frank has 
a reason for going so often to the 
Villa Casinelli, as Emidio has a 
reason for coming so often here ?" 

Our eyes met for one moment. 
Then I hid my face in my hands, 
and burst into tears. 

" O Mary ! what bitter-sweet 
things are you saying? I do not 
want to lose Frank, and I do not 
want to leave you, or to tread in 
other paths than those I have 
known since my childhood. Are 
you sure it is so ? Why have I not 
known it till now ? And even now 
I doubt." 



6s8 



On the Wing, 



* That is because you were not 
in the least looking out for it, and 
were absorbed in other thoughts, 
preventing that retrospection which 
would have shown you that Emi- 
dio*s manner towards you has been 
intensifying with every day of our 
stay here. And now what answer 
will you give when the time 
comes ?" 

" Do not ask me yet, dear Mary. 
I must have leisure to reflect. At 
this moment my heart is more full 
of Frank and Elizabeth than of 
anything else." 

** Ah ! my dear, he could not have 
made a wiser choice ; she is a girl 
after my own heart, so true, so 
tender, so good, and so utterly un- 
selfish." 

" I only hope she will not spoil 
Frank." 

" I am not afraid of that, for she 
has a high sense of duty for her- 
self and for all who approach her." 

"And what is to become of Ida 
and of you, Mary ?" 

"I cannot think," said Mary 
with a sweet, sad smile. "But I 
suppose we shall both of us be 
happy in the happiness of those 
who are so dear to us. It is worse 
for me than for her. She loses a 
sister. I lose a brother and sister 
both." 

" You don't know that, Mary. 
Nobody has proposed to me, and, 
if somebody did, I am not certain 
what answer I should give." 

" But I am," rejoined Mary. 

I clapped my hand over her 
mouth, exclaiming, " Don't say it, 
Mary dear. Let me be free and 
feel free. I am frightened at the 
thought of promising myself to any 
one, even where I may feel I could 
love." 

** Be free, dear sister, until the 
inonient has come when you are 
••>"rc* \i is God's wiW you should 



enter on another phase of woman's 
destiny." 

" And may I never do so, except 
to accomplish his will!" I replied; 
and with one long kiss on dear 
Mary's brow I turned away, for we 
heard approaching footsteps. 

Frank and Elizabeth entered 
first. Ida and Padre Cataldo fol- 
lowed. I looked to see if there 
were a fifth figure behind, and was 
rather relieved to find Don Eraidio 
was not there. I needed time to 
collect my thoughts before I saw 
him again. Perhaps, after all, Mary 
was mistaken, and attached more 
importance to this matter than was 
necessary. At any rate, I was in 
no hurry to see Don Emidio again. 

Frank seemed in high spirits, and 
Elizabeth looked serenely, calmly 
happy. Her soft manner and her 
slow, graceful movements had long 
ago won for her the nickname of 
Pussy; particularly as her velvet 
ways were not unmixed with a 
playful slyness; so that from time 
to time she came out with some re- 
mark far more acute and incisive 
that at first you would have given 
her credit for. It was a relief to 
me when I heard Frank say that 
he had been particularly anxious to 
induce Padre Cataldo to join us, 
because he had promised to give us 
the account of an unfortunate man 
whose execution he had attended 
some years ago in the course of his 
priestly ministrations. Ida was 
looking as thoughtful as Mary; 
and I saw her eyes constantly 
wandering to where Frank and 
Elizabeth were sitting together. 
We were all too preoccupied to 
talk, but were very glad to listen 
to a long story. 

" Frank tells us, reverend f^' 
ther," began Mary, "that some 
twenty years ago you attended the 
execution of a poor criminal. 1^ 



On the Wing. 



629 



inierest us very much if yoii 
give us ihe particulars. In 
m of Italy did it occur?" 
ook place in the Basilicata," 
' the father, " and the whole 
s was filled with constcrna- 
Sr the culprit did not belong 
ower ranks oflife, but was a 
Ian by birth, education, and 
1, He was the proprietor 
hilcau and a considerable 
Kny near one of the towns 
province, and his crime was 
irder of his own brother. 
my generations the family 
d an undesirable reputation 
ds of violence and sudden 
' rage or revenge. It was 
I first lime that the history 
family chroniclsd some 
toct; though it was the first 
[ least in modern days, that 
ember of this unrortunate 
rad suffered the utmost pen- 
■ Ihe t^w. I am unable to 
I what gave rise to tlie vio- 
tling of hatred which the 
fothcr entertained for the 
r. There had been many 
land disputes between ihein 
Ihcir boyhood upwards. 
told me the other day you 
in talking about the cxtra- 
jr power the Italian, and 
8y the native of Southern 
p3 of following out one de- 
lOUgh all obstacles and difli- 
ailently and secretly, for 
Uf they possess this tenacity 
tvcter in the search for 
III am afraid they have it 
,1 in qucBtions of revenge. 
I some reason or other this 
■n the sentiment of Conte 
(for bis brother, Don Carlo. 
^ Don Carlo was found 
\ tlirough the heart, and 
1^ immediately fell on Conte 
% He was arrested, but the 
i* 8 lor.g one, and some 



months were passed in collecting 
evidence. At length he was con- 
victedf and from the moment of 
his condemnation made no at- 
tempt to deny his guilt. At that 
time the prison at Potcnza, where 
he was to await his execution, was 
under the direction of a Jesuit fa- 
ther, whose efforts were ceaseless 
for the good of the unfortunate 
criminals under his charge. 

■' Naturally, Conte Falcone was a 
special object of care and anxiety, 
from the enormity of his crime, and 
from the fact that his position and 
circumstances arc generally in 
themselves a guarantee against of- 
fences of so deep a dye. 

" No efforts were wanting on the 
part of the Jesuit priest. He was 
with his prisoner day and night, 
endeavoring to bring him to a true 
repentance of his sin against God 
and against humanity. And he 
succeeded. He found the count 
from the first overwhelmed with 
remorse, and his object was to 
prevent this remorse degenerating 
into despair, and thus excluding 
the ligiit of faith. Happily, Conte 
Falcone, grievously as he had of- 
fended against the laws of God, 
had never given place to rational- 
istic or scoffing doubts. It needed 
but to transform the awful bitter- 
ness of human remorse into the 
tenderness of perfect contrition; 
and this great work in the culprit's 
soul was happily accomplished in 
time to give him courage to bear 
the dreadful intelligence that all 
efforts made at the Court of Appeal 
to get the sentence commuted had 
entirely failed. This was an un- 
usual and remarkable fact, for cap- 
ital punishment is very rarely car- 
ried out in Italy; many would tell 
you not sufficiently for the prolcc 
lion of society, Probably in this 
case the judges wcte u'c^.td \o v.vv- 



630 



On the Wing. 



usual severity by the position of 
the criminal, lest it should appear 
that, being a nobleman, he was less 
severely dealt with than a common 
man might have been. Moreover, 
it was not forgotten that this was 
the third time one of his unfortu- 
nate family had taken the life of a 
relation, and it was thought neces- 
sary an example should be made. 
The priest accordingly announced 
to him that his fate was sealed, and 
that the next morning he must pro- 
ceed on the terrible journey which 
was to be his last. 

" In the kingdom of Naples^ as 
well as in some other parts of Italy, 
it is the law that the execution of 
a criminal should take place on or 
near the spot where the deed was 
done." 

" What a terrible law of retribu- 
tion !" exclaimed Mary. 

" Yes, and one strictly in con- 
formity with many passages of the 
Holy Scriptures, and with the Bib- 
lical spirit generally." 

" Has it not been supposed, fa- 
ther," asked Frank, " that possibly 
after death the souls in purgatory, 
as also the lost, suffer for their er- 
rors there where they were guilty 
of them ?" 

" It is a common opinion, and 
it goes far towards explaining the 
accounts of strange noises and 
spectral forms in places where it is 
known there has been a murder. 
The very sound of the fatal blow is 
repeated through the hours of the 
night, as though the disembodied 
spirit were condemned for ever to 
re-enact the semblance of that 
crime which has grown into one 
idea, one all-absorbing memory of 
the past. The soul becomes, as it 
were, the personification and es- 
sence of its fatal crime." 

" What a fearful verification of the 
irorm that dieth not I" said Vixc^. 



'• But surely," I exclaimed, " we 
may have softer and happier feel- 
ings about the souls in purgatory?" 

" Of course we may," replied the 
father, almost smiling at my look 
of horror and anxiety. " If they fre- 
quent the scenes of their past, it is 
not to inspire us with fear ; for of 
that dreadful passion they are now 
themselves no longer capable, the 
blessed security of their future an- 
nihilating all touch of apprehension. 
If they reappear to the living, it is 
either to remedy some evil or to 
solicit our prayers. I never could 
understand the terror people have 
of what they call ghosts." 

" It would be strange indeed/* 
said Mary, "not to wish to see 
again those we have loved and lostt 
even their disembodied souls." 

" And yet it is not lawful to de- 
sire it with ardor or to entreat for 
it ; because it is outside the bounds 
of God's usual dealings with his 
creatures to permit the dead to 
revisit the living, or rather to re- 
appear to them ; for I believe they 
revisit us constantly, and probably 
mostly dwell amongst us, unseen 
and, alas ! generally forgotten." 

" Oh ! no, not forgotten, dear fa- 
ther," said Mary, the tears filling 
her eyes. 

" Not forgotten by such as yoUi 
figiia mia.* But we have entered 
on a subject which might keep ^^ 
discussing till midnight. I S>^ 
back to my poor penitent." 

" Was he your penitent from i\>^ 
first, father } Were you the directed 
of the prison ?" 

" You have robbed me of my di^ ' 
guise, cara figiia, \ I meant to hav^ 
told you a story, but not to talk 0^ 
myself. However, it does not mat^ 
ter, and I will lay aside all disguise^ 
The journey the unhappy count 



* yL% danchter* 



t DotfdRaffter. 



On t/ie IVtng. 



631 



had to make to his native place was 
perhaps the most terrible part of 
his punishment. But I had the 
satisfaction of seeing him receive 
the announcement with the greatest 
resignation, once more offering it 
as an atonement for his crime. As 
he was a man of considerable re- 
finement and education, his resig- 
nation arose from no lack of power 
to appreciate the dreadful contrast 
between his present position on re- 
turning to his home and that which 
he had once filled. It would be 
impossible to put into words what 
he felt on arriving to meet an ig- 
nominious death at the place where 
he had been the great man and the 
most influential person. Early in 
the morning of the dreadful day on 
which we began our long journey 
he was led out of the prison, and 
mounted on an ass — such being the 
law in that part of Italy. The 
slow paces of the beast added con- 
siderably to the torture of the 
< cunt's feelings, it being impossible 
to. hasten a progress every hour of 
which seemed an age. He had 
made his general confession to me 
before that fatal morning, and con- 
stantly on the road he would turn 
to nie for a word of consolation and 
encouragement, or to renew his fre- 
«iuent acts of contrition. I need 
hardly say I never left his side for 
a moment. Poor fellow ! what an 
agony the whole journey was to 
him, and, from sympathy, hardly 
less so to me; for he was bound 
hand and foot, and the animal was 
led by one of the guards, the others 
following and surrounding him on 
horseback. You know enough of 
us Italians to be aware that, physi- 
cally and morally, we are more sen- 
sitively constituted than any other 
European nation. Our feelings are 
extraordinarily keen, and our im- 
aginative powers excessive; and 



these two qualities combine to give 
us a most intense love of life. All 
the incidents of our journey, which 
occupied the entire day, must have 
been, and indeed I can bear testi- 
mony that they were, the perfection 
of anguish to the count, such as 
seldom can fall to the lot of any 
man, taking his whole life together. 
The sun poured its scorching rays 
on his uncovered head; he, being 
bound, could not in any way help 
himself; and several times he turn- 
ed so faint that the guards had to 
fetch water to revive him. I ob- 
tained permission at last for his 
poor head to be covered — all the 
more so as I apprehended a sun- 
stroke. I held the cup for him to 
drink from, and sometimes sup- 
ported him for a few seconds in my 
arms to relieve him as well as I 
could from the restraint of his pain- 
ful position. It was nightfall when 
our awful and melancholy proces- 
sion reached the prison of the 
count's native town. His own cha- 
teau was not far distant ! I had 
written to have a chapel prepared 
in the prison ; and in that chapel, 
kneeling at the foot of the altar, he 
whom I had come to love as the very 
child of my soul spent the entire 
night. Naturally, his first thought 
on arriving was for his wife and 
his two little children. And he 
entreated to be allowed to see 
them once more. I was not then 
aware of what was the custom on 
such melancholy occasions, and I 
applied for permission to send for 
the countess and her childrer 
But I found that they had been re- 
moved from their home by the or- 
der of the magistrates, and were 
already at a considerable distance. 
This had been done from motives 
of humanity, that the poor wife 
might not be almost within hear- 
ing of the dreadful event which was 



632 



On the Wing. 



to take place on the morrow, or 
his children grow up with a full 
knowledge of their father's fate. It 
was almost more than I myself 
could bear when I had to return to 
him in the prison, and tell him of 
the ill-success of my request. It 
was the last drop of extreme bitter- 
ness. It was the vinegar and the 
gall ; the absolute isolation from all 
that he had loved, the utter deso- 
lation of his human affections. A 
spasm of agony passed over his 
face ; but the only words he spoke 
were, * The will of God be done.* 

" In the morning he again made 
his confession with the ardent con- 
trition and fervor of a saint. He 
heard a Mass as preparation for his' 
last communion. He received the 
Blessed Sacrament at the second 
Mass, and assisted at a third in 
thanksgiving. 

" The dreadful moment was now 
at hand. The horrid black limbs 
of the fatal guillotine stood stark 
and rigid against the bright morn- 
ing sky in the great public square 
of the town. 

" Every church in the place was 
thronged with worshippers, praying 
and offering their communions for 
the salvation of the poor soul so 
soon to be wrenched from sweet 
life, and sent to its everlasting 
doom. The public square was also 
filled with spectators — a silent, awe- 
struck throng, while occasionally 
a prayer would seem to quiver on 
the air from the suppressed voice 
of a hundred people. 

"At length the count appeared, 
supported by the guards ; for by 
that time he was in a very exhaust- 
ed state. His last act was to press 
my hand in silence. It was the 
signal for me to give him the last 
absolution. I had just turned 
Aside, hardly conscious myself from 
excess of feeling, when the taXai 



knife fell. A cry of honor ran 
through the crowd ; and then im- 
mediately they dispersed, many of 
them repeating aloud the Depro- 
fundiSj as th#?v retired to their 
homes. 

" I always remember poor Falcone 
in my daily Mass ; though I can- 
not say I think he is in any further 
need of prayers, but is, I hope, 
long since in a position to benefit 
me by his.** 

"What is your opinion, father," 
asked Mary, " of public execu- 
tions r 

"In the present state of feel- 
ing in Italy they are beneficial 
rather than otherwise. I attended 
the execution of two soldiers a few 
years ago at Terracina. The 
whole town was crowding to the 
church the evening before, and at 
an early hour on the day itself, to 
pray for the poor men. It was 
like the general communion at the 
close of a mission ; and those 
who actually witnessed the execu 
tion seemed to do so with no other 
object than to assist the poor crim- 
inals by their prayers. Many of 
the women were on their knees in 
the public place. And I do not 
believe but that such a fervor of 
devotion had a beneficial effect 
upon all. It is, or at least it was, 
the same thing in Rome. But 
where, as in London and Paris, 
that idea of intercessory prayer has 
died out with the faith of which 
it forms a part, and the vilest rab- 
ble collects from a brutal curios- 
ity to see a man hung or guiUotii»- 
ed, then I am convinced that pub- 
lic executions are demoralizing, 
and tend to increase the crimes 
they are meant to repress." 

" All I know is," said Frank, sud- 
denly starting up, "if a fellow 
could only have the good-luck to 
\>^ VvMT\%^ in. the presence of a large 



On the Wing. 



633 



,'■ T think he would 
better chance of going 
I to heaven than by any 
«th. I think I should like 10 
► that sort of thing myscH'." 
Jank ! what do you nii^an ?" 
f, this is what I mean: If 
»e a long illness, you get 
Imind and in the power of 
, as well as weak in body. 
!if I have only a headache, 
Icult it is to say my pray- 
tecy, then, what it must be 
» a long, painful illness. 
\, if you are going to be 
bu have all your faculties 
ni ; you are in no doubt of 
DU are going to die; the 
Sxed to the minute. You 
ftde your last confession; 
in imagine being able then 
•Kuch an act of perfect con- 
Irith all the forces of one's 
S sou!, that wottid land one 
C the realms of purgatory. 
feel as if it would be my only 
knd not a bad one, either." 
hCataJdo look amused. Eli- 
Iki not appear quite to like 
(overheard her say to him ; 
tyou might manage to end 
Irablc life in a more honor- 
!», and secure heaven all the 
'I thought I heard some- 
I reply about "with your 
id your example"; but I 
Jliaten, as I warned to in- 
dre Cataldo to leli us about 
Idcrful escape during the 
fen of i860. 1 said some- 
■ him about it; but he 
i off, and Mary whispered 
lat he never liked to talk 
L but that Don Emidiu 
tabout it, and we could ask 
Hell us the next time we 
Ikdre Cataldo now look 
^rank accompanying him 
|d promising to return for 
kons Isiter. 



As soon as they had left, Ida told 
us that all their troubles and anxie- 
ties in r-eference to the CasinL-lli'and 
the chapel bel! had been renewed. 
There had been an interregnum of 
comparative peace, and we had 
entertained the hope that all was 
likely to go on quietly. But it 
turned out that one of the sisters 
some days previously had called on 
Mrs, Vernon and her daughters to 
explain that the bell ringing for 
Mass was such a cause of annoyance 
to the other lodgers that she really 
must request that it should be en- 
tirely given up. Of course Mrs. 
Vernon refused. The chapel had 
been conceded to them ; Mass was 
said there daily by the express 
permission of the cardinal arch- 
bishop, and was of the greatest 
benefit to the neighborhood ; and 
she and her daughters absolutely 
declined to sanction such an insult 
to religion. Signorina Casinelli 
proposed that the bell should In- 
hung somewhere in the garden at w 
considerable distance. But this 
also was refused. It was not runj; 
at an early hour. It was not a 
large bell, and it was absurd lo 
have the chapel in one place, and 
the chapel bell an eighth of a mile 
away, to say nothing of the trou- 
ble of sending some one to ring it. 
Signorina Casinelli left the house 
in high dudgeon ; and the next day 
she waylaid Padre Cataldo, as he 
was returning through the garden 
from visiting the sick. She flew 
into a violent rage the moment she 
saw him, and told him that, rather 
than offend their other tenants, they 
would, the house being their pro- 
perty, sliut up the chapel entirely, 

Unfortunaicly, no written agree- 
ment respecting the use of the 
chapel existed between the Vcr- 
nons and the Casinelli; and it had 
never entered at\^ ot\c'^ Vc^i *\w. 



634 



On the Wing. 



they could be guilty of such a 
transaction. The threat was, how- 
ever, only too well carried out. 
That same evening the bell was cut 
down and carried away. The 
Vernons learnt from the vignaiuoli 
in their neighborhood that the 
Casinelli had had some difficulty 
in finding any workmen who would 
undertake the job. They had first 
sent for a mason in their own em- 
ploy; but he had absolutely re- 
fused to have anything to do with 
a work which he considered as sac- 
rilegious; and turning to the pa^ 
drona^ the eldest sister, he ex- 
claimed, " Judas also sold his Mas- 
ter for money, but I will have no- 
thing to do with conduct which re- 
sembles his. You may manage 
your own affairs in your own way." 

The following Saturday they 
completed their evil work by liter- 
ally doing as they threatened. A 
message was sent to the Vernons 
to warn them that they had better 
take out of the chapel anything 
therein which belonged to them 
without loss of time, as that night 
it was to be locked and the keys 
withdrawn. 

It was a sad office indeed for the 
Vernons to have to strip the little 
chapel of all its ornaments, the 
work of their hands and their 
hearts. They did it in silence, 
and in silence they bore the heavy 
trial ; for had they allowed them- 
selves any expressions which would 
have. served as a cry for the pea- 
santry around, it would have been 
difficult to restrain the grief and 
indignation of these poor people 
at finding themselves deprived of 
their Mass and of the instructions 
of a priest wliom they all loved 
as a father. Ida's delicate health 
made it very difficult for her to 
walk to any church up the high hill 
at iht foot of which Casm^lU \s 



situated. Padre Cataldo had to go 
elsewhere to say his Mass, to the 
great inconvenience of himself and 
others. But that was as nothing 
compared to the grief of seeing ail 
his little flock dispersed. 

S ignore Casinelli informed his 
tenant, in the presence of several 
persons, that henceforth he might 
consider himself master of the situ- 
ation. And so he has remained 
But the Casinelli have never since 
been able to command the slight- 
est respect from the vignaiuoli isA 
peasantry of the neighborhuod. 
They have lost all prestige. And 
long before these pages see the light 
the Vernons will have left Casinelli 
to establish themselves in one of 
the many villas whose doors were 
open to them from that moment. 
All in the neighborhood wanted to 
let their apartments to them and 
Padre Cataldo ; and if anything 
could console them for all they 
had had to sacrifice, it might he 
the amount of sympathy and re- 
spect which met them on all side^ 
and from all classes; while tb« 
incident, far from diminishing Padre 
Cataldo 's field of usefulness, seem- 
ed to have opened out fresh spheres 
for him to work in, and to have 
extended his influence far and 
wide. 

The garden in which our villi 

of R R stood led by steps 

and winding paths to a tiny bay 
and to a long series of rocks and 
large natural caves. There was 
more than one bath, fed by the 
fresh sea-water, in whose limpW 
depths we not unfrequently saw 
brilliant sea-anemones, and even 
small fish which sometimes forced 
their way through to the openings 
left in an artificial dike to supply 
the bath with water. Here and 
there a wooden bridge was thrown 
over some part where the water 



Oh the Wing. 



he communication from one 
I another. The views from 
le, arched openings of llic 
ere very lovely ; Naples and 
kin one side, and the flower- 
iecipicoiis rocks of the coust 
tUppo on the other. At 
^ fishermen's boats which 
BD moored in these caves, 
i others like them, came 
0a[ with a lighted torch at 
!«-. And all through the 
(any of them might be seen, 
ie black figures of two or 
i^rmen dimly distinguished 
Cie to lime; though more 
t3f all that can be seen is the 
badowy form of the boat 
t ilaring torch, intended to 
^e unwary fish into the net. 
(aid have liked the caves 
tad they not been disfigured 
jStufTed, gaunt forms of a 
ItamuB and some alligators 
^ilar monsters, which were 
tn all sorts of unexpected 
|ind seemed to meet you 
ke corner with gaping jaws, 
avcs had formed part of a 
^lace of resort some years 
jt were now deserted and 
B, with all the monsters 
falling into dusty decay. 
jBil been for some time at 
k before my curiosity had 
t me to explore this strange 
jift'hcn I did so, it was in 
jr with Don Emidio. But 
Ittested that I did not like 
and hippopotami, he 

1 that we should climb the 
ttidc the cave to the pretty 
kk and green kiosk which 
I it, and which commanded 

;view from where it stood 
in aloes and cacti, 
■ and zoccas, besides many 
t of climbing plants. No- 

luld be prettier than the 
h paths, protected on one 



side by a rustic fence, while every 
cranny in the rock on the other side 
bore some tuft of blossom or af- 
forded roothnld for the wild tress- 
es of sotne flowering creeper. 

Mary and Frank had remained 
in the lower garden, while we wan- 
dered into every nook and comer, 
and finally sat down lo rest inside 
the kiosk, which, with windon-s all 
round, presented to us a wide and 
lovely scene. 

It was here I consented to be- 
come Don Emidio's wife. 

That effected, no matter how or 
in what words — for those things sel- 
dom read wisely — 1 suggested thai 
we should rejoin Mary and Frank. 
Don Eraidio look the latter by the 
arm, and walked with him a little 
way apart. I remained silent, sil- 
ting at Mary's feet. When Don 
Emidio joined us, it was without 
Frank. 1 asked where he was. 
" Gone down to Casinelli," was the 
reply. I knew why. He was de- 
termined to have his fate also de- 
cided chat same day, that same 
hour. I had no doubts for him. J 
knew that Elizabeth would consent; 
and I felt partly glad, and partly 
saddened at the thought ihat our 
life, hiihcrio so united and bound 
up in each other, was about to di- 
vide and separate, each following 
his or her own destiny, and weaving 
a new web of life's joys and sorrows. 
Don Emidio left us soon. But 
long after, I saw him leaning over 
the parapet of the road, waiting for 
Frank to return from Casinelli, thai 
he might learn whether his wishes 
also were lo be crowned wiih suc- 
cess. I could see the meeting from 
my window, as the tail figures of 
the two friends stood dark against 
the deep blue of an Italian star- 
light night. I could have no doubt 
of the nature of the intelligence 
conveyed by Franfc Kn \sss, ^i\c.vvi-. 



636 



Oft the Wifig. 



for, to my horror, Don Emidio 
threw his arms around him and 
kissed him, as Italics do. Poor 
Frank! thought I, how will he put up 
with such an un-English proceed- 
ing ? No doubt it had happened to 
Frank before ; for he did not, so far 
as 1 could judge at that distance, 
start with astonishment. But it set 
me thinking aibout my future hus> 
l>and*s foreign ways. And the next 
moniing« when Frank and I had 
talkeii ox^er the more serious ques- 
tivnts in our affairs, I found myself 
drilling into that part of the matter. 
** I wv^ndcr, Frank, if I shall ever get 
«^uue reconciled to his Italian cus- 
tv>iii$« so as either not to notice, or 
K> i^refer them ?** 

*Ml is to be hoped so, since he 
wiU be your husband. But what do 
wu mean in particular V* 

" Why, you know he will call me 
Miss Jane ; any one else would say 
Miss Hamilton." 

•* That is an evil which is already 
at an end. No doubt for the future 
he will call you simply Jane, and 
speak of you a short time hence as 
la Contessa Gandolfi." 

" Then I wish he would not em- 
brace you, Frank." Frank laughed 
aloud. 

" He would be hurt if I repulsed 
him. They all do it. He will soon 
see that in England it is not the 
custom, and then he will give it up 
— at least while there." 

" Another thing is, I do not like 
his wearing a large ring — though I 
own it is a handsome one — on his 
forefinger. We think that vulgar in 
England." 

'* And it does not happen to be 
vulgar here ; that is all about it, my 
clear Jane. I am afraid I cannot 
help you in that matter. But pos- 
sibly in time you will succeed in 
bringing him round to your views ; 
though J doubt your ever \Mi\tv||^a\A^ 



to break him of occasionally trans- 
ferring that ring from his finger to his 
thumb whenever he is particularly 
anxious to remember something. 
When you see his palazzo in 
Rome, you will find that he possess- 
es a beautiful portrait, by Vandyke, 
of an ancestor on his mother's side. 
That very ring is on the forefinger 
of the portrait. Emidio is the liv- 
ing image of that picture. And 
you can hardly blame a man for 
carrying out a likeness he has such 
reason to be proud of." 

" There is one other thing, Frank, 
which strikes me as odd. If he is 
sitting in the arm-chair when Mary 
or I come into the room (and you 
know we are not rich in arm-chairs 
here), he never gives either of us 
that chair, but fetches us another, 
and goes back to the arm-chair him- 
self" 

" Jane, you are a little fool. Do 
you not know that in Italy, at least 
in the south, it is the height of ill* 
breeding to offer any one the chair 
you have just occupied yourself? 
A cool seat is always a desideratum 
in this climate, even though it may 
be a less luxurious one." 

" Shall I ever, do you think, be 
able to take back to England with 
me a husband with such a name ^ 
Emidio } What a pity he was not 
christened Paul, or Stephen, or 
even Anthony! But Emidio!" By 
this time we were both laughing- 
Frank at me, I at myself. 

" You need never call him Emi- 
dio in public. We call him so be- 
cause, when we have been travelling 
about Italy alone together, we found 
it convenient to drop his title. But 
you know he is il Conte Gandoln. 
His mother was the only child of a 
noble Roman family, and conse- 
quently a great heiress. She mar- 
ried a Neapolitan Conte GandoHi; 
;iwd \.Vv3X is how it happens that 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



637 



Neapolitan name his chief 
:e is in Rome, in the palaz- 
belonged to his mother, 
er was not a man of very 
•able fortune, and his only 
' here is his villa at Capo di 
where he spends the sum- 
. nobler heart and a finer 
[ never saw. There is the 



simplicity of a child, the honor of 
a true-born gentleman, the delicacy 
of a woman, the courage of a hero, 
and the piety of a saint." 

The tears stood in my eyes ; and 
taking dear Frank's hand in mine, 
I said, " Thank you, dear old fellow, 
for saying that. And, thank God, 
you too have drawn a prize !** 



A DISCUSSION WITH AN INFIDEL. 



IV. 
ORTALITY OF MATTER. 

r. And now, doctor, what 
rgument do you allege 
:reation } 

rr. The immortality of 
and the immortality of 

^ The immortality of 

cr. Yes, sir. " Matter is 
1, indestructible. There is 
tom in the universe which 
lost. We cannot, even in 
remove or add an atom 
admitting that the world 
hereby be disturbed, and 
; of gravitation and the 
um of matter interfered 
t is the great merit of mo- 
jmistry to have proved in 
t convincing manner that 
terrupted changes of mat- 
;h we daily witness, the 
nd decay of organic and 
z forms and tissues, do not 
was hitherto believed, from 
erials, but that this change 
in nothing else but the 
and continuous metamor- 
of the same elementary 
js, the quantity and quality 



of which ever are, and ever remain, 
the same " (p. 9). " The atoms 
are in themselves unchangeable and 
indestructible ; to-day in this, to- 
morrow in another form, they pre- 
sent by the variety of their com- 
binations the innumerable forms in 
which matter appears to our senses. 
The number of atoms in any ele- 
ment remains, on the whole, the 
same ; not a single particle is form- 
ed anew ; nor can it, when formed, 
disappear from existence " (p. 11). 

Reader, Do you say in the same 
breath that no particle of matter 
can be formed anew, and that, 
when formed^ it cannot disappear ? 
When is it formed, if it cannot be 
formed at all? 

BUchner, The phrase may be 
incorrect, but the idea is sound, 
and the argument conclusive. 

Reader. Poor doctor! the idea 
is as inconsistent as the phrase is 
incorrect ; and the argument is not 
worthy of the name. Let us admit 
that matter, elements, and atoms 
have been observed to remain al- 
ways and everywhere the same. 
Does it follow that matter, ele- 
ments, and atoms are indestructi- 
ble ? By no means ; it only fol- 
lows that, be they destructible O!: 



6s» 



A Discussi&n with an InfideL 



not, they have not been actually 
destroyed. You say that by the 
destruction or addition of an atom 
*^ the world would be disturbed." 
Let it be disturbed ; what then ? 

Buchner. Then the laws of 
gravitation and the equilibrium of 
matter would be interfered with; 
which cannot be admitted. The 
laws of nature are unchangeable. 
What has been constantly true for 
the past must be true for ever. 

Reader, You are utterly mista- 
ken, doctor. The world may be 
disturbed by the creation or the 
annihilation of matter without the 
laws of nature being interfered 
with. I admit that the laws of na- 
ture are unchangeable ; they have 
been true for the past, and they 
will be true for ever. But what is 
the object of these laws } Nothing 
but the mode of production of the 
phenomena of the material world. 
Hence you have a law of gravita- 
tion, a law of propagation of sound, 
a law of impact, a law of reflection 
and of refraction, and generally 
laws of motion, but you have no 
law of existence and no law of sub- 
stance. Whence it is clear that all 
your laws of nature would remain 
exactly the same whether any new 
portion of matter were brought into 
being or any portion of existing 
matter annihilated. Suppose that 
your own body were annihilated ; 
would any law of nature be upset.' 
Would the sun cease to illuminate 
the earth ? Would the earth cease 
to revolve round its axis or to 
attract bodies.' Would the ocean 
cease rolling its waves to the shore .' 
Would fire cease to burn ? In one 
word, would any law of statics or 
of dynamics cease to be true } 

Nor can you decline this sup- 
]>osition by saying that annihilation 
itself would be against the laws of 
minxft. For all your W\»s o^ na- 



ture, as I have just remar 
gard the movements^ and 
substance, of the material 
Your laws suppose the e 
of matter in the same m£ 
civil laws suppose the exist 
civil society; and as thes 
are not modified by an inc 
a decrease in the number o 
dividuals subject to them, 
ther would the former be i 
by any increase or deer 
the number of material e 
There would be, of cc 
change in the phenomen; 
selves, because the executic 
laws would be carried on 
to the new condition of tl 
but the laws would rem 
same. Consequently any 
of matter could be am 
without the least change 
laws of nature. Let the n 
annihilated; the ebb and 
the ocean will be altered, 
laws of motion will ren 
same; for the ebbing and 
of the waters will still be 
tional to the action of the 
ing causes. Let a stone be 
lated in the act of its 
to the ground ; the law oi 
tion will remain unalteret 
will still be true that ever 
body must acquire, under 
tion, a uniformly increasii 
city. Hence the unchange 
of natural laws cannot be 
as a proof of the indestm 
of matter ; and your argt 
worthless. The utmost yoi 
allowed to assume is that 
whether destructible or : 
hitherto continued to ex 
no particle of it has ever I 
nihilated. 

This last assertion, ho« 
admitted by natural philo 
not because there is any s 
^toof of it, but simply 



A Disciission with an Infidel. 



639 



has no grounds for deny- 

Science has no means of 
ning, for instance, whether 
lOte star has been annihi- 
r any new star created, in 
t thousand years; and if 
mon belief is that no new 
has been created, and no 

of matter annihilated, we 
not to science, but to the 
\ of the Bible, which repre- 
e work of creation as long 
ipleted, and the conserva- 
all created substances as 
:t of design. But you, who 

revelation, and pretend to 
iate all your assertions by 
.ve no right to assume that 
er has ever been annihilat- 
:nce not only are you un- 

show that matter is inde- 
;e, but you cannot even 
I that no particle of mat- 
;ver been destroyed. 

will no longer insist on 
It. I admit that no atoi;n 
sr can ever be lost to the 

tiaiural prsc esses. My rea- 
hat the natural actions of 
«rhether physical or chemi- 

I merely to the production, 

.tion, or neutralization of 

nt, and that no amount of 

in the movement of an 

II cause the atom to vanish, 
not, however, a discovery 

!rn chemistry, as you seem 
ve. The scholastic philo- 

had not the fortune to 
odern chemistry; yet they 
jlieved that new compounds 
de of new materials, though 
klessly assert that ** it was 

believed " ; but they al- 
iformly taught that matter 
nerable and incorruptible, 
^as therefore scarcely any 
modern chemistry to teach 

no portion of matter can 
by natural processes. Yet 



this is not the real question. What 
we want to know is whether an 
atom, or any number of atoms, has 
a necessary existence and cannot 
be annihilated by God. This is 
your assumption ; and this is what 
you are unable to show. Your ar- 
gument is, in fact, nothing but a 
vicious circle. You say ; " There 
is no God; and therefore matter 
cannot be annihilated " ; and at the 
same time you say : " Matter can- 
not be annihilated; and therefore 
there is no God." This is, in real- 
ity, the covert drift of your argu- 
mentation, when from the assumed 
indestructibility of matter you con- 
clude, first, that matter could not 
have been created, and, further, 
that the existence of a Creator i^ 
a gratuitous hypothesis. On the 
other hand, you cannot make good 
your assertion that matter is inde- 
structible without first denying the 
existence of a Creator. Such is 
your nice logic in what you proba- 
bly consider to be one of your 
best arguments. 

And let me here make a passing 
remark on the word "immortalitv," 
which you have chosen to desig- 
nate the pretended indestructibility 
of matter. Immortality is not simply 
" existence without end," but " life 
without end." Hence living beings 
alone can be immortal. Do you 
assume, then, that a grain of dust or 
an atom of matter is a living being } 
If you sayj^j, where are the facts 
that will lend a support to such an 
unscientific doctrine ? If you say 
noy then the immortality of your 
matter is nothing indeed but a new 
form of what you would style " phi- 
losophical charlatanism." 

'I'o conclude : the indestructibil- 
ity of matter is a ridiculous inven- 
tion of ignorant empiricists, who 
know neither what matter is nor 
what is pUUoso^Vvxc^V i^^&w\xv%. 



c^o 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



rhey make, indeed, a great deal of 
noise with their scientific publica- 
tions; but their ephemeral cele- 
I)rity is due to an organized system 
of mutual laudation and to Mason- 
ic support, as you know. Let only 
twenty years pass, and you may be 
sure that our children will laugh at 
your celebrities : and if your Force 
and Matter is to reach them, they 
will laugh at you too. Common 
sense cannot slumber for ever ; 
and when it awakes, then will all 
your infidel scribes be pronounced 
designing knaves. 

Biic/incr. I thought you would 
never end, sir; but, long as your 
answer has been, it has failed to 
convince me. The force of my ar- 
gument lies in this : that what can 
have an end must have had a be- 
ginning. If, therefore, matter is 
not indestructible, it must have had 
a l>eginning. 

Reader. Certainly. 
HUchncr. But a beginning of 
luaiter is inconceivable. For how 
< oulil matter come into existence.? 
Reader . l^y creation out of no- 
tlung. 

iiiiehner. This is what I deny. 
For out of nothing nothing can 
uise. This is an axiom. Hence 
" never can an atom arise anew or 
disappear; it can only change its 
J ombinations. . . . Matter must 
have existed from eternity, and 
must last for ever " (p. 12). 

Reader, I am not in the least 
surprised to hear that my long talk 
did not convince you. It is always 
difficult to convince a man against 
his will. My object, however, was 
not to give you a positive demon- 
-.t ration of the fact of creation, but 
only to show that the reasons which 
you were parading against creation 
amount to nothing. Of this I hope 
I have not failed to convince you. 
)i\xt now you come CoTwaxd wVlVv ;ji 



new argument, which indeed is very 
old, consisting in a pretended axiom, 
that out of nothing nothing can 
arise. Suppose, doctor, that I deny 
your axiom. How would you show 
that I deny a truth } 

Btichner, "How can any one 
deny the axiom that out of nothing 
nothing can arise?" (p. 12). 

Reader, You must know, doc- 
tor, that what you assume to be an 
old axiom is only an old error. In 
fact, why do you say that out of no- 
thing nothing can arise.? Simply 
because natural energies can do no- 
thing without pre-existing materials. 
Hence your argument amounts to 
this . " Natural energies never make 
anything out of nothing ; therefore 
out of nothing nothing can be 
made.*' That this conclusion is a 
great blunder I need not prove, I 
presume, as logic teaches that no 
conclusion can be more general 
than its premises. Where is, then, 
the ground of your pretended 
axiom } 

Nor can you reply that the natural 
energies are the only energies known 
to us, and that, if these cannot make 
anything out of nothing, the ax- 
iom is unexceptionably true. Hiis 
would be to assume what you are 
bound to prove, to wit, that there is 
no power above the natural forces ; 
and to assume this is what logi- 
cians call Petitio principii. On the 
other hand, you cannot maintain 
that such natural forces are the 
only ones we know ; for you can- 
not limit the range of human know- 
ledge within the narrow sphere of 
mere empiricism without denying 
human reason. 

Biichner, We have no notion of 
supersensible forces. 

Reader, You talk without re- 
flection, doctor. If you have no 
such a notion, what is it, then, that 
compels you to admit any demon- 



A Discussion with an lufidel. 



truth? Is it attraction, 
(Ctricity, or any of your phy- 
ehemical forces ? Ko ; it is 
le of demonstration, it is the 
f truth. This is no vain 
■ 1 appeal to your own expe- 
■i Your intellect is obliged 
I to the force of evidence 
■onstration just as iiieviia- 
9ie pendulum is obliged to 
\ the force of gravitation. 
fce a real effect requires a 
hse, hence whatever thus 
lompels your intellect to 
last have a real power, and 
Aently supersensible. 
Iveriing to your pretended 
P have yet to remark that, 
jkpealting, it does not even 
|the case of natural causes; 
r' terms, I say that nothing 
feroduced by natural causes 
9ut of nothing. Of course 
I ever made a coat without 
carpenter ever built a 
pre-existing materials. 
; but if you closely 

the point, you will see that 
ka coat or a ship is not to 
«l, and that the action of 
jtand the carpenter wholly 
[in modifying and arranging 
■rials so as to give them a 
it is, therefore, this form 
■Bt is produced. Now, 
his form, before its prodiic- 
p-nothing; forilhad no ex- 
(■ And therefore the work 
lilor or the carpenter is a 
ton of something out of no- 
I'And thus either you must 
It anything is ever produc- 
Bt must give up your axiom 
be produced out 




Biiehtttr. I cannot give up my 
axiom without inconsistency. I 
will rather deny that anything is 
ever really produced. In fact, 
" Those are children, or persons 
with a narrow sphere of vision, says 
Empedocles, who imagine that any- 
thing arises thai has not existed be- 
fore, or that anything can entirely 
die and perish " (p. 15). 

JifaUif. These are empty 
words. 

Biichiur. On the other hand, 
" the immortality of matter is now 
a fact scientifically established, and 
can no longer be denied " (p. 13). 

Reader. Indeed ? 

BiH/itter, Ves ; " Its actual proof 
is given by our scales and retorts " 

(p. -j). 

Realtor. I thought I had already 
shown that your scales and retorts 
are incapable of giving such a 
proof, 

Buchner. " Sebastian Frank, a 
German who lived in 1528, says : 
Matter was in the beginning in 
God, and is on that account eter- 
nal and infinite. The earth and 
everything created may pass away, 
but we cannot say that that will 
perish out of which matter is creat- 
ed. The substance remains for 
ever" (p. 14). 

Rtttder. Do you endorse these 

B lie liner. Certainly. 

Rtattrr. 'I'hen you catch your- 
self in your own trap, For if mat- 
ter is created, as your German 
writer says, surely there is a Crea- 
tor. 

BiU/iwr. But if matter was in 
the beginning in God, and was 
eternal, it is plain that matter could 
not be created. 

Reader. Perfectly true. And 
therefore, since matter, according,' 
to your German authority, has been 
created, surely maLltw -saa xvqV "vs^ 



dL0 



A Discussion withanlnfideL 



the beginning in God. But, after 
all, can you endorse Frank's words 
without admitting a God? And 
can you admit a God and a Crea- 
tor while fighting against creation 
and the existence of God ? Be 
honest, doctor, and confess that, bad 
indeed must a cause be which can- 
not be maintained but by clumsy 
sophistry and shameful contradic- 
tion. 

V. 
IMMORTALITY OF FORCE. 

Reader, In your theory, doctor, 
force is immortal. This I cannot 
understand. Would you tell me 
how you come to such a conclu- 
sion? 

Buchncr, " Indestructible, im- 
perishable, and immortal as matter is 
also its immanent force. Intimate- 
ly united to matter, force revolves 
in the same never-ending cycle, and 
emerges from any form in the same 
quantity as it entered. If it be an 
undoubted fact that matter can 
neither be produced nor destroyed, 
but merely transformed, then it must 
also be assumed as an established 
principle that there is not a single 
case in which force can be produced 
out of, or pass into, nothing ; or, in 
other words, can be bom or annihi- 
lated. In all cases where force is 
manifested it may be reduced to 
its sources ; that is to say, it can be 
ascertained from what other forces 
a definite amount of force has been 
obtained, cither directly or by con- 
version. This convertibility is not 
arbitrary, but takes place according 
to definite equivalents, so that not 
the smallest quantity of force can 
be lost" (p. i6). 

Reader, How do you account 
for this theory ? 

Biichner, ** Logic and our daily 
experience teach us that no natural 
twoixon or change, consec\\i^Tv\\>j wo 



manifestation of force, c 
place without producing ai 
chain of successive moti 
changes, as every effect " 
immediately the cause 
ceeding effects. There is 
pose of any kind in nati 
whole existence is a constai 
in which every motion, th< 
quence of a preceding mo) 
comes immediately the cau: 
equivalent succeeding one; 
there is nowhere a gap, i 
either loss or gain. No m 
nature proceeds from or pas 
nothing; and as in the 
world every individual fo 
only realize its existence b 
ing its materials from the i 
storehouse of matter, so do< 
motion originate from the 
immense storehouse of foi 
which sooner or later the b( 
quantity of force is again re 
The motion may become late 
apparently concealed; but 
theless it is not lost, having 
been converted into eqi 
states, from which it will 
again in some shape. Duri 
process force has changed it* 
for force may, though ess 
the same, assume in the u 
a variety of modes. The 
forms may, as already sta 
converted into others witho 
so that the sum-total of exist 
ces can neither be increas 
diminished, the forms only 
ing" (pp. 17, 18). 

Reader, What do you mi 
** forms of forces " ? 

Biichner, Physics, as I st 
you on another occasion, * 
us acquainted with eight d 
forces — gravitation, mec 
force, heat, light, electricit) 
netism, affinity, cohesion, 
inseparably united to matte 
and give shape to the world. 



A Discussion with a 



Me, with few exceptions, mu- 
eonvertible, so tliat nothing 
in- the process of conver- 
(p. ,8). 

br. " With few exceptions " ? 
iiat any exception will prove 
> your theory. But go on, 
; I wish to hear more about 
mversion of forces. 
itur. "We may cite a few 
es of transformation or con- 
Sty of forces. Heat and 
te produced by combustion. 
(gain is converted into nie- 
ti power in steam, and me- 
il force can again by friction 
diverted into heat, and, as in 
eCro-magnetical machine, in- 
j electricity, magnetism, and 
One of the most frequent 
lions of force is that of heat 
kechanical force, and rvVf 

kpp. IS, 19). 

fer. What conclusion do you 
itm tbese and similar facts .' 
if. I draw tile conclusion 
iipeaking of forces " the word 
toi incorrect e\pression; for 
hese and similar cases there 
(minim of power lost as re- 
|he universe, but merely as 
ithe immediate object. The 
ltd force has in reality only 
i difTerent forms, the stim- 
I which is equivalent to the 
( force. Innumerable ex- 
fmay be adduced to estab- 
fe law, which is expressed in 

Elhat force can neither be 
tieslrayeif — an axiom from 
ults the imaiorlaiity of 
IDd the impossibility of its 
k beginning or an end. The 
tence of this recently-dis- 
I natural truth is the same 
liedticed from the immortal- 
Blatter, and both form and 
fl from eternity the sum of 
lena which we term war!d. 
We of matter sides, as a ne- 



cessary correlate, with the cycle of 
force, and Eeaches> that nothing is 
generated anew, that nothing dis- 
appears, and that the secret of na- 
ture lies in an eternal and imma- 
nent cycle, in which cause and tf- 
fect are connected without begin- 
ning or end. That only can lie im- 
mortal which has existed from 
eternity ; and what is immortal can- 
not have been created "(pp. SI, 22). 

Reader. I have heard with great 
attention all you have said, doctor, 
and I am sorry to see that you art- 
as wrong as ever, Your argument 
is altogether ludicrous. 

BiUftntr. It is, however, a mert 
statement of known facts. 

Reader. I question this very 
much. But even if the alleged fact's 
were nnquestionable, and could 
not receive any other interpretation 
than tliat which you give of them, 
your conclusion about the " immor- 
tality of force " would still Iil- 
groundless. In fact, the forces of 
which you speak are all material, 
and have their existence in matter 
alone. It is therefore vain and 
preposterous to argue about ihe 
immortality of such forces wht-n 
you have already failed to show the 
immortality of matter itself. You 
boast that your argument is a men- 
statement of facts; and so do all 
modern sciolists, more or less awk- 
wardly, when pushed to the wall. 
But what are the facts ? Is heal a 
form of force? Is it a fttrm con- 
vertible into another form ? 1 pvr- 
ceive from your style ihst you 
never studied this subject; yon 
only repeat like a parrot wh.-it oihcT 
parrots have learned to say, with- 
out Ihe least notion of the true st.-iti; 
of things. Tell me, what Is a form 
of force ? What is force ilself ? 

BUcftner. It is not my duty to 
dcline force. I accept the defiiii- 
lion of the physicists. 



644 



A Discussien with an InfieUl. 



Reader. This is exactly what I 
expected to hear. Yet when a 
man undertakes to philosophize ori 
anything, he ought to know very 
distinctly what that thing is. Do 
you make any difference between 
" forces " and " powers " ? 

Bikhner. No, sir, as is evident 
fiom my terminology. 

Reader. Do you discriminate be- 
tween "force" and "quantity of 
action " ? 

Biickner. No, sir. 

Reader. Do you identify " force " 
with " quantity of movement " ? 

Riich/ier. Yes, sir. 

Reader. Then it is evident that 
you confbimd force, power, quantity 
of action, and quantity of move- 
ment. 

£ii(kiier. All these terms are 
substantially identical in science. 

Reader. True, the lowest school 
of physicists considers Ihem as sub- 
stantially identical, and in this 
manner they succeed in persuading 
themselves and many others that 
the quantity of living force existing 
in the world is always invariably 
the same. But, after all, those phy- 
sicists speak very incorrectly, and 
are not to be followed in their 
blundering terminology. A quan- 
tity of movement is not an action, 
but the result of actjon ; and a 
i|uantity of action is not a power, 
but the exertion of power. In fact, 
the same power acts with different 
intensity in different conditions; 
and equal actions produce different 
movements in bodies actually sub- 
ject to different dynamical deter- 
minations. Hence it is impossible 
to admit that powers, actions, and 
movements are synonymous. 

.•\nd now, which of these three 
notions do you choose to identify 
with force? IS'you say that force 
is "a quantity of movement," then 
it wiU be false that no force is ever 



lost ; for any quantity of movemeni 
can be lost with&ul compeataUim. 
Thus a stone thrown up verticall)- 
loses its quantity of movcmenl 
without compensation.* If you 
say that force is " a quantity of ac- 
tion," it will again be false that no 
force is ever lost ; for all successive 
actions successively pass away, and 
continually change their direction 
and their intensity, according U 
the distances and positions of tht 
bodies acted on are altered. Lastlf. 
if you say that force is " jiower," 
then It is false that forces are tians- 
formed or convertible ; for the 
power of each element of iMttti 
remains unalterably the same, u 
you yourself acknowledge, through- 
out all the vicissitudes of limt. 
" A particle of iron." you say with 
Dubois-Reymond, "is and reouiiis 
the same, whether it crosses llie 
horizon in the meteoric slOD«i 
rushes along in the wheel of the 
steam-engine, or circulates in the 
blood through the temples of the 

Buckner. Would you, theilt re- 
pudiate science? 

Reader. By no means. I lOTt 
and respect true science. I onlf 
repudiate that false and presump- 
tuous dogmatism which prompts* 
class of physicists to draw gentnl 
conclusions from particular, inil 
often questionable, premises. 

BUehner. Do you, then, coodcK"' 
the method of induction ,' 

Reader. Not at all. 1 condemn 
the abuse of that method. Win' 
right have modern scientists of W' 
tending the principle of the "con- 
servation of force " beyond ilit 
boundaries marked by observiliw 
and experiment ? All they have* 
right to say is that in the imfait'! 
bodies all eijiial quanlily ef na^mti^ 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



645 



• body and aequirtd by 
, This is the fact. But 
. follow that therefore the 
ent losi by the one body 
idenlieally into the other? 
\ what they imagine; and 
irhat cannot be proved, be- 
t is absurd. Movement is 
ttion of matter, and has no 
ident existence, as you well 
\ It cannot, therefore, pass 
fUy from body to body any 
Mn a movement of anger can 
Imtically from man to man. 
t it is on this absurd notion 
^c movement that the whole 
of the conservation of force, 
t held by your advanced 
I, has been raised. They 

fhe r]uantity of movement 
lost by one of the bodies, 
k which is acquired by the 
■e perfectly equal; therefore 
By of movement passes iden- 
pi)m one body to another." 
|r terms they say: "There 
fity; therefore there is iden- 
Is this legitimate induction ? 
Bgic would lead us to argue 
following manner: The ac- 
' the two struggling bodies, 
Kjual and opposite, must 
b cqnnl and opposite quan- 
(f movement; hence the 
t of movement which Is de- 
m the impinging body must 
lie quantity of movement 
If in the body impinged up- 
Kh is the only logical view 
ubject; it agrees both with 
bid with fact, and it strikes 
•ory 8t the root. For what 
fifed is no more ; and what 
Bccd had no existence be- 
broduction. 

mht allow yon to talk of the 
gralion " and "conversion " 
M, were you reasonable 
[lo consider such cxprcs- 
( mere conveniinn.il lechni- 



caliiies suited to explain the rela- 
tions of effects to effects rather than 
of effects to causes. But you con- 
strue the technical phrases into 
real and absolute principles, and 
try to explain causation by substi- 
tuting the effect for the cause; 
which is as ridiculous an abuse of the 
word " force " as if a carpenter pre- 
tended that his iron square is the 
square spoken of in the treatises of 
geometry. But this is not all. 
What right have you to apply such 
a theory, whether right or wrong, to 
gravitation.' 

Biiehner. "The pendulum of 
every clock shows the conversion 
of gravitation into motion " (p. 21). 

Reader. Indeed ? What do you 
mean by gravitation ? The attrac- 
tive power of the earth, or its ac- 
tion, or the weight of the pendu- 
lum ? Surely the attractive power of 
the earth is not converted into move- 
ment ; for it remains in the earth, and 
it continues its work. Neither is the 
weight of the pendulum converted 
into movement ; for the pendulum 
does not cease, while moving, to 
have weight, nor does it weigh more 
when at rest; and at the end of its Os- 
cillation is not found to have expend- 
ed or consumed any portion of its 
weight. You are therefore obliged 
to say that it is the action of the earth 
that is converted into movement. 
But such an expression can have 
no meaning; because the action is 
the production of an ar.t, and it is 
the act itself, not its production, 
that constitutes the formal princi- 
ple of the movement. On the 
other hand, a production which 
becomes the thing produced is 
such an absurdity that not even a 
lunatic could dream of it. Thus it 
is quite evident that in no imagina- 
ble sease can gravitation be con- 
sidered as (onvertrd\T>lo movemenl. 
It produces nnovcmtwX, \im\ w t\«i^ 



A Discussion -.vith f. 



Infidtl. 



c.mvcrted into it. Voii see. doctor, 
that your so boasted theory has no 
foundation either in reason or in 
fact. 

Biichner. But we cannot deny 
ibat mechanical movement is con- 
vertible into heat, that beat m.iy 
become light, and that all other 
such forces can be transformed- 

Reader. I repeat, and, on the 
strength of the rea,sons which I 
have brought forward, I maintain 
that the term "conversion of 
forces " may be admitted as a con- 
ventional phrase, but not as exliib- 
iting a philosophical notion. A 
real conversion of mechanical 
movement into heal would require 
that a movement of translation 
should be transformed into a move- 
uR-nl of vibration by being distri- 
buted among the molecules of the 
body which is heated. This I have 
already shown to be impossible. 
Things follow a different course. 
When the hammer falls upon the 
anvil, its action (and not its move- 
ment) shakes the first range of 
molecules which it encounters. 
These molecules arc thus constrain- 
ed to approach the following set of 
molecules lying immediately under 
then), and to trouble their relative 
ciiuilibrium. These latter, in their 
turn, trouble the equilibrium of the 
following set, and so on till all the 
molecules of the anvil partake in the 
movement, each molecule undergo- 
ing alternate eeiiipression and dilata- 
tion, the first through the violent ac- 
tion of its neighbors, and the second 
hy the reaction due to its immanent 
powers. The consequence of all this 
is that a rapid succession of vibra- 
tory movements is originated in 
tach molecule ; and thus, as soon 
as the movement of translation of 
the falling hammer is extinguished, 
(Jie movement of vibration is awa- 
ipJted jn the molecules o( \)0l\\ \.\\e 



anvil and the hammer. Now, wfc^j, 
is this but a case of impact? tv.' 
just as the hammer impingea a: 
the surface of the anvil does cacft 
molecule of the anvil impinge m 
its neighbor ; and therefore wbi 
you call a transformation of rat- 
chanical into vibratory movemcni 
is not a real transformation of tlit 
one into the other, but the exl 
tion of the one and the piodudiup 
of the other. Thus heat is generat- 
ed by percussion ; and in a sioibi 
manner it would be generated b; 
friction and by other mcchoniul 
processes. Whenever heat is pio- 
duced, molecules are set into vi- 
brations of a certain intensity, iwi 
their relative equilibrium dislurW. 
Evidently, such a disturbance of tbt 
molecular equilibrium is due to in- 
teraction of molecules — that is to 
molecular impact. Now, I h»vt 
already shown, and you have UD- 
derslood it, I hope, that, in the cast 
of impact, the movement nw 
passes identically from this msiltt 
to that, but is produced in the ow 
at the same rate as it is extingnUh- 
ed in the other. 

I might say a great deal moreei 
this subject, but here I slop, B 1 
almost regret having said so nueli- 
Your theory of the conservation "M 
force does not bear out your * io- 
mortality of force," and is SO des''- 
lute of proof that it does not d'- 
serve the honor of a longer rtliiU- 
tion.* 

iffequeoOf Impmcd ■poc*' 



oflTK 



:l phn' 



oxtotH'M' 

uniMK 



soviii everywheie urder oovet of pmltlTtK* 
cn« 1 but Id* fnud nur be cuilf dclKlciL l** 
fi.lel Iheor^ an uniilly mete uuh ; *w] U "* 
«ero .<. l«.k into ih.B . liiU. mor. rtwplr. -^ 
would find Ihat they beu no uimlnkltM. I> " 
the duir of out Catholic proTeuon ol pk|^ 
uiil mrchinla to ralM their Toicw ia Mra^ \ 



A Discussion u-ith art Infidel. 



647 



that 



'■ 



I INFINITY OF MATTER, 

r. How do you an 

for your assertion 

is in^nile " ? 

hner. In a very simple man- 

''Wliether wc investigate the 

ion of matter in its magni- 

minuieness, we never come 

Ind or lo an ulliinate form of 

[ben ihe invention of ihe mi- 

|)e disclosed unknown worlds, 

ihibilcd to the eye of the in- 

ktor the inlinite minuteness 

inic elemenis, the hope was 

that we might discover the 

. organic atom, perhaps the 

■of itii origin. This hope 

Bd with the improvement of 

ilruments. The microscope 

that in the hundredth part 

*op of water there existed a 

of animalcules, of the most 

and definite forms, which 

ind digest like other animals. 

■ endowed with organs, the 

! of which we have little 

lion of" (p. 23). "We 

he most minute particle of 

. 'hich we imagine to he no 

capable of division, an alom. 

isider matter to be compos- 

Wch atoir.s, acquiring from 

qualities, and existing by 

iprocal attraction and re- 

But the word atom is 

nn expression for a neccssa- 

leption, required for certain 

IS. We have no real notion 

thing we term alom ,- we 

othing of iu size, form, com- 

I, etc. No one has seen it. 

ecuUtive philosophers deny 



'• htn «n1r pointed nut lams 
M Ihe MW mechinlciil tbmy i 
bm iniMMcnBiuni may he mot 
A«t br tkaruuib icieutlGe and 
Btlytl*. M puM philosophlMl 



its existence, as they do not admit 
that a thing can exist which is no 
longer divisible. Thus neither ob- 
servation nor thought leadR us, in 
regard to the minuteness of matter, 
to a point where we can stop ; not 
have we any hope that we shall 
ever reach that point " {p. 24, 25). 
Jitaihr. That ])oini ha.'; been 
reached, doctor. The theory of 
primitive, unextcnded elements is 
well known and advocated by good 
scientists and thoughtful philoso- 
phers. But let this piiss, as I long 
for yoitr demonstration of the infin- 
ity of matter. 

Biichner. "Like the mirroscopc 
in respect to the minuteness, so 
does the telescope conduct us to 
the universe at large. Astronomers 
boldly thought to penetrate into the 
inmost recesses of the world ; but 
the more their instruments were 
improved, the more worlds expand- 
ed before their astonished eyes, 
The telescope resolved the whitish 
nebulK in the sky into myriads of 
stars, worlds, solar and planetary 
systems; and the earth with its in- 
habitants, hitherto imagined to l>e 
the crown and centre of existence, 
was degraded from its imaginary 
height to be a mere atom moving 
in universal space. The distances 
of the celestial bodies are so im- 
mense that our intellect wonders 
at the contemplation of ihem, and 
becomes confused. Light, moving 
with a velocity of millions of miles 
in a minute, required no less than 
two thousand years to reach the 
earth from the galaxy! And th.- 
large telescope of Lord Rosse has 
disclosed stars so distant from us 
that their light must have travelled 
thirty millions of years before it 
reached the earth. Uut a simple 
observation must convince us that 
these stars are nut at the limit of 
space. All bodies oUc^ \\\a\a.-« ol 



I 



I 
J 



gravitation, and attract each other. 
In assuming, now, a limitation, the 
attraction must tend towards an 
imagined centre of gravity, and Che 
consequence would be the con- 
glomeration of all matter in one ce- 
lestial body. Hovfiivcr great the 
distances may be, such an union 
must happen ; but as it dues not 
happen, although the world exists 
from eternity, there can be no at- 
traction towards a common centre. 
And this gravitation towards a 
centre c::n only be prevented by 
there being, beyoiid the bodies visi- 
ble to us, others still further which 
attract from without — and so fortlv 
adinfinitum. Every imagined limi- 
tation would render the existence 
of the world impossible " {pp. 25, 

Header. Is this the whole of your 
argument .' 

BUchner. Yes, sir. 

Reader. I should like to knojv 
how could the large telescope of 
Lord Rosse disclose stars so distant 
from us that their light must have 
travelled thirty millions of years 
before it reached the earth ? Do you 
not know that in thirty millions of 
years light travels two million mil- 
lions of times over the distance from 
the earth to the sun.' And do you 
hope the world will believe that, 
thanks to Lord Rosse's telescope, it 
has been pos.sible to determine the 
parallax of a star two million mil~ 
]ions of times more distant from us 
than we are from the sun? The 
world indeed is ignorant and cred- 
ulous ; but when the lie is too im- 
pudent, it is apt to cry you down 
as a charlatan. You are most im- 
prudent, doctor. You had no need 
of Lord Rosse's telescope for your 
argumentation; and your mention 
of the distant stars disclosed by it 
was therefore an inexcusable blun- 
der, /iut ilic argument Us\;\t Vvas 



» InJideL 

no foundation. Vou inrugine ifc^j; 
if the world were not infinitely cj. 
pandcd in all directions, allmattr/; 
by universal gravitation, would hjiiv 
conglomerated into one celestiil 
body. But tell me, Does the noun 
gravitate towards the earth? 

Biichner. Of course it does. 

Reader. How do yon account, 
then, for the fact that the moontiu 
not fallen, nor is likely to fall, on 
the earth ? Is it because the moon 
is attracted by some matter Ijrinj 
outside its orbit ? 

Buehner. It is on account sf 
centrifugal force accompanying iti 
curvilinear motion. 

Reader. I am delighted to «« 
that you can explain the fact villk 
out appealing to the inanity of 
matter. Let us go on. As llw 
moon gravitates towards the earth, 
so do all satellites towards their 
planets, and all planets towards the 
sun. And yet none of the salelliin 
have fallen into their planets, and 
none of the planets into the sun. 
Is this owing to the matter whicb 
lies outside of the planetary am) 
solar system ? J presume, doctor, 
that the enormous distance of lined 
stars from us will not encourage 
you to believe that their attraction 
on any planet can cope with i" 
gravitation towards the sun. Oil 
the other hand, this gravitation i* 
not neutralized by the aciioD of 
any exterior matter; for all plaflrt) 
actually obey the solar attractioti 
as their orbital movement concl** 
sively shows. This same orKU' 
movement implies also a ceBtrif*' 
gal tendency; and this teitdciKT 
sufliciently prevents the falling ^] 
the planets on the sun. This I* 
unquestionable doctrine. 

Biichner. I admit the doctrine- _ 

Reader. Accordingly it is e*'^' 
dent there is no need of infini** 
TO'j.aer to prevent the cclesti** 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



649 



bodies from clustering into one 
central body. Centrifugal forces, 
in fact, are sufficient, even by your 
own admission, to remove all dan- 
ger of such a catastrophe; and 
centrifugal forces arc to be found 
wherever there is curvilinear move- 
ment around a centre of attraction, 
that is, throughout all the world, 
according to astronomical induc- 
tion. Consequently your argu- 
ment in favor of the infinity of mat- 
ter is a mere delusion. 

BUchner. " If we can find no 
limit to minuteness, and are still 
less able to reach it in respect to 
magnitude, we must declare matter 
to be infinite in either direction, 
and incapable of limitation in time 
or space. If the laws of thought 
demonstrate an infinite divisibility 
of matter, and if it be further im- 
possible to imagine a limited space 
or a nothing, it must be admitted 
that there is here a remarkable con- 
cordance of logical laws with the 
results of our scientific investiga- 
tions " (p. 27). 

Reader, Your great scientific in- 
vestigations give no result that fa- 
vors the infinity of matter. This 
we have just seen. Logical laws 
give no better results. It is idle, 
doctor, to assume that there is any 
law of thought which demonstrates 
the infinite divisil)ility of matter; 
and it is as capricious to assert the 
impossibility of imagining that the 
space occupied by matter is lim- 
ited. You say that outside that 
space there would be nothing, and 
therefore there would be no space 
except that occupied by matter; 
whence you conclude that space 
would be limited. Do not fear, 
doctor, for the fate of space. Out- 
side the space which is occupied 
by matter there is yet infinite 
space unoccupied by matter. Space 
is not made up of matter. Move 



the matter; you will not move 
space. Remove all matter; space 
will not disappear. Of course you 
cannot understand this, because 
whoever blots God out of the world 
extinguishes the source of his in- 
tellectual light, and is therefore 
doomed to grope for ever in the 
dark. But we Christian philoso- 
phers, who admit a God infinite 
and immense, have no great diffi- 
culty to understand how there can 
be space not occupied by matter. 
Wherever God is, there is space 
which can be occupied by matter ; 
for wherever God is, there he can 
create any amount of matter; and 
wherever matter can be placed, 
there is space ; for space is nothing 
but the possibility of locating mat- 
ter. 

It is not my intention to dilate 
on this topic, nor is it necessary. 
To answer your difficulty I need 
only say that space, though void of 
matter, is always full of God*s sub- 
stance, to whose immensity alone 
we must resort, if we desire to ac- 
count at all for the existence of in- 
finite space. 

VII. 
DIGNITY OF MATrER. 

Reader. . I scarcely expected, 
doctor, that you would devote a 
chapter of your book to such a tri- 
fling and unscientific subject as the 
dignity of matter. Is not matter, 
as such, the lowest of all known 
substances? What is the dignity 
of matter ? 

Buchner, You belong to the old 
school, sir. I will tell you what is 
the modem view of matter : ** To de- 
spise matter and our own body be- 
cause it is material, to consider na- 
ture and the world as dust which we 
must endeavor to shake off, nay, to 
torment our own body, can only arise 




A Discussion \..'ith an Infidel. 



from a confusion of notions, tin; re- 
sult of ignoratice and fan:iticis»i " 
(p. j8). 

Reader. You begin with a false 
assumption, doctor. Wc of the old 
sriiool do not despise the body 
■■ because it is material." God cre- 
ated matter; and whatever pro- 
1 ceds from God Is verj' good. \Ve, 
however, con.sider the body as of a 
liiwer nature than our rational soul, 
and try lo put a chetk to its un- 
ruly appetites — a thing which you, 
being a physician, will surely ap- 
prove and commend as conducive 
to the preservation of health, not lo 
say of morality. 

Biichtser. " Matter is not inferior 
to, but the peer of, spirit; the one 
cannot exist without the other; 
and matter is the vehicle of all 
mental power, of all human and 
t-anhly greatness" (p. 28). 

Reader. 'I'his is, doctor, the most 
abject and degrading material- 

Biichner. I am not afraid of this 
word, sir. " We frequently hear 
those persons contemptuously call- 
ed materialists who do not share the 
fashionable contempt for matter, 
hut endeavor to fathom by its means 
the powers and laws of existence; 
who have discerned that spirit 
rould not have built the world out 
of itself, and that it is impossible to 
arrive at a just conception of the 
world without an exact knowledge 
fjf matter and its laws. In this 
sense the name of materialist can 
nowadays be only a title of 
honor. It is to materialists that 
we owe the conquest over matter 
and a knowledge of its laws, so 
that, almost released from the 
chains of gravitation, we fly with 
the swiftness of the wind across tlie 
plain, and are enabled to communi- 
cate, with the celerity of thought, 
H'liJi the most distant parts ot vVit 



globe^ MaJcvolcrcc is silenfed lij 
such facts; and the times are \ai.\ 
in which a world produced bv a 
deceitful fancy was considered oi 
more value than the reaiily " Iji. 
29). 

Reader. You commit blunden 
upon blunders, doctor. We do net 
call materialists those who do ntt 
share "the fashionable con tempt fw 
matter," hut those who deny the 
existence of a spiritual soul, « 
teach that matter is not inferior to, 
hut the peer of, spirit, and that tbc 
one cannot exist without the othtt, 
just as you teach. And lhercf«t 
your definition of materialism it 
your first blunder. Again, cot- 
tempt for matter is not, and neyet 
has been, "fashionable"; secosd 
blunder. That materialist! en- 
deavor " to fathom the powers ini 
laws of existence " is a third blun- 
der ; for they are not even capable 
of fathoming their own tgnoraooe. 
as our present discussion shoirs 
very clearly. A further blunder i» 
to speak of " the powers and la'* 
of existence," as if there were any 
law of existence, A fifth blunder 
is to give credit to the raateriilist* 
for having discerned "that spirit 
could not have built the world f' 
0/ itself." This was discemedlOTf 
ago by Christian philosophen; 
whereas your materialists Iw" 
even failed to discern that spirit 
could create the world iml e/ *'■ 
IliiHg. A sixth blunder is cootW'' 
ed in your assertion thai "itis» 
materialists that we owe the co»- 
quest over matter and a knowled|(C 
of its laws." Indeed, you migkl »* 
well say that we owe light to dirt- 
ness. and wisdom to dolts. G* 
and study, O great doctor and ptW- 
dent of the medical association of 
Hessen-Darmsiadt ! and then wH 
ws. whether Newton, Volta, Glliie* 
tia\\a.fti, Biot, Atnpire, Curiet. 



A Disciissiun with c 



rnfiJd. 



6s I 



fctg, and scores of 
eat scientists were material- 
D such men we owe modern 
but what does science owe 
materialists? What law 
'discover? What conquests 
y achieved? It is absurd 
1 to comjilain of " malevo- 
prhen they are treated with 
empl they deserve. They 
fact, mere plunderers and 
Of science. 

t wonder, doctor, whether 
fe of materialism is much 
^ to show the dignity of 
; You have not adduced as 
Reason why we should think 
Br very highly. You have 
eed, that matter is " the peer 
*'; but this is mere twaddle, 
iSmit of no other spirit than 
eld be a result of materia] 
Kton. 1 want something 
Komething like a good argu- 
lefore I can appreciate the 
if matter. 

\er. " Pretended worship- 
!iod have in Che middle ages 
Ibeir contempt for matter 
I to nail their own bodies, 
le works of nature, to the 
i(p. =5). 

K What do you mean ? 
trr. " Some have tormented, 
trucificd themselves . . ." 

f. Who crucified himself? 
< Where ? Can any one 
iself to a cross any more 

f'Xa. raise himself by his 
-. "Crowds of flagellants 
through the country, ex- 
, their lacerated backs. 
I and health were under- 
ft the most refined manner, 
t to render to the spirit — 
Fed as independent of the 
t» superiority over the sin- 
" {P- 39)- 



Header. Tlie flagellants were a 
set of fanatics; but their excesses 
do not prove the dignity of matter. 
After all, had they been materialists, 
they would surely have done some- 
thing worse than to scourge them- 
selves. They may have undermin- 
ed their strength and their health, 
as you remark ; but how much 
greater is the number of materialists 
who shorten their lives by shameful 
disorders, since they have lost all 
hope of a future and belter life ? Do 
you pretend that what is done by 
your adepts for the sake of worldly 
or sensual pleasure cannot be done 
by Christians for the sake of eter- 
nal salvation ? We believe in eter- 
nal salvation, and we know what 
we believe. Strength and health 
are goods of a lower order than 
morality, and no true man would 
hesitate to endanger them for a su- 
perior goad. But on what authori- 
ty do you assume that in the middle 
ages strength and health were un- 
dermined " in the most refined man- 
ner ■" ? 

Biiehner. " Feuerbach relates 
that S. Uemard had, by his exag- 
gerated asceticism, lost his sense of 
taste, so that he took grease for 
butter, oil for water" (p. 30). 

Readrr. You know that Feuer- 
bach ill no authority; and yet 1 
should like to know, how can a man 
lose his sense of taste hy asceticism t 
Docs asceticism aflect the tongue 
or the palate? S, Bernard lived 
sixty-three years, in spite of contin- 
uous intellectual and corporal work, 
so that you can scarcely say that 
his manner of undermining his 
strength and health was "most re- 
fined," .\s to grease and btiltcr, I 
have the honor to inform you that 
S. Bernard seldom tasted either, as 
they we re excluded from the Cister- 
cian table. What do you say to that ? 

Biic/iiter. " Ro4lo.mc\iW^a >iva.V 



65J 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



in many cloisters thesuperiors were 
in the habit of frequently bleeding 
theirmorks, inorderto repress their 
passions" (p. 30). 

Reader. Bosh 

BUchmr. " He further states that 
injured nature avenged itself, and 
that rebellion, the use of poison and 
the dagger against superiors, were 
liy no means rare in these living 
tombs " (p. 30). 

Reader. And you believe such 
lies ? Of course there is no reason 
why they should not be circulated 
among the ignorant and supersti- 
tious. They are fond of believing 
such things, and they are served 
according to their taste. The sup- 
ply always meets the demand. Oh ! 
how truly right was S. Paul when 
he said that those who turn a de'af 
ear to truth are doomed to sivaU&jv 
fables ! Those who do not believe 
the Catholic Church, the highest 
authority on earlh, by just judg- 
ment stupidly believe the lies of a 
Rostan and of a hundred other 
charlatans of modern times. But 
let us not forget the real point at 
issue. Your object was to show 
the dignity of matter. Where are 
your proofs.' Do you think that 
the dignity of matter can be estab- 
lished by defamation.' Every in- 
telligent reader will infer, on the 
contrary, that it ts from lack of 
reasons that yovi are obliged to dis- 
grace your work with libel and 
slander. 

Buchner. I am not a forger, 
after all. I have cited my authori- 
ties. But the dignity of matter 
appears from the fact that it is to 
matterthat we owe science- "Have 
those who start from God and not 
from matter ever given us any clue 
as to the quality of matter and its 
laws, after which they say tlie world 
ifi governed .' Could ihey tell us 
M-heiJitrihe sun moves or isalTesi"? 



whether the earth is a gl 
plain ? what was God's design.! 
No! That would be an impoiii^ 
biliiy. To start from God in ihc 
investigation of nature is a ^Vn^t 
without meaning. The unfortiiiuic 
tendency to proceed in the invesli- 
gation of nature from theorelicil 
premises, and to construe the worlil 
and natural truths by way of specu- 
lation, is long abandoned ; and il « 
by pursuing an opposite course o( 
scientific investigation thatthegTtJt 
advance of ourknowledge of nalurt 
in recent times must be ascribed" 

Reader. Il is evident that all 
our knowledge begins in sensibit 
representations, and therefore it 
pends on matter. Bui how canfmi 
infer from this the dignity of nwi- 
ter? When you ascend a litldei. 
the first step is always the lowtsi; 
which shows the contrary of whai 
you wish lo prove. Matter islk 
lowest of all objects of knowledge, 
while the highest is God. From 
matter we start, and in God w< 
must end. This every one adniw; 
you, however, assume thai some 
philosophers " start from God. and 
not from matter," Who are tbej? 
Are they, forsooth, those who tearl' 
that matter has been created t>f 
God? Then you are unjust V> 
them, and falsify the history of sci- 
ence, by giving us to understand 
that they could not tell us whether 
the sun moves or is at rest, and 
whether ihc earlh is a globe <w * 
plain. It was not the atheist "' 
the materialist that taught m as- 
tronomy and geography. The ma- 
terialist can only tell us, as you d(». 
that "all natural and mental fofcf 
are inherent in matter " (p. J')- 
which is no science at all; >"^ 
that " in matter alone forces «" 
manifest themselves," or that" 
VM w vKc Qii^^in of all that e 



hat ■ »*: I 



Wk^ will Renumber t 



«53 



which is the reverse of 
e. This they can prate ; but 
the great laws of nature, they 

learn them from us — I 
Tom men who did not preach 
^ity of matter with the fool- 

1 ignoble purpose of dethron- 
ed. You condemn those who 
true the world and natural 

by way of speculation." 
have already answered ; but 
remind you that by condemn- 
eculation you condemn your- 
Experimental knowledge is 
ood ; but it is by speculation 
that our knowledge acquires 
:ientific character. Hence 
iriew of science without spe- 
m is as absurd as your assump- 
»f matter without spirit and 
at God. This may suit mate- 
5, for they stop supinely at 
west step of the ladder ; but 
ictual men have a mind to as- 



cend the ladder to the very top. 
What is the use of knowing matter, 
if you know nothing else ? Matter 
is the alphabet of science ; to study 
matter, and to ignore the methods 
of rising from matter to spirit, and 
from the world to God, is to study 
the alphabet alone during all your 
life, and to die an abecedarian, 
This is what you crave ; this is what 
you adorn with the venerable name 
of science; whereas we believers 
not only study the alphabet, but 
also read the great book of the uni- 
verse, and know that the book has 
an Author, whose thoughts it re- 
veals. You ihave vainly labored to 
establish the dignity of matter. 
Had you known how to read the 
book of nature, you would have 
discovered that matter has no nat- 
ural dignity but that of being the 
lowest work of Him whose works are 
all perfect 



TO BB CONTINUBD. 



WHO WILL REMEMBER? 

Like as a pebble on the salt sea-sands 
That some wave washes to an unknown shorei 

So shall we quietly be swept away 
From out the millions to be seen no more. 



Who will remember, who will say " dear friend *' ? 

Who will walk sadly seeking yet a trace 
Of well-known footsteps, of caressing hands, 

Of some remembrance of a lost, dead face ? 



Ask not too much of human hearts that wait ; 

Fresh buds will blossom for their eyes at last, 
And flowers dead, however sweet they were, 

Are, like the whole of earth's dead Ueas\itt^> ^^X.. 



654 



Church Music. 



CHURCH MUSIC* 



I. 



From the earliest times music 
has had a place in the public wor- 
ship of all peoples — among the 
pagans, among the Jews, among 
Christians. Its use in this connec- 
tion has been dictated by God him- 
self in the act of constituting the 
human mind ; it has, moreover, re- 
ceived his express sanction, as we 
learn from the ordinances of the 
Jewish people. In the new law it 
has even been consecrated by his 
own divine example, since we read 
that our Lord and his apostles 
sang hymns together. His birth 
was heralded to the world by the 
song of his angels, and heaven is 
represented to the Christian as a 
place where we shall sing for ever 
the praises of God. 

Church music, therefore, dates 
from the origin of Christianity, and 
has constituted ever since an inte- 
gral, though not an essential, part 
of public worship among Chris- 
tians. 

The church has her simple offices 
and her solemn offices, and she has 
made the use of music one of the 
chief marks by which they are dis- 
tinguished. 

Church music grew with the 
growth of the church. As Chris- 
tians increased and prospered, mu- 
sic was more and more cultivated, 
and was more largely introduced 
into their solemn exercises of wor- 
ship. 

The extent to which sacred music 

• A paper read before the Catholic Ukion of 
HottoB^ Mus., June 4, 1874. 



was cultivated in the early chuid 
cannot be easily determined; le 
have no reason to think it was very 
great. 

When Europe emerged from th«t 
sad state of confusion which cane 
over it with the invasion of the 
northern barbarians, and music was 
revived as a science and an art, it 
was, like the other branches of learn- 
ing, at first confined mostly to the 
clergy, and its productions were 
for a long time almost exclusively 
of a sacred character. 

The church being an indestnicti- 
ble institution, her traditions are 
handed down by one generation of 
her children to another. It was 
thus that in a dark day of confusion 
and destruction she preserved ^^^ 
us the treasures of ancient learning 
and the arts ; and the world to-day 
owes to her not only the modem 
developments of poetry, painting, 
sculpture, and architecture, but also 
the beautiful and varied combina- 
tions of modem music. 

At first, as we have just said, 
there was no music but that which 
was dedicated to holy puq)Oses, 
except such rude melodies as nature 
in all ages teaches the most uncul- 
tivated. 

The musical drama did not exist; 
and music doe? not seem to have 
made any essential part of the pa- 
geants or spectacles destined for the 
public entertainment. 

It was from the church that mn- 
sic was introduced into the cham- 
ber, the hall, and the street, ^n<J 



Church Music. 



655 



in the beginning secular music imi- 
tated and borrowed the forms of 
that which was sacred. 

The music used in the sacred of- 
fices at first and during many cen- 
turies was the plain chant. How 
much of this chant was taken from 
pagan or Jewish sources cannot be 
determined, for authorities differ 
widely; but in any case it was so 
modified and improved by the fa- 
thers of the Eastern Church, and 
Jifterwards in the West by SS. Am- 
brose and Gregory, when they 
adapted it to the purposes of Chris- 
tian worship, that it is now frequent- 
ly called the ecclesiastical chanty 
though it is oftener called Gre^oriatty 
from the pope just mentioned. 

In the beginning it was what its 
name indicates — plain and simple. 
It was sung in unison, and its mel- 
odies did not exceed the compass 
of the most ordinary voices. 

But unison was found monoto- 
nous, as also the uniformity of time 
or measure generally observed in 
plain chant. The first departure 
from the old and severe forms was 
made when, about the middle of the 
IXth century, they introduced a 
sort of rude harmony constructed 
on the chant. 

But this did not satisfy the crav- 
ing for change, and the love of nov- 
elty, once indulged, led the way to 
many excesses. 

Baini gives us an example of the 
abuses that then became prevalent. 
•*Thcy would write, for example, 
a Mass," he says, " taking as a sub- 
ject the melody of the Gregorian 
Ape Marii\, Three parts in the 
harmony would sing portions of the 
Kxrie^ Gloria, and Cre(h at the same 
time, while a fourth would take up 
at intervals the entire Ave Maria** 

Not merely were the sacred 
words of the composition itself 
•* shaken together in most admired 



confusion," but, as we have just said, 
the words of other sacred pieces 
were foisted among them, so that 
they no longer expressed any one 
idea. Worse far, the gaps were 
even sometimes filled up "with 
snatches of old songs," the ballads 
of the day, and thoae not always 
of the most unexceptionable char- 
acter. 

Attempts were also made to vary 
the stately measure of the chant. 

Indeed, all sorts of devices were 
introduced in the search for novelty, 
and so great had become the abuse 
about the period of the Council of 
Trent that a celebrated cardinal 
declared that some of the church 
music of his day was so unfit to be 
offered to God that nothing but 
invincible ignorance could excuse 
from mortal sin those who offered it. 

At this juncture arose the illus- 
trious Palestrina. 

Bom in an age of the most viti- 
ated taste, and himself not quite ex- 
empt from its unfavorable influences 
at the opening of his professional 
career, his exalted and discriminat- 
ing genius was guided to disentan- 
gle the sweet spirit of song from the 
mazes in which it was well-nigh lost, 
and to rescue his art from the mer- 
ited reproaches which it was receiv- 
ing on every side. He was en- 
couraged and assisted in his task by 
two saints, S. Charles Borromeo and 
S. Philip Neri. When his celebrat- 
ed Missa Papa Marcelli was first 
heard in 1565, it at once banished 
from the churches all the profane 
novelties that liad preceded it, and 
became the model for church com- 
positions during the next hundred 
years, when with Carissimi began 
the change to what is modem. 

When Pius IV., the reigning pon- 
tiff, heard it, he declared it satisfied 
all the requirements of sacred mu- 
sic ; in fact, so charmed was he by 



6s6 Church 

its exquisite strains that he compar- 
ed it to the melodies that the Apos- 
tle S. John had heard in the heaven- 
ly Jerusalem, saying that another 
John {Palestrina's Christian name 
was John) had given us in ihe earth- 
ly Jerusalem a foretaste of the mu- 
sic in heaven. 

From that day to this the use of 
Palest rina's music has been retained 
in the Pope's own choir, to the ex- 
clusion of all other except ihe sim- 
ple plain chant, with which it is 
made to alternate. Even wlien the 
Pope officiates or presides at any 
celebration outside his own chapel, 
his choir accompanies him and sings 
the same music. 

It Is this music, alia PaUslrina, 
that travellers go to Rome to hear, 
especially during Holy Week. One 
generation has thus follo«-ed an- 
other to Rome for three hundred 
years ; and the harmonies of Pales- 
trina, though ever ancient, are, like 
the beauty of divine truth, found to 

Though Paleslrina has retained 
his hold on the Papa! choir at 
Rome, music far different in charac- 
ter from his has been introduced 
into the other choirs, even of Rome. 

The perfection of the organ and 
of other instruments used to ac- 
company the voices of singers, and 
the consequent discovery of other 
and more scientific complications 
in the art of harmony, especially 
since the introduction of the natu- 
ral discord, the development of 
melody, joined with much greater 
skdl in execution and the inces- 
sant thirst for novelty, have led to 
the introduction into nearly all the 
churches of compositions in which 
the voices and instruments are 
heard together in every variety of 
combination. 

Add to this that about tivo cen- 
turies ago the opera. looV "as nw. 




and the dramatic style, foUo 
it and developed by it, madt 
fluence felt in the church. 

For kings and princes ih 
gan the practice of selecti: 
same musician to preside o 
performances of their theai 
of their chapels ; nay, the 
staff of the theatre was I 
into the chapel on .Sunday, 
done to-day in Dresden, t 
better and nothing differe 
required for the chapel, exc 
substitution of other words 
toning down of the measi 
the drama, and thus the 
became merely a sort of 
con cert- room. 

But the matlres de chai 
these courts were the first 
cians of their day, and their i 
in operatic music, sounded I 
Europe, caused their sacred i 
sitions to be looked on with 
criminating favor by the 
And as the weakness of hum 
ture is such that inferiors na 
imitate their superiors, and 
times even copy their faults, 
came the fashion to sing in e 
es the sacred music used in 
chapels, especially as this wa 
easily obtained, being prin 
the expense of the courts. 

Besides this, the modem 
posers of opera seem to ha 
ambition of composing a! 
the church. But they gc 
forget how very different ihei 
and the theatre are, and th 
dom care to follow a d 
method in the church froi 
which gains them applause 
theatre; and the pubHc ai 
quently as forgetful in this 
as the composers. 

It must be added that the 
tors of choirs seem to have 
habit of following, even in. c 
\( tKey are allowed, the j 




Church Music. 



657 



s/y/c set by the latest and most 
popular writers for the stage. 

When the model so successfully 
set by Palestrina was first departed 
from, and instrumental music used 
in conjunction with vocal, there 
may have been a certain gain, as 
the chant became more melodious 
and less monotonous without losing 
its depth and solemnity. Gradual- 
ly, however, the grave style of the 
older musicians disappeared, and 
the music of the church has be- 
come, at least in some places, al- 
most as light and as airy as that of 
the theatre. 

This music sometimes seems writ- 
ten in derision or contempt of the 
sacred words; as, i, when a prayer 
of supplication, such as the Kyrie 
cleison and Dona nobis paccniy is set 
to numbers as lively as those of a jig 
(frequently the case with Haydn). 
3. When the words are omitted, 
even though they be of importance ; 
as the words of the Creed, qui 
ex Patre Filioque procedit (nearly 
always omitted, even in the longest 
Masses of Haydn). 3. When they 
are interminably repeated or sense- 
lessly inverted. In Mozart's Twelfth 
Mass we have : Crucifixus^ et homo 
/actus est. 

W^hat shall we say of the operatic 
solos, duos, trios, etc., instrumental 
interludes, sincopations, etc., which, 
to any one who reflects, are in direct 
contradiction to all our notions of 
what is reverent and appropriate 
to the church 1 

II. 

From what has been said in 
the preceding pages, there are 
three general forms of church mu- 
sic: the plain chant, the music 
termed alia Palestrina^ and modern 
figured music. 

(a.) Plain chant is the old and 
original song of the church, of 



which the forms, like those of a 
dead language, are fixed and im- 
mutable. Long, long ago the se- 
cret of plain chant composition was 
lost, and it is probable that wc 
have lost in great measure also the 
secret of its proper execution, 

" The leading idea which is re- 
presented by plain chant," says Ca- 
non Oakeley,* " and in no degree 
by any other style of music, except 
that which consists in bare recita- 
tive, is that in certain cases music 
best discharges her office by retreat- 
ing, as it were, in despair before 
certain divine words, and content- 
ing herself with merely providing 
a vehicle for their utterance, so 
simple as not by any studied beau- 
ty of its own to detract from their 
intrinsic majesty and power. This, 
I think, will be admitted to be the 
leading idea of plain chant, though 
I am far from denying that acci- 
dentally this idea produces some 
of the most attractive charms of 
the divine art in its results. . . . 
In many of these accidental in- 
stances plain chant not only ex- 
cels other music, but absolutely 
sets it at defiance in its own par- 
ticular line." Hence a celebrated 
musician is reported to have said 
that he preferred the plain chant of 
the Preface and the Pater Noster to 
all he himself had ever written. 

In the beginning this chant was 
not even harmonized. It was 
plain and unadorned, as its name 
implies — cantus planus, 

(b.) The music of Palestrina is 
the last and triumphant result of 
the efforts that were made in his 
time and before it to vary, to modi- 
fy, and to adorn the plain chant, 
which all had found too simple and 
too monotonous. 

Pope John XXIL, elected in 1316, 

• A F*79 }V0rJt en Ckmrck Ckein mmd Chmrtk 



6sS 



Church Music. 



complains of the novei'ies intro- 
duced into the execution of plain 
chant in his day. These innova- 
tions he condemns as unbecoming 
iind undevotional, especially the 
allempts to vary the measure ; but 
lie immediately adds : " We do not 
intend by this to prohibit that oc- 
casionally, especially on festival 
days, either at the solemn Masses 
or the other divine offices, some 
harmonious combinations {caitso- 
nantia qua mclodiam sapiuiil)^ viz., 
harmonies of the octave, the fifth, 
the fourth, and such like, on the 
simple ecclesiastical chant, be sung; 
in such manner, however, that the 
integrity of the chant remain un- 
touched, and nothing of this grave 
and stately music {musica bene mn- 
rata) be changed, especiaUy since 
ihest harmonies delight the ear, txeite 
devotion^ and prevent the spirit of 
those who sing to God from droop- 
ing" {iorpere turn sinunt). (Extr. 
Comm., lib. iii., cap. r, Daeta Sanc- 
torum.) This Constitution is the 
earliest utterance of the popes con- 
cerning churchmusic — at least since 
innovations were attempted — that 
we possess. The abuses of which 
Pope John XXII. complained con- 
tinued to exist, and even to in- 
crease, till the time of the Council 
of Trent, when Palestrina produced 
that style of music which is known 
by his name, and which, though 
built upon the plain chant, is as un- 
like it as Grecian is unlike Italian 
architecture. It is equally unlike 
modem music. It differs from 
plain chant, being an unbroken se- 
ries of artistically-constnitted har- 
monies, in which unison is un- 
known. It differs from modern mu- 
sic by the absolute disuse of instrii- 
raents of any kind (even the organ), 
by the exclusion of all passages for 
sp/i, and by being written in plain 
chanl tonality. " With U\c gTa\c 



Gregorian melody, learned!^ 
rated in rigorous counterpoint, a 
reduced to greater clearness ai 
elegance without any instruracni 
aid," says Picchiantj, " Palest ri' 
knew how to awaken among I 
hearers myslerious, grand, dei 
vague sensations that seem 
caused by the objects <rf an ti 
known world, or by superior po 
ers in ihc human imagination."* 

(c.) Modern music differs ess( 
tially from all that went before 
and this difference is atiributul 
to two principal causes: i. 1 
improvement in the manufactt 
and the use of instruments, i 
their introduction into the churc 
and, I, The influence of theatrii 
music on thai of the church, bcft 
alluded to. Modem music coi 
not be in ancient times, for I 
want of modern instrument*. . 
the perfection of the art of vanlli: 
gave us that advance on the simf 
lines and heavy masses of Grecii 
architecture which we have 
Gothic and Italian archilectui 
so the modern developments ■ 
orchestration have changed tl 
whole character of music in ll 
church and out of it. 

The influence of operatic fflue 
on that of the church is seen inll 
attempt of mod'.m composen ( 
church music to make it dramati 
Church music, as Palestrina ai 
the other great masters of the « 
Roman school had conceived 
had been treated as an emanati< 
of pure sentiment, stripi>ed of 
human passion — as something ide 
The modern composers, on Ihecn 
trary, pretend by their music W< 
press dramatically the sense of I 
text. They say that, to be drunat 
it is not necessary to be thentrii 
and they point to certain compo 



Church Music. 



659 



tionsof Cherubini, Beethoven, Hum- 
mel, and even Haydn, in which they 
say the contrary is practically de- 
monstrated.*' 

It must, however, be confessed 
that modern composers, by trying 
to be dramatic, have more frequent- 
ly fallen into the great fault of 
being theatrical than they have 
avoided it. 

The use of instrumentation and 
of dramatic expression has given 
them immense scope, but their suc- 
cess bears no proportion to their 
Udents, their opportunities, their 
numbers, and the immense quantity 
of their compositions. 

Like the Athenians of old (Acts 
xvii.) spoken of by S. Paul, they 
incessantly crave something new, 
and, in their search for novelty, 
more often give us what is novel 
and strange than what is beautiful 
and appropriate, so that their 
compositions hardly ever continue 
to be used for a long time; they 
are soon thrown aside and forgot- 
ten ; and, indeed, we think it no ex- 
aggeration to say that, if all their 
compositions, except a very few, were 
burned, or should otherwise perish, 
the church would suffer no loss. 

In consequence of the failure of 
modem composers to meet the re- 
quirements of Catholic devotion, 
though their music has been intro- 
duced into our churches and given 
every chance of trial, complaints 
against it are heard on every side. 
We grumble about it in our con- 
versations ; we write against its ex- 
cesses in the public journals ; bish- 
ops complain of it in pastoral let- 
ters ; provincial councils are forced 
to issue decrees about it; the 
Sovereign Pontiffs themselves not 
unfrequently raise their voices, 
sometimes in warning, sometimes 

•Ot JMKw^looocit 



in threats — in a word, the evil 
seems to have attracted general at- 
tention, as a similar evil did in the 
time of John XXII. and at the 
period of the Council of Trent, 
and a remedy is called for. 

I. On account of the unsatisfac- 
tory character of most modem com- 
positions, some have proposed that 
we should go back plainly and sim- 
ply to the original or plain song. 
This was proposed in .two able ar- 
ticles in The Catholic World, 
Dec., 1869, and Feb., 1870, and the 
Paulists of New York have actu- 
ally made the experiment. 

The reasons in favor of the re- 
sumption of plain chant and the 
exclusion of all other music mav 
be stated thus : 

1. It is the original song of the 
church ; it is of venerable antiquity : 
it was originated under ecclesias- 
tical influences, and has been sanc- 
tified by having been always asso- 
ciated with what is best and holiest 
in the history of the church. 

2. It is so dissimilar from the 
music of the world that it is recog- 
nized at once and by everybody as 
ecclesiastical, and can never be 
confounded with secular music. 

3. It possesses, when well sung, 
an air of stateliness and solemnity 
which is never reached by all the 
refinements and artifices of modern 
music. If it is less dramatic than 
figured music, it is also more ex- 
pressive, because in it the words of 
the ritual speak for themselves natu- 
rally and without affectation, and 
therefore most eloquently; where- 
as in figured music the words are 
made so subservient to the musical 
numbers, are so senselessly repeat- 
ed and so jumbled together, that 
their meaning is disguised rather 
than conveyed, and they cannot 
speak intelligibly to the mind, es- 
pecially of the uneducated. Now, 



660 



Church Music. 



S. Paul says that psalmody' should 
speak to the understanding; and 
Benedict XIV., speaking of S. An- 
giistine, wlio used to be moved to 
tears by the Ambrosian chants he 
heard at Milan, says: "The music 
moved him indeed, but still more 
so the words he heard. But he 
would weep now also for grief; for 
although he heard the singinj;, he 
could not distinguish the words." 

No one will dare to say that to 
the ninety-nine one-hundredths of 
every congregation the Requiem of 
Mozart, with all its beauty of mel- 
ody and its wealth of harmony, 
uould be as expressive and as pro- 
vocative of the feelings proper to 
the funeral service as the old and 
ever-charming plain chant Re- 
Huiem. 

4. Plain chant is the best safe- 
guard against vainglorious display 
and its host of attendant evils, be- 
cause it allows no scope for per- 
sonal exhibition, and does not give 
undue prominence to individuals. 

5. It is the only chant used in 
many places, and is found sufficient 
for the purposes of worship. 

6. It alone has had the express 
authorization of the church. 

This is a fair exposition of the 
arguments in favor of plain chant. 

We admit the full force of the 
arguments derived from the venera- 
ble antiquity of plain chant, its 
Cbrisiian origin, its long and ex- 
clusive connection with the riies 
of religion, its dissimilarity with the 
music of the world, its simplicity, 
its impressiveness, and its incom- 
patibility with individual display ; 
but it must be remembered against 
it that it requires for its e-\ecution, 
especially here, where the know- 
ledge of it and the taste for it r>re 
to be acquired, co:idiiions not easi- 
Jy /iiJfilied; that its range is very 
Jinji'tecJ; and that, howcvei jTs-tMi 



the impression it sometimes znSh 
its resources are soon exhausied; 
whence to those who for a long 
time hear it and nothing else it be- 
comes extremely monotonous, anil 
burdens the ear with a dull weigh! 
of soundnolalways tolerable- Thii 
will be admitted by all who in sem- 
inaries and monasteries have been 
most accustomed to hear it. 

In those countries where plain 
chant is exclusively used evetj 
sort of device is resorted to onfesli- 
val days to escape its raonotonf, 
e.g., by harmonies on the chant 
which are out of all keeping witb 
it, as also by interludes on the 
grand orgue, by which one-half of 
the words of the text are absolote- 
iy omitted, and the recoUeettoos 
of the world are frequently ai 
vividly brought to mind as by any 
modern vocal compositions. 

No one will deny the appropri- 
ateness and impressiveness of pluii 
chant on certain solemn Deci- 
sions, especially those of sorro*. 
but it is confessedly uneqaal to the 
task of evoking and expressing the 
feelings of Christian joy and tri- 
umph. If the plain chant Requiem 
is superior to Mozart's, the Masse 
of Haydn are far more suitable to 
the joys of Eastcr-day than Wf- 
thing we can find in plain chant. 

The writer in The CatuouC 
World before alluded to telb us 
that plain chant prays. Give Bft 
he says, the chant that prays. Bill 
prayer is fourfold, like the SacriGct 
of the Mass; vi*., it is lalrenlie— 
that is, the homage of adoration; & 
is propitiatory, inasmuch as it tri« 
to appease God's anger ; it is impt- 
Iratory — that is, it asks and suppli- 
cates for what we need : but it n 
also eucharistic — that is, it ffvM 
God praise and thanksgiving. 
Now, if plain ci.tu exprcr-iS bet- 
\CT out ^et^vn^s of adoration aiiJ 



ChurJi Music* 



66i 



supplication, it certainly must bor- 
row from figured music the tri- 
umphant strains of praise and 
thanksgiving. 

However, if the argument from 
authority for plain chant held good, 
notwithstanding all we have said, 
we should instantly waive further 
discussion. But the force of this 
argument we absolutely deny. 

Dr. Burney has created the im- 
pression that the Council of Trent 
was at one time on the point of 
banishing figured music from the 
church. This was not the case. 
Benedict XIV. (1. xi., c. 7, De Syn. 
Dictc,)t following Cardinal Palla- 
vicini, the historian of the council, 
says: "It was proposed by some 
bishops, zealous for ecclesiastical 
discipline, that musical chant 
should altogether be banished from 
the churches, and the plain chant 
alone retained ; [but] as others ob- 
served that this novelty [sic] would 
give rise to innumerable complaints 
and immense trouble, it was finally 
resolved, not that musical chants 
should be prohibited, but that they 
should be reformed, according to 
certain rules, to the requirements 
of piety and gravity." And, in fact, 
the Council of Trent merely de- 
creed that Ordinaries should ban- 
ish from their churches that music 
in which, either by the organ or by 
the chanty anything lascivious or 
impure is introduced, in order that 
the house of God may seem to be 
and may be a house of prayer " 
(Sess. xxii., De€r. de obs* ei ev> in 
€ei. MissiB.) The other decree (Sess. 
xxtv., cap. 12, De Rrf.) adds nothing 
to this. 

The teaching of the theologians 
is much more lenient than that of 
many of our modem dogmatists. 

The great theologian, Suarez (De 
Orai. IW.f lib. iii., c. 8), arguing 
against Navarre, a rigorist of his 



day, says : "It is a sufficient argu- 
ment that this use (of organic or 
figured music) is retained through- 
out the church, and that in the 
very church of Rome itself, and in 
the chapel of the Sovereign Pontiff, 
the divine offices are sung after 
this manner." He then proceeds to 
comment as strongly as any one on 
the danger of excesses and abuses ; 
only he does not seem to feel, either 
with the objectors of his day or 
with some writers of the present 
time, that figured music is intrin- 
sically mischievous, any more than 
that it is ecclesiastically irregular. 

A later and better authority, 
Benedict XIV., speaking as a theo- 
logian in his work De Synodo Dieec^ 
loco cit., and as Pope, in his Con- 
stitution AnnuuSy 19th Feb., 1749, 
addressed to the bishops of the 
Pontifical States, says that it would 
be an extreme measure to banish 
figured music from the church, and 
that he considers it sufficient to 
banish such music as is theatrical 
{m^di the€U rales). 

Much has been made of the plea 
that plain chant is the only chant 
that has ever been expressly author- 
ized. 

Now, it must be remembered, i, 
that when plain chant originated, 
music was not used outside of the 
church, and that in the dark ages 
churchmen were the only ones who 
knew music, and that the church 
was necessarily its guardian; and, 
3, that for three hundred years 
the church has treated her am* 
tkariud version with strange in- 
curia ; for of this chant there is now 
no version commanded (though the 
diflerences of versions are very re* 
markable indeed), and till within a 
year or two there was no version 
to which any special autk^riteUion or 
even rec&mmendation was given by 
the popes. Even the version now 



Comparison of Waves ■with Flozvers. 



being prepared under the supervi- 
sion of the Roman Congregation 
of Rites is merely recommend- 
ed. 

We must be excused for this long 
argument about plain chant, but 
we have been forced into it by the 
exaggerations of the advocates of 
this chant, who are, like some of 
the advocates of Gothic architec- 
ture, extremists, and in their zeal 
fear not to censure the whole 
church, and even the Pope him- 
self. 

They indeed censure the church ; 
for the use of figured music has 
penetrated everywhere with epis- 
copal sanction and Papal toleration, 
and, say what we may, it must be 
admitted that all the theories ad- 
vanced for the exclusive use of 
plain chant have invariably fallen 
to the ground under the hand of 
practice. 

We deny, then, the obligation of 
confining ourselves to plain chant, 
if we except that which is in the 
Missal and the Pontifical, and whicli 



contains what is sung by the priest 
or bishop at the altar. 

But while we deny the obligation 
of using the plain chant cxcluiive- 
ly, we would retain a targe portion 
oi it, I, because there are patt^of 
it so appropriate to special ser^'lci;) 
that we can invent nothing bctlet; 
such as the Requiem, the Lamcnti- 
tions, llie Veni Creator, and manj 
hymns, and the incomparable 
psalm tones, as charming to-day li 
when heard by S. Augustine, niio 
says of them : " As the voicts 
flowed into ray ears, truth was in- 
stilled into my heart, and the aflec- 
tions of piety overflowed in lean 
ofjoy." a. Because, like OUT vest- 
ments and other appendages of ow 
ceremonial, it carries us back to 
the never-to-be-forgotten past. J. 
Because by being used altetiiatelf 
(as in the Papal choir) with music 
of a different and more modem 
character, it contributes most pow- 
erfully, by the effect of contrast, W 
the dignity and grandeur of cbtudl 
celebrations. 



COMPARISON OF WAVES WITH FLOWERS. 



Certainly, no more am I glad- 
dened by the emulous reflections 
which the earth and sea, with dark 
shades and distant projections, 
form; when alike in charms and 
powers the sparkling foam com- 
petes with snow-white flowers, for 
the garden, envious of the curling 
waves of ocean, loves to imitate 
their motion, and the amorous 
zephyr gives back the perfumes 
which it drinks in by blowing over 
the shining waters, and makes l\\e 



waving leaves an ocean of brigW 
flowers ; when the sea, sad to vie» 
the natural beauties of ihe garden, 
while it tries to adorn its own realm, 
destroys its majestic mien, and, sub- 
ject to second laws, blends with 
sweet effect fields of blue iri* 
waves of green; colored now Ilk' 
heaven's blue dome, now pltttfr 
ed with various hues, the garden 
seems a sea of flowers, and the sea 
a garden of bright foam. — CWit- 



A Glimpse of t/iv Green hie. 



663 



A GLIMPSE OF THE GREEN ISLE. 



:iIKN to some incidents in our 
/ to and arrival at Dublin. 
I Cross is the nearest station 
{Lock of Cashel, from which 
itant about five miles. We 
ere. We go to visit one who 
and more than kind. His 
% enshrined at Mora House. 
J conveyance, called acover- 
) takes us thither pretty 
ably. There are three kinds 
, for the transportation of 
rs in Ireland, not including 
■r-backed car" which is, or 
(igned for the movement of 
toduce, and, according to 
(Ver, of rustics on ante-nup- 
^dilions intent. Apropos, 
not see a specimen of the 
|cked car" from Qucens- 
1 Kingstown, That time- 
\ and poetical vehicle seems 
( given place to a modern 
I, in the East and South at 
The three varieties of car 
{oentioned belong to the 

known as jaunting-cars. 
^re ia the " outside car," 
^ the passengers are seated 
mtward and back to back. 
^e between the backs of 
^ is railed off into a place 
kge — or, AnglM, luggage — 
\k " well." It is one of the 
J which truth is not always 
jHind. At the front end of 
lU " is a raised seat for the 

The "outside car" fur- 
eals for from two to three 



persons on each side. When the 
seats are not full, the driver usual- 
ly sits on a side " to balance the 
cyar." The "Inside car" is the 
converse of the "outside," In the 
former the sitters face each other; 
their legs are in a space between 
the wheels, instead of outside them, 
as on the latter. It is entered by 
a small door at the back. The 
driver occupies a raised seat in 
front. The "covered car" is an 
" inside " with a high, square cover- 
ing of black oil-cloth. It is used 
in rainy weather. It has some dis- 
advantages. Vou can sec only 
through the curtain at the back. 
There are no openings at the sides, 
and the small gla?:ed apertures in 
front are placed too high to admit 
even of an occasional glimpse of 
the face of Nature. Vou can only 
see the dame from behind. Both 
the "inside" and the "covered 
car " have a tendency to tilt back- 
wards. You are eternally slipping 
down the scat toward the door, A 
sudden start may drop you out like 
a too well-warmed plate from tlie 
hand of a greedy guest. I came 
near dropping out once or twice in 
a ride of a few miles. In one of 
these conveyances it is wise to take 
a double hitch around infant Amer- 
ica. 

A hearty welcome meets us at 
Mora House. It is situated in the 
heart of a most lovely country. 
The house is embowered in Wc^'- 



664 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



and slinibbery, The walls, offices, 
and outhouses are covered with 
ivy. Along the front of the house 
is a conservatory. Around it are 
parterres with evergreens and early 
flowers, and borders of dark-green 
box. Broad pastures, spreading 
their green slopes into the distance, 
are relieved here and there by 
clumps of tail oaks. Cattle and 
sheep dot the landscape, giving it 
life without taking from its beauli- 
fiil repose. In the background the 
Rock of Cashel, with its ruins and 
lofty round tower, rears its grim 
silhouette against the evening sky. 
Tile frame of the picture is com- 
pleted by the mountains of misty 
blue in the far distance. Among 
them towers the peak from which, 
according to tradition, his sable 
majesty — in a very hungry moment 
doubtless — is said to have taken a 
"Devil's Bit." Over all this is 
spread a sky half blue, half cloud, 
with the softest of cla re-obscures. 
What a feeling of peace steals over 
my soul as I look upon this sweet 
landscape ! What a lovely spot for 
ihat retirement, "friend to life's 
decline," 



Alas ! there is no such gentle 
decline for us, poor nomads of the 
New World! We must work with 
tongue, or pen, or sword, or pencil 
by the failing light of the lamp 
until the last of iis flickering rays 
dies into darkness for ever. 

After luncheon our gentle cousin 
takes us to look at his horses and 
his dogs. One is a Mount St. Ber- 
nard, a colossal brute and a prime 
favorite. Then we visit his kitchen 
garden, and his cows, and his bee- 
hives, and, in short, everything that 
is his. Next we examine the paint- 
ings and the pholograp\\3 ; aman^ 



the former a Hfe-siie oi!-painling, 
by O'Keefe. of an uncle, a univer- 
sity man, a brilliant scholar, nho 
sat in more than one profeswt'i 
chair. 

Thus we occupied the lime until 
dinner was announced. Then wc 
sat down to one of those long- 
drawn-out, old-fashioned dinneri 
which commence at six in the evt- 
ning and end any time before mid- 
night. Gentle cousin, having Jieari 
the Lady from Idaho express a d^ 
sire to see an Irish turf-6re, hid 
one made in the dining-room; and 
a bright, pleasant, cheerful, clesnlf 
fire it is. We persuaded the ladJB 
to honor in the breach, for thl' 
once, the absurd British custoin (A 
withdrawing from the table afleribt 
dessert. What a pleasant evening 
wc spent ! 

Next morning we found rainstiM 
falling. It softened the atmosphew 
without obscuring it. The Rock 
of Cashel loomed up grimly but 
distinctly in the distance. 

There is now little that is repl 
about "Cashel of the Kings." It 
has its ruins, but nothing else. Tli( 
approaches to the ruins show more 
of poverty and discomfort than 1 
remember to have seen in any other 
town in Ireland, There is a ma- 
jesty about the ruins. The rock 
on which they stand is about thttc 
hundred feet high. There is ■i 
lofty round tower in a good slate 
of preservation. The frescos in 
one of the halls, said to have been 
the council-chamber, are in a sm'c 
of wonderful freshness. Thefloon 
of some of the apartments in the 
second story seem as perfect a^ 
ever they could have been. The 
carved stone-work over the porch 
of one of the entrances — to Cor- 
mac's Chapel, 1 think— is the ad- 
miration of connoisseurs. E"^ 
^OQt of this ground awakeni I 



A Glimpse of the Green Isle. 



665 



remembrance. I see the 
lers of ancient Ireland as- 

in their regal state. The 
Henry and Edward Bruce 
ore my mind's eye. I see 
rce and iinscriipuloiis no- 
(he eighth of the Geraldine 

Kildare, and think of his 
ing ideas of right and 

When Mormon Harry took 
ask for burning the Cathe- 
Cashel, he pleaded as his 
that when he fired the 
le thought the bishop was 

What a pleasant neigh- 
>rd Gerald must have 

ve a delightful drive to the 
1 town of Thurles. The 

the fields and the hedges 
iced by the contrast of 
Is of soft, yellow primroses. 
rely fresh those primroses 
Here bunches of violets 
;h bashfully, their modest 
es freshly washed by the 
ropping rain ! 

ts is a station on the Great 
( and Western Railway. 
! take rail for Dublin. It 
I town with a quaint old 
Jed lower which dates from 
Ith century. The tower 
' a bridge, and watches over 
t stream that becomes a 
ver before it reaches the 
is a relic of the lime when 
iVas a walled town. Thurles 
m of the Catholic Arch- 
f Cashel. There are two 
, the Presentation and the 
; The Sisters of the form- 
Ition devote themselves to 
;ation of the poor. The 

Sisters have an academy 
,g ladies of the wealthier 
I aristocratic classes. The 
Hon school gets a share of 
ernment educ.-iiional fund, 
bject to the supervision of 



the Government inspectors. The 
mode of teaching in the Presenta- 
tion school is very similar to thai 
of the public schools in New York. 
The children sang in chorus re- 
markably well. There is also a 
collegiate institution for the educa- 
tion of candidates for the priest- 
hood. We visited both convents, 
and were kindly and hospitably 
received. 

Among the objects most worthy 
of a visit is the cathedral, which in 
taste and magnificence of decora- 
tion promises to surpass all mo- 
dern ecclesiastical buildings in Ire- 
land. It has rich marbles from 
Italy, fine specimens of native 
marble, laphlasuU and verd-anliqut, 
in stones that are worth their weight 
in gold. Some of the work on the 
altars is exquisite. The cathedral 
will be a superb memorial of the 
piety and taste of the present arch- 
bishop. Dr. Leahy, We had the 
pleasure of visiting, and being visit- 
ed by, that distinguished ecclesias- 
tic and most refined and courteous 
gentleman. Very kindly and hos- 
pitably did he entreat us. 

About four or five miles from 
Thurles are the ruins of floly Cross 
Abbey. Our ride thiiher was 
through a delightful country in all 
the hum id beauty of an Irish spring. 
The ruirs are not extensive. They 
have been so often and so minutely 
described that a detailed descrip- 
tion is not necessary here. Besides. 
I am not writing a guide-book. 1 
must mention, however, a stone bal- 
ustrade which is quite artistic in its 
effect. The principal window is a 
splendid piece of work. It is in 
excellent preservation. There are 
a number of tombs of considerable 
age in the abbey. Near the princi- 
pal window is one to which a sin- 
gular legend is attached. It was 
related to us by the guardim of (.Kt 



666 



A Glimpse of the Green hit. 



\i\i.iic, an old woman of eighty, 
but hale and hearty, chatty ajid 
cheerfui — such a pleasant female 
Old Mortality as the immortal Sir 
Walter would have loved to study 
and depict. I have often wondered 
;a the cheerfulness with which Che 
nid among the Irish poor bear the 
burden of lengtiiened existence. 
The tomb is of stone, and in its up- 
per surface is a hollow. The old 
woman told us that it was worn by 
a rain-drop which for many years 
fell unceasingly from the roof until 
the constant dropping wore into the 
stone the hollow that we saw. The 
drop began to fall on the commis- 
sion of some crime, or some olTence 
against the church — she did not 
recollect which — by "one of the 
family" — "perhaps some trouLle 
with the priest of the parish." It 
continued to fall, drip, drip, drip, 
rain or shine, year in and year out, 
nntil the crime was atoned for, 
or the ofTence pardoned, or the 
family sold out and left the country. 
Then the drop ceased to fall, and 
has never fallen since. 

" Do you think the story is really 
true .'" asked the Lady from Idaho 
of the old custodian. 

" Do 1 think its thrue, ma'am ?" 
said the old woman, giving her ter- 
ritorial ladyship a diplomatic look. 
"Shure, it isn't for the likes o' 
me to be denyin' the likes of that. 
And shure, ma'am, can't you see the 
hole for yourself.'" 

" Of course. There is no better 
proof than that." 

" And don't you see, ma'am, that 
it's rainin' now at the very minnit 
that I'm talkin' to ye?" 

" There certainly can be no 
doubt about that," replied the Lady 
from Idaho, glancing upwards at 
a which Cousin George 
held over her head. 

And don't you see, n.\3,'ai:n, Ihat 




niver a dhrop falls on the lumb 
where the hole is, now?" added ilit 
old woman triumphantly. 

" I do indeed," replied Mine, 
Idaho, " That last argument is 
conclusive. Even if it were not. 1 
am of easy faith in such matters." 

" And wisely so," chimed in Cou- 
sin George. " Doubting Thomai 
makes a miserable traveller. He 
loses the pleasures of travel in the 
search for proofs that he is not en- 
joying himself without proper wa- 
rant. If he finds evidence for ui 
that our pleasures of assixiation 
are not justiHed by fact, that «e 
have no right to be pleased byl^ 
gcnds he can disprove, we tell him 
he is a fool for his pains. Wedo 
not want his facts. We arc detet- 
mined to believe in our favorite 
legends, in spite of him and all llie 
Gradgrinds in the world," 

The old woman looked 31 Cousin 
George with rather a puzzled air- 
She had listened most attentively, 
leaning her old head forward, and 
with withered forefinger pushing 
back her mub-cap from her limt- 
duUed ear; but Cousin George's 
harangue was evidently Greek lo 
her. She instinctively diviool. 
nevertheless, thai George was tail- 
ing on her side of the questigiil 
for she said, nodding her head ap- 
provingly the while : 

"Faith, and shure it's might]' 
right ye are, yer honor !" 

A gratuity, calculated accordiBt 
to the American standard, lesulled 
in a series of blessings and a SUCW^ 
sion of antique "dips," known v 
"courtesies" by the Irish peastfl 
women of a past generation. 

We took the cars again *t 
Thurles on out way l>ubliD-ward. 

There is an air of comfort and 
solidity about the few farm-houses 
we notice on our route, but ihiCl' 
were indeed few. The ptopt 



A Glimpse of the Green hie. 



I under lillagc was compara- 
Irery small. The country 
! generally to be in pastiir- 
^rge flocks of sheep and 
»r catlle were to be £een. 
Ull proprietors and farmers 
appeared. We saw a coii- 
romen working in the fields. 
Boyed the Lady from Idaho 
Deb. She said that no mat- 
r beauiiful the landscape 
W, that blot destroyed all 
Bymcnt of it. Our trave!- 
mpanion, Viator, bade her 
ber admiration for a while 
he reached the interior 
hany, where she would see 
I team of wayward sisters 
k1 to the plough and driven 
eciy lord of the creation. 
daho said she did not want 
ilore such sights could be 

imss Kildare, with its 
med "Curragh," an exten- 
^on which a few thousand 
troops were encamped at 
I. At every station we find 
■nan or two casting argus 
Br things in general. Phy- 
tic policemen — the " Royal 
pnstabulary" — are among 
•I specimens of the genus 
have seen. They are tall, 
f over six feet, and magnifi- 
nouldcd. Their uniform, 

somewhat sombre, is in 
(te : a dark, green tunic and 
,wilh a small, visorless for- 

omamented in front with 
I Ecarlel. 
alkin, which is within a few 

Dublin, possesses a round 
(.excellent preservation. It 
•eighty feet high. The en- 
If about twelve feet from 
ad. Ic has four openings 
bws some ten feet below 

,re in Dublin, at King's 



Bridge terminus, so called from 
being near the bridge creeled over 
the Liffey to commemorate the 
visit to Dublin of the fourth of the 
royal personages so unflatleringly 
designated by the author of Chi!,i( 
Harolii. A charming Irish land- 
scape greets the eye as you ap- 
proach the city; on the left the 
prettiest portion of the Liffey and 
the Phcenix Park; on the right a 
gently-undulating expanse of green 
fields bordered by old trees and 
doited with ancient churches and 
picturesque cottages, bounded in 
the distance by the soft outline of 
the Wicklow Hills. 

One of our parly expected to 
meet a brother whom he had not 
seen since they were both boys 
nearly a quarter of a century ago. 
Arrived at the terminus, and once 
more restored to liberty by the un- 
locking of the carriage-doors, he 
looked around anxiously for the in- 
dividual he expected to find wait- 
ing for him. He could pick out 
no one in the crowd whom he could 
claim as a brother. 

" I do not think there is any one 
here," said Mr. Hibernicus with an 
air of disappointment, after vainly 
peering into the faces of a dozen 
gentlemen, who seemed rather sur- 
prised by hLs close scrutiny. 

" What kind of a brother do you 
expect, Mr. Hibernicus?" asked 
the Lady from Idaho. 

" I assure you, my dear madam," 
replied Mr. Hibernicus, "I have 
not the remotest idea what Jack 
looks like now. He was quite a 
boy when we parted, and I have not 
seen even a photograph of him 
since. I hoped that instinct would 
reveal to me, as to honest Jack 
Falstaff, the ' true prince.' " 

We stood irresolute for a mo- 
ment, when a gentleman with a 
long beard d PAmMcaine ap- 



A Glimpse of the Gn 



preached our group. Raising Iiis 
hat, and acknowledging the pre- 
sence of ladies by a bow, he said to 
Mr. Hiberniciis, who was still en- 
deavoring to bring his instinct into 
play: 

" May I ask, sir, if you are look- 
ing for anybody?" 

" I am looking for my brother, 
sir," replied Mr, Hibernicus. " Per- 
mit mc to inquire if you expect any 
one?" 

" I expect my brother," returned 
the gentleman. 

" Are you Jack ?" 

" I am Jack." 

" How are yo«, Jack ?" 

And the brothers, after a vigor- 
ous hand-shake and some inquiries 
after "So-and-so," took things as 
coolly as if they h.id only been 
parted a quarter of an hour instead 
of a quarter of a century. 

Decidedly, people born to the 
English tongue have a horror of 
anything approaching to demon- 
strative sensibility. They have no- 
thing dramatic about them. What 
a sdne two Frenchmen or two 
Italians would have made out of 
such a meeting after many roving 
years! During the days when a 
generous and romantic credulity 
gave me undeserved credit for 
burning the midnight oil over 
Homer and Horace, I had a 
French student-friend named I'Ori- 
ent — an ami intime of six months' 
standing. L'Orient made a six 
weeks" trip to England, and I was 
at the station to receive the great 
traveller when he returned. 

" TV rn'oilA ioi! Comment vas- 
/«?"said I, putting forth my hand 
for a friendly shake. But I'Orient 
was not to be put off with anything 
so commonplace as the usual En- 
glish pump-handle reception. 

" Ettfitt,}e le revoii !" he exclaim- 
ed, throwing liis arms aiou'nd ■me. 



" ce chir ami! Ce brave Jcml 
Ce vieux de la vieilU .'" And pul- 
ting a hand behind each of my 
ears, thus rendering escape impos- 
sible, he kissed me vigorously on 
both cheeks. Then we walked in- 
ward our hotel, TOrient holding 
my hand in his. We met Jules; 
and rOrient left me, and threw 
himself on Jules : " Ce clicr Jules! 
Cebrave Jules !" etc., etc., and per- 
formed a double osculatioti ot 
Jules. Next we met Victor, ani 
then Benoit and several others, cad 
of whom was accosted by rOrieni 
and embraced in the same eSu^n 
manner. Our two brothers meei 
after a separation of half a centuir 
with a simple " How arc you, 
Jack ?" and a hand-shake. Whit dc 
monstralion would be lively eaongii 
for my old friend TOricnt under 
such circumstances? Yet rOrintl 
did not feel a tithe of what Jact 
and his brother felt. I often think 
it would be better for us if we vert 
more demonstrative. We should 
perhaps be better satisfied with our- 
selves, and perhaps others would 
be better satisfied with us also- 

I had directed ray telegram frun 
Queenstown to a wrong nurohWi 
but the telegraph people took the 
trouble to find the person to whom 
it was addressed. 1 have had oc- 
casion frequently to use the posul 
telegraph. I have found its IHM- 
agement admirable, The posl-o'- 
(ice department is also exccllcnlly 
well conducted. If there Is fti"/ 
possibility of delivery, a letter « 
sure to be delivered. One of my 
friends writes a hand so h»rd » 
decipher that I can g^"*"' 
achieve most success in unravellin! 
its mysteries by turning his nu^ 
siv^s upside down and studyinS 
his hieroglyphics in an miwied 
position. He wrote to me It D* 
Un, and addressed me at 



A Glimpse of the Great hh. 



669 



■n to ihe Dublin directory. 
» York this would have 
le last of the letter. The 
posl-ofiicials referred the 
rom one postal district to 
)r until the person to wbose 
was addressed was found, 
was forwarded to Paris, 
X happened to be at the 

in occupies both sides of 
[y. Thi; river runs through 
f from east to west. The 
along its banks are subdi- 
nto "quays." The banlts 
ed with granite, of which 
apets are also constructed. 
er is spanned by nine hand- 
ridges, seven of stone and 
iron, The river streets ex- 
(Out three miles on either 
itch block, as we would say 
York, has a different name. 
iere is Usher's Quay, Mer- 
Quay, Wellington Quay, 
the north side, extending 
jt Phcenix Park gate to the 
IVall Lighthouse. On the 
^e are Arran Quay, King's 
|iy, where the Four Courts 
Kcd, Upper Ormord Quay 
pwer, Eden Quay, Cus- 
Bsc Quay, etc. The en- 
eet reaches from King's 
to the end of the South 
; Dublin Bar Lighthouse. 
fey may be considered as 
nctcr of a circle in which 
■is contained; the circular 
jrhich run around it de- 
le circumference, West of 
i-Bridge, which is the head 

Elion, the Liffey is a dull 
viting stream, especially 
rater. It is not more than 
^ards wide. The mouths 
KWCTS which empty into it 
be feet above low- water 
Their contributions to its 
leans pellucid flood are not 



agreeatlc to contemplate eithe 
from an iesthelic or from a sanitary 
point of view, I should suppose the 
quays to be unhealthy places for 
residence. One must have the 
suicid.^l mania very strong indeed 
who would throw himself into the 
Liffey between King's and Carlisle 
Bridges. Beyond King's Bridge 
you get into the country, where the 
stream is not defiled by the filth 
of the city. 

Sackville Street is the principal 
street of Dublin. It is about twice 
as wide as Broadway, but is not 
longer than from Canal Street to 
Houston Street. Its shortness 
takes away from its imprcssiveness. 
At the foot of Sackvilie Street 
stands Nelson's Pillar, a Doric col- 
umn about a hundred and twenty 
feet high, with a figure of the great 
admiral leaning against a capstan 
on the summit. A fine view can be 
had on a dear day (which is not 
always to be had) from the top of 
the monument, to which you may 
ascend by a spiral staircase in the 
interior on payment of a small fee. 
The steps at the base of the col- 
umn are generally occupied by 
squatting idlers of all ages. On a 
fine day — i.e., when it does not rain 
— every inch of sitting space is oc- 
cupied. Belated "squatters "maybe 
seen waiting for hours until place 
is made by the retirement of some 
of the sitting members. Then a 
general rush is made for the vacant 
place. Here the politics of the 
nation -and of the universe are dis- 
cussed by the unwashed politicians 
of the Irish capital. I endeavored 
to ascertain how these squatters 
manage to live; but 1 was told that 
it is one of those mysteries which 
no one can penetrate. 

The General Post-OfRcc and the 
Rotunda are near the monument. 
The Post-Office is a fine stmctutsL 



670 



A Glimpse of tlu Green Isle. 



of stone with a portico of Ionic 
pillars five feet in diameter. Its 
pediment is surmounted by three 
statues : Ireland at the apex, Fi- 
delity on the left, and Mercury on 
the right. In certain post-offices 
that we wot of Mercury would in- 
deed be the right statue in the 
right place, and might be consider- 
ed to have a double significance — 
as a celestial messenger and a 
patron of thieving post-office 
clerks. 

Certain tourists have claimed for 
Sackville Street the proud pre-emi- 
nence of being " the finest thor- 
oughfare in Europe.*' I do not 
think the claim well founded. I 
do not consider it equal to some 
of the new boulevards in Paris, or 
even to some of those in Brussels. 
It is certainly grand and imposing 
as far as it goes, but it does not go 
far enough. Sackville Street, how- 
ever, presents a lively scene on a fine 
afternoon. Beautiful women, well- 
dressed gentlemen, rich toilets, 
and magnificent equipages may 
then be seen ; the toilets superior 
to anything to be seen out of Paris, 
the equipages not to be equalled 
out of London. Nothing that I 
have seen on the Continent of Eu- 
rope can compare with the " turn- 
outs " and " cattle " driven in Dub- 
lin. The most beautiful equipage 
I have noticed, and at the same 
time the chastest in its elegant sim- 
plicity, was that of Earl Spencer, 
the present viceroy; four dark 
bays — ^blood-horses — with postil- 
lions and outriders in a dark livery 
almost black, with white buckskin 
breeches and top-boots. Not a 
brass button or strip of tawdry 
gold lace to be seen. Compared 
with this equipage, the state car- 
riages at Buckingham Palace and 
those at Versailles looked like cir- 
cus wagons. 



Carlisle Bridge, the embouchurf 
of Sackville Street, being consider- 
ably narrower than the street, is 
generally the scene of something 
like a " Broadway jam." On a busy 
day it reminds one of the Fulton 
Street crossing — even to the police- 
man. 

The iflite of Dublin, however, 
will be found in Grafton Street 
about four p.m. This street, though 
narrow — narrower even than Broad 
way — is the brightest, cheeriest 
street in Dublin. It is laid with 
asphaltum, and is delightfully fret 
from mud or noise. It is the fash- 
ionable shopping-street. Equipa- 
ges in the very perfection of good 
taste may be seen in long lines at 
both sides of the street in frontof the 
principal shops, whiH: ranks {^mag- 
nificent " Yellowplushes," in rich liv- 
eries and powdered head% wait, with 
the grand imperturbability of flunky 
dignity, to open the carriage-door 
for madame or " my lady." 

I have already said that tht 
Irish in Ireland are becoming a seri- 
ous people. I did not meet a single 
specimen of the Irish joker, indis- 
pensable to the tourist in Ireland 
a quarter of a century ago. If he 
ever existed as they represented 
him, the railways have killed him. 
Now there is no time for display 
of wit, so called. I think the ex- 
tinction of the genus "joker" is 
something to be grateful for. I did 
not see any evidence of suffering 
among the laboring classes or any 
more raggedness than in England 
France, or Germany. Artisans are 
becoming scarce, and can command 
good wages. It is hard to get agri- 
cultural laborers ; they can almost 
set their own terms. Those who 
may be obtained cannot be kept 
very long ; they work merely to save 
enough to join their relarives and 
Idtxid^ VGL the Land of the Free. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



671 



traditional costume of the 
rishman is as rarely seen in 
as the short-waisted, long- 
)at, and striped trousers of 
je Yankee in the United 



States. I saw but one pair of 
" knee-breeches " between Cork and 
Kingstown. 

I did not encounter a single 
shillelah. 



GRAPES AND THORNS. ' 



BY THB AUTMOK OP **THB HOUSE OT VOBIO. 



» 



CHAPTER XIV. 



UPROOTING THORNS. 



rare happy, then!" F. Chev- 
lid to Mr. Schoninger the 
;ning when they were talk- 
ther. 

companion repeated the 
ith a doubting inflection, 
t always associated the idea 
iness with excitement," he 
and I am too calm for that. 
1 say that I am deeply satis- 

SchSninger had been re- 
5 in the church the music 
lext day, and F. Chevreuse 
in the sanctuary listening, 
; with what will and effect 
ler accomplished his work, 
wed small regard, indeed, 
vanity or the personal dig- 
the singers he was training, 
success was admirable. If 
i and women around him 
in organ-pipes or keys, he 
:arcely have treated them 
s ceremony. When the re- 
was over, he dismissed 
ithout a word, except the 
id to be promptly in their 
he next morning. Know- 
touchiness of singers in gen- 
l the peculiar touchiness of 
his own choir, the priest ful- 
:ted to see some manifesta- 



tion of resentment among them ; but 
they seemed merely surprised and a 
little awe-struck, and, after a momen- 
tary hesitation, withdrew in- silence, 
leaving the organist alone in the 
loft, with the soft gloaming paint- 
ing the air about him, as he closed 
the instrument with tender care, 
and drew the curtain about it. 

While waiting for him to come 
down, the priest perceived for the 
first time a lady dressed in deej) 
mourning, who knelt near the door, 
and who quietly followed the sing- 
ers from the church. Miss Pem- 
broke had the habit of visiting the 
Blessed Sacrament at this hour; 
and she was, moreover, making a 
Novena, which she had begun the 
night before, with a special inten- 
tion. In that Novena her dear 
Sisters at the convent had joined, 
only Sister Cecilia knowing what 
the intention was. 

Mr. Schdninger went into the 
house with'F. Chevreuse, and stood 
with him at an open window look- 
ing out in that exquisite hour when 
day and night meet in mid-air, the 
sunset not yet relinquishing all its 
rose and gold, the night drawing 
only her tenderest film of purple 
across the sky, atvd ct\\^VaTv% \sicNk 



6/2 



Grapes and Thorns. 



her trembling stars like glimmering 
tears crushed between dark-fringed 
eyelids. 

The two men looked out, both 
unconsciously pleased because the 
evening was beautiful and spring in 
its freshness, and consciously think- 
ing of other things. 

" They are all taking their places 
again," Mr. Schoninger said, after 
looking upward a moment in si- 
lence. " My patriarchs and pro- 
phets ! I hated to see them dis- 
crowned, and growing dim, and 
fading away into myths. Now they 
burn out again with a greater splen- 
dor than ever. The church of the 
fulfilment has never shown such 
men as my prophetic church. The 
glory of the later ritual is theirs. 
When the church which sees would 
express her emotion, she borrows 
the song of the men who foresaw. 
They were a grand race. I would 
like to build a church, and dedicate 
it to King David, and have a stone 
statue of him playing on his harp 
over against the altar." 

F. Chevreuse smiled, but said 
nothing. He was watching with 
intense interest the development of 
this new Christian, who took his re- 
ligion as he might have taken a 
crown. Mr. Schoninger had an 
odd way of performing what in any 
one else would have been acts of 
humility with a proud unconscious- 
ness, or an unconscious pride that 
was a little puzzling. Of what is 
commonly called piety he showed 
not a sign ; yet he did without hesi- 
tation or apparent effort what or- 
dinary piety shrinks from. One 
might say that he possessed a sub- 
lime common sense, which, perceiv- 
ing the relative importance of God 
and man, worshipped God as a 
matter of course, taking no thought 
whether man were pleased or not. 
Certain!/, had any religious perse- 



cution threatened him, he would 
have taken it as a piece of astonish- 
ing impertinence. 

F. Chevreuse had only just 
checked in himself an intention to 
compliment the convert on what he 
took to be the bravery of his pro- 
fession of faith the evening before, 
finding that Mr. Schoninger had 
been as disregardful of the crowd 
who had listened to him as if they 
had been wooden posts ; and he 
refrained also from referring to the 
cool " Oh ! come to think of it, I 
do not eat meat to-day," with 
which he had that day, at the hotel 
table, sent his plate iaway in the 
face of a score of staring people, 
who, however, did not venture lo 
smile. 

If any one had exhorted him not 
to be ashamed of God, he would 
probably have asked simply. Do 
you think I am a fool ? 

Their conversation approached 
this topic after a while. 

" One thing that has always as- 
tonished me is the mean spirit so 
many Christians have," Mr. Scho- 
ninger said. " Their religion seems 
to degrade rather than ennoble their 
character. They make such grand, 
heroic talk because they overcome 
some contemptible temptation 
which a pagan should be ashamed 
to yield to, and seem to regard 
themselves as constant proofs of 
special divine interposition because 
they are not habitual liars, thieves, 
and robbers. They delight, appar- 
ently, in calling themselves misera- 
ble and worthless, which is a shame 
to them and a contradiction of 
God. If they had been so worth- 
less, the Almighty would not have 
taken so great pains to be recon- 
ciled to them." 

" You are regarding the dignity 
of man, not that of God," remark- 
ed the priest quietly. Then, sec- 



Grapes and Thorns. 



673 



ing that his companion did not 
understand his meaning, added: 
** These expressions of humility 
and abasement come with sincerity 
only from those souls which, gazing 
heavenward, have seen so much of 
the glory of God that they shrink 
to nothingness in comparison. It 
is by looking at him that they grow 
small in their own eyes, and their 
little faults, if you would call them 
so, become so mountainous in ap- 
l>earance. There is, indeed, an 
immense dignity in man, but he 
loses in contemplating it ; for there 
is sure to grow up in his soul as 
immense a pride and egotism. We 
are quite safe when we leave our 
honors to the guardianship of the 
God who gave them, and occupy 
our minds in caring for his honor, 
which was once so fatally lost sight 
of that all mankind were smitten 
with a curse. We are a fallen race. 
Adam and Eve could once walk 
with heads erect in the face of 
heaven, but no human being since." 

Seeing his pupil frown, F. Chev- 
rcuse added more lightly : " But I 
do not think it worth while to 
make the devil of too much conse- 
quence. Our Lord said, * Get thee 
l>chind me, Satan.' Now, most 
people would be afraid to have the 
devil behind them. They would 
be continually peeping over their 
shoulder to see what he was about. 
His great strength is in our mis- 
conception of him. I don't sup- 
{>ose any man ever yielded to him 
and consented to ofTend God but 
he was astonished afterward to see 
how easily he might have conquer- 
ed, and how small was the bribe for 
which he had sacrificed so much." 

•* The devil, too," said Mr. Scho- 
Dinger with an odd little smile. 
*'Must I accept him?" 

** No ; you must reject him," re- 
torted the priest. 

VOL. XIX. — 43 



And then came question after 
question. How did the church 
explain this } What was the mean- 
ing of that ? F. Chevreuse found 
his philosophy and theology some- 
what tested by this searching ques- 
tioner, who, without doubting, wish- 
ed that all things should be made 
plain to him. 

" I always had a tender feeling 
for Christ," he said, " and sometimes 
a slight questioning if he might not 
be the Messias; but only last night 
were the needed links supplied 
which made my fragmentary acqui- 
escences a single conviction. But 
though satisfied with Christ, I am 
not satisfied with religion as I see 
it. There are too many trumpery 
glozes and comments and compli- 
cations. I like common sense in 
religion, and without it religion 
has no dignity in my eyes. No- 
thing, not even his humility and 
love, was more conspicuous in the 
character of Jesus Christ than his 
common sense and consistency. 
How honest he was ! I say it with 
all reverence and adoration. How 
free he was from evasion and po- 
licy, and that prudence which is 
founded on an infinite number of 
small lies ! He always detected a 
fallacy, and exposed it ; and he was 
constantly appealing to the reason 
and good sense of his followers. 
When he propounded a mystery, it 
was not a mystery because it was 
involved and obscure, but because 
it was so great that we could not 
see all the parts of it. His myste- 
ries hang like suns in space. How 
little there is in common between 
his transparent nobleness and the 
petty tricks of, I must say, the ma- 
jority of Christians, their weights 
and measures for the offences they 
may dare against him, and those 
which are over the permitted guilt, 
their excuses, their compromises .' 



674 



Grapes and Thorns, 



Why, sir, there never was a time 
when I did not think, there never 
will be a time when I shall not 
believe, that the greatest foes to 
the Christian church are Christians 
themselves." 

" You are quite right," F. Chev- 
reuse answered with an air of sor- 
row and mortification. " There is a 
vast difference between Christ and 
Christians. He is God, and we are 
men. And it is the thought of this 
difference which makes us walk 
with that downcast face which so 
offended you a few minutes ago. 
Do not come to too many decisions 
at once. Wait, and learn by expe- 
rience. Here in your reach now is 
all the splendor of faith, a free gift 
for you to work out your life by. 
Your privileges are peculiar. You 
have had no sacrament to misuse ; 
and when you are baptized, you 
will stand as new and sinless a man 
as Adam was at his creation. In 
that instant, if your intention is 
pure, you will possess heaven in 
your soul. It does not often fall to 
the lot of a man to be sure of such 
happiness. Let us see how you 
will use the privilege. Show us, if 
you will, the ideal Christian, and 
we will be glad to see and imitate 
him. But beware of pride !" 

" My dear friend !" exclaimed 
Mr. Schoninger, "I did not mean 
to be presuming nor to wound you. 
I am sure you do not wish me to 
say it, but to me you, at least, are 
perfect." 

F. Chevreuse laughed slightly. 
'* Only wait and see," he said. 
** And now a score or two of peni- 
tents are waiting to confess, and F. 
O 'Donovan is wondering if I am 
going to let him stay in the confes- 
sional till midnight. I must leave 
you. Why do you not go up and 
see Mrs. Ferrier.? She has been 
iinxiOM^Xy inquiring for you to-day, 



and complaining a little. Go and 
make the good soul happy. Miss 
Pembroke will be glad to see you 
too, I am sure. She has gone to 
live with Mrs. Ferrier. They do 
not receive company ; but send 
your name in, and you will be wel- 
come." 

"I had forgotten them both I' 
Mr. Schoninger said with some 
compunction. " I will go at once" 

F. Chevreuse soon found that he 
had been mistaken in two of his as- 
sertions ; F. O'Donovan was not in 
the confessional, and Miss Pem- 
broke was not at that moment in 
Mrs. Ferrier's house. Both had 
gone to the convent, one called 
there, the other hastening to follow 
when she knew his errand. 

Little Anita was dying, killed by 
her first vision of the wickedness 
and agony of the world. She had 
heard of sin as one living far inland 
hears of the ocean, which he has 
never seen; and now the bitter 
waves of that wide, salt sea she be- 
lieved so far away and alien had 
rolled in about her. It touched 
her feet and her garments, and lelt 
its poisonous rime there ; it caught 
and strangled before her eyes those 
she had trusted and been near to; 
it tossed its sacrilegious foam on to 
the very altar of God. Her soul 
trembled within her, and she turn- 
ed her face away from life, and hid 
it in the bosom of her Lord. 

"O my God! my God!" she 
prayed. " Forgive me ! but I can- 
not live." 

There was no physical malady; 
but the heart, which, like a busy 
shuttle, tosses to and fro its rosy 
threads, weaving soul and body to- 
gether, faltered, and let slip iin^ 
after link. The invisible folde<i 
wings detached themselves, trem- 
bling; the spiritual hands left ih^ 
bodily hands cold, and stretched 



Grapes and Thorns, 



675 



out into eternity, trembling, always 
trembling ; the whole soul, still full 
of the fear and agony of the world, 
shrank outward. 

The Sisters knelt about her, 
cruelly grieved. Was this delicate 
saint to be torn away from them 
thus, leaving them no consolation 
but the memory of her blameless 
life ? Was she to go down to the 
grave without a sign of victory? 
Were they to keep for ever this 
last vision of her, prostrate in the 
shadow of that low portal ? 

And even while they prayed, just 
giving up hope, as the slight form 
grew cold and rigid, all at once 
it shone out like a marble statue 
on which a sudden sunbeam falls. 
The eyes flashed wide open, the 
shining soul stood tiptoe in them 
an instant, then parted softly. 

It is not for us to follow, even in 
fancy, the flight of that innocent 
soul, nor to witness the tears of 
mingled sorrow and joy which the 
Sisters shed over their young com- 
panion, nor to listen to the prayers 
they said, nor the sacred commun- 
ings they held together. 

Our business is with earth, with 
Honora Pembroke, driving home- 
ward soberly through the still eve- 
ning. 

** Drive slowly,** she said to the 
footman — not John now. " There is 
no haste.** And she added to her- 
self: " I want a chance to think.** 

There was, indeed, little chance 
to think in her new home ; for 
good Mrs. Ferrier, who did her 
thinking with her tongue, could not 
conceive any need for solitude, and 
was constantly breaking in upon 
the few moments of retirement 
her 3roung friend allowed herself to 
ask if she had **got through,** if 
she were ill, if she would please to 
romc down, or if she objected to 
company. And then would come 



the recapitulation of her trials, her 
fears for her daughter, and lamen- 
tations without end. That Miss 
Pembroke herself might be sad and 
troubled, and stand in need of 
cheering and sympathy, did not 
seem to enter her mind. 

So thus early in their intercourse 
the young woman was fain to seize 
every excuse for a moment of soli- 
tude. Whether she would have 
taken advantage of this had she 
known that a visitor awaited her 
return is doubtful. 

The drive was not interminable, 
however, and it was still early in 
the evening when she reached the 
house and entered. She stopped 
at sound of a voice in the draw- 
ing-room. It was Mrs. Ferrier 
who spoke, but her words were 
quite sufficient to tell whom she 
spoke to. 

" I shall never, never get over 
your having been treated $0 — 
never!** 

'* Madam,*' said Mr. Schdnin- 
ger with a decision which scarcely 
covered his displeasure, " I request 
as a favor that you will never again 
mention this subject to me. I am 
sorry for your trouble in the mat- 
ter, and grateful for the kindness 
you have shown me ; but you must 
see that it is something of which I 
do not wish to be reminded." 

Miss Pembroke's impulse was to 
go immediately up-stairs. A kind 
of terror seized her at the thought 
of meeting him. What if he 
should know that she was making 
a Novena, and what it was for ! 

She stopped one moment, irreso- 
lute, then went into the bright 
drawing-room where the two sat. 
Mrs. Ferrier uttered a little excla- 
mation, not having heard her come ; 
but Mr. Schoninger had heard the 
carriage, the door, even the step 
that paused at sound of their 



6;r6 



Grapes and Thorns. 



voices, and half divined that he 
had come near not seeing Miss 
Pembroke that night. 

She gave him her hand with dig- 
nified and earnest friendliness. " I 
cannot tell you how happy you 
made us all last night/' she said. 
'* You are welcome." 

He found something haughty in 
her mode of address, like that of a 
queen speaking to a subject, and 
looked at her intently to discern its 
meaning, if possible. 

Alarmed at his searching expres- 
sion, she turned abruptly away 
from him with unmistakable haugh- 
tiness this time. But no sooner 
had she done so than, smitten by a 
swift recollection of the folly and 
injustice of the act, she returned 
with a glance and gesture so full 
of mute, impulsive penitence that 
it more than atoned ; it explained. 

The proud surprise in his face 
melted to a quiet smile. He re- 
sumed his seat by Mrs. Ferrier, 
and began to talk with her, taking 
no further notice of Honora for a 
few minutes. But when he saw 
her sitting silent and pale, her mo- 
mentary trouble forgotten in the 
recollection of the solemn scenes 
which she had witnessed in the 
last few days, he spoke to her. 

" I hope you will take some inte- 
rest in my choir," he said ; " for I 
wish to improve it very much. 
The material is bad, the greater 
part of it. Those persons seem to 
have been selected who had loud, 
blatant voices and a firm belief that 
they were excellent singers. They 
make noise enough, and are not 
afraid ; but they are vulgar singers. 
I want a choir of boys in addition to 
them. You must know some good 
voices among the children." 

She brightened. It was a plea- 
sant surprise to hear something in 
common life spoken ot^ and to 



have one who knew all assume that 
all was not lost. 

" I know a good many such 
voices," she said; "and I should 
be glad to help you. Could not I 
make the selection, and teach them 
the first lessons ? It would be 
small work for you." 

" If you would be so good," he 
replied, quite as if he had expect- 
ed the offer. 

And so, without more words, 
Miss Pembroke was installed as 
Mr. Schoninger's musical assist- 
ant. It was a timely employment 
and interest in her changed life, 
and exerted a softening influence 
on his. He gradually relinquished 
the designs he had meditated, and 
looked on his sufferings in a more 
impartial light. Whatever preju- 
dice had existed, he could not 
doubt, when he examined the sub- 
ject calmly, that he had been con- 
demned on a reasonable array of 
circumstantial evidence, and that, 
without prejudice, any other man 
would have been condemned on 
the same evidence. Besides, even 
had there been a chance of success 
in the attempt, he could not have 
received as much in legal repara- 
tion as was voluntarily given hiffl 
by the public. The city was, in a 
manner, at his feet. The highest 
officials, both in private and in 
their public capacity, tendered to 
him their respect, their regrets, and 
offers of any assistance he might 
need. People felt that they, could 
not do too much for him. : It was 
quite true, as Mrs. Ferrier said to 
him : " Now is the time for you to 
break the law, if you want to. You 
could do anything, and no one 
would find fault with you for it." 

For the real criminal, who shall 
say how it happened that he was 
not brought to justice } There was 
certainly an immense activity ^ 



Grapes and Thorns. 



677 



searching where he was not. The 
law put on its most piercing spec- 
tacles, then shut its eyes and 
looked in every direction. The 
spectacles saw nothing. If they 
were on the point of having a 
glimpse, they were instantly turned 
in another direction. We have all 
seen such justice when wealth and 
influence are on the side of the cul- 
prit. Letters came from Annette 
to her mother with only the small- 
est circumlocution, and answers 
were sent to them with the most 
transparent diplomacy in the world. 

" When my poor Gerald heard 
of his mother's death," Annette 
wrote, " I thought for a while that 
he would die. He lay for hours 
almost insensible, and only revived 
from one swoon to fall into another. 
But he soon recovered from the 
first shock, and is, I think, glad to 
know that her sufferings were so 
short. But he says nothing, and I 
do not talk to him. I wait to see 
what God will do with his soul. 
He is like a frail building that has 
been overthrown so thoroughly that 
not one stone remains upon an- 
other, and is being built up again 
in a different shape. I can perceive 
a strength in the new foundations 
of his life which I had not believed 
him capable of. Indeed, he is not 
humanly capable of them. But this 
is the city of miracles, and ours is 
a miraculous faith. As I have told 
you, he says nothing. His life is 
almost an absolute silence, and, I 
might say, blindness to earthly 
things. I never see him looking at 
any beautiful or sublime object ex- 
cept the crucifix. Even I seem to 
be only a voice to him. He begins 
lately to show a disposition to be 
active, which is to me a sign that 
his mind is becoming settled." 

Annette did not think it best to 
describe the nature of the activity 



that her husband was showing, well 
knowing that it would have made 
Mrs. Ferrier believe herself to be, in 
addition to her other afHictions, the 
mother-in-law of a maniac. For 
the work he did, here and there, 
wherever it could be quietly done 
without attracting attention, was 
menial. She had seen him help the 
poor man unload his cart of stones, 
or take the spade from his hands to 
labor in his stead, and he was con- 
stantly performing menial labors in 
the house. All this was done, not 
with any appearance of being an 
eccentric gentleman, but as one of 
the poor. For day by day his dress 
had been growing rude and his 
whole aspect changed. The sun 
had burnt his fair skin and faded 
his unshorn beard, and, by means 
best known to himself, his delicate 
hands had become dark and rough. 
Looking at the firm, silent lips 
and downcast eyes, Annette could 
scarcely doubt that the man she 
had called her husband was grad- 
ually and purposely effacing all the 
beauty and daintiness of which he 
had been so proud. He never went 
out with her, and if by chance they 
were likely to encounter in the 
street, he avoided the meeting. No 
one, except the people of the house 
where they lived, suspected that 
there was any acquaintance or con- 
nection between this dainty signora 
and this man, who grew every day 
less and less to be distinguished 
from the common laborer. 

But in humbling himself Law- 
rence Gerald had not been unmind- 
ful of the one earthly duty remain- 
ing to him. ^'Are you willing to 
give me up entirely, Annette?" he 
asked her one day. 

She answered with a brief affirma- 
tive. ** Follow wherever God leads 
you," she said ; *' and do not stop 
an instant to think of me." 



^ ■ i. 1 



<r 



. < 



•"'> 



A 
* •^ 






678 



Graces and Thorns. 



He was used to depending on 
her, and to being sure that she 
meant what she said, and could per- 
form her promises. Yet he wished 
to make certain. " You have to go 
out alone, and have no protection 
but that of servants," he said. 

" I do not need any other protec- 
tion ; I am quite safe here,** she re- 
plied. 

"You cannot marry again," he 
went on. 

" I have no wish to !*' 

Perhaps there could not have 
been a stronger proof of the purifica- 
tion which Annette Gerald's char- 
acter had undergone than the fact 
that this reply was made without a 
tinge of bitterness or regret. She 
spoke with gentle sincerity — that was 
all. As an absorbing affection had 
made her consent to be taken with- 
out love, so now a pity and charity 
yet more engrossing enabled her to 
find herself discarded without an- 
ger. 

" Follow God, and think no more 
of me," she said. " I remain here. 
Go when and where you will." 

It was the first time they had 
spoken together for several days, 
and was more by accident, appa- 
rently, than of their seeking. Pass- 
ing through the room where An- 
nette was, Lawrence had seen her 
trying to open a window that resist- 
ed her slight hands, and had opened 
it for her. Then the sweet clangor 
of the Ave Maria breaking out from 
all the towers at once, they had 
paused side by side a moment. 

Perhaps he had wished to speak, 
and seized this opportunity. 

At her answer he looked at her 
earnestly, for the first time in 
months, it seemed to her, and with 
a look she could not endure with- 
out emotion, so far-away and 
mourn{M\ yet so searching, was it. 
li was a gaze like that ot one dy*\tv^, 



who sees the impassable gulf widen- 
ing between his eyes and what 
they rest upon. How many, many 
glances she had encountered of 
his! — laughing, critical, impatient, 
in the old days that now seemed 
centuries past; superficially kind, 
penitent, disregardful, careless, but 
never from the depths of his soul 
till now. Now she knew at last 
that his soul had depths, and that, 
as she stood before him, he was 
aware of her, and saw her as she 
was. 

" Annette," he said, almost in a 
whisper, "words cannot tell my 
sense of the wrong and insult which 
I have heaped upon you — on you 
more than all the rest put to- 
gether." 

" Do not speak of that," she said, 
trying still to be calm. 

" Of all the women I have hurt 
or destroyed, you are the noblest," 
he went on, seeming not to have 
heard her. 

She drew her breath in quickly, 
and stood mute, looking down, and 
some strong band that had been 
holding her down — how long she 
knew not, perhaps for years, per- 
haps for her whole life — loosened, 
and she felt herself growing up- 
right. She was like the graceful 
silver birch that has been bowed 
over by the snow, flake after flake, 
till its head touches the ground, 
when the warm sun begins to melt 
its burden, and it lifts a little, and 
feels itself elastic. 

In days when Honora Pembroke 
was his ideal, " noble " was the 
word he applied to her, and An- 
nette Ferrier always felt herself 
grow small when she heard him 
utter it. 

"Of all women I have ever 
known, you are the noblest and 
most lovely," he said slowly. *'I 
'^^;vs \iVvcvd* Too late I have learned 



Grapis and Thorns. 



679 



And if I had a wish left, it 

be that God would reunite 
leaven." 

: snows had melted, and she 
upright at last ' 
re was a confused whisper- 

her brain. Since she was 
and honored, why need they 

She could comfort him, be 
side always, and help him to 
ack peace, if not happiness. 

would perform works of 
f together, and in humbling 
f she would raise him. 

lifted her eyes, and opened 
:)s to speak some such word, 
lecked herself on seeing him 
way. His face was no longer 
ind sad, but full of anguish, 
e enticements of human life 
sailed his soul, and were fight- 
ainst its one stern tenant, re- 
Silently, and with a feel- 
unacknowledged disappoint- 
she awaited the result, scarce- 
ibting that he would yield, 
had he not yielded ? was the 
question that rose in spite of 
ily to be thrust down again 

many excuses, as she called 
d his sufferings and his iso- 

stood near the window, with 
e turned to the light, and she 
;d the struggle without dar- 
move or to speak. What si- 
lash of warring passion held 
:hus rigid she could only 

what voices sweet and piti- 
re pleading, and what voices 
and terrible replying, who 
ly ? It did not need that 
of darkness should be there ; 
iman heart was enough. In 
/ift review when the soul, an- 
ing a privilege of eternity, 
mpress a lifetime into a mo- 
what visions of all that life 

give could have presented 
lives !— dusky eves and sun- 



lighted mornings, when the singing 
of birds, mingled with the prattle 
of children, and quiet and elegant 
leisure, and smiling friends, made 
earthly existence seem like an Ely- 
sian dream ; ever-present affection, 
with its excuses for every fault, its 
recognition, prompt and inspiring, 
of every virtue, its cheering word 
for the hour of sadness, its loving 
check, its sympathy, its silent ten- 
derness; the freedom of earth 
which wealth can give, every portal 
opening as if by magic, existence 
a perpetual feast. They crowded 
upon him mercilessly, and tossed 
to and fro his grief and remorse as 
the sea tosses its dead, that are 
now but faint white outlines, half 
lost in froth, now cold faces starting 
clearly out of the thin, green wave. 

How many times that soul was 
lost and won in those few minutes 
none but the invisible witnesses of 
the scene could tell. 

He moved at length, and An- 
nette stepped nearer with sudden 
alarm, as she saw him put his hand 
into his bosom slowly, as if with 
dread to draw forth what was there. 
The hand closed on what it sought, 
and with bitter shrinking, as if it 
were his heart he was thus uproot- 
ing, brought it to light. It was no 
knife, nor pistol, nor vial of poison, 
as she had feared, but a folded pa- 
per. She had seen it in his hands 
before, and wondered what he kept 
with such care. 

He opened it and read ; and she, 
leaning nearer, read also, without 
stopping to consider her right. 

This was the breviary Lawrence 
Gerald carried in his bosom, writ- 
ten largely and clearly, and signed 
with his name in full : 

** I am a gambler, a housebreaker, 
a thief, a sacrilegious liar, a murder- 
er, and a matricide." 

"O my level slaxid ^xtci\ ^V^^^ 



68o 



Grapes and Tli&rns. 



firm !" the wife tried to say ; but 
the words died in a whisper on her 
lips, as her heart fainted with pain 
and delight. 

He did stand firm without having 
heard her admonition. She saw the 
unsteady lips close again, the gaz- 
ing eyes droop, the whole face and 
form compose itself. That brief 
reminder, written to be a visible 
witness when the voice of con- 
science should fail, was more po- 
tent than poison or blade or bullet. 

" I wish to take a room by myself 
in another part of the city," he 
said. "Are you willing.?" 

" Certainly !" she replied. " But 
I would like to know where it is. 
Not," she added quickly, "that I 
would intrude or trouble you in 
any way. But you cannot expect 
me to lose all interest in you, and I 
shall feel better to know where you 
are, and to go once to see your 
room and the people you are 
with." 

" I will let you know as soon 
as I find a place," he said. " Of 
course I wish to support myself, 
to be removed from all society, ex- 
cept those persons whom I must 
see, and to wait my time in penance. 
You understand it all, Annette. I 
no longer exist in the ordinary life 
of men. I am either in purgatory 
or in hell — I do not yet feel sure 
which." 

He was going away, but turned 
at a little distance, and looked at 
her once again. " My dear," he 
said faintly, " good-by !" 

She could not utter a word, could 
only clasp her hands over her face, 
and so lose his last glance. For as 
he spoke that farewell, and as she 
heard his retreating step, the door 
of her sealed and frozen heart burst 
open, and her dead love, stirring 
uneasily in its grave during these 
/ast days, rose up stroiv^ei lV\^ti 



ever before, and resumed the throne 
it was never again to abdicate. 
There, at last, was a man worth 
loving! 

The next evening she received 
his new address ; and he added : '' I 
shall be out to-morrow, and the 
padrona will admit you, if you wish 
to come." 

Of course she went; but, what 
had not been to her a matter of 
course, the place pleased her. The 
house was in an old and crowded 
part of the city, where the streets 
swarmed with poor people ; but the 
room was at the very top, in an odd 
comer quite removed from noise 
and communication with any other 
apartment, and had an eastern and 
a northern window that looked off 
over palace roofs and through 
towers and domes to the beautiful 
mountains. Close to its southern 
wall pressed a church tower, and 
on a level with its windows rose the 
sculptured fa9ade, wreathed with 
angels. Once there, one might 
easily forget the steep, dark stair. 
the squalid street below, and even 
the bare walls and floor of the 
room itself. 

Annette had not allowed herself 
to bring any article of comfort, still 
less of adornment, though her heart 
had ached with longing to do so. 
But she placed a beautiful crucifix 
on the one poor table, and left a 
volume of lives of saints beside it 
A bunch of roses hung at her belt, 
and her fingers lingered on them 
in doubt for a moment. But she 
checked that impulse also. How 
much might roses breathe of wo- 
man's presence there and all the 
graces and sweetnesses of life ! But 
before leaving, she hung over an 
arm of the crucifix a single small 
bud, where the petals showed like 
a drop of blood oozing through the 
^reen. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



68t 



\ was placing this last sou- 
ler tears dropping over 
nd cross, there was a sound 
h a hurricane should draw 
reath before blowing, the 
the room trembled, then 
me a tremendous and re- 
ng stroke. The great bell 
iwer was striking the hour 
and the chamber shook as 
nest shakes when a storm 
)ver the tree in which it is 
'or the moment everything 
liverse was obliterated but 
She breathed its tremulous 
she was enveloped and 
p by its strong tide; the 
shine and the blue of the 
e like bright, resounding 
Then the stroke ceased; 
:ling round and round in 
rings, the music of the 
it out to join the music of 
res, perhaps to creep with 
I ripple up the shores of 

Oman who had opened the 
idered much to see the pale 
come down with a face 
/ith weeping ; but a liberal 
)sed her to think the best 
hing. 

must be very good to him, 

allow any one to intrude," 

said to her. " I shall 

the church here below 

lorning at seven o'clock; 

e should be ill, or any ac- 

ould happen to him, I wish 

come there and tell me. 

must not talk to him. 

) him only when he asks 

evening she wrote to her 
** Lawrence has left me, 
1 the arms of God. That 
an say, except that I trust 
on a perfect forgiveness. 
1 sorry, dear mamma, if 
onely, but I cannot return 



to America. I do not wish for so- 
ciety anywhere. Here in Rome is 
my place, with my religion and the 
poor to occupy my time. Try to 
be happy, and to think of me as 
peaceful and contented. And, 
mamma, if there should be any 
good, honest man whom you would 
like to marry, I shall be glad of it. 
Goodness is the chief thing." 

Mrs. Ferrier wept profusely over 
this letter, not doubting that Law- 
rence was dead. 

"The poor fellow!" she said. 
" After all, he wasn't so bad as he 
might have been." 

And then, bethinking herself, she 
wiped away her tears, and calmed 
her grief as much as possible ; for 
it would not do to render herself 
unpresentable. It was necessary 
to go at once with the news to F. 
Chevreuse. 

The way that Mrs. Ferrier took 
to the priest's house was a round- 
about one; it led in an opposite 
direction, and stopped before a 
new dry-goods store of the most 
glittering sort. There was, in fact, 
no shop in Crichton so fine 
or so much frequented as this. 
People went there at first from 
curiosity, and were disposed to 
make themselves very merry re- 
garding it ; but there seemed to be 
nothing to laugh at, unless it might 
be certain erroneous notions in 
their own minds. Everything was 
well ordered and business- like, the 
clerks attentive and respectful, and 
the proprietor perfectly dignified 
and watchful. Indeed, a slight ex- 
cess of dignity and watchfulness 
had at first marked his conduct, 
and made his customers wary of 
giving offence. 

We have already intimated that 
Mrs. Ferrier had a new footman. 

This functionary, a slim and sen- 
timental young mati, \^\. ^^^^txi S^^ 



682 



Grapes and Tborus, 



step for his mistress ; but before 
she had made her majestic descent, 
the proprietor of the shop stood in 
the door, bowing to his wealthy 
customer. She beckoned him out, 
and motioned the footman away 
out of hearing. 

" Poor Lawrence is dead, John !" 
slie said plaintively, a smile tem- 
pering her grief. " And it's best so, 
of course. I've just got a letter 
from Annette. And, John — " 

The lady paused, and looked 
down, and laughed a little. 

"Well, what is it?" asked the 
^new merchant with an appearance 
of curiosity. 

"She's willing." 

John's face expressed two con- 
trary emotions at this announce- 
ment — one of pleasure, the other a 
dogged sort of resentment that 
Annette's willingness should have 
been considered of consequence. 

" It is pleasanter to have every- 
body pleased," the lady said sooth- 
ingly. " Of course, though, it 
doesn't make one bit of difference 
with me so far as what I shall do ; 
for you know, John, I'd stand by 
you through thick and thin. Now 
I must go to F. Chevreuse." 

" There isn't a more respectable- 
looking merchant in the city of 
Crichton," said Mrs. Ferrier em- 
phatically to herself, as she drove 
away. 

" Beg y'r pardon, mum V* said 
the slim footman, leaning over. 

" I wasn't talking to you !" ex- 
claimed his mistress indignantly. 

It was, indeed, observed by every- 
body that Mrs. Ferrier was very 
high with this unfortunate man, 
who was humility personified, and 
only too assiduous in his obedience. 
She had assumed a trifle more of 
state with all her servants ; but the 
footman was scarcely allowed to 
breathe freely. 



" I shouldn't wonder, now, if he 
might think he could marry An- 
nette," she muttered to herself, as 
they drove on. 

Poor fellow ! his ambition did 
not soar beyond Betty, and she was 
treating him with cruelty. Hov- 
ever, with a story-teller's prescience, 
we are fully aware that his trials 
are only the little waves which are 
sending him nearer and nearer to 
his haven, and that before the year 
is over the day will be named. Al- 
ready in our mind's eye we see the 
fair Betty in her bridal robes, with 
her magnificent and patronizing 
mistress fastening on the veil, and 
giving her a kind and resounding 
kiss at the same time. We even 
hear the small whisper with which 
she silences her bridegroom's last 
jealous misgiving when he coin- 
men ts on the salute given her bj 
the master of the house : 

" What ! you think that I could 
ever have had a fancy for him— a 
man who drops his h's? " 

The withering contempt of this 
remark was decisive. 

But we are anticipating. 

Mrs. Ferrier found the priest at 
home, and gave him the letter to 
read. He read it attentively, but 
came to a different conclusion from 
hers. He did not tell her so, 
though, for it was evident that An- 
nette wished them to think that 
her husband was dead. Her fo^ 
mer letters had prepared him to 
suspect a state of things very near 
the truth. 

After a long conversation, w 
which F. Chevreuse perceived that 
his visitor was lingering and hesi- 
tating in an unusual manner, Mrs. 
Ferrier at last called his attention 
to the concluding sentences of the 
letter. 

He read it a second time, glanc- 
ed up through his spectacles at his 



Grapei and Thorns. 



683 



ead it again, and gave the 
:k, quite uncomprehending, 
doubtless, the only person 
ton who could have been 
ous of her meaning, 
may think me foolish, fa- 
ny time of life, to be think- 
narrying again," she said 
ingly. " But you have no 
r lonely I am. Honora 
have a house of her own, 
can see that ; Annette 
me back, and Louis won't 
, after what has happened. 
lOthing to do but wander 
)m to room of my great 
id think how awfully lone- 
im, and almost wish that I 
le cabin that I could fill. 
,'el as if I were in a house, 
f I were out somewhere, 
ime I've gone and sat in 
ber-closet, just to feel my 
it something." 
lused, and F. Chevreuse 
.*s!" as sympathizingly as 
, wondering greatly what 
me. 

is a decent man, and my 
everything but money," 
on. 
it's John .^' F. Chevreuse 

I, light breaking in. 
'errier dropped her eyes 
jd. 

I't see any harm in it, if 

got your mind made up," 

t said, recovering from his 

nishment. "I suppose it 

of no use for me to try to 

the arrangement, even if 

to." 

John is pretty set," the 
itted modestly, 
re say," was the smiling 
. "When is it to be?" 
month, if you please. He 
I in business now, and is 

II, and there's no reason 
houldn't be a great mer- 



chant as well as any other man. 
He's capable of it, if anybody is," 
she said, becoming a little defiant. 

"Certainly!" replied F. Chev- 
reuse with perfect gravity. " There 
is not a law in the commonwealth 
which will prevent his being as 
great a merchant as he pleases. 
The world of trade is open to John, 
and I wish him all success in it. 
Do you put your property into his 
hands .?" 

Instantly the beautiful modesty 
of the bride-elect gave place to the 
business-like acuteness of the wo- 
man who knew perfectly well the 
value of money. 

"No, father, we keep our ac- 
counts separate," she said. " He 
had half enough to start* in busi- 
ness with, and I lent him the other 
half. The income of the whole is 
to go toward our housekeeping, 
but he will have nothing to do with 
the rest of my property." 

F. Chevreuse nodded. " I see 
that you haven't lost your head. 
You have managed your own affairs 
so well thus far, you may as well 
continue to do the same, for your 
children's sake." 

A month later there was a quiet 
marriage at the priest's house ; and 
the only notice the Crichtonians 
had of it was when John appeared 
again in Mrs. Ferrier's carnage, 
this time by her side, instead of in 
the dicky. 

Everybody smiled except Honora 
Pembroke. She alone, perfectly 
polite, and refraining from all in- 
terference, felt haughtily indignant 
at the marriage. It was in vain 
that F. Chevreuse tried to reason 
away her prejudices. 

" I do not object because he was 
poor," she said. " Riches are less 
a distinction than a difference. 
But he has been a seivant, and 
that is irreparable." 



684 



Grapes and Thorns. 



The priest began to hum a tune 



^* Ah ! 9a irm, 9a ira, 9a ira ! 

Les aristocrata k la laDterne.** 



Somewhat to his surprise, she 
bhished slightly, but did not smile. 

" You may think me foolish, or 
even guilty of sinful pride," she 
said with a certain stiffness ; " but 
this is a feeling of which I cannot 
rid myself. I do not like to sit at 
table with a person who has once 
brought me my soup, nor on the 
same seat in the carriage with one 
who used to let down the step for 
me. Of course I recognize and 
submit to the situation ; but I shall 
go to my own house again im- 
mediately." 

"Well!" said the priest, "it 
takes a good while to get acquaint- 
ed with people. Here have I 
known you these ten years and 
more, have seen you simple, un- 
pretending, humble, apparently, 
good to the poor, and going freely 
among them. I thought I knew 
you thoroughly; yet all at once I 
come upon the rock in that smooth 
stream. Have I ever caught a 
little gray shadow of it before, I 
wonder 1 Well, well ! I won't un- 
dertake to blast it out of the way 
at once. I am sorry, though, that 
you do not like John." 

" I like him in liveries," said 
Miss Pembroke with dignity. 

"I tell you," persisted the priest, 
" they are going to be a very happy 
couple." 

" I haven't a doubt of it," she re- 
plied. " But that is no excuse." 

He laughed, and let her go. 
The haughty recoil of pride in the 
fibre was not to be reasoned away. 

It was a clear afternoon in mid- 
autumn ; and when Miss Pembroke 
stepped from the priest's door, she 
paused a minute on the sidewalk, 
and hesitated which way to gp. ^Vv^ 



did not wish to return ho 
she did not think of an 
place where she would rath 

And then, without look 
was aware of a tall gentlem 
came down the street, a 
without looking, knew that 
crossed to her side of th< 
and was approaching her 
then, with a perverseness 
was scarcely natural to 1 
turned quite coolly in the < 
direction, and walked fro 
perhaps lest he might thi 
she wished for his company 
but she and Mr. Schoning 
on the most friendly, and e^ 
dial, terms — it was, indee 
for granted in Crichton tl 
were the best of friends — 
short, she walked away frc 
Perhaps she found his f 
prosperous life a little dis 
with her saddened one. Sh< 
fancied sometimes that he 
air of triumphant pride, ai 
he was being spoiled by the 
tion paid him on all sides. 

She had been wishing lat 
she could go to Annette ; ai 
that Gerald was dead, if 1 
biguous letter they had r 
really meant that, perhaps . 
would like to have her. Mi 
broke felt strangely lonely 
native town, where she knev 
body, and where she had n 
tainly, to complain of any 1 
attention. But she would b 
for ever rather than Mr. Sch 
should think that she wai 
F. Chevreuse's step for hii 
must have been at the end 
street when she came out, 
surely he would never dare I 
that she saw him, and ha 
giving him time to overtake 

Mr. Schoninger w^as mc 
walking leisurely behind her 
^mn^ steps, intending to O' 



Grapes and Thorm. 



6S$. 



sently, but wishing first to 
er a little, and to think of 
ings. One was that he did 
rove of her wearing black 
ger. She was beautiful in 
\j but too sad in this ; and, 

it interfered with certain 
f his. He made a slight 
ig, as nearly correct as the 
le mind could make it on 
iubject. She might put on 
black and white, immediate- 
at would enable her to wear 
purple in the winter. He 

see her in purple. Some 
en she should be older, she 
ve a trailing robe of pur- 
gt with diamonds. Well, in 
ng, then, she could change 
per color for one of those 
lavenders or lilacs that wo- 
ow how to look pretty in; 
n the way would be quite 
r white, and rose, and blue, 
the fresh, gay colors a bride 
ish to wear. 

should be married by the 
May, at latest," thought the 
an very decidedly. 
Pembroke was quite right 
ing that there was-something 
ant in Mr. Sch6ninger*s 
t she did not believe, and 
lot true, her pettish charge 
was being spoiled by adula- 
lU was going well with him. 
f friends surrounded him — 
as sincere as any one can 
he did not believe they 
and any great test, but, also, 
not believe that they were 
:es. In his profession he 
ning gold and reputation ; 
at no one but himself knew 
le fortune for which he had 
struggled so long was ap- 
ig him of itself. Two of 
lo had stood between it and 
1 died, and there remained 
: a feeble old man. With 



his death all other claims would die. 
And not least in his cause of con- 
gratulation was his conviction that 
this fair woman, who walked before 
him with the black drapery fluttering 
back from her light foot, the braid of 
hair just showing its glossy bronze 
beneath the mourning veil, and, as 
she turned the corner of a street, 
the curve of her smooth cheek glow- 
ing like a peach, was his own. 

What made her cheek so red 
now? 

" Honora !*' he said, quickening 
his pace. 

She stopped with a start. 

"Mr. Schoninger!" 

"I beg your pardon!" he exclaim- 
ed, recollecting that he had never 
called her by her Christian name 
before. " I was thinking, and I for- 
got." 

She walked soberly by his side 
without asking what the subject of 
his thoughts had been. His excla- 
mation may have revealed to her 
something of their nature ; but she 
was far from suspecting that she 
was engaged, still less that her mar- 
riage-day was fixed. She had, in- 
deed, no reason to suppose that Mr. 
Schoninger had any intention of re- 
newing the suit that she had once 
rejected. 

" You are willing to take a walk ?" 
he asked, and, when she nodded as- 
sent, added : 

" Let us go up the Cocheco. 
Last night's frost has added the 
finishing touch to the trees, and 
everybody is admiring them." 

A beautiful road, almost as wild 
as a country lane, led between the 
river-bank and the flowery cliffs 
beside it, and here at evening all 
the youths and maidens, and many 
of their elders in whom age had 
not chilled the love of nature, used 
to walk soberly in the soundless 
path, or climb the cliffs^ ot ^\. 



686 



Grapes and Th&ms. 



on the mossy rocks, or venture 
out on the rocks that studded the 
stream. Not a pleasant evening 
but found people strolling through 
this romantic avenue. 

" Nowhere but in New England 
does nature dazzle, I think,** Mr. 
SchQninger said. " See this maple- 
leaf! It is a fine scarlet, and as 
glossy as a gem, even when exam- 
ined closely. And the elm-leaf is 
as fine a gold. Everywhere else 
the autumn foliage is dingy when 
looked at so closely. The sky, too. 
Look at those long lines of fire 
that are beginning to stretch" over- 
head, and at the gathering crim- 
sons ! In half an hour the heavens 
will be as brilliant as the earth. 
In Italy the colors are soft, like the 
colors in an old painting; they 
have great depth and richness, but 
they lack the fresh brilliancy of the 
skies in the New World. You 
must go to Italy soon, Honora.'* 

This time the name was used 
without an apology. 

" I have been thinking of it," she 
replied quietly, and began to feel 
as a stranded seaweed may when, 
after having lain awhile painfully 
on the dry sand, it finds the bright 
sea slipping under it, and lifting it 
from its hard resting-place. With- 
out a word of explanation she 
found herself claimed and cared 
for. 

" I wish to go there again as a 
Catholic,** he continued, "and see 
with the eyes of faith what I saw 
before with the eyes of an artist. 
I shall always admire most the 
Catholicism of America, or what 
the Catholicism of America is go- 
ing to be. It is more intelligent, 
noble, and reverent. It isn't a sort 
of devotion that expresses itself in 
tawdry paper flowers. Indeed, I 
believe that America is destined to 
show the world a CatVvo\\dsm mo- 



rally more grand than any it has 
yet seen — a worship of the heart 
and the intellect, where children 
shall be delighted, and yet com- 
mon sense find nothing to regret. 
Still, Rome is the sacred city of the 
martyrs, the popes, and the tem- 
ples. I think we should go there 
in two years at latest." 

He had spoken earnestly, and 
had absolutely forgotten how much 
remained unsaid, so sure was he of 
her. 

Honora*s glance of astonishment 
and incredulity reminded him. He 
bent a little nearer, smiling, and 
said softly : " But we shall be mar- 
ried long before that time, dear, 
shall we not ?*' 

" It is the first I have heard ^ 
it,** Miss Pembroke managed to 
say with a certain degree of com- 
posure, after a moment. 

"You surely are not vexed!" he 
said quickly, beginning to fear that 
he had assumed too much. **! 
asked you once in the proper, 
lover-like fashion, and you refused 
me, not because you were indiffer- 
ent to me — you never said that— but 
because you would not marry and 
would not love one who denied 
your Saviour. That obstacle no 
longer exists. You did not ima- 
gine that I had become indifferent 
to you } That is out of the ques- 
tion. Have I made a mistake?" 

" No ; it is I who have made a 
mistake,'* she answered frankly. 
'' I was afraid that you had given 
me up.*' She hesitated a little, then, 
since he still listened, added: ^l 
am very glad that you have not." 

"Thank you!*' he said. 

They walked slowly up the road 
between the foaming river and the 
glowing cliffs, praising the skie? 
and the trees as they went, finding 
everything beautiful, finding each 
the other more beautiful than all 



Grapes and Thorns. 



687 



And when the evening began 
e a Jittle, Ihey turned their 
and went down again with 
er, filled with that deep and 
happiness which leaves no- 
to wish for and nothing to 

very next morning a little 
as sped from Miss Pembroke 
er Cecilia with the following 
ious announcement : 
r Novena has succeeded per- 
I will come very soon and 
1 all about it." 
e the matter is settled, we 

well own at once that when 
choninger first announced 
r a Catholic, Honora had 
> her friend and confidant at 
nvent, " If I do not marry 
shall never marry any one **; 
at the result of this confes- 
as a Notfena^ in which the 
woman had asked that she 
find favor in his sight. 
old him about the Novena^' 
Pembroke said when she 
her explanatory visit to the 
t. "And I told him that 
d all the Sisters joined with 
ad he bade me thank you 
part, and say that he hoped 
►uld never be sorry for hav- 
ic so." 

Honora did not tell how 
bed and touched her lover 
en at this confession of what 
I to her the most simple 
1 the world. 

ever thought of asking God 
," he said; "and yet there 
ling in the world so well 
praying for. I am a very 
It Catholic, Honora, in all 

doctrine. You will have 
o teach me. But, then," he 

smiling, "we have all our 
r that." 

e only blot on my happi- 
Honora said to her friends. 



(( :. 



is the thought of Annette. A 
letter came from her last night 
which seems to shut us all out from 
giving her either society or comfort. 
She evidently does not wish to sec 
any one she has ever known. She 
says that her time and thoughts 
are entirely occupied." 

Annette Gerald was fully occu- 
pied. She was like one who stands 
at the head of a long flight of wind- 
ing stairs, watching another de- 
scend, and, beginning to lose sight 
of the object of her attention, 
begins to follow slowly, intent, at 
the same time, not to be too near 
or too far away. 

It was necessary that she should 
keep Lawrence Gerald in sight 
without attracting attention either 
to him or to herself. As a rich 
lady, driving in her own carriage, 
she could not do this. She there- 
fore gave up her carriage, and 
moved to an humbler apartment, 
where she lived with one servant. 
Still, the dainty elegance of the 
widow's attire she had assumed, 
fastidious in her choice, not con- 
sciously, but from habit, pointed 
her out as of a different class from 
the people she went most among. 
To remedy this, it was necessary 
only to be passive; and in a few 
months Roman dust and mud and 
brambles had reduced her to a 
dinginess almost Roman, and she 
could go unremarked, could see 
Lawrence about his work, digging 
in the excavations, carrying stone 
and mortar for the masons, doing 
any rough labor that offered. She 
could see him in the church, where 
he spent an hour every morning; 
she knew that every Sunday he 
entered the same confessional, and, 
as she could well guess, told the 
same tale to the priest, who, when 
his penitent left him, leaned for- 
ward and looked after hica mtK ^ 



\ 



688 



Grapes and Thorns. 



sad and earnest gaze. More than 
once, late in the evening, she had 
looked up from the street where 
her close carriage stood waiting, 
and seen, out on the corner of the 
open roof, to which no one but he 
had access, his form drawn clearly 
against the transparent purple of 
the sky, and, after waiting as long 
as prudence would allow, had gone 
away to her lonely apartment, leav- 
ing him there in company of the 
marble angels that clustered about 
the church front, and the blessed 
bells, and whatever invisible spirits 
God should will and his own soul 
invoke. Never did she see a light 
in that lofty window ; and, after a 
while, it occurred to her to ask the 
reason of the padrona^ who often 
came to the church in the hope of 
receiving money from the lady. 

" He never will have a candle," 
the v/oman said. " I think he is 
very poor. And he never drinks 
wine or eats meat. And, stgnora^ 
he is growing very pale." 

That night Annette Gerald ex- 
tinguished the candles in her own 
apartment, and never lighted them 
again. She could weep and pray 
without light. The next d?iy she 
dismissed her one servant, and 
thenceforward waited on herself. 
No ease or elegance must her life 
know while his was passed in such 
poverty. He ate the dry, sour 
bread of the poor ; she ate it too. 
He discarded every luxury of the 
table ; she also became an ascetic. 
If she put wine or fruit to her lips, 
tears choked her, and she set 
them aside. As he went down, so 
she followed him, unseen, weeping 
pitifully, watching constantly, lov- 
ing utterly. 

Without suspecting it, both be- 
came after a while objects of inter- 
est to those about them. No din- 
giness or apparent povetXy could 



hide their refinement ; and the 
traordinary piety of both invest e</ 
them with a certain sac redness \n 
the eyes of these people, who had 
walked and talked with saints. 
The rude workmen ceased, not only 
to jest with, but to jest in the pre 
sence of this man who never smiled, 
or spoke without necessity, whose 
pale face was for ever downcast, and 
who, in the midst of Italian indeli- 
cacy, carried himself with the refine- 
ment of an angel. In the long 
noon rest of the hot summer days 
they withdrew from the place where . 
he threw himself down, faint with 
fatigue and the heat, and left him i 
to that solitude he unmistakably i 
desired. Only little children ven- 
tured near the "penitent," as he j 
began to be called, and smiled wist- 
fully in his face, and kissed the 
hand that now and then gave them 
a soldo. 

Once, as he lay asleep on the grass, 
in the shadow of a ruined arch, an 
artist, who was just returning home 
from a morning's sketching in the 
Campagna, paused to look at him. 
The other workmen lounged about 
at a distance, some asleep, some 
eating their noon luncheon of dr)' 
bread, others smoking and talking. 
This one seemed laid there apart 
for a picture. Thrown carelessly 
on his back, with his hand under 
the cheek turned a little aside, and 
the hat dropped off, his form and 
face were fully seen. It was not 
the form and face of a plebeian. 
The elegant shape was not disguis- 
ed by its faded garments ; the beau- 
ty of the face, delicately flushed 
with heat, and beaded with perspi- 
ration, was even enhanced by the 
unshorn and untended beard and 
the confused mass of clustering 
hair ; and the expression of calm 
melancholy, which was not obliter- 
ated evei^by the unconsciousness of 



Grapes and Thorns. 



689 



sleep, did not belong to a common 
nature. 

The artist drew softly nearer, 
and opened his portfolio, too much 
engaged to give more than a pass- 
ing glance to a woman who stood 
by the arch. With a rapid pencil 
he sketched his subject, trying to 
catch that hovering sadness and 
the weary bend of the head. 

Drawing back presently to see 
if he could add anything to his 
sketch, he perceived that the wo- 
man who had been standing by the 
arch was at his side, watching his 
progress. 

** Don't let the shadow run off 
so," she said, looking at the sketch, 
not at him. " Show how the sun- 
shine comes, close to his feet, so 
that he has only a step to take to 
reach it. And do you see how 
those yellow flowers lean against 
his hair in the form of a crown ? 
Put them in too ; and the group of 
workmen yonder, and a comer of 
the excavation, with that beautiful 
pedestal half uncovered. As you 
have it, it is only a pretty poem 
without meaning; give the whole, 
and it will be a tragical story." 

The artist looked intently at the 
lady while she spoke. Surely she 
must be the sister of the sleeper! 
Their two faces would do to stamp 
on a coin, the man's profile showing 
beyond the woman's. 

** Finish the sketch quickly be- 
fore he wakes," she said. ** I will 
pay you whatever you want for it. 
Some day I will have you paint it. 
Don't forget the red poppies at his 
feet. And can you see, can you 
show, that there is a blister on his 
hand ?" 

Wondering much at this strange 
soit of poor people whom he found 
himself among, the artist obeyed. 

" But I want to keep the sketch," 
he taid. " I will make a copy for 

VOL. XIX. — 44 



you, if you will come to my studio 
for it." 

"Certainly not!" she exclaimed, 
and for the first time looked at 
him with a clear and haughty gaze. 
" You have no right to keep it, 
for you took it without permission. 
It would be dishonorable and in- 
trusive of you to show that to any 
person. We are not contadinir 

The artist rose and bowed. 

" Madam, allow me to present 
my sketch to you," he said with 
equal pride. 

"Some day you will know, and 
then you will no longer be offend- 
ed," she said calmly, and took the 
sketch from his hand just as the 
sleeper stirred and began to awake. 
" And now, I beg you never to no- 
tice him again, or mention him to 
any one till I come to you for the 
picture." 

And so three years passed away, 
and there came an Easter morning 
such as Easters used to be in the 
days when the pope was King of 
Rome, and there was one city in 
the world where the business was 
religion. 

Who can forget the scene, having 
once beheld it — the sky built up of 
sapphires, glitter on glitter of such 
blue as the queen of heaven might 
make her mantle of ; the full, warm 
gold of the sunshine looking the sad 
ruins in the face till they smile, and 
revealing its hidden rainbows now 
and then, as the foamy columns of 
fountains sway in the light breeze, 
and catch it unawares; the birds, 
with long, pointed wings, that cut 
the air, and seem inebriated with the 
delight of flying. Then the crowd 
in the piazza of S. Peter's, the mil- 
lennial mingling of rich and poor, 
royal and plebeian, making in all 
a scene to be witnessed nowhere 
else. 

"How familiar, yet how new!" 



69c 



Grapes and Thorns. 



said a lady who stepped from her 
carriage at the barrier. " It is all 
I could wish ! I am glad, Max, that 
we did not come sooner to Rome. 
I would rather my first sight of it 
should be a festal one." 

This lady was richly dressed, 
and the black lace of her large 
Spanish veil was drawn back from 
a face like a fresh lily. 

She was instantly addressed as 
prirtcipessa by all the beggars 
about. 

" I am sorry I cannot give you 
the title, Honora," her husband 
said, and smilingly dropped a coin 
into each outstretched hand. " So 
nothing disappoints you } I thought 
it would be so. Now, we must not 
linger outside." 

" Let us go slowly up ; and 
please do not speak to me," Mrs. 
Schoninger said. " No, I do not 
want your arm now. I must enter 
S. Peter's the first time praying." 

They went slowly up the as- 
cent, Honora with her hands clasp- 
ed, and her eyes dilating as they 
entered the grand vestibule. Then 
Mr. Schoninger lifted the heavy 
curtain, and she crossed the thres- 
hold. 

At that first step into S. Peter's 
a Catholic feels as though he had 
touched the beating heart of mo- 
ther church. 

The crowd pressed in ; but still an- 
other crowd remained outside, keep- 
ing their places for the papal bene- 
diction, and listening for the silvery 
burst of trumpets inside which 
should tell that the risen God stood 
on th^ central altar of Christen- 
dom. 

Among this crowd was a group, 
for which they made way, as it cross- 
ed the piazza and approached the 
steps. Yet it was only two poor 
laborers who supported a sick man 
httyvttn them. 



The thin and transparent face of 
this invalid, bathed now in the per- 
spiration of weakness, showed that 
he was worn by consumption or by 
a long and exhausting fever. He 
was so weak, indeed, that his two 
assistants supported him in their 
arms ; and when they reached the 
stone posts at the foot of the steps, 
he knelt there, and leaned agaiast 
one of them, almost insensible. 

A lady, following closely behind, 
wet her handkerchief in cologne- 
water, and handed it over his shoul- 
der to one of the men, but did not 
herself speak to them. He revived 
a little at that, and, still leaning 
against the central post, remained 
fixed in prayer. 

A whisper began to creep among 
the poor people about. Some of 
them had seen this man, and knew 
what they conceived to be his storr, 
and they told it in intervals of lis- 
tening to the strains of heavenly 
music faintly heard now and then 
from the church. ' 

" He is a penitent," one whisper- 
ed, "and has been doing penance 
here as a laborer, though he is so 
rich — so rich ! Some say that he 
killed his own mother; but who 
knows .^ The beautiful signortl 
Look at his face ! She must have 
provoked him; and perhaps she 
was a very wicked woman. Ah ! I 
could tell stories of mothers. They 
are not all like the blessed Madon- 
na. — There are the trumpets ! Alle- 
luia ! alleluia ! Blessed is he who 
cometh in the name of the Lord !— 
And so this poor signer e has been 
living a hard life, and is about to 
die ; and he has come at last to get 
the Holy Father's blessing. He 
would not ask for it before. But, 
indeed, he might, for he is as holy 
as the blessed Laibr^, though he 
sleeps in a bed and works for i^is 
\\\\Tv%^ instead of begging it. The 



Grapes and T/torns. 



691 



pale signdra who stands behind him 
is his sister. She has been in Rome 
all these years, watching over him, 
without his knowing it. See! she 
stands out of his sight now. He 
worked up to a week ago, and then 
he fell one day in a faint. She was 
near by, and called a carriage to 
take him home. And since then 
she has had a room in the same 
house, but told the padrona not to 
let him know. She is rich, for all 
her poor clothes. She puts some- 
thing into every hand that is held 
out to her. See the way she looks 
at him ! — Ah ! there they come." 

Mass was over, and the crowd in 
the church came pouring out. It 
was with difficulty that Lawrence 
Gerald's protectors could keep his 
place in that pressure. But that he 
had revived, they could not have 
done so. With the first intimation 
that the moment for which he had 
so long waited was at hand, he had 
roused himself, and exerted his 
whole strength. Upright on his 
knees, with his arms clinging to the 
post against which he leaned, he 
fixed his eager eyes upon the bal- 
cony where the Pope would in a 
short time appear. He saw nothing 
else, not even two familiar forms 
and faces directly in front of him, 
which he could scarcely have seen 
even then with indifference. 

"My God!" exclaimed Honora 
Schdninger, and clung to her hus- 
band's arm. " Look, Max ! It is 
Lawrence, and he is dying ! " 

Mr. Schoninger drew his wife 
aside. " It is no time to recognize 
him now," he said. " And there is 
Annette behind him. Poor fellow ! 
poor fellow !" 

Annette pressed close to her hus- 
band, ready to catch him if he 
should fall. She knew that he had 
had an exhausting day. He had 
risen at early dawn to hear Mass 



and receive communion, though not 
really able to leave his bed, and 
had afterwards spent his remaining 
strength in the first careful toilet he 
had made for years. After having 
so long heaped every indignity on 
his own body, to-day he had seem- 
ed desirous of treating it with re- 
spect as the temple of God. He 
still wore the dress of the laborer, 
but his face was shorn of its ill- 
tended beard, his hair brushed once 
more into silken waves, and his 
linen snowy white. And more ex- 
hausting than these efforts had 
been the excitement of mind under 
which he labored, and his fear lest 
in some way he should miss the 
benediction he so longed fpr. 

" I want to be placed <nrectly in 
front of the balcony," he had said, 
" where I can see the Pope's face. 
I shall recognize his face at once. 
Who knows but he may look at me } 
If he should, then I shall think 
that at last God looks at me." 

The crowd hushed itself, as the 
golden cross came in sight, and 
after it the crowned and mitred 
heads, all in white save one. And 
that one, under its glittering tiara, 
wore a crown of snowy hair dearer 
to Catholic hearts than gold or 
jewels. On this central face the 
eyes of the sick man fixed them- 
selves with a wide and imploring 
gaze, and his hands stretched them- 
selves out, as if to beg that he 
might not be forgotten. 

"Do not fear!" Annette whis- 
pered in his ear. " The Holy Fa- 
ther knows all your story, and 
pities you ; and there is one stand- 
ing beside him who will remind 
him that you are here. He will 
know just where you arc." 

To the waiting and trembling 
penitent this was like a whisper 
from his good angel. He associated 
no other thought with the voice. 



692 



Grapes and Thorns. 



The silence deepened fill nothing 
could be heard but the swift wings 
of a bird flying over the piazza, 
and the soft "zitti! zitti!" of the 
fountains, and the heart that each 
one in that vast crowd felt beat in 
his bosom. 

Surely that mild and blessed 
face was turned his way ! the peni- 
tent thought Surely, surely, the 
Holy Father had looked at .him, 
searching the crowd one instant 
with his eyes, and finding him ! 

Then a single voice was heard — 
the only voice in the universe, it 
seemed. 

"May the holy Apostles Peter 
and Paul, in whose power and au« 
thority we confide, intercede for us 
with the Lord." 

"Amen!" chanted the choir, as 
though the world had found voice. 

Again the single voice : 

" Through the prayers and merits 
of blessed Mary ever Virgin, of 
blessed Michael the archangel, of 
blessed John the Baptist, of the 
holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and 
all the saints, may the omnipotent 
God have mercy upon you, may 
all your sins be remitted, and 
Jesus Christ lead you to eternal 
life." 

"Amen!" 

" Indulgence, absolution, and re- 
mission of all your sins, space for 



true and faithful repentance, hearths 
ever contrite, and amendment or 
life, may the omnipotent and mere i- 
ful God afford you." 

"Amen!" 

"And may the blessing of the 
omnipotent God, Father, Son, and 
Holy Ghost, descend upon you, 
and remain with you for ever." 

"Amen!" 

Every stain was washed away! 
Full and strong the blessing flowed, 
a divine river from the throne of 
God himself ! On its tide were borne 
away, not only guilt, but the mem- 
ory of guilt ; not only fear, but the 
remembrance that fear had been. 
Supported in the arms of his wife 
and attendants, and of the old 
friends of whose presence he was 
unconscious, Lawrence Gerald lay 
back with his eyes half closed, and 
a smile of such peace and ecstasy 
on his face as could only come 
from God. His soul was gliding 
sweetly away on the echoes of that 
last amen. 

The military bands began to 
play, the guns boomed from Sant' 
Angelo, the bells of S. Peter's 
rang out with a joyful clash on the 
air, and all Rome broke into music 
over the resurrection. 

And there was joy before the 
angels of God over one sinful soul 
redeemed. 



THS END. 



Madame du Deffand. 



C93 



MADAME DU DEFFAND. 



^ Men have died, and worms have 
eaten them, but not of love," the 
poet tells us. And women too have 
died, and wonns have eaten them, 
but not of ennui^ although Mme. du 
DefTand for nearly fourscore years 
woke the echoes of Versailles and 
Paris with the pitiful lament: "I 
am bored ! I am bored ! I am dying 
of ennui r If she eventually did 
die of it — which we stoutly deny — 
a malady that took eighty years to 
kill its victim can hardly be called 
a very cruel one. The vivacious, 
gossipping, wearied old lady con- 
trived to extract a very reasonable 
amount of amusement, even of ex- 
citement, out of the existence whose 
wearisomeness she was for ever de- 
nouncing; and it is only fair to 
add that she contributed a very 
goodly share of amusement to other 
people. This renowned heroine 
and victim of ennui\ Marie de Vichy- 
Chamroud, was bom into this wea- 
risome world in the year of grace 
1697, of a noble family of the pro- 
vince of Burgundy. The De Vichy- 
Chamrouds were richer in parch- 
ments than in lands ; so it fell out 
that Marie, young, lovely, accom- 
plished, and teeming with wit, was 
condemned to marry an old man, 
and, what was still more terrible, a 
wearisome old man, who had not a 
single taste in common with her. 
Immediately on leaving the con- 
vent where she received what in 
those days was considered a liberal 
education, the beautiful young lady 
was presented to her future lord. 
If she bored herself as a young girl, 
free and happy, and with life before 



her, what must she have done as 
the wife of a querulous, stingy old 
man ? All the revenge that was in 
her power Marie took. She bored 
her husband as much as he bored 
her, until at last, in sheer despera- 
tion, he agreed to give her an an- 
nuity, and let her go her way with- 
out him. As Marquise du DefTand, 
free and comparatively wealthy, the 
young wife began a new era. She 
opened a sa/an which soon became 
the centre of the wit and fashion 
of Paris. All that was eminent in 
war, arts, sciences, literature, and 
folly came there, and tried to cnase 
away her eternal ennui. Amongst 
her many admirers, the President 
H^nault occupies the most con- 
spicuous place, both from the dig- 
nity of his own character and the 
enduring nature of their mutual at- 
tachment. H^nault was one of the 
most remarkable men of his time. 
He was educated by the Oratorians, 
and had early the inestimable ad- 
vantage of enjoying the advice, and 
almost the intimacy, of Massillon. 
He counted the scarcely lesser pri- 
vilege of early personal acquaint- 
ance with the great poet Racine. 
As soon as he had completed his 
studies, young Renault was intro- 
duced at court, where he at once 
made a favorable impression. ** This 
is not to be wondered at," says a 
chronicler of the times; **for, in 
truth, he was a youth of gracioas 
parts, gay, witty, amiable, a good 
musician, and gifted with the art of 
making Ught and graceful verses." 
While the Duchesse de Maine held 
her brilliant court, H6nault was a 



694 



Madame du Deffand. 



constant presence there, and one 
of its principal ornaments. He 
was so universally beloved that it 
was popularly said of him : " There 
is a man who has more friends than 
he can count, and not a single ene- 
my." And this lucky man was Ihe 
devoted admirer of Mrae. du Def- 
fand for over fifty years. 

He attained considerable fame as 
an author, and not the least re- 
markable feature in his works is 
that their authorship was vehement- 
ly contested, not only during H6- 
nault's life, but for many years after 
his death. Most of his books were 
first published anonymously — a 
circumstance which, in their early 
career, may have explained the 
doubts concerning their origin. 
But the Air/g^ Ckrotiolagique, 
which H(5nault regarded as his best, 
appeared with the author's name at 
the outset, and this, strange to say, 
was the one which the world refus- 
ed longest to believe was his, and 
persevered in long attributing to 
the Abb6 Boiidot, A copy of the 
book was found, in the abbi's own 
writing, amongst his papers when 
he died, and this is the only piece 
of evidence on which H6nault's 
detractors built their obstinate de- 
nial that he was the author of the 
Air/g/. Admitting that this fact 
looked suspicious, the book itself 
from first to last bears the stamp 
of H6nault's composition in the 
most unmistakable manner; the 
choice of the subject, its style and 
treatment, all point emphatically Ko 
him as the author, while there is 
abundant explanation of the ac- 
cidental presence of the com- 
promising copy amongst Boudot's 
papers. Renault was in the habit 
of employing him to copy out his 
compositions, Voltaire, in one of 
his letters to the president, reconn- 
mends tlie abbi as a very cUvct 



copyist, and also as a useful person 
to make researches for him at the 
Royal Library ; and Grimm also re- 
commends him for the samepurpoM, 
informing H^nault that Boudol 
had employment at the library, and 
was in charge of the literary and 
historical department. A manwho 
held this subaltern post, and was 
treated as a mere scribe by such 
authorities, and who never pleaded 
guilty to writing even a pampblei 
in his life, is, to say the least, a very 
unlikely person to be the author of 
such a work as Renault's j^^nj/. 
Mme. du DefTand and Grimm, who 
both liked to sharpen their wits prel- 
ty freely at the president's expense, 
never for an instant doubted the 
reality of his authorship, or suspect- 
ed that any one had had a share 
in his books. 

Unlike so many of his distin- 
guished literary contemporaries, 
H^nault was a practical Christian, 
" His piety," says the Marquis Je 
Agesson, " was as free from fana- 
ticism or bitterness as his boots 
were from pedantry." 

Mme. du Deffand, who spared 
her friend on no other points, spar- 
ed him on this. She never laughed 
at his religion. On that score 
alone he was safe from her iron)' 
and sarcasm. She even openlv 
commended him for challenging 
Voltaire's impious vituperation of 
the faith ; and in her own corre- 
spondence with the infidel philoso- 
pher she speaks almost with en- 
thusiasm of the clear intellect, the 
pointed wit, and irresistible good- 
ness of his antagonist. When he 
was past eighty, H^nault wrote 
privately to Voltaire, imploring him. 
in the most touching terms, to re- 
tract some of his diabolical satire* 
on religion ; and this letter, which, 
unhappily, we know remained <• 
out effect, was found among; 



>ngs4||^ 



Madame du Deffand. 



69s 



papers after his death. He, 
side, strove to win over H^- 
10 the "enlightened school," 
irith artful flattery and 
t sophistry urged him to 
' certain historical passages 
Abrig^ Chrenolegique which 
y vindicated the influence of 
Knity. But the Christian wri- 
llBtood these blandishments, 
iterary point Voltaire con- 
d in no small degree to the 
ion of Renault, whose style 
teed with creditable candor. 
Crange to see the lively and 
>Id matquhe holding steadi- 
friendship of these widely 
lar men. Diderot, D'Alem- 
nd Montesquieu were also 
rof her brilliant salon. But 
f them could do more than 
er momentary deliverance 
ier life-long enemy — mnui. 
nt on boring herself, in spite 
perpetual cross-fire of tspnt 
e brightest wits of the age 
[ around her, and she bored 
aids almost to exasperation 
unceasing repetition of the 
int: Qu€ jenCennuU! Que 
muie I 

lie age of fifty-four a terri- 
fortune befell the marquise. 
[w blind. It was soon after 
ftt she became acquainted 
llle. de I'Espinasse. The 
Sness and the energy of this 
firl were an immense conso- 
b> Mme. du Deffand, and 
\' her for a time in that 
|1 night," as she pathetically 
lid it, in which she now 
1 But they did not agree for 
■After living happily lo- 
,for some few years, they 
led and separated. It is 
bte to say whose fault it 
Each had violent partisans, 

Kj other, but proved 
. du Deffand was 



undoubtedly difficult to live with, 
as all people are who draw exc>i- 
sively on those around them fo, 
amusement; but she was old and 
she was blind, and it is beyond 
doubt she was a kind benefactress 
to her young companion, and that, 
at the moment of separation, she 
wrote a most touching letter to her, 
asking forgiveness for all she had 
done inadvertently to pain her, and 
urging the young girl to remember 
how cruelly she was afflicted both 
by blindness and by ennui. Tu 
this Mile, de I'Espinasse returned a 
curt and ungracious answer. Nor 
did she imitate the kindliness of 
speech of her quondam employer, 
who always spoke of her ever after 
their quarrel with the utmost good- 
nature and forbearance. 

Just as her home was resounding 
to these domestic discords, Mme. 
du Deffand made the acquaintance 
of Horace Walpole. They were 
spontaneously pleased with each 
other, Mme. du Deffand would 
have probably been still more so, 
if she coidd have foreseen how tri- 
umphartly this new friendship was 
destined to rescue her memory from 
oblivion. We know more of her 
and her salon through the volumin- 
ous correspondence that passed be- 
tween her and that prince of gos- 
sips and roost brilliant of scrib- 
blers than through any other 
source; although she comes in, it 
is true, for more ridicule at his 
hands than eulogy. He constantly 
reproaches her for making him the 
Jaughing-stock of Paris and Lon- 
don by her absurd affection, .and 
coarsely tells her he does not want 
to be the hero of a novel where the 
heroine is a blind octogenarian. 

This correspondence was pub- 
lished at the beginning of the cen- 
tury, and was hailed as a valuable 
addition to the French literature 



Madame du Deffand. 



of that period. On reading it, one 
feels transported into the society 
of the fascinating women and ac- 
complished men whom it soclever- 
ly depicts. Mrae. du Deffand pass- 
es in review the authors and actors 
of her lime with a graphic power 
of delineation rarely equalled, 
Unsparing in her criticism, she is 
in some instances no doubt too 
severe, and occasionally even u.n- 
just ; it is nevertheless acknowledg- 
ed that in her literary judgments 
she is rarely at fault ; they are 
marked throughout by discrimiita- 
tion, taste, and delicacy. 

Horace Walpole made Mme. du 
Deffand's acquaintance when she 
had become quite blind ; on his 
being presented to her, she drew 
her hand over his face, in order to 
ascertain whether he was plain or 
handsome, and what his age was. 
Her touch had acquired such sensi- 
tive delicacy in course of time that 
it enabled her to calculate people's 
ages and looks with the greatest 
accuracy. In quite the latter years 
of her life Mme. du Deffand, who 
had never been avowedly an unbe- 
liever, although practically so, turn ed 
her thoughts to religion, and sought 
in the teaching of the faith those 
consolations to her ennui that wit 
and philosophy had failed to secure 
her. She announces this change 
of sentiment, with her usual frank- 
ness, in one of her letters to Wal- 
pole. Her biographers throw but 
little light on the subject. La 
Harpe alludes to her having had 
many interviews with the celebrat- 
ed Jesuit, F. Lenfant — an episode 
which is dismissed by Mme. du 
Deffand herself with the remark 
that "the P&re Lenfant was very 
clever, and that she was much 
pleased with him." 

The P&re Lenfant who is thus in- 
cidenlally introduced to us in Ac 



memoirs of the lively French wtf- 
man was one of the countless 
noble and touching victims of the 
Revolution — that raging tortcnt thit 
drowned so many gentle voices in 
its roar. He was gifted with an 
eloquence that drew around him 
all the lovers of rhetoric and iht 
most able men of his day. The 
poet Young heard him, ■ 
so struck by his power and path« 
that he entreated a ProtesUM 
clergyman of his acquaintance Id 
go and hear him; the latter did 
so, and embraced the faith. Once, 
on coming out from a senuoDof 
the P6re Lenfant's, preached al 
S. Sulpice during Lent, Diderot ex- 
claimed to D'Alembert. who hnl 
been drinking in every word from 
beginning to end, with his eyei 
riveted on the preacher: *' It would 
be hard to hear thai man ofiefl 
without becoming a Christiao." 

When the order of the Jestiits 
was disbanded in France, the Kie 
Lenfant was thrown upOD the 
world. He was then forty-setea 
years of age. The decree whtck 
despoiled him of his religious gvb 
could not rob him of its ^A 
He continued his good works and 
his apostolate with fer\'or and wB- 
dom. Several crowned heads tried 
to win him to their courts, but in 
vain. The son of S. Ignatius heW 
steadily aloof from the temptinj 
snare. He preached indefatigabijr 
at all limes and places, al Luni- 
villc, Vienne. Versailles, wherevei 
he was called ; and evevywhcK 
the great and the learned flocked 
round his pulpit. His contempo- 
raries describe the elTects of his 
eloquence as electrical. He capti- 
vated liis hearers, not so much 
by the magnificence of his lan- 
guage, as by the pathos of his 

d the force of hJs ( 
faith. P&re Lenfant preacbf 




Madame du Deffaiid. 



t 1791 before the court; but 
Ming to take the oath of the 
lo the civil constitution, he 
Uged to withdraw. Shortly 
irds he was taken prisoner 
bodemned to death. On 
brought before his judges, 
bple cried out that his life 
be spared, and, yielding to 
ts, his jailers let him go; 
'however, he had got free 
lie crowd, a woman called 
ffhere goes the king's con- 
|F At these words the thirst 
Bod, that had seemed for 
iKnt satiated or suspended, 
> anew. The mob set upon 
I tigers. The P6re Lenfant 
lonly words of love and for- 
B, and, racing his hands to 
R exclaimed : " My God, I 
Bee for allowing me to offer 
fftir thee, as thou hast offer- 
|(e for me!" And with this 
|k sentence on his lips the 
blher fell and expired un- 
tblows of the murderers. 

ib little sketch of the Mar- 
In Deffand would be incom- 
■ithout a passing mention 
|»Uthor of the Esprit lies 
Id was one of the most dis- 
led of her numerous friends. 
tetters to Montesquieu have 
lieserved ; they are, however, 
s interesting than those 
e, and consequently much 
I'n. Mme. du Deffand 
a staunch friend, though 
ofien a trying one; she 
rselfsuch to Montesquieu. 
other good offices, she 
,im from the charge of 
bich was laid at his door 
lly. History revoked the 
is true, but only when the 
■ it was gone beyond the 
foi earthly rehabilitation. 
Iquieu's exceeding modesty 
iretohave his benefits known 



only to the recipients was the real, 
and perhaps the only, cause of his 
reputed avarice. One example of his 
delicate generosity we cannot re- 
frain from giving. 

He was in the habit of visiting 
Marseilles to see his sister, Mme. 
d'H^ricourt, who resided there. 
During one of these visits he hap- 
pened one evening to be lounging 
on the quay; the weather was sul- 
try, and it occurred to Montesquieu 
that he would take a boat, and 
have a row on the sea. His atten- 
tion was drawn to a young man who 
was looking out for a customer, 
He hailed him, and got in. As 
soon as they were out a little at 
sea, Montesquieu perceived that his 
boatman was a novice at the work, 
and rowed with difficulty, He 
questioned him, and learned that 
he was, in truth, a jeweller by trade, 
and a boatman only on Sundays 
and holidays, in order to gain a 
trifle towards helping his mother 
and sisters, who were working to 
procure 4,000 crowns to ransom his 
father, who was apri.soner at Tetuan. 
Montesquieu was deeply touched 
by the story. He made a resolution 
on the spot, but said nothing. Be- 
fore landing, however, he got from 
the boatman his father's name and 
the name of his master. On part- 
ing, he handed him his purse, and 
walked away rapidly ; great was 
the delight of the young man, on 
opening it, to find that it contained 
sixteen golden loiiis.' 

Six weeks after this the captive 
suddenly appeared in the midst of 
his wife and children. He saw, by 
the astonishment mingled with their 
joy, that it was not to them he 
owed his liberation; but the sur- 
prise and gratitude of all were in- 
creased on his telling them that 
not only was his ransom paid, but 
likewise his voyag,e hotwi m\4 \^\^ 



698 



Caifty what liast tJiou done with thy Brother f 



clothing ; and, over and above this, 
a sum of fifty louts (Tor had been 
handed to him on starting. The 
young boatman no sooner heard 
this fairy tale than he bethought 
him of the generous stranger who 
had presented him the purse and 
expressed such sympathy on hear- 
ing of his sorrow. He detei'mined 
to seek him. For two years he did 
so, but in vain. The name of the 
benefactor to whom he and his 
owed such a sweet and magnificent 
debt of gratitude remained an im- 
penetrable mystery. At last one 
day, while walking in the streets 
of Paris, he suddenly encounter- 
ed Montesquieu face to face ; the 
young man fell upon his knees, kiss- 
ed the hand of his benefactor, and 
entreated him to come with him to 
the home he had blessed, and wit- 
ness the joy that he had brought 
back to a desolate family. But 
Montesquieu feigned ignorance 
and surprise, declared he knew 
nothing of what the young man 



was talking about, and at last, 
wrenching his hand away abruptly, 
he disappeared in the crowd, nor 
did his pursuer succeed in finding 
him again. 

This action would never have 
been discovered had not Montes- 
quieu's executor found among his 
papers a memorandum in his own 
handwriting, stating that he had 
sent 7,500 francs to Mr. Main, an 
English banker at Cadiz ; on the 
latter being applied to for infonna- 
tion, he replied that he had given 
that sum, by the order of M. dc 
Montesquieu, for the ransom of a 
man named Robert, a Marseillais, 
detained as a slave at Tetuan. 
Inquiries were set on foot, and the 
Robert family told the rest. 

This touching incident was made 
the foundation of many dramatic 
pieces. If it did no more than 
clear a noble character from the 
unworthy charge of heartlessness 
and avarice, the world would have 
been the better for its discovery. 



CAIN, WHAT HAST THOU DONE WITH THY BROTHER? 



BY ERNEST HELLO. 



rXOM THK RBVUB DU MOKDB CATHOUQUB. 



By way of preface, I will relate a 
true story given by F. Agathon, a 
priest of the Monastery of Ruba, 
and preserved in the Lives of the 
Fathers of the Desert, 

F. Agathon says : " One day I 
descended into the valley of Ruba 
to find the holy solitary, F. P^meu, 
as I wished to consult him on a 
subject that weighed heavily upon 
my mind. We conversed until late 
in the evening, and then he sent 
ine into a cavern to pass th^ test 



of the night. Now, as it was win- 
ter, and the cold extreme, I was 
nearly frozen. The next morning, 
when the old man came in to sec 
me, he asked: 'How have you 
passed the night, my son ?* 

" * Father,' I answered, * I must 
say, in truth, I passed a terrible 
night, on account of the extraor- 
dinary severity of the cold.* 

" * And I did not feel it at all,' 
he replied. 

" These words filled me with as- 



Cain, wkat hasi thou done with thy Brother ? 



|tnt, as he was nearly naked, 
^d : ' I beg of you, father, 
je how that could have hap- 
h 

r the reason," he answered, 
I lion came and lay down 
kne, and kept me warm, 
■rtheless, uiy dear son, I 
ire you that I shall be de- 
by wild beasts.' 
y do you say so?' I asked. 
cause,' he replied, 'when I 
tepherd in our country {we 
Ui from Galalia), I would 
Fed the life of a traveller, 
t accompanied- him ; but I 
iifaow him that charity, and 
I- devoured by (he dogs. 
(e I shall most certainly 

fi a similar death,' 
it really happened as he 
Tor three years afterwards 
I torn to pieces by wild 



I Marie, cease to thiuk of 
iis ended ; 1 am lost. I do 
lyou what will become of 
tow nothing myself. 1 only 
IV yesterday I received the 
Rr, from which I cannot re- 

[' just finished the last ptc- 
irhich I have so often spoke 
t'The First Glance. It is 
■ait of a young man, who 
Eand looks around him, as 
■e saw everything for the 

|Bf my friends thought the 
Iplendid, but added that it 
Kt sell well, as my name 
|lOwn to the public. 
kinnumcrable attempts, all 
[unfortunate, I showed it 
ly 10 a very rich amateur — 
k Brienne. He examined 
|ttre, thought it remarkable, 



and then asked if I had often ex- 
hibited my pictures. 

On my replying in the negative, 
his expression changed, 

"I thought," said he, "I did not 
know your name. You must make 
yourself known. This picture has 
great merit, and this sketch also," 
he added, throwing a rapid glance 
at my other picture just commenc- 
ed — you know it, Marie — Cain after 
his Crime — "but, in fact, you are 
not known," he concluded. 

"But, sir," I replied, " I am en- 
deavoring to make myself known." 

"Well," continued the baron, 
"you have talent, that 1 acknow- 
ledge; but I doubt if it is the kind 
of talent that will be appreciated 
by the public. If I bought your 
picture, I would be asked where I 
found it. As it stands there, it has 
a certain value ; but if you were 
dead, it would be worth a hundred 
times as much, and perhaps would 
soon find purchasers, possibly my- 
self among the first. You see I 
can't change the world. So it is 
with men; they will pay the most 
ridiculous price for objects of art 
whose worth is guaranteed by a 
signature, but will not bother them- 
selves to talk up unknown talent. 
I," he added with a happy smile, 
'■ recently gave a hundred thousand 
francs for a picture which I do not 
place above yours; but it was a 
Murillo ! I am a modest man, and 
always side with the majority. The 
majority is always right, and, for 
my part, 1 am not vain enough to 
think I know more than the entire 
human race. Make yourself known ; 
everything is in that. Make your- 
self known; put your pictures in the 
exhibition ; receive medals and de- 
corations. But, above all, die; your 
pictures then will be worth so niucli 
gold. You see you arc talking to a 
practical man, who don't believe in 



700 



Cain, wliat hast thou done with thy Brotknf 



neglected genius. Au revoir, mon- 
sieur. You really have talent ; more 
even than that, I do not hesitate to 
say you have genius. Au revoir, 
monsieur." 

This, Marie, was my last adven- 
ture. All the others were similar. I 
will spare you any further details. 
I have told you in a few words what 
in reality was a long agony. But 
despair is brief; it has not the cou- 
rage to dwell on separate facts ; it 
sums up the causes, and only shows 
the effects. 

Now, my dear Marie, you know 
what happened yesterday. The 
day before there came another 
gentleman, who had not the time to 
examine my picture as it deserved. 
This he explained to me for two 
hours without looking at the pic- 
ture. He really had no time ; for ex- 
ample, every morning he visits his 
stables from ten to twelve, and in 
the afternoon rows on the lake from 
four to six. 

As for Baron de Bri«nne, wheu 
he left, he assured me he held my 
talent in the highest estimation ; 
that he would like to have a gallery 
of pictures all painted by me, as it 
would probably one day be very 
valuable ; later, my pictures would 
sell splendidly, and he could make 
money by the operation. 

If there is ever to be a later day 
for me, I shall find him, when I will 
no longer need him, and he will be 
the first to show me honor. 

Adieu, Marie. I was so sanguine, 
so buoyed up with hope, it needed 
all this time — all this precious time, 
of which these gentlemen had so 
little to waste — to bring me where I 
am now. 

I think the baron saw despair in 
my face, for he used a singular ex- 
pression on leaving which I had 
not provoked by any remark. 
^^My dear sir, do tioI \ooVl so 



dismal and wretched. I am not 
the Don Quixote of budding ge- 
nius. Make yourself known, make 
yourself known, and you will find 
me ! ' But if your courage fails, you 
will commit blunders and spoil your 
talent, for which- I will not be re- 
sponsible; like Pilate, I wash mj 
hands of you !" 

I listened to them going down 
the stairs. 

" No, no," said he to his wife; 
"you see for my portrait I must 
have a master, a signature." 

" Perhaps," replied the baroness- 
" perhaps we have done wrong to 
discourage the young man." 

" Discourage ? What are you 
talking about ? I told him he had 
great talent. Do you wish to know 
what I think V* he added, as he stood 
for an instant before her. " What 
ruins art in the present day is that 
it is gorged with gold, and that too 
few men of genius die in the hospi- 
tal — that is the reason !" 

Adieu, Marie. 

Something else was said, which 
Paul did not hear. 

The baroness paused, as she was 
about to enter the carriage. 

" Well, what is the matter with 
you }" said her husband. 

" I am not very well," she re- 
plied. 

" So much more reason for get- 
ting in the carriage. What ails 
you r 

" The face of that young man 
haunts me. Who knows what de- 
spair may drive him to.> Who 
knows how terrible may be his hid- 
den suffering ? Let us go back. I 
feel as though we had just commit- 
ted a crime. Let us go back. Thirty 
years ago I read a story which 1 
had long forgotten, but that now 
returns vaguely to my memory as 
a warning. I no longer remember 



CaiUf what hast thou done with thy brother t 



701 



the whole, but the impression comes 
back vague and terrible after thirty 
years. Ah ! let us go back." 

The baron stopped, and laughed 
immensely. 

" Ha ! ha ! Are you crazy ? 
Haven't I the right to choose the 
pictures I wish to buy ? Is there a 
law which compels me to buy pic- 
tures from this gentleman ? I speak 
to you very seriously, my dear; 
such fancies as these will make 
yea crazy. There is a great deal 
of insanity in our present day. Let 
us take care, let us take care !" 



II. 



Marie, after reading her brother's 
letter, was half frantic with terror, 
as she knew him thoroughly, and 
understood his bitter despair. She 
lost no time, but left in the first 
train. Arrived in Paris, she ran to 
the little house in the Quartier La- 
tin where Paul lived. She was too ex- 
cited to take a carriage. The rapid 
walk seemed to soothe her. In the 
cars she longed for quicker move- 
ment ; in the street she wished for 
wings; at the door she would ra- 
ther have been at the other end of 
the world. She dared not go up. 
She stopped, suffocated with the 
beating of her heart. If it was al- 
ready too late — the thought nearly 
paralyzed her with horror. If she 
were a minute too late ! 

Finally, when on the stairs, she 
wept Then she dared ring. 

*• I have wept," she thought ; " he 
is saved." Taught by a long and sin- 
galar experience, the young girl 
knew that tears were for her the mys- 
terioas and certain sign that her 
prayer was granted. She rang. A ttr- 
vant-girl, without speaking, led her 
to a bed, and uttered a single word — 
'* Dead "-and then added : ** The 
funeral will take place in two hours. 



He threw himself into the Seine 
from the bridge of Austerlitz." 

'* He is not dead," said Marie. 

"The registration of the death 
has been made," said the woman. 

Without replying, Marie looked 
fixedly at him, and said to herself : 

" He is not dead. I have wept ; 
he is not dead. Paul!" she called. 
Silence. " Paul !" Silence. 

She seized a mirror, and held it 
to her brother's lips. At the mo- 
ment she took it in her hand she 
burst into tears. " You will sec 
that he is saved I" she said. 

The woman thought her crazy. 
Marie still held the mirror before 
Paul's lips. Dead silence ; her own 
poor heart nearly stopped — the 
mirror was tarnished ! 



III. 



Seven years afterwards M. le 
Baron de Brienne was conversing 
in a numerous and choice circle. 
It was at a grand dinner. The wo- 
men were crowned with flowers 
and sparkling with jewels. The 
conversation turned upon a great 
crime which had recently been 
committed, the details of which 
filled two columns of every paper. 
Suddenly the Baron de Brienne 
became singularly agitated, and 
then, in a voice which he endeavor- 
ed to keep calm, but whose trem- 
bling was still further shown by 
the effort to subdue it, said : 

*' It appears that the police have 
not yet discovered any trace of the 
assassin. 



»> 



^ I don't know," replied a guest. 

*' I believe not," said another. 

** Excuse me,", replied a third 
person ; *' according to the latest ac- 
counts, the police, if not positively 
sure, had at least great hopes." 

The Baron de Brienne was as 
white as his napkin. He tried to 



702 



CaiHy what hast thou done with thy Brother t 



overcome and conceal his excite- 
ment, and attempted to eat ; but 
the effort was too great. He 
swooned, and fell heavily to the 
ground. 

Every one rose and crowded 
around him. Water was thrown in 
his face, salts were held for him to 
inhale. The hostess neglected none 
of the ceremonies usual in such 
cases. Fortunately, there was a 
physician among the guests. Every 
attention was lavished upon M. le 
Baron. His carriage was called, and 
he was taken home. 

The next day he was better ; at 
the end of three days he was well. 
He made them bring any quantity 
of papers, and read them to him. 
Mme. la Baronne, who was the 
reader, suddenly paused, and said . 

" Here is more of the horrid 
crime of which we were all talkixg 
when you were taken ill." 

" Well ?" said the baron in a 
singular tone. 

** Well," continued the baroness, 
** the murderer has been arrested. 
But what a strange interest you take 
in the affair!" 

** I ?" replied the baron. " Oh ! not 
at all ; I can very truly say that. Why 
do you think otherwise.^" 

" Because you are so strangely 
excited whenever the subject is 
mentioned." 

"What do you mean, talking 
about my excitement ?" he replied. 
" Can you possibly imagine, like 
those stupid people at dinner the 
other evening, that this affair inter- 
ests me in the slightest degree ? 
They were all there looking at me, 
looking at me . . . with eyes . . . 
with eyes . . . Are you, too, going 
to stare at me now with those 
eyes . . . with those eyes. ..." 

Mme. la Baronne rose, and wrote 
two lines : " Dear doctor^ come in- 
siantiyr 



" Carry that to the telegraph 
office," she said to the servant. 

" She did not count the words," 
muttered the man in astonishment, 
as he withdrew. "It must be some- 
thing very serious. 



IV. 



Three months had elapsed, and 
the baron had resumed his ordinary 
life, when one evening, in a Miin 
in the faubourg Saint- Honor^ a 
gentleman remarked, in the course 
of conversation, that it was astonish- 
ing the number of crimes one daily 
heard of. And he related the last 
murder that the daily paper had 
brought under his eyes. 

Said the baron : " Why do you 
make such an assertion? Never 
were crimes so rare as to-day; 
manners and customs are so much 
softened, we can almost say there 
are no longer any criminals. None 
can be found in the higher class of 
society ; and when we speak of the 
aristocracy, it means the entire 
nation. Indeed, to speak the tnith, 
I believe very little in the wonder- 
ful crimes with which the daily 
journals fill their columns when 
there is a dearth of political news." 

" You are very incredulous, M. Ic 
Baron," replied the Comte de Sar- 
tigny. " Probably it is from kindness 
to the editors that the police sed 
the criminals, and the courts judge 
them." ... / 

" You say," answered the baron, 
" that the police seek the criminals. 
It is false, M. le Comte. In the 
first place, only one is guilty, and 
the police are not hunting him up ; 
he is already found, and he has no 
iVKomplice. He has been found, 
I tell you, he has been found ; and 
the man has no accomplice. Per- 
haps I don't know it. Ha ! ha !" 

V(Vv\k the baron, pale as death, 



CaiUj what hast thou done with thy Brotlur t 



703 



spoke these words, with terror im- 
printed on his face, the count look- 
ed steadily at him, and said : 

" You say thisit I have spoken 
falsely, M. le baron ? Will you 
repeat that remark ? I think those 
were your words, but perhaps I 
was mistaken." 

*' I only say one thing," replied 
the baron, " which is, that the crimi- 
nal has been found and arrested." 

" But a moment ago you denied 
the reality of the crime." 

"I only say one thing, M. le 
Comte: that there is no doubt 
about the name of the assassin." 

The master of the house took 
the count by the arm, and led him 
to the recess of a window. . . . 

** Ah ! very well, very well ; I did 
not know it," said the count, as he 
left the room. 

While they were conversing to- 
gether, the baron made several 
vain efforts to rise. He experienced 
the supreme anguish of a man who, 
while still in the possession of his 
faculties, feels they are leaving him 
—of a man who has not fainted, but 
who is about to faint, and who feels 
on his brow the first drops of cold 
sweat. 

The baroness* made her excuses 
for leaving so early, and, when alone 
with her husband, asked anxious- 
ly: 

**What can be the matter with 
you ?" 

** And you too, you too," he re- 
plied, pushing her from him, as he 
raised his blood-shot eyes. 



V. 



«i 



**We must," said the doctor, 
enter into his mania, so as to en- 
deavor to discover the cause. We 
must make him talk without ques- 
tioning him. Do you know, ma- 
dame, in the life of M. le Baron, 



of any fact that may have left a 
disagreeable remembrance ?" 

" Doctor, do you mean a guilty 
remembrance }" 

** No, madame ; something terrify- 
ing. 

The baroness thought a long 
while. 

" No," said she, " not one. Our 
life has always passed most tran- 
quilly. You know how people of the 
world live ; well, so we live, and 
have always lived. My husband is 
a quiet man, who has never had a 
quarrel in his life with any one, and 
has never done an injury that I 
know of." 

" You have never seen in the ba- 
ron any anxiety of conscience V* 

** Any anxiety of conscience } 
He ? Why should he have any } 
He has never in his life done any- 
thing to reproach himself with." 

" The baron," replied the doctor, 
"has the reputation of being be- 
nevolent and kind-hearted. I don't 
think he is naturally very imagina- 
tive ; do you, madame ?" 

" Not at all, doctor. I think he is 
just the contrary. I can even say 
he has very little faith." 

" But when and where did you 
first perceive the commencement of 
this mania?" 

"It was one day when nothing 
strange had happened. Some one 
had been speaking of a young sculps 
tor, who now is very famous. A 
friend told us that he owed his suc- 
cess to a rich banker, who had dis- 
covered his talents by some happy 
accident, and had aided him with 
his fortune and influence. When 
our guests had left, and we were 
alone, I thought he would kill him- 
self; as now, without the slightest 
reason." 

" In his daily life does he show 
any eccentricity of which I am yet 
ignorant?" 



704 



Cain^ wliat Iiast thou done with thy Brotkert 



" Not precisely eccentricity," 
said Mme. de Brienne. " His tastes 
have changed very much, but that 
cannot be called eccentricity. He 
formerly spent quite a fortune in 
purchasing pictures, of which he 
has a very fine collection, that he 
admired extravagantly ; now he 
never looks at them. But he has 
always been rather fickle." 

" Does he talk in his sleep ?" 

" No ; but one morning (now 
that you make me think of it) 
he awoke terribly frightened at a 
dream. * Ah ! what a dream I have 
had,' he sjiid to me. His face looked 
worn and haggard, and, as I begged 
him to relate it, he turned away his 
eyes, and refused peremptorily. I 
insisted, but he kept silent, and I 
have never been able to make him 
relate it." 

The doctor reflected. 

" Perhaps that is the whole se- 
cret," said he. **But if we were 
to ask him about it now, probably 
to-morrow we would be obliged to 
confine him." 

" Confine him ?" cried the baro- 
ness. " Do you think him so seri- 
ously affected?" 

" Very seriously, madame, and 
more so as he is perfectly sane in 
relation to other affairs. His mania 
is confined to one point, and is 
what we call hallucination. My 
duty compels me to tell you, mad- 
ame, that it is a case where science 
up to the present time has been 
very unsuccessful." 

** But, doctor, never was there a 
man less crazy. As for the pic- 
tures, which was the only passion I 
ever knew him to have, he prided 
himself on never having done a 
foolish thing; he only bought pic- 
tures of known value, with the sig- 
natures of the artists fully guaran- 
teed. I, for instance, who am 
speaking to you, would have some- 



times acted more unwisely than 
he. I remember once he even re- 
fused . . ." 

" Nevertheless," interrupted the 
doctor, " the case is very serious." 

The baron was alone in his 
room. His wife listened attentively 
at the door, and watched him 
through the key-hole. He raised 
the curtains, shook the cushions on 
the sofa, searched around, and, 
when convinced that he was alone, 
spoke in a low voice ; but his wife 
caught his words. 

" No one suspects me. No one, 
not even she; and yet everything 
should warn them, everything. . . . 
The circumstances that accompa- 
nied the act are reproduced every 
instant. For example, the clouds 
in the sky have nearly always the 
same form as at that moment. . . . 
The clouds do it purposely; they 
have assumed since that day cer- 
tain positions always the same. 
What do they resemble ? What I 
do not wish to say, but I know 
well since my dream. Oh! that 
dream. ... I am cold, frozen. 
Why is it no one ever speaks to 
me of that dream ; that no one in 
this house remembers it } And 
yet they were all there ... in the 
dream. . . . My wife was there, 
and the other one also," he added, 
lowering his voice. 

And after a silence, occasionally 
broken by unintelligible words, and 
joined to a strange pantomime, he 
continued : 

" It was frightful. How that man 
struggled for his life !" 

And speaking always lower and 
lower, the baron gasped out : 

" He clung to me, and, when I 
pushed him into the water, an ex- 
pression passed over his face such 
as was never seen but then in this 
world. It was near the bridge of 
Austerlitz. How he glared at n.e 



Cain J what hast thou done with thy Brother t 



70s 



disappeared the last time ! 
is it that in the street the 
;-by do not say on seeing 
'here is the man, there he 

man who had the dream ' ? 
as it a dream or reality ? 
ften pass me quickly in the 

Who knows but that they 
>r see something?" 

baron walked around the 
greatly excited, arid then, 
l, he sighed, and said in a 
ul tone : 

>w do other men act — those 
•e not followed ? They can 
step without hearing behind 
Qother step that goes quicker 
rer, according as they walk, 
there are men who do not 
teps behind them as they 
Yet I always seek the 
t places; but no noise ever 
s the sound of that step, so 
It so invincible. The noise 
iages, the roar of cannon — 
tried everything. . . . Ifpos- 

would live amidst thunder ; 
e lightning might fall near 
1 cover me with ruins; still 

I hear that faint, almost im- 
tible noise, a foot that just 
s the ground. I am cold! 
:old it is ! Fire no longer 
me ! How lightly that foot 
5 the ground. It does not 
leavily like ours. No, de- 
' not; it was no dream — it 
ality. That foot never is 
but when I stop, it stops. It 
certain manner of stopping 
ikes me always feel that it is 
and that it will resume its 
hen I do mine. Sometimes 
i rather hear it, and I walk 
e it walk; when it is silent, 
lace is to me more terrible 
e sound of the step. ... If 
Id only change place ! . . . 
> ; always at an equal distance 
ic. Ah ! how cruel. If I 
\0L. x/x. — 4^ 



could but see some one, I think 
the most horrible spectacle would 
be less terrifying than this dreary 
void. To hear and not see !" 

Here the baron rapidly jumped 
backwards, and put out his hand as 
though to grasp something in the 
air, then exclaimed : 

"Gone! He has escaped — es- 
caped, as ever!" 



VI. 



The course of the baron's ordi- 
nary life flowed on as smoothly as 
ever. Nothing was changed, and 
those who were not much with 
him perceived no difference; to 
them he was the same as heretofore. 

The following summer he wished 
to go to the sea-shore. 

They left for Brittany. They 
spoke of the pleasant walks and 
drives, and the baron, in an absent 
manner, asked on which part of the 
coast was the most sand. He would 
not hear of the clifls; he wanted 
sand — only sand. Gavre was re- 
commended by a gentleman who 
was seated near them at the table 
(fhSie, 

The baron instantly decided up- 
on going to Gdvre. 

" At what hour shall we leave V 
asked the baroness. 

The we evidently displeased the 
baron. He wished to go alone. He 
gave a thousand pretexts to prevent 
his wife accompanying him. As 
she would not admit them, he said, 
contrary to his usual custom, " I 
will " . . . **I wish to go alone," 
said he. "Am I in prison? Do 
you take me for a criminal?" 

The baron left Port Louis in the 
steamboat. His wife followed him, 
without being seen, on another 
boat, and watched his movements 
through a spy-glass, as he paced up 
and down the shore at Givre. 



i 



7o6 



Cain^ what hast thou done with thf Jfr0i/in( f 



First, according to his usual cus- 
tom, he assured himself that he was 
alone. Then he would take seve- 
ral steps, and return quickly, seeing 
nothing ; he searched in the sand, 
and, finding his own footsteps, he 
sought a little further on the trace 
of the other one. All in vain. Dis- 
appointed, he went to another spot, 
and recommenced his weary walk, 
always seeing his own footprints, 
never the other. He had hoped 
in the sand; the sand had proved 
false, as everything else. 

vii. 

Meanwhile, the doctor was in 
Paris, and one evening in a salon in 
the faubourg Saint Germain. The 
conversation was on madness ; and 
the doctor, who was a celebrated 
alieniste^ was asked many questions 
as to the causes of insanity. 

" The causes of insanity," said 
he, " are so profound and myste- 
rious that to know them one must 
make the tour of the invisible 
world." 

'* I have known," said one gen- 
tleman, "insane persons who 
thought themselves guilty of crimes 
which they had never committed — 
innocent men, intelligent and good, 
incapable of harming a bird, and 
who thought themselves assassins." 

Among the guests that evening 
was a famous artist, M. Paul 'Bay- 
ard, whose most admired works, 
The First Glance, and Cain after 
liis Crime, ranked with the chefs^ 
(Tceuvre of the greatest masters of 
the day. 

Said M. Bayard : " I have not 
studied, Hke you, doctor, from life. 
I don't know any insane persons, 
and what I am going to tell you is 
not founded on fact. But this is 
what I think about this strange re- 
morse felt by innocent people : 



who knows if they may sot have 
committed spiritually the crime of 
which they think themselves guilty 
maierialfyt In this hypothesis 
they have completely forgotten the 
real and spiritual crime, which they 
committed really and spiritually; 
they did not even know or feel it 
at the instant they committed it. 
But this crime real, spiritual, and 
forgotten is transformed, by virtue 
of madness, into a material crime, 
of which they are innocent, but of 
which they believe themselves guil- 
ty. Perhaps a man has betrayed 
his friend ; instead of accusing him- 
self of this treason, he accuses him- 
self of another fault which resem- 
bles that one, as the body resem- 
bles the soul. I repeat, I cannot 
cite an example. It is purely hypo- 
thetical; but something which I 
cannot define makes me think it 
possible, nay, even probable. The 
guilty person deceived his con- 
science ; conscience in turn deceives 
him. To make a child understand, 
we give examples of sensible thinjjv 
Perhaps justice thus acts with thtse 
men, and, finding them insensible 
in the sphere of the mind, trans- 
ports their crime into the sphere 
of the body. 

** Perhaps it is a real crime, bit 
too subtle to be understood by 
them, that descends to their level, 
and pursues them under the appear- 
ance of an external and sensibk 
crime, the only one which they c^ 
understand. There ate whimsical 
scruples which resemble madness, 
as exaggeration resembles falsehood 
Who knows if these scruples an 
not the wanderings, or, if you pre 
fer it, the transpositions of remorse 
I say remorse, I do not say repent 
ance, for repentance enlightens, ant 
remorse blinds. Between repent 
ance and remorse there is an abys> 
the first gives peace, the second de 



Cmn^ wliat hast tlieu done with thy Brother t 



707 



stroys it. Perhaps conscience, not 
being able to make itself felt by the 
guilty person on its own ground, 
speaks to him, by way of revenge, in 
language as coarse as himself, on 
his own domain. Through a terri- 
ble justice, it makes him reproach 
himself with what appears unjust 
on the surface, but which is a thou- 
sand times just at the bottom. 
Conscience, which spoke in vain at 
the moment of the crime, now arms 
itself against the criminal as a 
phantom. We are men here to- 
night, as we appear to each other ; 
but who knows if we are not for 
some one somewhere, at this mo- 
ment, phantoms.^" 

The doctor rose, and, taking the 
artist's hand, said : ** I do not know 
how much truth there may be in 
your theory. I only know one 
thing : that you are a man of ge- 
nius, and, if I had doubted it before, 
I am now convinced of it. I will 
reflect on your words ; they open to 
me a new horizon." 

** I have always been pursued by 
the thought," said the artist, " that 
there is a moment whea a man un- 
derstands for the first^me what 
he has seen since his infancy. It 
is the day when the eyes of the 
mind open. It is this I have at- 
tempted to show in my picture — 
The First Glance. But as the 
horizon is constantly enlarging, I 
endeavor to throw upon every- 
thing, each time, a look which 
I may call The First Glance. 
In the other composition, Cain 
^ter his Crime, I wished to show 
in Cain, not the melodramatic as- 
sassin, but a vulgar, common man. 
The stigmata of anger, of which he 
received the visible mark, opens 
ro him the eyes of the soul. He 
throws upon his crime a first glance. 
There are spiritual Cains whose 
irms are innocent. Perhaps there 



may be some among the insane, of 
whom we have spoken ; and in thai 
case there is more truth in their 
madness than in their previous 
security. Their insanity only de- 
ceives them about the nature of th( 
crime; their security deceived their, 
about the crime itself." 

The doctor was thoughtful. He 
took the artist aside, and in a low 
tone said : " Shall we leave togeth- 
er ?" And they left. 

After their departure the conver- 
sation turned on what had just 
been said. 

" Were you always a material- 
ist .'" asked one person of his neigh- 
bor. 

** It is scarcely fair or generous 
to choose this moment for such a 
question," was the reply. 

" As for roe," said a young lady, 
^ I don't like to hear M. Bayard 
talk. He is a great artist — that I 
admit ; but when he commences in 
that style, he worries me !" 

" Would it be indiscreet, madanu*, 
to ask you why?" timidly inquired 
a young man with a badly-tied cr.i- 
vat. 

*^ Because I am afraid he is right 
in his opinions. I wish to ])ass 
gaily through life ; and if we believe 
what he says, life would be such n 
serious affair, we should have to 
think. Really, to hear him, we can 
imagine ourselves surrounded with 
mysteries." 

VIII. 

**I wish to see and study your 
picture of Cain. I was going to say 
your portrait of Cain," said the 
doctor to the painter; ** for it 
seems to me that you must have 
known him {personally, from the 
manner in which you have spoken 
to me of him." 

"Perhaps I have known him," 



7o8 



Cain, what Itast thou done with thf SM)lii¥t 



said Paul. "At any rate, come!" 
And they entered the studio. 

Arrived before the picture, the 
doctor started back in surprise. 

Thevportrait of Cain was that of 
the baron, horrible in the resem- 
blance. 

There was on that face the cold- 
ness of the criminal and the horror 
of the cursed. The coldness did not- 
impair the horror, nor the horror 
the coldness ; and from the mouth 
of Cain the spectator might expect 
to hear the words that S. Bridget 
heard from the mouth of Satan 
when he said to God : 

" O Judge ! I am coldness it- 
self." 

Indifference and despair were in 
those eyes, on those lips, and on 
that brow. But the despair was 
not heartrending, for repentance 
was wanting, and this despair even 
appeared expiatory, like justice eat- 
ing its bread. 

The doctor remained a long 
while motionless. The horizon open- 
ed before his eyes. His science 
sought new depths. He did not, 
precisely reflect, but he remem- 
bered, and, perhaps for the first 
time in his life, passed an hour in 
profound contemplation. 

** So you know him ?*' said he at 
last to Paul. 

" Whom do you mean ?** 

"Why, my patient!" 

" I don't know any of your 
patients." 

Professional discretion arrested 
the name before it passed the doc- 
tor's lips. 

"But, really," said he, "this 
head is a portrait. You could not 
have drawn it by chance." 

** Neither one nor the other," repli- 
ed Paul. " No one sat for me, and 1 
did not draw it by chance. It appears 
to me, when I work, certain faces are 
offered to me without forcing them- 



selves upon me. I perceive their, 
interiorly; for my eyes are closed^ 
and I see nothing. Perceive is not 
the proper word, for the sense of 
sight is not needed. If I perceive 
them, it is with an unknown siense 
which is not that of s^ht, and in a 
peculiar condition, in c6mparisOD 
with which wakefulness is pro- 
found sleep. I thmk these percep- 
tions correspond with some reality, 
either distant or fiitnre, wh^se photo- 
graphic likeness at that moment 
passes before the eyes of the 
mind. 

" This faculty, which may be call- 
ed natural inspiration, has never 
abandoned me. The aptitude to 
surmise what I do not know is the 
highest fbrm of the activity of my 
mind, and not only do I surmise 
what I do not know, but very often 
I do it, I realize it, without inten- 
tion and without knowledge. It is 
as though I were an actor in a 
drama of which I was ignorant. I 
recite a part in a play that I do not 
know, and whose title and plot are 
equally unknown. 

" Yet I feel myself free, and the 
profound sentiment of my liberty 
bursts forth, above all, in the re- 
membrance of my faults. I wished 
to die, but death did not want me. 
I have sometimes asked myself if, 
having wished to lose my life, I 
might not lose inspiration, which 
would be for me a subtle and 
cruel manner of death. It has 
seemed to me that the question has 
been agitated somewhere, and that 
inspiration, which has compassion 
on the weak, came back to me 
gratuitously. If I had been crimi- 
nal from malice, it would have 
abandoned me, perhaps, or have 
become in me the auxiliary of a 
future crime. It might have re- 
fused to help me, or have assisted 
me in doing wrong.** 



Cain^ what hast thou done with thy brother f 



709 



IX. 



Shortly after this interview the 
baron returned to Paris, apparently 
calmer than usual. 

" He is much better," said Mme. 
la Baronne. " The doctor alarmed 
nie terribly ; but I knew very well 
in reality there was no danger. My 
husband is a cold man, and I have 
nothing to fear for his reason." 

The following night the baron 
waited until the house was quiet, 
and then went on tiptoe, as though 
afraid of being surprised or disturb- 
ed. Once safely in his picture 
gallery, he cut each of the pictures 
with a penknife, and then one by 
one burst them open by placing 
his knee against the canvas; and, 
that accomplished, left the house 
toward morning. The porter saw 
him pass, but did not recognize 
him. 

** Who is that old man," said he 
to his wife, *' who passed the night 
in the house ?" 

The baron's hair, black the night 
before, was white as snow. 

They waited for him at breakfast, 
they waited for him at dinner; 
he did not return. In searching 
his papers his wife found a note 
containing these words : 

'* This time I will not escape ; the 
police are on my track." 

Said madame : *' I always feared 



some misfortune would happen to 



me. 



ff 



The next day the baron's body 
was found in the Seine under the 
bridge of Austerlitz. 

" I am much distressed, but not 
astonished," said the doctor to ma- 
dame. '* I always thought his mad- 
ness absolutely incurable." 

" Ah ! doctor, he destroyed all 
the pictures. I have not even his 
portrait." 

** You shall have it, madame/* 
said the doctor. 

Eight days afterwards the doc- 
tor kept his promise. He brought 
the baroness a photograph. 

Madame de Brienne was pro- 
foundly agitated, and nearly fainted. 

** Oh ! what a resemblance," she 
gasped, "what a resemblance ! Doc- 
tor, how was it done ? This is not 
natural. It is not his portrait, it is 
himself. He is going to speak. 1 
am afraid !" 

There was horror in the astonish- 
ment of the poor woman. She 
threw upon her husband and herself 
a first glance. 

" But tell me, doctor, where did 
you find it?" 

"Allow me to keep the secret, 
madame." 

In reality, the thing was very 
simple : they had only photograph- 
ed the picture of the great artist — 
Cain after his Crime. 



The Legend of Vallambrosa. 



THE LEGEND OF VALLAMBROSA. 

An ancient myth like ivied vesture clings 
About fair Vallambrosa's cloistered walls, 
Telling that 'neath the roof sweet charity 
Has spread her soft, wann draperies within 
What time eight circling centuries have traced, 
In memories gray and green, her blessedness. 

Of the fair, nestling valley here to sing, 

With sweet-strung choice of cadenced synonyraes, 

Could better music hold the ear, to note 

Its silver-dropping streams and shadowy dells 

Than that wherewith Italia christened it, 

Calling it Aqua-Bella^ or the Val^ 

Ambrosay liquid-toned and clear ? 

No ripple, 
Methinks, of happier tones or tenderer hues 
Could voice its lapsing falls and verdant vales 
Than lives within such naming ! 

Hither came 
Long years agone — long years before the years 
That gave the legend birth — a prayerful priest, 
Bearing the cross where untamed beast and bird, 
Alone frequenting, poured in wildest notes 
The praise for life which lowest life uplifts ! 
And here, as ever, man's triumphant voice 
Leaped up above the brute's, beseeching heaven 
To consecrate with holy dews, and bless. 
The heights which, cycles later, cradling held 
The hermitage of one so famed ; and grew. 
As seed luxuriant in rich soil will grow, 
Because all teeming life must needs expand. 
These walls of generous hospice that outstretch 
Their sheltering arms to weary travellers. 

If it be true, as we have often heard. 
That lukewarm sinners make but lukewarm saints, 
Perhaps the converse proof we hold in hand ; 
For, mark ! once lived in Florence, of the proud 
Gualberto house, one heir to all its pride, 
Giovanni named — he this same sinner-saint. 

Quickened by summers of some eighteen years, 
And flushed by sowlVveitv %\xtvs to fervid warmth 



The Legend of Vallambrosa. 71 1 

Of life impetuous, his youthful form 
Bore stamip already of the venturous will 
Of a gay, dashing cavalier outgiven . 

To heedless coursings in the round of sense. 
And yet there dwelt adeep within his breast 
A living well of tenderness that flowed 
In gentle care for Hubert, his beloved 
And only brother. 

Hubert (a twelvemonth 
Scarce younger) stood between his tempted soul 
And much that might have swayed it past recall 
Over the margin of sin's dread abyss. 
'Twas not that Hubert was a chastened saint, 
But love within the brother's ardent soul 
Invested him with raiment pure and white — 
Love holding from assoil the fabric fine 
Itself had wove, and still will choose to weave 
So long as life is life, or love is love. 
Thus, when unto Giovanni came a dawn 
That kindled to a conscious glow of health 
His own quick pulse, yet, warming, failed to melt 
The frozen current in pale Hubert's veins. 
Because those veins had felt the frigid touch 
Of steel in duelling combat, there arose 
Within his anguished heart a stem demand 
Against the murderer of life for life — 
An unrelenting, thirst of blood, to quell 
The ghostly phantoms of his fevered brain^ 
And satisfy with feast of sweet revengie 
His brother's manes. 

On one Good-Friday morn. 
Followed by armed retainers, and slow bent 
Unto San Miniato to attend 
High Mass, in faithfulness to Hubert's souj, 
He met unwittingly within a pass 
That leads to the Basilica this man. 
Of all men hated most. Close, face to face. 
Spell-bound they stood a moment's span ; then flashed^ 
From out Giovanni's sheath his gleaming sword. 
And by its glittering sign with one will rose 
From every trusty scabbard near at hand 
Sharp kindred swords that gleamed defiant fire 
Into the bright'ning day, and in his face 
Who stood unarmed, alone. 

The unsheathed sword 
Of pitiless Giovanni had well-nigh 
Its rueful deed of deadly wrath made sure 
When he, the helpless foe confronted thus 
By certain death, saw in death's pallid light 
The spectre of his sin as it must seem 



^13 The Legend of VallatHbrosa. 

To disembodied spirits, and he fell 

Prone, horror-stricken, at the avenger's feet. 

There, graving on the ground with level arms 

The crucial sign, he prayed for pardoning grace, 

And grace of lengthened days for penitence, 

And all in name of Him whose agony 

Upon the cross he thus in dust recalled ! * 



The sword is stayed, and in the tremulous pause 
Great waves of varying passions meet 
And battle in Giovanni's breast. Through all 
A voice, as of faint music o'er the din 
, Of tumult, whispers : " Who loveth brother more 
Than me^ or any loved one more than me^ 
Is all unworthy of me.** Quick, with ever 
Conquering motions of the Spirit's power, 
As winds of peace the passionate waters calm. 
His sword is dropped, and, offering helpful hands, 
He cries : " Thou who hast slain my brother be 
As Christ doth will — ^a brother unto me.' 



O'erwhelmed with gratitude, and filled with deep 
Contrition for his sin, the uplifted foe 
Lets fall his head upon Giovanni's neck, 
And there with loosened torrent of remorse 
He pours the unguent of his tears, as once 
Another penitent poured costly balm 
Upon the Holiest One, growing therefrom 
Through mercy's twofold grace to peace and joy. 



While yet the day was young, the legend tells 
How both these humbled, contrite cavaliers 
Offered their thanks for comfort at the shrine 
Whither their steps together now were led ; 
And how, while kneeling at the crucifix, 
Broke from the Saviour's parted lips a smile 
Upon Giovanni, while the sacred head 
In gracious token bowed. 

O crowning joy ! 
Too much to halo one poor human brow, 
And not the radiance divine extend 
To others all unconscious, even as once 
Himself had been of its illumining might ! 
Henceforth no other smile was aught to him 
If for a passing moment it could hide 
The memory of that glory from his eyes. 



The Legend of Vallambrosa. 713 

Henceforth the impulse of his life was one 

Deep, passionate desire to shadow forth. 

In the best shadowy way a mortal can, 

The glowing flame of beatific fire 

Thai hallowed smile had kindled in his soul. 

And thence so perfect was his Godward walk 

That scarce five summers of devoted life 

Were added to his eighteen worldly years 

Before San Miniato's brotherhood 

Decreed him to its abbacy. But, no ! 

Nor stole nor triple crown had charm for one 

Too wholly Christ's to care for stole or crown, 

Save for that lustrous crown of ransomed souls 

His earnest life might win to shine as stars. 

For this to Vallambrosa's lonely height 

In rapt and silent vigil he withdrew ; 

But even as sweetness bursts the seedling's cell, 

So holiness from him exhaled in light 

That drew, to seek his counsel, devotees 

Led faithfully by his unswerving faith 

To live with him a life of prayer and praise. 

Or, if they came not cowled as lowly monks, 

Still hither fared the noble of the land, 

Even kings whose purple. paled beside his gray. 

And royal ladies and most knightly knights. 

To pour their wealth of treasure at the feet 

Of one all saintly. 

Thus the order grew 
Of world-famed Vallambrosa, where to-day 
The weary find repose and welcoming cheer. 
And benison of heavenly graciousness. 
And thus of one soul's overflow of light 
The Saviour's smile is seen in saving love 
To stream adown the ever-widening years 
That close and closer bring us to the day 
Of promised joy, when all our utmost need 
Shall in that glorious smile be satisfied. 



714 



Odd Stories. 



ODD STORIES. 



VIII. 



SNIFKIN. 



There certainly was a time when 
dogs were more respected than 
now. Such a period in particular 
must have been the reign of Gigag, 
when the Odomites, who had once 
kicked, maimed, and starved their 
])Oor curs in a manner inhuman, 
now fed and fondled them with an 
affection that was almost canine. 
This revolution in sentiment was 
entirely due to what may be called 
a genius of instinct possessed by 
one extraordinary dog. His owner, 
who was none other than the gob- 
lin Gigag, had, in one of those 
journeys which he sometimes took 
through his underground thorough- 
fare, named his four-footed com- 
panion, with a fond conceit, Snifkin ; 
and when they emerged into the 
atmosphere of the king's grounds, 
the latter was allowed the chief 
place at supper among the royal 
dogs. Some of this many-colored 
pack were wont to bark, as others 
were to bite. Some were renown- 
ed for scent and vigilance, and 
others for speed and courage; 
still others for motley skins, lap- 
ping lips, great ears, and yelling, 
yelping, and howling. But the 
dog Snifkin united their best quali- 
ties with a sagacity that was almost 
diplomatic. He never barked till 
he was prepared to bite, and he 
sometimes bit without barking. He 
had a scent and sight which are 
only acquired by dogs who have 
seen a great deal of human nature. 
So various and cabalistic seemed 
the marks and colors upoiv Vvvm, 



that the vulgar ascribed them to the 
science of Gigag rather than to 
natural revelation. To crown all, 
the dog Snifkin showed his ivory 
teeth at times, sneezing, snorting, 
and laughing in a way next to hu- 
man for its friendliness. 

From a number of the faculties 
described arose two incidents which 
increased the fame and worth of all 
dogs, and which no man can suffi- 
ciently admire. A miser, in whom 
the sagacious Snifkin recognized a 
former oppressor of his kind, came 
to plead his cause at court, alleg- 
ing his ownership of four hundred 
and ninety-five thriving estates, and 
prosecuting his poor nephew for 
about as many cents At a con* 
trast so preposterous the knowing 
dog could not contain himself, and 
sniffed, snorted, and showed his 
teeth to such a degree that even 
his royal master, at whose side he 
sat during the hearing of the plea, 
was forced to join in the general 
guffaw which greeted the miser. 

Another incident related chiefly 
to one of four malcontent noblemen, 
who, with bows and smiles, came 
to the royal presence. With no 
more ado the dog Snifkin jumped 
at his throat, bringing him to the 
foot of the king, when a concealed 
bodkin fell out of his bosom, and a 
number of poisons, which Gigag 
recognized as badly prepared, were 
strewn upon the floor. Without a 
word the king understood why it 
was that his dumb counsellor had 
not taken soup that day. While 



■crc being placed on Ihe 
f llie malcontents, a. collar 
f the finest cloth of gold, 
I with precious stones, was 
a the neck of the loyal dog. 
reign order it was decreed 
Icing with him all the dogs 
tcnnels of the palace, the 
rier should go out and cry 
t people the patriotism of 
and the fidelity of dogs 

t would require a million 
[ to convince those whose 
i has placed them nearest 
ffutes, that dogs and other 
I human and inhuman, exist 
trying and proving of the 
■Inen, As Snifkin was one 
ted in the high easy-chair 

■ barber who clipped and 
for the king's dogs, a com- 
In the street provoked him 

loudly, hazarding thereby 
lof his nose at the hands of 
(er. Arrived in the street, 
Is his surprise to see fifty 
lyal hounds yelping in the 
Igtressful manner over the 
(is tail by the chief hound, 
provoked by impudent 
I a slashing cut from the 
fa cavalier, who, it came to 
I, was a conspirator against 
i King Gigag. Not being 
intend with swordsmen, 
{tiickly seined upon the 
ind finest specimen of the 
f Gurs who barked against 
fs hounds, and made short 
im. 

!t, loyal though it was, be- 
t signal for that factious 
feeling among the Odomites 
ventuated in the famous 
ih. Most of (he best dogs 
g to the houses which 
gainst the king having had 

■ cut off, it grew to be a 
vilh the malcontents of 



torus. 715 

the realm to reject everjthing with 
a tail to it, even were it a sliirt, or 
an entailed estate not already own- 
ed and occupied by one of their 
number, or a story which was not 
to be continued. In fact, it be- 
came a question whether they 
would give ear to any tale whatever, 
and hence it was truly said of the 
malcontent faction that their ears 
were longer than iheir tails. Of 
course the scientific king lost no 
time in improving the situation ; 
indeed, of putting an end to it. 
He trained a pack of dogs, under 
the teaching of Snifkin, to scent out 
treason, and, when that was done, 
he managed to give ihe hydropho- 
bia to a large number of rebellious 
curs, who afterwards bit their mas- 
ters. The dog Snifkin barked 
against this measure in vain. 

A war now broke out, assisted by 
the princeof a neighboring country, 
who ha.d conceived a great hatred 
of the goblin Gigag. It was the 
habit of Ihe royal dogs to discov- 
er supplies to their masters, and 
guard their camp at night, and, be- 
sides, to indicate in what direction 
were the princely headquarters and 
trains of the enemy, which they 
knew by the smell of many viands. 

The same, perhaps, would have 
been the practice of those dogs 
without tails who barked for the mal- 
contents and their ally, were it not 
that the poor fare they received 
compelled their flight to the better 
provisions of the enemy. NcTerthe- 
less, it -n-ould have gone hard with 
Ring Gigag if his rival's device of 
drawing off the dogs by a concen- 
tration of savory meats in an am- 
bushed ravine had succeeded; for 
ihc king, had it not been for the 
sagacity of Snifkin, would certainly 
have gone to the dogs. Despairing 
now of being able to foil Iheir an- 
tagonists, the allies heard with 



7i6 Odd i 

growing dismay the general bark 
and liowl in the king's camp at 
night ere his warriors slept upon 
their amis. Only a low growl here 
and there, or perhaps tlie voice of 
some lonely iioiind who liad stray- 
ed out of camp to bay the moon, 
broke the silence of the sleep of 
war. 

While thus the silent avalanche 
was prepared that was to overwhelm 
the allies in the carnage of civil 
strife, a most unforeseen accident 
occurred. King Gigag was on Tiis 
rounds through the camp when 
a dog taken with hydrophobia bit 
him in the leg. Reluming mad to 
his headquarters, he saw the dog 
Snifkin laughing and wagging his 
tail, and, frenzied by the sight, he 
drew his sword, and at once cut off 
the whole of that pleasant append- 
age. Immediately the dog Snifkin 
became the most beautiful young 
prince you ever saw. Seizing an 
enchanted blade that hung up in 
the tent of the goblin, he defended 
himself with fury, and by an artful 
stroke put the unlucky Gigag out 
of his pains. When it became 
known throughout both camps that 
King Gigag had cut off the tail of 
the dog Snifkin, a reconciliation 
grew apace between those dogs who 
had tails and those dogs who had 
_ none ; and, indeed, the royal 

^ hounds especially were anxious to 

H have their tails cut qff, so that tliey 

H might turn at once into princes ; 

H but, unfortunately, this result never 

H happened, two of these dogs at 

H least having been curtailed, to their 

H great shame and mortification, with- 

al out so much as becoming scullions, 

^^ or anything but unlucky dogs. It 

H was then seen by the Odomites that 

H. the dog Snifkin was none other 

^1 than their long-lost Prince Gudood, 

H who would have been devoured by 

H tJie giant Googioom, had not. the 



goblins got hold of him and changed 
him into a dog; in which chaiacta 
he served the excellent goblin Gi- 
gag, who, however, was not midi 
aware of his identity by the evil 
goblins from whom he had escaped. 
By means of a birthmark on hi) 
right arm the allied lords wctt 
speedily brought to undeistaud 
that this, indeed, was the long-loH 
prince who had been afhanced ic 
the daughter of the neighbonat 
king. And now with one heart and 
soul they hastened the marriage of 
the prince and princess, who eiei 
afterwards lived happily in the joj 
and glory and union of both king- 
doms. In the magnificent bridal 
procession nothing was more as- 
tonishing than the thousand Iriin- 
ed dogs of all kinds, large and 
small, who marched in order, clail 
sometimes in variegated suits, uul 
wearing rich collars. First cimc 
the royal hounds and mastifls; se- 
cond, a fine breed of raountainwr 
dogs as large as wolves ; third, l"0 
or three hundred pointers, spotted 
all colors; fourth, as many setters, 
their backs streaked with cokw 
like gold and snow ; fifth, a bat- 
talion of mixed red, while, and Woe 
dogs ; sixth, a body of sky-terriers, 
followed by the finest array of 
black-and-tan dogs that was eter 
known ; sixth, a large numbct of 
dogs who looked like nothing so 
much as walking hearth-np; 
seventh, a noble lot of shaggy wa- 
ter-dogs as large as men ; then > 
great many shepherd- dogs, spsnidl, 
poodles, pups ; after these & btl- 
talion of dogs shaved to look Ifte 
lions; and finally a rear-guard of 
bull-dogs with their tails cut «C 
walking as steadily as firemen on 
parade. A loud and hannoniou< 
barking at intervals interrupted the 
sound of the wedding bcUs^ ud 
five hundred terrier dogs 



New Publications. 



717 



stood up on their hind legs when 
the marriage ceremony was per- 
formed. 

Thus the reign of humanity and 
utility succeeded to the reign of 
science and pelf. Only dogs were 
allowed to do the fighting, and 
they were treated so well that they 
did nothing worse than bark. The 
following conversation was one 
time overhead among them in a 
street near the king's palace : 



Royal Mastiff, — Bowoghowow ! 
Bowgh ! 

Hound without tail. — Boowoogh* 
Booh 00 ! Wo woo ! 

Terrier dog, — Gr-r-r-r-row, r-r- 
ow! 

Bull'dog. — Hr-r-r-um-g-r-r-u-m. 
Bowowgh ! 

From these syllables it was con- 
jectured by the knowing that tht 
new King Gudood had no enemies 
and that peace abode in the land. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Db L'AuTORrrR ; ou, La Piiilosopiiie 
DU Pkrsonnausme. Lettrb au Rev. 
Pkrb J. F. Hecker, suivie d'un Ap- 

PCNDICE SUR LA SOUVERAINETE DU PEU- 

FtJt. Par D wight H. Oij^stead. Tra- 
duction approuv6c par Tauteur. Ge- 
n^e : Japonnier ct Steuder. 1874. 

This pamphlet, the English original of 
which we have not seen, has been sent to 
us from Geneva, by the author, we pre- 
i^ume. The Rev. F. I. T. (not J. F.) 
flecker has been abroad, travelling for 
the restoration of his impaired health, for 
more thata a year, and cannot, therefore, 
Bi%*€ his personal attention to Mr. Olm- 
stead's very .courteous Letter^ at least for 
the present, and in the columns of The 
Catholic World. Moreover, the au- 
thor is mistaken in attributing a certain 
article in The Catholic World, with 
which be chiefly employs bis pen in 
the Letter^ to F. Hecker. The aiiicle 
ia question is one of the numerous con- 
tributions with which Dr. Brownson 
eoricbed and adorned our pages dur- 
iag the interval of the suspension of 
his own Revino. In our opinion. Mr. 
Olmstead has not dealt a very heavy 
blovr upon the head-piece of his veteran 
antagonist. In fact, we do not see that 
be has attempted any serious answer to 
arguments which he would find it no 
easy task to refute. Mr. Olmstead deals 
more io objections and assertions than 
in arguments, and his assertions are so 
general and vague that one would need 



to write a treatise on general and special 
metaphysics to refute them. They mere 
ly amount to this: that Mr. Olmstead 
agrees with Kant and J. Stuart Mill. F. 
Hccker's works were written for per- 
sons who either believe in some sense 
in Christianity, or at least in God and in 
human reason and intelligence. It is not 
necessary to prove the premises admitted 
by the persons with whom you argue. 
If they arc Protestants, you assume the 
truth of Christianity. Your only eflfort is 
then to prove that Catholicity is the gen- 
uine Christianity. If they arc rationalis- 
tic theists, you prove that the truth of 
Christianity, and specifically the authority 
of the church as one of its essential doc- 
trines and laws, is demonstrable from 
principles of reason and natural theology. 
VVhen it is a question of arguing with an 
atheist or sceptic, these topics must be 
postponed, and the discussion turned 
upon the first principles of metaphysics. 
Even here something in common must 
be admitted as a starting-point for ar- 
gument. If a m.in denies everything 
or doubts everything, the only thing 
which can possibly be done is to watch 
him closely until he asserts something, 
and then you can do no more than 
show to a bystander his absurdity. If 
we understand Mr. Olmstead correctly, 
he admits the reality of all that is con- 
tained within self-consciousness, %nd 
considers all else, by the mere fact of its 
being exterior to consciousness, as an 
unknown quantity in respect to its reaHty. 



7i8 



New Publications. 



He merely holds this, however, as an 
opinion, and admits that the contrary 
is very probable. If he is in earnest — and 
it is fair to presume that he is — in search- 
ing for philosophical truth, the only way 
in which a Catholic philosopher could 
argue with him to any purpose would 
be by presenting a theory of the origin 
of ideas and knowledge, which would 
give him something objective as a primi- 
tive element in his very first act of intel- 
lectual self-consciousness. This is rather 
too serious a task to be performed in a 
hurry. Whatever we have to say on 
tliese great fundamental topics of philo- 
sophy has been already partly said in 
the elaborate articles which have ap- 
peared in our columns, and will be said 
hereafter in articles of a similar nature. 
We refer the author of the Litter and 
others in a similar position to The Ca- 
tholic WoRLi),/^fj////, to get what mo- 
dicum of light we are able to furnish 
them. If they wish fcr more light, they 
must go to the great works of great au- 
thors, and study them carefully. As for 
the great number of very excellent per- 
sons who do not trouble their heads with 
philosophy, and who complain that our 
philosophical articles are too dry and 
abstruse, we must beg them to content 
themselves with the lighter portions of 
the magazine, and allow us to give a rea- 
sonable amount of space to the few 
readers who have some taste and capa- 
city for real science. 

Holy Places : their Sanctity and Au- 
thenticity. ByF.Philpinde Rividres, 
of the London Oratory. Lftndon : 
Washbourne. 1874. (New York : Sold 
by The Catholic Publication Society.) 

F. De Rivieres gives play both to 
reason and imagination in an ictstrnctivc 
and agreeable manner in treating %i t^jc 
attractive topic of holy places. Tlia'book * 
contains some interc^ing iAforfiiatian 
about the recent explorations in Jerusa- 
lem. 

The Month of Mary of Or« Juadt of 
LouRDES. By Henri Lasserre. Trans- 
lated from the French (23d edition) 
by Mrs. Crosier. London : Burns and 
Oatcs. 1874. (New York : Sold by 
The Catholic Publication Society.) 

Henri Lasserre's beautiful work — of 
which a translation, which the best judges 
/:avc pronounceti to be of iVic vet'y \\\g,\\- 



est literary merit as well as the most lit 
eral accuracy, appeared in this magazine- 
is abridged and divided into thirty-one 
chapters for each day of the month of 
May, in this neat and pretty volume. 

The Blessed Virgin pressed vciy hard 
on the head of the old serpent when shr 
appeared at the rocks of Massabielle. 
The sympathizers with this " revolution 
naire m'alheureux," as Kenan calls him, 
in his warfare on the Queen of Heaven, 
frequently show their perplexity and tw- 
ation at the overwhelming proof of the 
miracles she has wrought, by an attempt 
at scornful ridicule, which is always uo 
accompanied by any argument, or anr 
attempt at meeting the challenge so often 
addressed to them to rebut the evidence 
M. Lasserre has furnished. Louis Veu- 
illot, probably the wittiest man now on 
the earth, once said of a certain French 
man that he was a clever writer, bat 
fort piqui contre U Saint Esprit. Dr. 
Coxe, who has formerly shown himsdf 
to be a clever poet, to say the least, in 
his recent pamphlet against Bishop Ryan, 
which is not at all clever, but only cun- 
ning, has exhibited a ^reat pique againM 
Our Lady ol Lourdes. In this we sec a 
fulfilment of the ancient prophecy, "I 
will place enmity between thee and the 
woman, between thy seed and her seed. ' 
The vulgar and unmeaning jibes of thr 
infidel and the heretic, as well as ibe 
pious writings and devout pilgrimage* 
of the faithful, alike serve to make the 
wonderful event of Lourdes more and 
more widely known all over the world, 
to the greater glory of God, and his Bless 
ed Mother. 

A Full Catbchism of the Catholic 
Religion (preceded by a short historr 
of religion), from the creation of the 
world to the present time. With Ques- 
tions for Examination. Translated 
from the German of the Rev. Joseph 
Deharbe, S.J., by the Rev. John 
Fander. Fourth Edition. London; 
Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: 
Sold by The Catholic Publication So- 
ciet}'.) 

This is the most celebrated catechism 
of the century, has been most extensiveir 
approved and brought into use, and wi!' 
be of great service to those who are em- 
ployed in teaching young people r'l* 
Christian doctrine, as well as for ibe in 
sttuction of converts. 



New Publications. 



7ig 



Tmb Commonitory of S. Vincent of 
Lerins. London : Washbournc. 1874. 
(New York : Sold by The Catholic Pub- 
lication Society.) 

There is no treatise of such small size 
as the Commonitory among Christian 
writings, so far as we know, which has 
been so universal in fame and influence, 
and has made its author so illustrious, as 

tbis one. 

The neat little libretto, containing the 
translation, with some accompanying tcs- 
timCnies of eminent Protestant divines to 
the excellence of the work, is edited by 
the Rev. John Lynch, of Hallymena, Dio- 
cese of Down and Connor, Ireland. In the 
preface he mentions the fact that S. Vin- 
cent and S. Patrick were fellow-students. 
The treatise can be easily read and un- 
derstood by any intelligent person, and 
yet contains an amount of instruction and 
infomiation on Catholic doctrine equal 
to that which is ordinarily spread through 
volumes. 

MONASTICON HiBRRNicuM. With Engrav- 
ings in Gold and Colors, Maps and 
Views. By Mervyn Archdall, A.M. 
Edited by the Right Rev. Dr. Moran. 
Vol. L. 4to. Dublin: VV. B. Kelly. 

1873. 

This well-known historical work is 
now republished in the most splendid 
stjle. It is a histor}- of religious houses 
and orders in Ireland, extensive, learned, 
and full of romantic and religious inter- 
est. The first volume contains two fine 
visws of the exterior and interior of S. 
Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, one of the 
ancient episcopal palace, and several 
engraving^s, in gold, of different religious 
orders. The work is, of course, a costly 
one, and is only published by subscrip- 
tion. Every wealthy Irishman In the 
United States ought to subscribe for a 
work which is an honor to his country 
and the Catholic religion. The first edi- 
tion is, however, limited to one thousand 
copies, and we presume that persons de- 
siring to procure a copy will find it ne- 
cessary to send on their names imme- 
diately. 

CiiERUBiNi: Memorials Iu.ustrative 
or HIS LiKK. By Edward Bcllasis, 
Barrister at -Law. London: Burns* 
Oates. (With a portrait.) 
This is an elaborate biography of the 

great musical composer, edited and pub- 



lished with the greatest care in an at- 
tractive style of typography. It c&nnol 
fail to interest very much those who have 
a taste for musical literature. 

La Sainte Ecriture et La Reglk Df 
Foi. Par rAbb6 B^gin, de TUni 
Tersit6 Laval. Quebec : Cot^ et Cie. 
1874. 

With admirable precision and clear- 
ness the Abb6 B^gin develops and de- 
fends in this volume the Catholic doc- 
trine of the rule of faith in accordance 
with the soundest and most orthodox 
theology. We cannot sufficiently recom- 
mend his treatise to clerg}'men and other 
students of sacred science. There arc 
some mistakes in the spelling of English 
names, as is very usual in French books. 
For example, we have Richard BuxCcr 
instead of Baxter. Whoever wishes to 
preach, lecture, or write for the press on 
the topics treated in this volume will 
find it even more available for use than 
the treatises contained in our dogmatic 
text-books. 

Sketches of Illustrious Soldiers. By 
• James Grant Wilson. New York . 
George P. Putnam's Sons. 1874. 

This work has a promising look, the 
author's name reminding us that the mili- 
tary profession was for some time his 
own, and that he is a diligent student of 
the literature of his subject. 

Miliury biography has a strange charm 
for most readers ; indeed, it is doubtful 
whether fiction has an equal fascination 
at certain periods of our lives. Few of 
us have attained middle age without hav- 
ing had our cheeks frequently glow and 
our patriotism grow warm at the narra- 
tion of deeds of prowess performed by 
our favorite heroes. Unfortunately, how- 
ever, the production of this species of lit- 
erature has fallen to a great extent into 
the hands of literary adventurers — writers 
who looked only to making the most ot 
a profitable enterprise. Hence the pcii- 
odical eruption of lives of great captains, 
distinguished, indeed, as men count great- 
ness, but whose most valid claim to emi- 
nence consisted in their ability to destroy 
whatever opposed the realization of the 
objects of their ambition, and the per- 
manent maintenance of unjustly-won 
crowns. To this cause we may partly 
attribute the (act that people luive well- 



7J0 



New Publications. 



nigh lost sight of the loftiest form of 
heroism— that which prompts a man to 
stake everything on the defence of a 
principle ; to brave all dangers and sus- 
tain all privations, so that conscience be 
kept pure and the Christian character 
preserved unsullied. 

The work under notice belongs to a 
different category. It is written, for the 
most part, in a calm, judicial spirit, the 
author evidently intending to avoid par- 
tisanship, and exhibiting a painstaking 
fidelity to the data before him. Occasion- 
ally, however, he betrays the hero- wor- 
shipper in the case of individuals who 
appear anything but admirable to us. 
On such common ground as the sketch 
of Washington we are glad to express 
our agreement with the author. We also 
like his estimate of anecdotes as illus- 
trations of character. 

Universal Pronouncing Dictionary of 
Biography and Mythology. By J. 
Thomas. A.M., M.D. Philadelphia : J. 
B. Lippincott & Co. 1874. 

.•\ CoMi'LETE Pronouncing Gazetteer. 
Kditod by J.Thomas and T. Baldwin, 
^^Hsisted bv several other gentlemen. 
Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 
^Sold at 25 Bond St., New York ) 

Next to a dictionary of the language 
wo rank dictionaries of persons and 
l>i;\cr»» as works of reference for those 
•'»VU»l?«^d in writing, and. indeed, for all 
iulelligent readers as well. We hear of 
HO many men of eminence, or of localities 
so nrrtily alike in orthography, that we 
never Wt\ entirely at ease without refer- 
rnce to a good authority ; so that, for the 
mere purpose of identification, books like 
these are worth all they cost. The period 
and country at and in which a given sub- 
jrct lived, his occupation, his contempo- 
raries, and for what he was distinguish- 
ed ; the county, state, or kingdom in 
which a certain city or town lies, serve all 
ordinary uses. Should we desire more, 
we can at our leisure resort to the ency- 
clopasdins or individual biographies for 
fuller information. Of course these works 
would be more acceptable if written from 
our point of view ; but that we cannot 
expect for a long time to come. Mean- 
while, being reasonably impartial, as we 
have found them to be so far as we have 
examined, we accept them as the best 
lUainable. Lest the fact that they arc 
Mcb in one volume sViou\d cotvvcv ;vtv 




inadequate idea of their extent, we ma. 
state that the Biograpkical Dictionary hx 
2,345 closely-printed royal octavo pages 
and the 6^<72^//^^r xviii.-2.182 pages of th 
same size and compactness. We kao 
of no works of the kind so convenient an 
full in all matters for which they are 
dinarily consulted. 



A Dictionary of the English Language:- 
By Joseph E. Worcester, LL.D. 
ton : Brewer & Tileston. 1874. 

As it would be quite superfluous t 
advise any one to get a dictionary at t: 
present time, we content ourseives witb 
asking our readers to get the best — Wor- 
cester's Unabridged. We have warmed 
towards this author, among other reasons; 
because he is less of an iconoclast than 
some of his fellow-lexicographers. It 
has grieved us not a little to see our 
favorite words maltreated as if they had 
no personality about which to be sensi- 
tive, or pedigree whereof to be proud. 
We can scarcely recognize them in the 
new dress, or rather mask, in which tber 
are often presented. Were we a boy again, 
not a hair of our head would rise at a spec- 
ter, and we should have an additional rea- 
son for refusing allegiance to a sovereign 
who held only a scepter — though the suo 
should still refuse to set on her domin- 
ions. 

In saying this we would by no means 
disparage a standard in spelling. When 
some new Ursa Major shall arise who 
will not only give us an uniform, harmoni- 
ous system of orthography, but such sub- 
stantial reasons in favor of it as will sat- 
isfy the learned and confound all oppo 
nents, we may yield to the general ver- 
dict. But we are not at all on the look- 
out for such a contingency while our 
language is in the process of formation, 
and expect to possess our Worcester 
Unabridged in peace for many long years 
to come. The work has lxviii.-i,786 
pages quarto, and is quite as full, we be- 
lieve, as any other extant in the various 
tables, grammatical and other information 
having a bearing on the main purpose of 
the volume. 

The same publishers also issue Wor 
ccstcr*s Comprehensive Dictionary, Wor 
cester's Ptimary Dictionary ^ and A Pockd 
Dictionary^ compiled from the quarto and 
school dictionaries of J. E. Worcester, 
by Loomis J. Campbell ; for those trho 
desire inexpensive and portable roan- 



r. 






THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XIX., No. 114.— SEPTEMBER, 1874. 



MATTER. 



II. 



The activity displayed by matter 
in the production of natural phe- 
nomena is twofold, viz., attractive 
and repulsive ; and the question 
has been raised whether these two 
kinds of activity can reside in one 
and the same subject, or, owing to 
their opposite nature, require sepa- 
rate subjects. With regard to mole- 
cules, it is quite certain, though 
some have thought otherwise, that 
in all ponderable bodies each mole- 
cule is in possession of both pow- 
ers ; but with regard to the primi- 
tive elements which enter into 
the constitution of a molecule, the 
question needs a special treatment, 
as no direct evidence is supplied 
by experimental science for an af- 
firmative more than for a negative 
solution, and different views have 
been advanced which it is impor- 
tant to examine in the light of phi- 
losophical principles, that we may 
ascertain which of them has the 
best claim to adoption both in phi- 



losophy and in molecular mechan* 
ics. 

Attractive and repulsive pouters, — 
Since it is well known that all the 
phenomena of the material order, 
whether physical or chemical, ulti- 
mately depend on attractions and 
repulsions, we are compelled to ad- 
mit the existence in nature of at- 
tractive and repulsive powers. Nei- 
ther attractive powers alone nor 
repulsive powers alone would afford 
us a rational explanation of natu- 
ral facts. If the primitive elements 
of matter were all repulsive, and 
nothing but repulsive, then neither 
the cohesion of material particles 
nor the gravitation of bodies would 
be possible; no solid and no liquid 
would exist; and all matter from 
the very beginning of its existence 
would have vanished in a state of 
extreme attenuation through the 
immensity of space. If, on the 
contrary, the primitive elements of 
matter were all attractive, and no- 



tceordiof to Act of Connrcess in the year 1874, by Rev. \. T. \lmcKi.iL^\tL x^m^ ^^«« t>ll 
the Llbmrita of Congress, at Wash\n|;loii, I>. O. 



722 



Matter. 



thing but attractive, no expansive 
power would be found in nature; 
for the expansion of bodies evident- 
ly depends on a repulsion prevail- 
ing between their molecules. All 
solid and liquid bodies likewise 
proclaim the existence of repulsive 
powers by the resistance they op- 
pose to compression. This resist- 
ance shows that their molecules are 
endowed with powers whose exer- 
tion impedes their mutual approach 
as soon as they have reached a cer- 
tain limit of distance. It is plain 
that the power which impedes the 
approach under pressure must be a 
repulsive one. Thus both attrac- 
tive and repulsive powers exist in 
nature. 

But do they exist together in the 
same primitive element of matter ? 
Boscovich answers in the affirma- 
tive ; but his answer is not support- 
ed by any cogent reason. Having 
found no other means of account- 
ing for the impenetrability of bodies, 
he assumed that every element of 
matter is so constituted as to be at- 
tractive at all great distances, ac- 
cording to the law of universal at- 
traction, but that each element, at 
molecular distances, becomes re- 
pulsive in order to resist pressure, 
and again attractive in order to ex- 
ercise chemical affinity, and then 
repulsive again, these alternations 
going on a certain number of times, 
till at last repulsivity alone prevails, 
which indefinitely increases when 
the distance of two elements indefi- 
nitely diminishes. 

Yet this theory is by no means 
needed to account either for the 
impenetrability of bodies or for 
any other phenomenon; as what 
Boscovich ascribes to elements 
may be, and is in fact, a property of 
molecules — that is, of a compound 
system of elements. On the other 
hand| the theory is unnaturally 



complex, and the alternation of the 
attractive and repulsive exertions 
looks as unscientific as the epicycles 
of the old astronomers and other 
hypotheses once admitted as plausi- 
ble, and now superseded by a fuller 
knowledge of natural laws. To a 
Qiind which ocamines the question 
of attractive and repulsive powers 
th the light of phiiosophf, it must 
be evident that each primitive ele- 
ment of matter cannot possess than 
both. If an element is attractive at 
any distance^ it must he attractive at 
all distances^ whether enornumsly 
great or indefinitely small ; like- 
wise^ if an element is repulsive at any 
distance^ it must be repulsive at all 
distances. 

This proposition can be proved 
as follows: Opposite actions can- 
not originate from one and the same 
simple principle when such a prin- 
ciple has no control over itself, but 
acts by inherent necessity. But in 
each primitive element of matter 
there is but one simple principle of 
activity, which has no control over 
itself, as it acts by inherent neces- 
sity. And therefore no primitive 
element can be both attractive and 
repulsive, but is either attractive at 
all distances or at all distances re- 
pulsive. 

In this syllogism the major is 
evident. An active principle 
which, like the human soul, can, 
by immanent operations, assume at 
pleasure difierent attitudes towards 
the term of its action, and which 
masters the conditions and controls 
the intensity of its exertions, may 
perhaps be considered competent 
to originate actions of opposite 
kinds.* But a being which is dcs- 

* The only tjffUttmi aetioiis ^ mtr soul ire 
those by which the wiU ourrftt Us desires into 
execution. This is done by the wW, not as the 
faculty of williniTv but as a BOTinf power, asd 
consequently by means of ft truly efficient actioa. 
The immanent opeimtioot of tte tool sve, oa 



litute of immanent operations, and 
acts by an inherent necessity of its 
nature, has no power to modify it- 
self or to alter iis intrinsic deter- 
mioation ; and its action is so ruled 
hy its intrinsic determination that 
there is no chance of its being 
either transmuted into its opposite, 
or even partially suspended. Now, 
in a primitive being the principle 
of activity is nothing else than the 
simple act which formally deter- 
mines its nature ; and it is plain that 
wherever there is one simple formal 
act, there can be only one formal 
determination lo act. And conse- 
quently a simple principle of ac- 
tivity which has no immanent op- 
erations cannot be the source of 
two opposite kinds of actions. 
Bodies and their molecules, on ac- 
count of their physical composition, 
contain as many distinct principles 
of activity as they contain physical 
components or elements ; hence 
we can easily account for their ca- 
pability of originating opposite ac- 
tions by admitting that among 
those elements some are attractive 
and others repulsive. But in a. 
primitive clement it is impossible 
to admit of two opposite active 



aat clBcleat Mtlons. 
•ra moTtd by 'it^r 

il bj phyilcalvtoU. 



I! iccelvn Hum (lillenDt • 
ftin Iwd ihc bculty of yield! 



ibca inch 

;^ii. tku », iu >lllet]«lu>l 

>v>. And tke like occur* 
■cti ot the "IIL To Ihlnk 
c »<..).!<.« «on iSu lo let 
v>nub)ecl«iialkeil[r«t- 



niut wti fa ni<i •llii itDl ncIMai, bul fbrotal u 

uudntaiawny teiulilni rioin etibei (ponune 



t/-r. 723 

principles; for a primitive element 
is a being entitatively one, having 
only one essential act, and conse- 
quently only one active principle and 
one intrinsic determination to act. 
It would therefore be absurd to ex- 
pect from such an element actions 
of such an opposite nature as arc 
attraction and repulsion. For evi- 
dently, to enable the clement to 
display two opposite powers, two 
opposite determinations would be 1 
necessary. Hence, if the intrinsic I 
determination enables the primitive 
element to attract, such an clement 
will always attract, and never repel ; 
and if, on the contrary, the intrinsic 
determination enables the primitive 
element to repel, such nn element 
will always repel, and never attract. 
In other terms, the attractive and 
the repulsive power cannot coexist 
in the same primitive element. 

This conclusion, which affords 
tljc only possible basis for the •!»• 
cuiationsof molecular mechanic! 
one of those which mere s:ientisls ' 
cannot reach through their empiri- 
cal and inductive method; but iu 
truth is not less certain for that; 
it is rather all the more certain, aa 
it i& not founded on accidental facts, 
but on the unchangeable nature of 
things and the transcendental rel4- 
lion of the principles involved in , 
the constitution of real beings. 

Our proposition may be confimH 
cd by reflecting that the change of 
attraction into repulsion, according 
lo Boscovich, would depend on the 
diminution of the distance between 
the agent and the patient. Now, 
this view is inadmtstible. For a 
change of distance, thougli necessa- 
rily accompanied by a change in 
the intensity of the action, cannot 
ctercisc any influence on the spcci- 
fie nature of the action. 'Vhcimlai- 
fity of the action is an accidental 
thing, and can change without in the 



7H 



Matttr. 



least interfering with the nature of 
the agent; and for this reason it 
can, and must, depend on distance 
as a condition implied in the exer- 
cise of the active power. But the 
nature of the action always follows 
the nature of the substance from 
which it proceeds. Now, a change 
of distance does not change the na- 
ture of the substance. And accord- 
ingly the nature of the action must 
remain the same, even though the 
distance be indefinitely diminished. 
Moreover, if there were any dis- 
tance at which the action of a primi- 
tive element could change from at- 
jtractive to repulsive, evidently the 
element, at such a distance, would 
be unable to exercise either attrac- 
tion or repulsion, as Boscovich 
concedes ; and therefore, at such a 
distance, the material element 
would have no activity. We may, 
then, ask : Whence does the attrac- 
tive power emanate which is to 
have uncontrolled sway at all great- 
er distances? Does it emanate 
from any point of space outside the 
element? Then it would not be 
the active power of the element, as 
it would have nothing to do with 
it. On the other hand, it is ob- 
vious that if it emanates from the 
element, it does not end at a dis- 
tance from it. For, since the ac- 
tive power is really identical with 
the formal principle from which the 
primitive element receives its na- 
ture, it is as necessary for the ele- 
mentary power to reach the very 
centre of the element as it is for 
the form to be intrinsically termi- 
nated to its matter. Whence it fol- 
lows that the elementary power of 
attraction, which prevails at all 
great distances, must emanate from 
the very centre of the element. 
But if so, why shall it not prevail 
up to that very centre ? Is it, for- 
sooth, because iu tVv^ x\e\^\\Vio\l\ood 



of the centre an opposite principle 
prevails ? Were this the case» the 
same primitive being would have 
two formal acts, and it would be 
two itings and two ttatures j which 
is an evident contradiction. As 
long, therefore, as we adhere to the 
fundamental doctrine that a primi- 
tive being cannot have more than 
one simple principle of activity, we 
must admit that a primitive element, 
if attractive at any distance, is at- 
tractive at all molecular distances, 
and, if repulsive at molecular dis- 
tances, is repulsive at all distances. 

Against the existence of attrac- 
tive and repulsive powers in dis- 
tinct primitive elements some ob- 
jections now and then have been 
made. It has been said, first, that 
what we call repulsion is only a 
result of certain vortical movements 
of the ether all around the mole- 
cules of ponderable bodies. This 
objection is based on a false sup- 
position. We have already shown 
that the arbitrary theory of the 
vortices fails altogether to explain 
the great phenomenon of univer- 
sal attraction; and we may easily 
show that it fails as completely in 
regard to molecular repulsion. In 
fact, the centrifugal forces which 
are developed by vortical move- 
ments, and which in this theory are 
assumed as the cause of the pheno- 
mena of molecular resistances, are 
not active powers. They are com- 
ponents of the vortical movements 
and nothing more; that is to say, 
they do not efficiently produce 
movements, but axe the /orma/ prin 
ciples of movements already pro- 
duced. To ascribe to them the mo- 
lecular resistances and the impene- 
trability of bodies is, therefore, to 
admit the effect without the cause. 

Secondly, some authors object 
that the resistance called into play 
by pressure is not a real action, and 



Matter. 



725 



requires no efficient repulsive pow- 
ers. They consider it, according 
to the vulgar prejudice, as a merely 
passive resistance ; for they imagine 
that a body, when pressed or im- 
pinged on, resists the progress of 
the obtruding body by its oxvn imrt 
matter^ which with its materiality 
obstructs the way onward. This 
old explanation is still popular with 
the great mass of the uninstruct- 
cd, but is scientifically and philoso- 
phically worthless. For whatever 
causes a real change really acts ; 
* now, a body resisting the advance 
of another body causes a real 
change in the rate of its movement ; 
therefore a body resisting the ad- 
vance of another body really acts. 
Its resistance is therefore active^ and 
not passive ; that is, it consists in 
an exertion of repulsive power, and 
not in a material obstruction of the 
path. ■ 

Hence what physicists call " force 
of inertia " is not a passive resistance 
proceeding from the inertia of 
matter, but an active exertion of 
the molecular powers, and has been 
so called only because, all other 
things being equal, its intensity is 
proportional to the mass of the 
inert body.** Evidently, inertia 
itself cannot resist or check the 
advance of an impinging body. 
Nothing but a positive action can 
do it; for nothing but a positive 
action can communicate to the ad- 
vancing body that impetus in the 
opposite direction which alone is 
competent to neutralize the impetus 
of the advance. Physicists know 
this very well, though many of 
them, owing to the difficulty of 
analyzing and expressing certain 
things with philosophical accuracy, 
do not always use, in this particular, 
a very correct language — a thing 

*On this subject see Ths Catholic World 
for March^ 1874, p. 768. 



which, after all, must not surprise 
us, as one can be well read in phy- 
sics without necessarily being a 
profound philosopher. 

The third objection is aimed at 
our argument against Boscovich's 
theory, in which we have said that 
attraction and repulsion are actions 
of opposite kinds. Boscovich, on 
the contrary, maintains that attrac- 
tion and repulsion differ only as the 
greater from the less, and therefore 
cannot be considered as actions of 
a different kind. He says : " Both 
actions are of the same kind ; for 
the one, as compared with the 
other, is negative ; and negative 
things do not differ in kind from 
positive ones. That the one, as 
compared with the other, is nega- 
tive, is evident from this : that they 
differ only in direction. That the 
negative and the positive belong to 
the same kind is evident from the 
principle, More and less do not dif- 
fer in kind. In fact, from the posi- 
tive, by a continued subtraction or 
diminution, we obtain first some 
smaller positive quantities, then 
zero, and lastly, if we still go on in 
our subtraction, negative quanti- 
ties."* 

This argument, notwithstanding 
its speciousncss, is not difficult to 
upset. It is not true, in the first 
place, that attraction and repulsion 
differ only in direction; on the 
contrary, they differ in everything 
except in direction. Two points 
A and B being given, there is only 
one direction from A to B^ whether 
A be attractive or repulsive. If A 
is attractive, its attraction is direct- 
ed from A to B ; and if A is repul- 
sive, its repulsion is no less direct- 
ed from A to B> This is quite 
evident, as the action must in all 
cases proceed from the agent to 

• Boscovlch's Theoria PhUosophim Naturalisy 
part i. n. 108. 



726 



Matter^ 



the patient. It is evident, therefore, 
that the two actions must have the 
same direction. The movements 
of B will indeed have opposite 
directions, according as j9 is attract- 
ed or repelled; but this does not 
show that the actions themselves 
have opposite directions ; it shows, 
on the contrary, that those actions, 
though directed in the same man- 
ner from A to JS^ are of a different 
nature, and proceed from opposite 
principles. And this conclusion 
may be confirmed by remarking 
that the direction is always from a 
point to a point, or from matter to 
matter ; and consequently it is not 
the active power or the action, 
but only the position of the mate- 
rial centres, that can determine any 
direction. Accordingly, so long as 
such a position is not inverted, it. 
is impossible to conceive two oppo- 
site directions from A to B. It is 
therefore evidently false that attrac- 
tion and repulsion differ in direc- 
tion. 

It is not true, in the second place, 
that attraction and repulsion differ 
only as the positive differs from the 
negative, or the greater from the 
less. In the mathematical expres- 
sion of mechanical relations, if we 
consider a movement as positive, 
the movement which points to an 
opposite direction must, of course, 
be affected by the negative sign. 
The same we must do with regard 
to forces and actions ; for we esti- 
mate the actions by the movements 
which they produce, and we express 
them only in terms of movement — 
that is, by their effects. But this 
does not mean that there is either 
any movement or any action abso- 
lutely negative; for a negative 
movement would be no movement, 
and a negative action no action. 
It is in a relative and conventional 
sense only that movements are con- 



sidered as positive or negative; 
and, moreover, either of the two 
opposite movements pan be assum- 
ed as positive or as negative, at 
will ; which shows very clearly that 
the negative and the positive do 
not differ in this case as the greater 
differs from the less, as Boscovich 
assumes ; for either of the two can, 
at pleasure, be taken as positive, 
whereas it would be absurd to pre- 
tend that either of the two can, at 
pleasure, be pronounced to be the 
greater. Thus, when a stone is 
thrown up vertically, and abandon- 
ed to itself, if its ascent is taken as 
positive, its descent will be consid- 
ered as negative. Now, according 
to Boscovich's reasoning, we should 
infer that the ascent is greater than 
the descent^ though they are evident- 
ly equal. And in the same manner, 
if the ascent is taken as negative 
(which nothing forbids), the descent 
must be taken as positive ; whence, 
according to Boscovich, we ought 
to infer also that the descent is great- 
er than the ascents Any argument 
which leads to such glaring con- 
tradictions must be radically false. 
And therefore it is false that attrac- 
tion and repulsion differ from one 
another as the greater from the 
less. 

It might be urged, as a fourth 
objection, that if an attractive and 
a repulsive power differ in kind, 
then a repulsive element and an 
attractive element will be two kinds 
of material substance; which is 
inadmissible. For we cannot admit 
two kinds of primitive material be- 
ings essentially different, as the es- 
sence of matter must be the same 
in all the elements. 

To this we answer that although 
there are two kinds of elements, 
there are not two kinds of matter. 
In other terms, an attractive ele- 
ment differs from a repulsive one as 



Matter. 



727 



to the principle of action, but not 
as to the matter itself. In fact, the 
essence of a material being as such 
requires nothing more than a form 
giving existence to matter ; hence, 
wherever there is a form giving ex- 
istence to matter, there also is the 
essence of matter. Now, matter is 
as much and as completely actuated 
by a form or act which is a princi- 
ple of attraction as by a form or act 
which is a principle of repulsion. 
For the actuation of the matter by 
its form is not efficient^ hnX formal ; 
and its result is not to approach by 
attraction or to recede by repulsion, 
but to be simply and absolutely ; so 
that neither attractivity nor repul- 
sivity has any bearing on the essen- 
tial constitution of a material ele- 
ment as such — that is, inasmuch as 
it is material. Accordingly, two 
elements of opposite natures differ 
in kind as agents, but not as mate-- 
rial beings; and thus the essence 
of matter as such remains one and 
the same in all the elements. Mat- 
ter, as we have already shown, is 
the centre of a sphere of activity ; 
and it is evident that, by this ac- 
tivity of an attractive or of a re- 
pulsive nature, the centre remains 
a centre, and the sphere a sphere, 
without the least alteration. Gold 
and ivory differ in kind; but a 
sphere of ivory and a sphere of gold 
do not differ in kind cu spheres^ and 
their centres do not differ in kind 
€is centres. In a like manner the 
sphere of activity of an attractive 
element does not differ from the 
sphere of activity of a repulsive ele- 
ment, nor the centre of the one 
from the centre of the other. And 
therefore two elements, however 
different in their nature as agents, 
do not cease to be of the same kind 
as material. Their form is differ- 
ent, but informs equally, and their 
matter is exactlv the same. 



We have stated that Boscovich 
was led to admit two opposite pow* 
ers in the same element, because he 
thought this to be the only means 
of accounting for the impenetrabil- 
ity of bodies. We observe that, 
although the impenetrability of bo- 
dies peremptorily proves the exist- 
ence of repulsive powers, it by no 
means proves that the repulsive 
power coexists with the attractive 
in the same primitive element. 
Hence Boscovich *s inference is not 
legitimate. Molecules, as we have 
already remarked, may possess both 
powers, as their composition in- 
volves a great number of elements, 
which can be of different natures. 
And this suffices to explain the 
impenetrability of bodies, and all 
other properties dependent on mo- 
lecular actions, without need of 
arbitrary hypotheses. 

A last objection against the doc- 
trine we have established might be 
drawn from the difficulty of recon- 
ciling the existence of repulsive 
elements with universal attraction ; 
for if we admit that repulsion can 
be exercised at astronomical dis- 
tances, it will be difficult to see how 
the celestial bodies can attract one 
another in the direct ratio of their 
masses, as the law of attraction re- 
quires. 

The answer is obvious. If all 
matter were repulsive, universal re- 
pulsion would be the consequence. 
But if bodies are made up partly 
of attractive and partly of repulsive 
elements, then will either universal 
repulsion or universal attraction 
prevail, according as the number 
and power of the repulsive elements 
is greater or smaller than that of 
the attractive ones. Hence, from 
the fact that in the solar system 
and elsewhere attraction prevails, 
it follows, indeed, that the attractive 
powers are the stronger, bat it 



728 



Matter. 



does not follow that they are the 
whole stuff of which bodies are 
compounded. 

As to the law of attraction in the 
direct ratio of the masses^ a distinc- 
tion is to be made. The law is 
certainly true if by masses w€ mean 
the masses acted on ; not so, how- 
ever, if for the masses acted on we 
substitute the masses of the attract- 
ing bodies. The fact of universal 
attraction shows that two planets, 
all other things being equal, must 
be attracted by the sun in the di- 
rect ratio of their masses. This is 
an established truth. But to say 
that, all other things being equal, 
the sun and the earth would at- 
tract the moon in the direct ratio 
of their absolute masses, is to assume 
what no fact whatever gives us the 
right to assert. Physicists very 
commonly admit this second as- 
sumption, and consider it a part of 
the law of attraction ; but they 
would be not a little embarrassed 
were they required to undertake its 
demonstration. They take for 
granted that all the particles of 
matter are equally and uniformly 
attractive. Now, this assumption 
has never been established by facts ; 
it simply arises from an unlawful 
generalization — that is, from the ex- 
tension of the law of kinetic forces 
to dynamical actions. The mo- 
menta of two bodies animated by 
equal velocities are proportional to 
the masses of the same bodies; but 
nothing justifies the inference that 
therefore the attractive powers 
must be proportional to the masses. 
Indeed, it is scarcely possible to 
believe that equal masses of lead, 
iron, and zinc possess equal powers. 
Their properties are, in fact, so dif- 
ferent that we cannot assume their 
constitution to be the result of an 
assemblage of equal powers. Hence 
we maintain that, unless Iwo bodies 



have the same molecular constitu- 
tion, their attractions cannot be 
proportional to their masses.* 

Universal attraction being also 
proportional to the inverse squares 
of the distances, as we are going to 
show, we may add that the exist- 
ence of repulsive elements in the 
sun and in the planets by no means 
interferes with this law. In fact, 
the total action of one celestial 
body on another, on account of the 
great distance at which the law 
of universal attraction is applied, 
equals the algebraic sum of all the 
actions by which one body makes 
an impression upon the other. 
Hence, if all the elements of which 
the body consists, whether they be 
attractive or repulsive, act propor- 
tionally to the inverse square of 
the distance, it is evident that the 
resultant of all such actions will 
also be proportional to the inverse 
square of the distance, whenever 
the form of the body is spherical, or 
nearly so, as is the case with the ce- 
lestial bodies. And thus it is plain 
that no valid objection can be drawn 
from universal attraction against the 
existence of repulsive elements. 



* Cavendish In 1798 made his celebrated ex- 
periments concerning terrestrial attraction, io 
order to determine the density of the earth; bat 
his calculations were grounded on the assunp- 
tion that all the material particles of the earth 
were equally attractive ; and therefore the re- 
sult of such calculation cannot be implicitly ^^ 
lied on. M. Reich in 2837, and M. Bayly ia 
1843, repeated the same experiments, and calcu- 
lated the density of the earth according to the 
same assumption. It did not occur to either cf 
them that the assumption itself might hare beeo 
subjected to a crucial test by buccessiTely vi^ 
stiiuting spheres of zinc, iron, copper, silver, 
etc., instead of the leaden ones which tbcT 
uniformly employed. Had they tried these sub- 
stances in a proper manner — that is, with a suit- 
able modification of the apparatus — we bave lit- 
tle doubt that they would have discovered a 
difference of action for equal masses of differerit 
substances. The experiment may yet be mm^t. 
and we hope it will, as it is of great scientific 
importance ; but it should be encouraged bv 
the help of some powerful scientific body, as the 
cost of the new apparatus would probably ex> 
ceed the ordinary means at tue comauud of un- 
aided individuals. 



Zaw ef elementaty actions. — We 
hsve now to eslablish ihe general 
Jaw of elemenlary attracUon and 
repulsion. We lioltl that l/ie aftmis 
ef every pri mil he element are always 
im^ersely pnfartional to Ihe squares 
of the itistanees, no matter whether 
aich distances be great or small, as- 
tremomieal or molecular. 

This propoELiion can be brieRy 
proved in the following manner : 
Astronomy teaches us that the 
Newtonian law, according to which 
the actions are inversely propor- 
tional to the squares of the dis- 
UUlces, is true for alt the celestial 
bodies. Now, the total action of 
one celestial body upon another is 
a resullani of elementary actions, 
and arises from the algebraic sum 
of them all. Hence it follows that 
every clement of matter, when act- 
ing from certain distances, obeys 
Ihe Newtonian law; for it is evi- 
dent, from the theory of the com- 
position of forces, that the sum of 
the elementary actions cannot fol- 
low the Newtonian law unless these 
actions themselves follow it. Uut 
if the law is true in the case of 
astronomical distances, it must be 
true also in the case of microscopi- 
cal and molecular distances. For 
as a primitive element cannot have 
two laws of action, so neither can 
it follow at molecular distances any 
other law than that which it follows 
at all oilier distances. 

That a primitive clement cannot 
have two ditlcreni laws of action 
will be manifest by considering that 
the law which an element obeys in 
its actions results from the intrin- 
sic determination of its nature — that 
I, from its formal constitution — in- 
■rauch as tlie principle of action 

1^ in every primitive substance, the 
"" n! principle of its very being: 

X^pritu^ium tssendi est prineipium op- 
"Now, a primitive element 



has but one formal principle of be- 
ing; for it is entitalively one, and 
therefore it has but one formal de- 
termination to act, which, as result- 
ing from its essential constitution, 
is unchangeable and inviolable. 
But it is evident that from one for- 
mal determination to act only one 
law of action can possibly result. 
Two laws would be two formal re- 
sults, and would require two formal 
principles giving two different de- 
terminations. Accordingly, since 
each primitive element has but one 
formal principle, it cannot have two 
laws of action. And therefore the 
Newtonian law, which primitive 
elements follow at astronomical 
distance;, must prevail also at 
other distances. 

Let the reader observe that thi» 
conclusion regards th 
primitive elements, not the action of 
molecules. That molecular actions 
at molecular distances are not 
versely proportional to the square 
of the distance is a known faci. 
Molecular cohesion, for instance, is- 
immensely greater than it cotild 
possibly be by the Newtonian law; 
so also molecular repulsion. This 
is what prevented physicists froni 
recogniziiig the applicability of thff 
Newtonian law at molecular dis- 
tances. As long as the primitive 
elements were confounded, under 
the name of atoms, with the mole- 
cules of the so-called primitive 
bodies, hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, 
etc., it was impossible to recognize 
in the molecular actions any trace 
of the Newtonian law ; hence came 
the division of attraction into uni- 
versal and molecular, the first fol- 
lowing a known law, the second 
following some other law or laws 
which physicists could never dis- 
cover. Their embarrassment was 
a necessary consequence of ah v^ 
complete analysis of the materi 



A 

4 



730 



Matiif. 



compound. The molecule of a 
given substance, though often call- 
ed an atom, is a system of primi- 
tive elements ; and elements acting 
according to the Newtonian law 
can give rise to molecular systems 
which, at very small distances, will 
act according to any other law that 
may be indicated by molecular phe- 
nomena. This other law depends 
entirely on the number, kind, 
strength, and geometrical arrange- 
ment of the primitive elements 
which enter into the constitution 
of the molecule; and since mole* 
cules of different primitive substan- 
ces are very differently constituted, 
every kind of molecule must have 
its own peculiar law of acting at 
molecular distances — a fact on 
which the scientific explanation of 
the different physical and chemical 
properties of different substances 
entirely depends. Hence it is 
clear that all the attempts at find- 
ing a general law of molecular at- 
traction were, from the very nature 
of the case, destined to fail. The 
only general law of action which 
all matter obeys is the Newtonian 
law; and what was once considered 
to form an exception to it is now 
acknowledged to be the result of its 
application to a complex system of 
attractive and repulsive elements. 

From the fact that the actions 
of all elements are proportional to 
the inverse squares of the distances, 
it follows that the sphere of activity 
of material elements extends be- 
yond any assignable limit. The 
intensity of the action cannot, in 
fact, become — o unless the dis- 
tance becomes infinite. The ob- 
jections to which this corollary of 
the Newtonian law may give rise 
will be answered in our next arti- 
cle, where all the difficulties con- 
cerning the actio in distans will be 
solved. 



M&de of aeimu-^h. last question 
remains here to be examined re- 
specting the action of primitive 
material elements — ^viz.f whether 
such an action needs a medium 
through which it may be transmit- 
ted and communicated to distant 
bodies, or whether, on the contrary, 
it is exerted upon them directly 
without dependence on any mate- 
rial medium. 

In answering this question we 
must be careful not to confound 
action with movement. Movement, 
though not properly transmitted, is 
propagated, as we shall explain; 
and this cannot take place where 
there is no movable matter. Those 
who are wont to identify movement 
with force, and force with action, 
as is unfortunately the fashion even 
in scientific treatises, will no doubt 
imagine that actions must be trans- 
mitted or propagated through a 
material medium, just as sound 
through air, or as light through 
luminiferous ether. But action is 
not movement; and therefore the 
question how elementary actions— 
that is, how attractions or repul- 
sions — reach distant bodies has to 
be resolved on its own merit, as 
one altogether distinct from the 
question about the propagation of 
movement. This premised, we are 
going to show that ih€ elementary 
actions are independent of ail matt' 
ricU medium of communication. 

In the first place, there is no rea- 
son why we should assume that 
the elementary action (attraction 
or repulsion) depends on a medium 
of coimnunication, except inas- 
much as we may apprehend that 
the action itself, or the active pow- 
er whence it proceeds, is in need 
of being transmitted to some mat- 
ter located at a certain distance. 
But neither the elementary power 
nor the elementary action can be 



^tted to the distant matter, 
^erefore neitlier the power 
|e action can be dependent 
^dium of communication. 
^is syllogism the major is 
^: and the minor can be 
) in two manners: First, be- 
the power and the action are, 
p own nature, intransmissi- 
Becondly, because, prescind- 
jpm their intransmissibility, 
^ium can be assigned which 
I be capable of transmitting 
. And as to the first, we 
that nothing can be transmit- 
[ a distant place except by 
piovement; but neither the 
^ power nor the elementary 
|; is capable of receiving local 

rnt; for there is no other 
capable of local movement 
tetter alone, on account of its 
E potentiality. Hence nei- 
Bwer nor action can be trans- 
E And in the second place, 
sre they transmissible, what 
1 could be found for their 
fision? If any such me- 
Duld be found, it would con- 
some matter like ether or 
I being the view of those 
mit the necessity of such a 
1. On the other hand, a 
1 substance is not a suitable 
D for transmitting action or 
For whenever an active 
is exerted upon matter, the 
of the exertion is nothing 
letermination to a change of 
as it is well known that 
cannot receive any other de- 
Ition. And therefore it is 
) power that is received in 
(tter acted on, but only the 
duced by its exertion, which 
otherwise called a momen- 
iher statical or dynamical. 
' speaking, not even the ac- 
eir is received in the matter, 
Ji we are wont to tolerate 
1 expression; for the action 



tfer. 731 

properly so called is the produc- 
tion of an act, and the matter re- 
ceives, indeed, the act produced, but 
not its production. And thus the 
action, properly speaking, is Ur- 
mtfia/^ii to the matter, and not re- 
ceived in it. Hence we see that 
neither the power of the agent nor 
its exertion is received in the mat- 
ter acted on; it is merely the pro- 
duced accidental act, or, in other 
terms, the momentum, that is re- 
ceived. But evidently matter can- 
not transmit what it does not re- 
ceive. And therefore matter can- 
not be a medium for transmitting 
either power or action. Whether 
it can transmit movement we shall 
examine at the end of the present 
question, 

This argument would suffice lo 
show that elementary actions are 
quite independent of a material 
medium. Yet as the prejudice 
against which we are fighting is an- ' 
cient, popular, and deeply rooted, 
we think it will not be superduous 
to confirm our proof by a few other 
considerations. 

Those who maintain the trans- 
mission of forces admit a material 
medium, in which, by successive 
contact of particles with particles, 
the transmission of the force to a 
distant body is supposed to be car- 
ried on. By the word " force " 
they understand action as well as 
movement. Now, let us ask them 
whether the particles of their mate- 
rial medium come into mathemati- 
cal contact or not. If they do not 
come into mathematical contact, 
then the action is not transmitted 
by the medium from one particle 
to another, for there will be a vac- 
uum between them; and vacuum 
is not a material medium. If, on 
the contrary, the particles come 
into mathematical contact with 
their own matter, then, as we have 
already shown \'Ci ou^ ^a.^'*- a.i'CvOi.c, 



J 



732 



Matter. 



they cannot by such a contact 
comnriiinicate any movement to 
each other ; and since the trans- 
mission in question should be car- 
ried on by successive communica- 
tions of movement, it is plain that 
no such transmission will be pos- 
sible. And accordingly the theory 
of the transmission of actions 
through a medium must be rejected. 
Moreover, elementary actions are 
either attractive or repulsive, and 
neither of them can be conceived 
without intensity and direction. 
Now, no direction is possible un- 
less there be two points distinctly 
ubicated in space. And therefore 
the action, no matter whether at- 
tractive or repulsive, cannot reach 
any material point which is not 
distant from the matter of the 
agent. Rut if so, the action is in- 
dependent of a medium of com- 
, munication ; for the material medi- 
um, if it were needed, should lie 
between the agent and the patient 
in such a manner as to link them 
together, and fill by its material 
continuity the gap by which they 
are separated ; and if this were the 
case, the medium could not be set 
in motion, as its contact v/ith the 
agent would exclude distance, and 
consequently the possibility of any 
direction from the agent to the 
medium itself. 

Some will say that this argument 
proves nothing, as the direction of 
the action can be sufficiently ac- 
counted for by the direction of the 
impulse. But this conclusion is 
evidently wrong. For what im- 
pulse can they imagine to proceed 
from the sun to the moon } Uncul- 
tivated minds are easily deluded 
by unlawful generalizations. They 
apply to all actions what they ima- 
gine to agree with some special 
phenomenon ; and because they see 
tftat in the case of impact \.\veTe \s 
an j/npulse in a ceTtaan duection^ 



they hastily conclude that the direc- 
tion of every action depends on the 
direction of some impulse. We 
may remark that, even in the case 
of impact, it is not safe to conclude 
that the direction of the movement 
will follow the direction of the im- 
pulse, unless the impulse be cen- 
tral, and the body impinged upon 
homogeneous. But leaving aside 
the theory of impact, which has no- 
thing to do with the present ques- 
tion, what impulse can explain the 
continuous resistance of a body to 
statical forces ? What impulse can 
account for the expansive tendenq 
of gases, and for their continuous 
pressure against the recipients in 
which they are contained } What 
impulse, above all, can account for 
universal attraction } 

We have mentioned this objec- 
tion, not because it needed any sci- 
entific or philosophical discussion, 
but simply because it is one of those 
notions to which the prejudices of 
our infancy give easy admittance 
into our minds when we allow our- 
selves to be guided, as is often the 
case, by our senses and imagination, 
in matters pertaining in great part 
to the intellectual order. Our mis- 
takes in the appreciation of the 
character and conditions of natural 
facts most ordinarily originate in 
the unwarranted assumption that, 
since the facts are sensible, our 
knowledge of them must wholly de- 
pend on our senses ; whilst the 
truth is that our senses perceive 
the movements, but not the actions 
which cause them, and therefore 
do not see the entirety of the natu- 
ral facts, but that portion only 
which is most superficial. " A fun- 
damental fact, like an elementar)' 
principle, never fails us," says M. 
Faraday, speaking of natural phi- 
losophy ; " its evidence is always 
U\jLt\ Wt^ QU the other hand, we 
^x^c^WiXX^ \\a.N^ \ft ^^^^N^ax \s the 



Matter. 



733 



fact ? often fail in distinguishing 
it — often fail iij the very statement 
of it — and mostly overpass or come 
short of its true recognition. If 
we are subject to mistake in the in- 
terpretation of our mere sense im- 
pressions, we are much more liable 
to error when we proceed to deduce 
from these impressions (as supplied 
to us by our ordinary experience) 
the relation of cause and effect ; and 
the accuracy of our judgment, con- 
sequently, is more endangered."* 

And now, let no one imagine 
that we have any intention of de- 
nying the existence of a material 
medium between the celestial bo- 
dies. We only deny that there is 
A medium for transmitting actions. 
Again, we do not deny that when 
the earth, for instance, acts upon 
the moon, the elements of matter 
lying between the earth and the 
moon exert their activity on one 
another. But we maintain that 
their actions are their otun^ and 
proceed from their own intrinsic 
and permanent power, and not 
from any extrinsic agent, and that 
such actions are not travelling from 
element to element till they reach 
the moon. Neither do we deny that 
the elements located between the 
earth and the moon are also acted 
on, for it is clear that gravity must 
tend to alter their position in 
space ; but we hold that the whole 
possible effect of gravity on all such 
elements is movement, and that 
movement is a mere change of 
place, and not a transmission of 
ilie action by which it is produced. 
How the movements themselves 
are communicated from element to 
element we shall explain presently. 

Meanwhile, from the fact that 
the elementary actions are inde- 
pendent of all material medium of 
communication, we infer that bo- 

* A LtcCara ottMtatal Kdaoatioo, Loodoo, tSss. 



dies, in attracting and in repelling, 
act with equal promptitude, and 
without loss of time, whether the 
distance of the body acted on be 
great or small. Time, in fact, fol- 
lows movement ; for without move- 
ment there is no succession. Now, 
the action of a body does not reach 
the distant body through move- 
ment — that is, through successive 
transmission ; on the contrary, each 
element is, of its own nature, deter- 
mined to act directly and immedi- 
ately on every other element exist- 
ing in the indefinite sphere of its 
activity. Hence a body will in- 
deed act with a greater intensity at 
a less distance, but will not act 
sooner than at a greater distance. 
There have been scientists who 
surmised that the solar attraction 
may perhaps need time for reach- 
ing the earth and the planets, and 
therefore that the attraction may 
reach Mercury in a shorter time than 
Jupiter or Neptune. From what 
precedes it is manifest that the sur- 
mise is wholly without foundation. 
Light needs time for its propaga- 
tion, because it consists in a kind 
of movement; but attraction, as 
we have just remarked, is not 
movement, and therefore is not de- 
pendent on time. 

Propagation of movements, — W'e 
have shown that there is no mate- 
rial medium for the transmission of 
forces, if the word ** forces " is 
taken to mean "actions"; but if 
the word is intended to express 
"movements," then the material 
medium is quite indispensable. 
We read very frequently in scien- 
tific books that actions are trans- 
mitted; but as this is not true of 
the actions themselves, we must 
suppose that the phrase is intended 
to express only the fact of a pro- 
gressive development of the effects 
resulting from those actions. In 
the same way, when we read that 



734 



Matter. 



actions are conveyed through a 
material medium, we interpret this 
expression as meaning that a mate- 
rial medium is strictly required for 
the progressive development of the 
series of effects due to such actions. 
We will explain the fact by an ex- 
ample. 

If, a mass of air being at rest, a 
string is stretched in order to elicit 
sound, the vibrations of the string 
will be communicated to the neigh- 
boring molecules of air by the ac- 
tion (not by the movement) of the 
string itself; these first molecules, 
being thrust out of their position 
of equilibrium, will, by their action 
(that is, by the exertion of a power 
residing in each of their component 
elements, not of a power coming 
from the string, nor by their move- 
ment, nor by transmitted action), 
put in movement a following set of 
molecules, and so on indefinitely ; 
so that, in the whole series of mo- 
lecular vibrations, each preceding 
molecule causes the motion of the 
following one, and causes it by the 
exertion of its own powers, not of 
any power transmitted. It is evi- 
dent that the string, cannot give 
activity to the molecules of air. 
These molecules, whether the string 
vibrates or not, have already their 
own activity and their own mutual 
action; only their actions balance 
each other as long as the mass of 
air is at rest. But when the string 
begins to vibrate, the equilibrium 
being broken near it, those mole- 
cules of air which first cease to be 
in equilibrium begin to act on the 
following molecules with a differ- 
ent intensity, according to the 
change of the molecular distance. 
Thus the movement by which the 
distance is altered is not the cause, 
but the condition, of the phenome- 
non. 

What we say of alt and sound 



applies to any other medium, as 
ether with its vibrations, whether 
luminous or calorific. The mole- 
cules of ether have their own pow- 
ers, and exert them continually, 
whether there exists a flame deter- 
mining a series of vibrations or 
not; but with the flame the first 
molecules of ether which are dis- 
placed from their position of equi- 
librium will acquire a new local re- 
lation with regard to the following, 
and their actions will be of a new 
intensity, sufficient to cause the 
displacement of the next set of 
molecules, and so on. The flame, 
then, causes the displacement of the 
first set of molecules ; the first set 
displaced causes the displacement 
of the second; the second dis- 
placed causes the displacement of 
the third, etc. ; each set producing 
its own effect by its own inherent 
powers, not by the exertion of any 
power communicated to them by 
the fiame, and their displacement 
being not a cause, but only a con- 
dition, on which the intensity of 
the exertion depends. 

Hence it appears that in phe- 
nomena of this description it is not 
the action, and much less the 
power, that is transmitted, but only 
the movement, or the formal per- 
turbation of the equilibrium; and 
even the movement is not proper- 
ly transmitted^ but only Propagat- 
ed ; because the movement of 
each following molecule is not the 
identical movement of each pre- 
ceding one, but is a movement 
really produced in the very impact 
of the one on the other, as out 
reader must have easily gathered 
from our preceding discussion 
And therefore one movement suc- 
ceeds another indefinitely, the one 
being a condition for the existence 
of the other ; which constitutes pro- 
pagation, not properly transmission. 



TO vft. cnwturavb* 



An tar and Zara. 735 



ANTAR AND ZARA; 

OK. 

"THE ONLY TRUE LOVERS." 

AM BASTERN ROMANCE NARRATED IN SONGS. 
BY ADBRBY DB VBIIB. 

PART V. 

THEY SANG. 
I. 

Sudden, in golden arms he came : 
I stood begirt with maiden bands : 

Sudden he came, all bright like flame ; 
Upon my head he laid his hands. 

" This day past victories I disown : 
This day I seek the battle-field 
A stranger chief, a knight unknown, 
Without a blazon on my shield. 

** Not man, but He the worlds who made, 
My hope shall frustrate or approve "— 
I only bent my knee, and said, 
** Victor or vanquished, thee I love.** 



n. 



They set me on a milk-white horse ; 

Our household tribe around me trod ; 
Like rivers down a rocky course, 

On rushed the warriors vowed to God. 

I rode, the victor's destined prize, 

Last stake when hope was all but gone : 

The flashes from a virgin's eyes 
I^ike music swept the warriors on 1 



75^ Antar and 2^a. 

Twas tlieirs their maid elect to guard, 
The direful battle's gentle guest : 

Twas mine to watch, inspire, reward ; 
To honor all — to crown the best 

But who that stranger chief from far 

That like some brave ship tempest-tossed 

Bore on o'er all the waves of war ; 
Redeemed a battle ail but lost ? 

I knew. The victor's crown I dropp'd 
Upon thy brows, my future lord : 

That night thou satt'st — boon unhoped — 
The first time by my father's board 1 



III. 

The victory ours, the feasting o'er, 
The nameless victor gazed around ; 
** Emir ! I claim the prize of war, 

Thy daughter's hand." My father frowned. 

" Uplift her in thine arms," he said ; 
" Then scale yon hillside smooth and dry : 
This done, my daughter thou shalt wed : 
To halt — forget not — is to die." 

I stood : my beating heart cried out, 
" Thou canst not fail !" That cry he heard : 
He raised me 'mid the warriors' shout ; 
Forward he rushed without a word. 

His breath came quick : his brows grew dark : 
" My brother, lover, friend," I cried : 
He reeled : his eyes were stiff and stark : 
I wept, " This day thou winn'st thy bride !" 

He fell — ^but on the summit won, 
Amid the vast and wide acclaim ; 

He lay, a dead man, in the sun : 
I kissed his lips, and felt no shame. 

Round him the warriors stood amazed ; 

His love — 'twas that brought back his life : 
Down on him long my father gazed, 

Then spaVe, ^^ iil^ ^oT\,Vst.Vvold thy wife !" 



Antar and Zara. 7i? 

IV. 

On carpets heaped mj^ mother sate : 

I sate, I nestled on ker knee ; 
We heard a murmur round the gate : 

My mantle, purple as the sea, 

I drew about my little feet. 

And nearer sought my mother's breast : 
He came ; she spake, not slow to greet 

With courteous words the victor-guest 

Slowly my veil my mother's hands 
Lifted, to boast the battle's prize ; — 
^ Prince 1 thou would'st give thy life and lands. 
If I but raised it to her eyes !" 



V. 



I knew thee well when first we met; 

I knew thee well when seldom seen ; 
When we had parted, plainlier yet 

I read thy nature — ^nay, thy mien. 

Thine earliest glance my tremors stayed ; 

Then softly, and by slow degrees, 
With thee my confidence I made, 

And, pleased, discovered I could please. 

But now that we are drawn so near, 
I lose thee in thine own fair light ; 

Vanish the outlines once so clear : — 
I know thee more by faith than sight 



VI. 



Upon my shoulder, lighdy as a bird. 

Her white hand lit : then back she fled, afraid ; 

Beside my seat once more she stood, nor stirred. 
But loosed her hair, and round me dropped its shade. 



Down to my feet it fell — a sudden night : 
She spake, ''Thy darkness and eclipse am I ; 

But thou my sunrise art, and all my light; 
Still to weak things love grants the victory.'' 
yoL. XIX. — 42 



738 Antsr and Zarm. 

More dulcet than the viol rang her laugh ; 

Low laughed her mother ; laughed her nurse full loud : 
" Not thee I fear," she died, indignant hal^ 
And kissed, methough^ the head o'er wfait^ she bowed. 



My Lyre reproved my childisli mirth ; 

My Lute, reinembering sad, old years, 
Complained, " Tliy feet are yet on earth ; 

Thou caroli'st in the vale of tears." 

I hung my head: ashamed I moved; 
I answered soil with whispering voice, 
" Love ! 'tis thou that stand'st reproved ; 

The feult is thine, if I rejoice ; 
" Not less this covenant have I made: 
I will not fold my hands in sleep 
Till aid to those who cry for aid 
I stretch — have wept with them that w« 



He sang, " I dreamed. Of thee, all night, one thought 
Shone like a white flower on a darkling mere 

Or like one star that flashes, rapture- fraught, 
Through one blue gulf of heaven serene, and clear." 

She sang, " I dreamed not : happiest sleep is deep : 
I woke as wakes the young bird in the woods ; — 

Thy spirit must have hung above my sleep, 

A bower balm-breathing from a thousand buds." 

We strove in song; we sang, my love and I, 

Where laughed the streams, and where the rock's broad brei 
Echoed the untaught, ecstatic harmony : 

We warred in happy songs; but hers was best 



Thou art not mine as I am thine : 
As great, or greater, is thy love ; 

But loftier thoughts above thee shine, 
And lordlier aims before thee move. 



Antar and Zara* 739 

The hand now clasping mine — that hand 

Let drop this hand to grasp the sword ; 
It hurled in ruin from our land 

The impostor Prophet's sons abhorred. 

Manhood fell on thee with my tears 

At parting. With a woman's joy 
I loved the warrior 'mid his peers — 

Twas girlish fancy loved the boy I 



Mother of him I loved and love, 
My mother too, ere long, to be I 

With loving words his choice approve, 
And take thy daughter to thy knee : 

So shall mine eyes, up-gazing still, 
Thine eyes in filial reverence watch ; 

My hand be subject to thy will ; 

My heart from thine its greatness catch. 

The young can learn, and I am young 
And labor to be good and true — 

Tell her, O thou that know'st 1 I long 
To give her age its honors due. 



XI. 

He sang, " Upon the myrtle's silver stem 

Thy name I carved. Henceforth that tree is mine 1" 
Low-laughing 'neath her vine- wrought anadem 

She sang, " Thy name I graved upon the pine I 

" The slenderer hand the stronger bark subdued — 
Say, is it lordlier, bound and tamed to lead 

The forest-monarch from his sunburnt wood, 
Or snare some little bird that took no heed ?" 

We sang in valleys where the spring flowers sprang 
To passionate life : the eagle o'er us sailed : 

Down plunged the torrents, and the gray clifis rang : 
We clashed our songs in war ; but hers prevailed. 



XII. 



Methought to thine my angel spake : — 
Near us he seemed, and yet above— 

" Two children these 1 their sport they take ; 
They teach each other how to \ovt.** 



Antar and Zara. 

Thine angel answered thus to mine : 
" When Virtue, perfected by pain, 
Has changed earth-love to love divine, 
Then, stooping, we will lift these twain 

" From this dnll cave of mortal life 
Low-roofed, and dimly lit with spars. 

To realms with love's whole glories rife, 
And over-vaulied by the stars, 

" Where souls that love their God are one ; 

Where He who made (hem is their joy : 
Play on — too young for love — play on ! 

Your sports are sport of girl and boy !" 



Two bands — they meet; they part — 'tis better so ; 

Parted, they meet to shape one coronal : 
Two feet — they meet; they part, now swift, now slow : 

They pace to music through one palace halL 

Two eyes — they move in concord : wanderers Ion g, 
At last they rest on one unmoving star : 

Two mouths, in kisses met, dispart in song^ 
Sweet-are our meetings; sweet our partings are. 



I come, I go ; yet neither shall repine : 
Sad is the parting ; the return is sweet : 

Once more the battle with a voice divine 
Decrees our severance. Soon once more we meet. 

We part not, save in seeming. We are one. 

In spirit one ; in spirit we rejoice ; 
Two voices are we, blent in unison. 

Two echoes of one mountain-thrilling voice. 

Nearer we are than words, than thought, can reach ; 

Nearer we shall be ; nearest, met on high ; 
Nearest as not belonging each to each, 

But tofti Vo H\TO — that Love Who cannot die. 



The Veil W:lhdrau>n. 



THE VEIL WITHDRAWN. 



\ 



That evening we went to the 
■ra. the next night to the (hea- 
then came invitations without 
iber to a series of dinners, mati- 
and soir/es that succeeded 
each other without intermission. 
[ refrain from enumerating ihem, 
for I am writing the history of my 
soul rather than my exterior life. 
1 will merely say, therefore, that 
after continuing this course several 
weeks, I found myself in a most 
singular and unhappy frame of 
mind. My thoughts, imagination, 
and whole mind became too much 
adsorbed in the amusements and 
pleasures the young are often car- 
ried away with through curiosity 
and a superabundance of life and 
activity, which might be satisfied 
more completely, however, and in 
a less dangerous way, than by a 
career of pleasure, the almost in- 
evitable effect of which is to pro- 
duce a kind of intoxication. This 
intoxication overpowered me to 
a certain degree, but it left me, 
however, the faculty of realizing 
the change that had come over mc, 
and I felt a painful desire to be 
what I once was. I bad no peace 
of mind. I could not reflect or 
pray, even in my short intervals of 
leisure, and, in order to avoid the 
irksomeness of solitude, I gladly 
returned to the round of pleasure 
into which my husband liked to 
draw mc. I had, it is true, the 
double safeguard of his love for me 
and my indilference to any other 



admiration but his, A vague un- 
easiness sometimes crossed my 
mind like an ominous cloud, but I 
did not dream there could possibly 
be any danger for either of us in 
the enervating atmosphere of flat- 
tery and frivolity which we breathed 
more and more constantly. 

Lorenzo continued lo hover 
around me in public, or, if he re- 
mained at a distance, to watch me 
with an attention that was disagree- 
able because it seemed inexplic- 
able. Nothing cotild have pleased 
me more than lo have his eyes al- 
ways meeting mine, and to find him 
everywhere nearenough to speak to ; 
but this was quite a different thing, 
for, even when I was not looking to- 
wards him, I could feel his persis- 
tent eyes fastened on me, and as 
soon as 1 raised my head he would 
turn away as if to avoid encounter- 
ing my glance. Was it with love 
or pride that his eyes thus followed 
me? Was it not rather as if he ex- 
pected to take me by surprise, or 
was mistrustful of me ? When this 
doubt occurred to my mind, I felt 
the blood rush to my face, and love 
and pride revolt in my heart. 

One day we were invited to a 
large dinner-party in one of those 
magnificent houses in Paris which. 
have the now rare advantage of i 
fine garden. It was past the sea- 
son for full dress, and I merelj' 
wore a white muslin trimmed with 
lace, and a wreath of flowers whose 
colors harmonized with that perfect 



742 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



taste shown in everything at Paris. 
When I made my appearance, 
the whole company united in ex- 
claiming that my fresh toilet was 
wonderfully becoming. Perhaps 
they were right. I was of an age 
that flowers suited better than jew- 
els, and my complexion could bear 
the light of day without any dan- 
ger. The days were now at their 
longest, so, in spite of the inter- 
minable length of a grand dinner, 
the delicious twilight hour was 
not quite gone when we rose from 
the table, and all issued forth 
through the windows into the gar- 
den. If ever the sight of the green 
grass, the leaves on the trees, the 
perfume and brilliancy of the flow- 
ers, and the varied hues of the sky 
as day declines, are more attractive 
and grateful at one time than an- 
other, it is certainly when contrast- 
ed with the stifling atmosphere, the 
air impregnated with the odor of 
dishes, and the brilliant artificial 
light, at a grand dinner in mid- 
summer. Therefore it was with in- 
expressible relief and an almost 
child-like joy I flew down the steps 
into the garden as soon as the 
master of the house left my move- 
ments free, and strolled along the 
broad alley that divided the lawn, 
inhaling with delight the freshness 
of the balmy air. . . . My life of 
pleasure had never quenched the 
ardent love of solitude that some- 
times came over me, and I now 
longed to be alone. I desired this 
the more because I felt uneasy 
about a new change in Lorenzo's 
manner, and wished to reflect un- 
disturbed on the inference I should 
draw from it. 

For the first time since our arri- 
val at Paris he had not, to my 
knowledge, watched one of my 
movements, though I had received 
xwovt flattery that day, p^iVxa^s^ 



than ever before. . . . During tie 
dinner he appeared devoted to his 
neighbors — on one side, a lady wko 
was still beautiful, though no longer 
in the bloom of youth ; and on the 
other, a young gentleman with a 
thoughtful, striking face, who giew 
animated whenever Lorenzo ad- 
dressed him, and seemed to reply 
with much interest. I was told 
that the former was Mme. de B — , 
the other the young Count Gilbert 
de Kergy, " a great traveller also," 
added the master of the house, 
beside whom I was seated. " And 
it was solely the hope of meeting 
the Duca di Valenzano that induc- 
ed him to accept my invitation to 
dine with us to-day. He does not 
care for the grami moneU ; and when 
he returns from one of bis extensive 
journeys, he shuts himself up at 
home, or plunges into the charitable 
world, which is another graud 
monde little suspected by strangers 
who only come to Paris for a 
time." 

All this might perhaps have in- 
terested me at some other time, 
but my mind was now occupied in 
trying to ascertain the reality of the 
change I had remarked. It was 
now my turn to give sly glances to- 
wards the other side of the table, 
but I did not once detect Lorenzo 
looking towards me. And yet it 
was not owing to the interest he 
took in the conversation. How 
many times I had seen him appa- 
rently absorbed in conversation, 
while a rapid glance of the eye con- 
vinced me he had been constant- 
ly attentive to every movement I 
made. There was nothing of this 
kind to-day. I knew him too well 
not to p>erceive the difference, but 
I did not know what to think of it. 
or if I had any reason to rejoice 
at it. 

These thoughts beset me during 



The VeU WUhdrawn. 



743 



the trifling conversation that varies 
the tnnui of a large dinner, and 
even prevented me from perceiving 
that our host was a gentleman of 
superior intelligence, and profiting 
by it. Before leaving the table, I 
stealthily turned my eyes once more 
in the direction they had so often 
taken within an hour. It was evi- 
dent that Lorenzo did not trouble 
himself any more about me to-day 
than any other husband about his 
wife in public. But this time I 
perceived his young neighbor look- 
ing at me rather attentively, though 
with a look of seriousness almost 
amounting to austerity, very differ- 
ent from the glances so often en- 
countered in the world which al- 
ways made me lower my eyes. His 
inspired me with a kind of sympa- 
thy, and did not give me the slight- 
est embarrassment. 

I had, however, no opportunity 
for reflection during my walk, for I 
was almost immediately surrounded 
by friends, and I soon turned back 
to hunt for Lorenzo. Daylight 
was almost gone, which made it 
difficult to recognize any one ; but 
at last I discovered him on the 
steps by means of his lofty stature 
and noble features, which were dis- 
tinctly defined against the light of 
the siUon within. Near him sat his 
next neighbor at dinner, holding a 
fan in her hand, and talking in an 
animated manner. Lorenzo ap- 
peared to be listening without mak- 
ing any attempt to reply. Once or 
twice he turned his head towards 
the garden. He was looking for 
me, perhaps. . . . 

It had now grown entirely too 
dark to distinguish any one around 
me. I was standing motionless nea; 
a bench on which sat two or three 
gentlemen talking together. 

** Mme. de B looks almost as 

handsome as ever this evening," 



said one of them. ''One would 
really think she was trying to re- 
gain her ascendency ! . . ." 

" It would be very difficult, how- 
ever, to supplant that lovely, golden- 
haired Sicilian." 

"Impossible, certainly, in the 
eyes of any other man ; but in those 
of her husband, who knows ?" 

This was one of those speeches 
that are always flying at random, 
and striking the ear on every side 
in the world — speeches which one 
hears without listening to, but 
which weaken the moral sense, as 
physical diseases are produced by 
breathing dangerous miasmata too 
frequently. Since I had lived in 
this atmosphere many things of a 
similar nature had been said in my 
presence. Alas ! it was sufficient 
to hear Lorenzo and Lando's con- 
versation to learn how far light 
words of this kind can go. I there- 
fore tried to attach no importance 
to the gossip I had thus accidental- 
ly overheard. Even if Lorenzo did 
formerly pay homage to this now 
somewhat faded beauty, why should 
I care ? That did not trouble mc 
for the moment. My only anxiety 
was to ascertain if his happening to 
meet her was the cause of the 
change I had observed, or if I must 
seek some other. In a word, ought 
I to be anxious or to rejoice ? 

Having escaped, in the almost 
utter darkness, from those who 
tried to detain me, I was slowly ad- 
vancing towards the steps when I 
suddenly met Lorenzo. . . . He 
was in search of me, for he had on 
his arm my thin numtle of white 
cashmere, which he wrapped around 
my shoulders. I joyfully seized 
hold of his arm, and said in a low 
tone : *' Pray do not go in yet, Lo- 
renzo. Let us walk awhile in this 
beautiful covered alley." 

He began to laugh. *'That 



744 



The Veil WUkdrawn. 



would be very sentimental, said 
he, " for people who are no longer 
in their honey-moon ; but no matter, 
1 consent. Honisoii qui maly pense. 
Besides, I see yonder an illuminat- 
ed tent, where, I am told, they are 
preparing a musical surprise for us. 
Let us go in that direction." 

We walked a short distance with- 
out speaking. There was nothing 
absolutely calculated to wound me 
in what he said, but his light, in- 
different tone was not what I long- 
ed to hear. Amid all the excite- 
ment of fashionable society, I felt 
that his love constituted the only 
happiness of my life ; and if I had 
supposed that to be the only cause 
of his vigilance and anxiety con- 
cerning me, I should never have 
sought to escape from it. But I 
had been doubtful about this, and 
felt so still. And I was too open, 
too confiding, and perhaps too 
petulant, to remain in doubt any 
longer. 

"Let us stop here, Lorenzo," I 
said when we arrived at the end of 
the covered walk. "I see people 
coming this way. We can follow 
them into the tent, and it will be 
supposed we came with the crowd." 

In fact, a brilliant soiree succeed- 
ed the dinner. The salons and 
garden were filled with company. 
The light from the tent extended 
to the place where we were stand- 
ing, though we were out of sight. 
I sat down on a bench against a 
tree, and Lorenzo took a seat be- 
side me. 

" I have a question to ask you," 
said I suddenly. " Promise to give 
me a sincere reply." 

He seemed surprised. He raised 
his eyebrows slightly, and his smil- 
ing face became clouded. 

" I do not much like to be ques- 
tioned, Ginevra, I forewarn you." 
But you always seem to like 



.(( 



to have me answer yoar 4ttes- 
tions." 

^ Yes, but without depending on 
it ; for I know how to question and 
obtain an answer without giving 
you the trouble to reply." 

'^ And is that why you look at me 
instead of speaking, and your eyes 
are always following me so atten* 
tively ?" 

He smiled, and made no reply 
for a while. 

'* Perhaps that has been the cause 
of my doing so till to day." 

"Till to-day?" 

" Yes ; since you ask me, I con- 
fess it without any hesitation. Love 
does not always, among its privi- 
leges, possess the faculty of seeing 
clearly. Therefore I have been 
mistrustful of mine, and have not 
allowed it to influence me in the 
least in studying you." 

I made a slight gesture of sur- 
prise. 

"Listen, Ginevra. One never 
knows what a young soldier is till 
his first battle. Neither can one 
tell what a young woman of your 
age is till she appears on the terri- 
ble battle-field of the fashionable 
world. But if I have any faculty, 
it is, I believe, that of not being 
deceived in a study of this kind. 
Be assured, Ginevra, that from this 
time I shall watch you no more." 

" Then, Lorenzo," said I, some- 
what hurt, " you really watched me 
through suspicion, and all this time 
was necessary to convince you I 
am to be trusted ?" 

" I wished to see you under fire/' 
said he, resuming his jesting tone. 
" Do not complain of this, ma 
belle Ginevra. You have come out 
of the trial victorious — victorious 
to such a degree that, though I 
thought you more charming to-day 
than ever, I have not once thought 
of watching you. And yet," con- 



The Veil WUhdrawn. 



74S 



tinned he in a tone he tried to ren- 
der playful, but which was bitter in 
spite of himself, ''those flowers 
that are so becoming to you are 
not all calculated to reassure me/' 
And plucking a red carnation from 
my wreath, he held it up before me 
with a smile that seemed cruel, and 
was about to put it in his but- 
ton-hole when, pale as death, I 
snatched it from his hand, and 
threw it as far as I could. 

^ Lorenzo !" I said in a trembling 
voice, "you are ungenerous! . . . 
and you are very unjust! ..." 

I should have done better to say, 
as well as think, that he did not 
know what he was doing. No ; he 
little knew what had taken place in 
my soul since the day he thus re- 
called, which was so sanguinary, so 
fatal in its results. No ; he could 
not conceive the intolerable pain 
he gave me by thus suddenly reviv- 



ing my regret, my sorrow, and my 
shame ! • . . « 

He could read my heart to a cer- 
tain extent, but how far he was — 
alas! how incapable he was — of 
penetrating to the bottom of my 
soul, and fully comprehending, or 
even suspecting, the radical change 
which that one day had wrought in 
my nature. 

He saw with surprise and alarm 
my agitation and the sudden pale- 
ness of my face, and endeavored to 
calm me ; but I noticed he was at 
once anxious and annoyed about 
the emotion he had excited. 

I made a violent effort to regain 
my self-control, and soon succeed- 
ed in allaying the throbbing of my 
heart. But I felt as if an icy wind 
had crossed my p^th, chilling too 
soon the opening flowers of my 
dawning happiness, and causing 
them to droop their heads. 



XIV. 



Prom that day Lorenzo, as he 
promised, ceased to manifest any 
interest in what I did in society. 
But this apparent confidence af- 
forded me no pleasure. I remained 
painfully wounded at what had 
passed between us. I considered 
his suspicions even more humiliat- 
ing than those of my father, and 
began to feel that the fault I had 
so greatly deplored had not merited 
so long and cruel a chastisement. 

Moreover, I was only relieved 
from the anxiety caused by his 
vigilance to experience another 
which was soon to increase and re- 
veal to me at last my true destiny. 
It did not, in fact, require a long 
time to discover that Lorenzo's 
new attitude was sometimes less 
like confidence than indifference. 
It frequently happened that I 
searched a long time for him in the 



different salons where we were ac- 
customed to spend all our eve- 
nings, without being able to find 
him. One day I perceived him 
talking in a very animated manner 

with Mme. de B , and, when I 

approached, I fancied there was a 
slight expression of displeasure in 
his face, which, though promptly 
concealed, was sufficient to cause 
me a painful sensation of embar- 
rassment. 

When we were alone, however, I 
found him unchanged. Hb man- 
ner towards me had lost nothing 
of its charm ; he seemed as affec- 
tionate as ever, and yet an invisible 
barrier had risen between us, which 
was constantly increasing, and I 
began to experience a feeling of 
solitude that was especially painful 
in society, but from which I was 
nowhere completely exempt. 



746 



The VeU WUhdrawn. 



But the success of my first ap- 
pearance in the world had now 
given way to that of fashion. The 
arrival of some foreign prince, 
whose name I no longer remember, 
prolonged the gay season at Paris 
this year, and one reunion succeed- 
ed another as if it were carnival 
time. There was not one to which 
I was not invited, and, though an 
undeniable need of rest began to 
overpower the feverish activity 
that for some time had come over 
me, I was unable to stop, for I 
began to perceive that a quiet, 
tranquil life was insupportable to 
Lorenzo unless in his studio. Out 
of that, he wished to be incessantly 
in motion, and, as he could not now 
seriously resume his artist life, he 
gave himself up entirely to that of 
the world, and was not yet indiffer- 
ent to the pleasure of having me 
accompany him. 

It was therefore impossible for 
me to extricate myself from the 
giddy round of which I had grown 
so weary, and I sometimes envied 
those who were satisfied with the 
mere pleasure of attracting atten- 
tion. I felt astonished then, and I 
still am, at the wonderful part play- 
ed by vanity in these gayeties, which 
are so different to those who par- 
ticipate in them from what they 
seem to the crowd who are exclud- 
ed. The music, the dancing, the 
splendid apartments, the gayety of 
youth requisite to enjoy all this, 
and, to crown the whole, the plea- 
sure of meeting those who are dear, 
are the chief attractions and keen- 
est enjoyments which cause those 
who have the power of exhausting 
them to be envied by all who are 
deprived of them. If this were 
really all, such a life would be en- 
nobled to a certain degree in my 
eyes, for its dangers and its plea- 
sures would at least be co\xvTcveTvs>\- 



rate with the love and the disappro- 
bation of which they are the object 
But the seductions of the world con- 
sist chiefly in the satisfaction of 
eclipsing others, and the intoxica- 
tion it causes is almost always pro- 
duced, not by the pleasure it gives, 
but by the vanity of those who 
mingle in it. This seems strange 
when we reflect upon it, and we 
can see, without rising very high, 
that not only happiness, but plea^ 
sure, and even amusement, can find 
a better source ; and consequently 
those who really possess these en- 
vied blessings are the people who 
are supposed to be the most de- 
barred from them. 

As for me, I was no longer light- 
hearted, but I tried to appear so 
in society; for the sad expression 
I could not always disguise had 
excited some observations that 
wounded my pride. 

" What ! the fair Ginevra really 
melancholy.?" said Lando Landi, 
sitting down beside me one evening 
at a concert, and speaking in the 
familiar tone authorized by his re- 
lationship, but which was none the 
less displeasing. "I have always 
denied it, bec^se you are so inva- 
riably cheerful when I see you out 
of this everlasting din, as I do 
every day. I only supposed you a 
little weary of so gay a life — a thing 
conceivable, even in your case, for 
one gets tired of everything, even 
of turning people's heads ; but this 
evening you really have the air of a 
tragic muse." 

"I am a little fatigued, that is 
all." 

" Listen to me, cousin, and do 
not treat me so badly. I see you do 
not like me, which proves I am not 
self-conceited ; and I am not angry 
with you, which proves I am not 
malicious. Moreover, I greatly ad- 
Tftivx^ ;iTvd love you, and yet (give 



The VeU WWtdrawn. 



7^ 



ne credit for this) I do not 

iirt to you." 

me, Lando, no more of such 

mt come to the point." 

ras about to beg you to show 

:onfidence in me. You are 

id I will tell you why : you 

sard some nonsensical gossip 

Lorenzo. Now, cousin, let 

you . . ." 

lat gossip .^" I asked, turning 

:h an air of displeasure. 

u understand me perfectly 

I am certain I tell you no- 

ew. It may seem presuming 

k of this, but I must justify 

;o. Believe what I say, and 

: attach any importance to 

ng politeness in memory of 

times, which means nothing, 

illy does not, on my word of 

merit such a flash from your 

ul eyes." 

lad indeed found the means 

ing them flame up. 

ally, Lando,"said I haughti- 

would serve you right if I 
spoke to you again." 

he was evidently so seri- 

:stonished that I saw I was 

He had been presuming 

t knowing it or intending it. 

sfore continued in a milder 

5sure you, you are absolute- 
aken. I am neither sad nor 
s, . . . only a little ennuyie^ 
\ all. And to-night I am 
and wish to return home as 
s possible. Give me your 
nd let us go in search of Lo- 

is not much after midnight," 
I ; " you must really remain 
J longer to hear the last two 

S I tell you I have had 
1 of it. But if you wish to 
I here, you need not feel 
1 to escort me. The first 



person I meet will render me that 
service." 

" Ma che I " said he, rising and 
shaking his head, as he concluded 
to give me his arm. 

We began our voyage of discov- 
ery through the long row of salons^ 
but could not find Lorenzo any- 
where. Lando said nothing, but 1 
noticed he cast a quick, mistrustful 
glance around every room we enter- 
ed, and it occurred to me he had not 
told the truth, but merely wished 
to reassure me when he knew Lo- 
renzo was having a tiU-h-tiie it was 
as humiliating for me to be igno- 
rant of as to discover. Lando had 
touched a sorer spot than I was 
willing he should see. For in spite 
of an apparently very frank expla- 
nation on this point from Lorenzo 
himself a few days before, suspicion 
had entered my heart, and I was in 
constant need of being reassured. 
Was not this acknowledging I al- 
ready had reason to tremble 1 

At length we arrived at the last 
scUon. Lorenzo was not there. 
There was only a small room be- 
yond, not as well lighted as the 
rest. 

" That is the library," explained 
Lando in his way ; ** or, at least, a 
cabinet full of books, where no one 
ever goes." 

An almost imperceptible move- 
ment of his arm made me feel, he 
wished to prevent me from enter- 
ing. This was enough to induce 
me to go straight to the door, where 
I stopped short, at once reassured 
and amazed. Four men were there 
by themselves, sitting around a 
card-table with a green covering. 
Two of them were playing, and 
Lorenzo was one of them; the 
others followed the game with the 
most intense interest. I remained 
leaning, against the door, motion « 
less, and my eyes fastened oa Vvvsok. 



748 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



Was that really Lorenzo? . . . 
What a change in his counte- 
nance! . . . What a strange ex- 
pression in his mobile face! He 
did not perceive me, and I felt that 
my voice would have sounded in 
his ear in vain. He neither saw 
nor heard anything around him. 
His looks, his attention, his mind, 
and his whole being seemed absorb- 
ed in the cards he held in his hand. 
He was calm, but his slightly-com- 
pressed eyebrows showed that luck 
was against him. 

In a few minutes he drew a roll 
of gold pieces from his pocket, and 
threw them on the table. His op- 
ponent rose, but Lorenzo remained 
in his seat, and began a new game 
with one of those who had been 
watching the old one. 

" Take a seat here," said Lando, 
leading me towards one of the sofas 
in the room where we were. "I 
am going to tell Lorenzo you are 
waiting for him. Do not go in 
yourself." 

1 made a sign of assent, and for 
the first time gave Lando credit for 
some tact. His usually smiling 
face had, moreover, an air of anxious 
solicitude that not only surprised 
me, but redoubled the strange, un- 
expected shock I had just experi- 
enced. He went into the next 
room, and, after waiting a long time, 
I at last saw him come out ; but he 
was alone.' 

" It is impossible to speak to him 
till the end of the game,*' he said in 
a tone of vexation. Then, after a 
moment's silence, he added with a 
forced laugh: "My dear cousin, 
you would have done much better 
to follow my advice and wait for 
Lorenzo in the concert-room in- 
stead of coming here after him. 
But since you persisted in doing so, 
allow me to give you one bit of 
advicci now you have caw^l Vvm 



falling into his old bad habit 
again." 

"Again?" I said with an air of 
surprise. 

** Well, yes. . . . For a year he 
did not touch a card, he told me, 
for he well knew that for him the 
mere touch was like a spark that 
kindles a fire. He vowed — ^not to 
play moderately, for he is incapa- 
ble of moderation in anything— but 
never to touch a card again, and he 
expressed great satisfaction some 
days since that he had kept his 
promise so faithfully. But to-day 
he has broken it. Who knows 
what will happen to-morrow? 
Make use, therefore, of the inflnencc 
you still have over him ; use all the 
I>ersuasive powers you possess to 
induce him to resolve once more 
on a wise course. It is a thing, yoa 
may be sure, that threatens your 
happiness, as well as his, a thousand 
times more than all the fair ones 
in the past, present, or future who 
should attempt to rival you !" 

In spite of all that was displeas- 
ing in Lando's manner, language, 
and sentiments, and even in the ex- 
pressions he made use of in giving 
me this advice, I felt it was dictat- 
ed by sincere interest, and it touch- 
ed me. I felt weighed down by this 
new trouble. This was a fear I had 
never experienced before. It was 
absolutely foreign to everything 
that had crossed my mind. Was 
this to live, love, and be happy? 
Everything around me looked dark, 
and the night seemed to penetrate 
to my very soul. 

The time I had to wait seemed 
interminable. The concert was 
over, the rooms were growing emp- 
ty, and we were to be the last. I 
rose with an impatience I could no 
longer control, and went again to 
the cabinet. Lorenzo was rising 
^lom \.Vv^ table just as I entered. 



Thi Veil Withdrawn. 



749 



I taw him slip another roll of 
money into his opponent's hands. 
Then he came towards me with his 
usual expression. It was evident 
he had no suspicion of my having 
been so near him for more than an 
hour. 

** Excuse me, Ginevra," said he. 
" What ! is the concert over ? And 
you had to search for me ? . . . It 
is unpardonable ; but I had no idea 
they would get to the end of that 
interminable programme so early." 

**But it is nearly two o'clock," 
Midi. 

He glanced towards the clock, 
and looked surprised. Lando, 
meanwhile, had hurried away to get 
my cloak; but he soon returned 
with it, saying the carriage was 
waiting for us. I entered it with 
Lorenzo, after giving my hand 
mtore cordially to his cousin than I 
had ever done before. 

On the way home Lorenzo, after 
a long silence, thought proper to 
explain that he had got tired of the 
concert, and for amusement had 
had recourse to a game of ^cari^, 
Lando's words were still in my 
My heart, too, was filled 



with inexpressible anxiety and pro- 
found affection for this dear part- 
ner of my life who was so charming 
in manner, and whom it would 
have been so sweet to love in 
peace ! I leaned my head against 
his shoulder, and, passing my arm 
through his, said : 

" Lorenzo, if I take the liberty 
of giving you one word of advice, 
will you follow \t} If I beg you to 
make me one promise — a promise 
that will render me happy — will 
you not grant it ?" 

He made so abrupt a movement 
that I was almost frightened. But 
he immediately resumed his self- 
control, and, softly kissing my 
hand and forehead, said in a tone 
that was not rude, but which seem- 
ed to forbid all reply : 

*' Ginevra, I think I told you the 
other day that I do not like to be 
questioned, and I now tell you that 
I like advice still less, and, above 
all, I cannot bear to make promises. 
So let this warning suffice. Avoid 
these three shoals, if you wish to re- 
main in my eyes what I now con- 
sider you — the most charming of 
women." 



XV. 



The following day was Sunday. 
Notwithstanding so fatiguing an 
evening, the lateness of the hour 
when 1 retired, and the restless 
night that followed, I was ready for 
Mass at the usual hour. But for 
the first time since my marriage 
Lorenzo sent me word not to wait 
for him. Of course I had never 
been under any great illusion as to 
his religious sentiments. I suppos- 
ed that habit, rather than piety, in- 
duced him to accompany me to 
church ; but I was far from suspect- 
ing that he had hitherto made it a 
point to do so because he thought 



it necessary to keep an eye on me 
there as well as elsewhere. Above 
all, I little expected the habit to be 
laid aside as soon as he was re- 
assured or became interested in 
something else. I consoled my- 
self on this occasion by thinking 
he would go to a later Mass ; and 
for the first time I went out alone 
and on foot, the distance being so 
short between our hotel in the Rue 
de Rivoli and the Church of S. 
Roch. 

The life I had led for two months 
was not precisely adapted to dispose 
my soul for prayer. Besides, ac* 



750 



Tlu Veil WUbdrwm. 



customed as I had been to the 
churches of Italy, those at Paris 
seemed destitute of all beauty, and 
I found it difficult to get used to 
so different an aspect. But other 
impressions soon modified this. 
The goodness and piety that so 
thoroughly impregnated the atmo- 
sphere which surrounded my child- 
hood were rather the spirit of our 
family than of the land that had 
providentially given me birth. And 
yet there is, in Sicily, as well as all 
Southern Italy, a great deal of faith, 
though it cannot be denied that, at 
this time, great moral relaxation 
and religious indifference were too 
prevalent, especially among those 
who belonged to the upper classes. 
There, more than anywhere else 
even, holy soqIs led hidden lives, 
and edification was rather to be 
found in the obscurity of certain 
firesides than in the world at large, 
or even in the usages of public wor- 
ship. All the religious exercises 
of our family were performed in the 
chapel of the old palace we occu- 
pied. This chapel was spacious, 
richly ornamented, and architec- 
turally beautiful. We not only 
heard Mass there on Sundays, but 
every day, and two or three times a 
week Don Placido gave us an in- 
structive, edifying discourse. My 
father, mother, Livia, Ottavia, 
Mario (who, in spite of his faults, 
retained his respect for holy things), 
and several faithful old servants 
constituted the attentive, devout 
congregation. My childhood was 
not wanting in any of those influ- 
ences that have so powerful an ef- 
fect on after-life. Ottavia often 
took Livia and myself to the eve- 
ning Benediction in one of the neigh- 
boring churches, and my heart still 
throbs at the remembrance of the 
pious transport with which I knelt 
before the illuminated tabernacle 



on which stood the monstraiice. 
The church used to be filled soldy 
by people of the humbler classes, 
even on festivals. It was a rait 
thing to find a single person be* 
longing to the upper classes. What 
struck me, therefore, above all, at 
Paris, was the complete difference 
of the churches in this respect I 
was at first even more surprised 
than edified. For if I had oflen 
remarked the absence of the wealdi^ 
in Sicily, here I was struck wi^ 
the absence of the poor. I looked 
around for the people clothed in 
rags, whose fervor had so often re- 
doubled mine, and did not like to 
feel that I was separated from them. 
This separation is much more mark- 
ed, where the custom of private 
chapels has been established. 
Christian equality calls the rich and 
great to the foot of the altar, no 
less than the poor and lowly ; and 
if they do not all meet there, wheth- 
er in France or Italy, we cannot 
blame those whose attendance at 
church is an example to the absent, 
whatever rank they may belong to. 

But to return to this Sunday 
morning. I knelt down and heard 
Mass with much less distraction 
than usual. I was, it is true, rather 
sad than devout at the time, but 1 
prayed more fervently than I had 
done for a long time, and, when I 
slowly and reluctantly left the 
church, the inner soul, that re- 
sounds like a lyre under the divine 
hand, had received a slight touch, 
and for the first time for a long 
while I felt the movement of one 
of those hidden chords that cannot 
be sounded without causing all the 
others to vibrate. 

As I approached the door of the 
church, I noticed a young girl 
kneeling on a chair, whose face d^^, 
not seem wholly unknown to me. 
She held a purse in her hand, and 



The Veil WUhdrawn. 



75 i 



>licitiQg contributions for or- 
I deposited my offering, 
eceived her smiling thanks in 
As I passed on, I heard 
tiisper my name to a lady of 
and distinguished appearance 
! her (whom I supposed to be 
tother), who, with her eyes 
ed on her book, had not ob- 
I me. As I went on, I recol- 
having met this pretty girl 
• three times in company, but 
)t know her name. I felt sur- 
that she should know mine, 
i this often happens to stran- 
'lio are pointed out as objects 
iosity, while they only know 
of those around them, 
ad no time, however, to dwell 
lis accidental meeting, or 
^ enjoy the impressions left 
! services at church ; for Lo- 
s first words immediately re- 
all the recollections of the 

ng. 

)u are late, Ginevra," said he. 

half-past eleven. Breakfast 
:ing, and I am in a hurry." 
took seats at the table in si- 
but he soon resumed : 
)u have scarcely time to dress. 

you forgotten that we are 

to the races } Lando Lan^ 

to come for us before one 

k." 

, I had completely forgotten 

felt an earnest desire to with- 

from the engagement. I 
1 one day of peace and quiet 
. I felt the need of drinking 
re deeply the breath of pure 
lad just tasted. Could I not 
I few hours to myself? Must 
ice go where I should inhale 
rent atmosphere } And what 
losphere ! . . . 
ing that I remained silent 
ad a pensive air, he said in 
)atient tone : 
ell, Gincvra, what is it ? 



What have you to tell me or ask 
me? . . .*' 

I replied without any circumlo- 
cution : ** I have nothing to say, ex- 
cept that I am tired to death of 
those races, and beg you to excuse 
me from accompanying you to-day." 

His face immediately cleared up. 
" Is that all ?" said he. " As to that, 
you are at perfect liberty to do as 
you please. You may be sure," 
continued he, laughing, " that I 
shall only contradict you on great 
occasions. . . . But what will you 
do with yourself this afternoon, if 
you do not go to the races ?** 

" I shall do like everybody else 
in France — go to Vespers." 

He gave a derisive laugh that 
was horrible. ' 

"Everybody else, do you say? 
It would be very difficult to tell how 
many in Paris even go to Mass!" 

I looked at him, as he said this. 
He understood my meaning, and 
appeared displeased. 

" Come, Ginevra," said he in an 
ill-humored manner, "are. you go- 
ing to insist that I must always 
agree with you ?" 

" By no means, Lorenzo, you 
know very well." 

" But you did not like it because 
you had to go to church without 
me this morning." 

I hesitated an instant, but at last 
replied with some emotion : 

" Of course I love to have you 
with me wherever I go, and more 
especially there ; but it would be 
better, however, for you to go to 
church always without me than 
ever to go solely for me." 

This reply increased his displea- 
sure, and he said in a tone he had 
never used before : 

" Unfortunately, the truth is, my 
dear child, if I should consult my 
own inclinations, I might perhaps 
never go at all." 



753 



The Veil Withdrawn. 



Tears came inlo my eyes, and 
my heart ached with the strongest 
fcding of grief I had ever expe- 
rienced ! . . , 

O my God I ... I must have 
had some love for thee, even at that 
time, since the very thought of any 
one's not loving thee caused me so 
much pain ! . . . 

Lorenzo's tone, look, and whole 
manner not only showed his utter 
indifference, but the complete in- 
credulity he felt. I had never sus- 
pected it before, because it was 
something foreign to my experi- 
ence. I knew it was possible to 
violate the law of God, but did not 
know it could be denied, I un- 
derstood lukewarmness and negli- 
gence, for I had seen both in 
others as well as in him ; but I had 
never before encountered lack of re- 
pentance and ignorance of duty. 
This cold denial of any love for 
God and of all belief in him Lo- 
renio, of course, had not expressly 
declared, but it had been betrayed 
by his manner doubtless even more 
than he would have wished. With 
all the inconsistencies of my char- 
acter and the faults of my age, he 
must have seen that I had too live- 
ly and profound a faith not to be 
displeased at anything that jarred 
on it, and heretofore he had been 
circumspect without being hypo- 
critical. 

He saw the effect he had pro- 
duced, and, as he had not become 
indifferent to me, he regretted it; 
but he knew he could not at once 
repair his mistake, and contented 
himself for the moment by trying 
to divert my mind from it by a 
change of subject. And I likewise 
felt it would be better to talk of 
something else. This prudence 
was by no means natural to my 
disposition, but I began to under- 
stand his. Besides, Viw w^wRt- 



tions of the evening before vcK 
still too recent to be forgotten. 

The conversation did not \&\ 
long, for Lando, punctual to his 
engagement, arrived at half-i»ii 
twelve with a beaming face, a flow- 
er in his button-hole, and in be 
hand an enormous bunch of violcis 
destined for me. 

"What!" he exclaimed wbtn 
he learned my intentions for ibc 
afternoon. . . . " But that isirapOi- 
sible ! Not go to the races? Why, 
you must. Remain at home wh« 
the weather is the finest in iht 
world ? I never heard of socll ■ 
thing. . . . Deprive me of the 
pleasure of taking you in my «■ 
lichf, and making everybody envy 
me .' , . , That is the most end 
caprice that ever entered a wo- 
man's head ! . . ." 

Here Lorenzo left the room »n 
instant to look for his hat, and 
Lando suddenly began in another 
tone : " 1 am in earnest, cousin 
Vou would do much better in 
go." 

What did he mean ? I remained 
doubtful and troubled, but Loren- 
zo immediately returned, and 1 bvl 
no time for reflection. As ibcj 
were leaving the room, my has- 
band approached, and, taking ne 
by the hand, looked at me within 
expression his eyes now and then 
assumed, and which always dis- 
persed, as by some enchantment, 
the clouds that rose too often be- 
tween us. He slightly caressed 
my cheek with the glove in his 
hand, and whispered with a smile: 

" Come, Ginevra mia, do not 1« 
angry. Let me see you smile 
again." 

Then turning towards Landt), 
" It is not yet one o'clock," bf 
said. " I-et us start, and, before 
going to the Bois dc Boulogne^ «< 
wVW ^\ii^ at the Madcleiae. 



The Veil Witlidf awn. 



753 



His looks, as well as his words, 
allayed my anxiety ; but a thousand 
different ideas crossed my mind, 
and after they were gone I remain- 
ed thoughtfully leaning on the 
balustrade of my balcony, where I 
followed them with my eyes to the 
end of the street, wondering what 
Lando meant, and if I had really 
dene wrong not to accompany 
them. 

The weather at that time was 
fine. The clearness of the sky, as 
well as the verdure of the trees, at- 
tracted my attention more than the 
aspect of the street, and of the gar- 
den already filled with the crowd 
of animated, happy, and gayly- 
dressed people, that give every 
pleasant summer day at Paris the 
appearance of a festival. But I 
was absorbed in my own thoughts, 
and looked at it all without notic- 
ing anything. I had a vague feel- 
ing that, among the dangers that 
seemed to encompass me in the new 
life into which I had been thrown, 
there were two I had special 
reason to dread. The first — the 
greatest — would have broken my 
heart, and on that I could not dwell 
for an instant. ... The second 
threatened the loss of our property, 
and would diminish our income, if 
not absolutely ruin us. This, too 
was alarming, but much less so than 
the other in my eyes, though just 
the contrary in Lando's estimation, 
if I read him aright. After con- 
siderable reflection, I concluded 
that he merely referred to some- 
thing of the same nature he had al- 
luded to the evening before, and 
I put it aside to ask myself with far 
deeper anxiety if I had really had 
a glimpse of Lorenzo's heart, as he 
looked at me on leaving the room, 
or whether he was playing a part, 
and deliberately deceiving me. The 
heavenly expression that some- 

VOL. XIX. — 48 



times beamed from his eyes always 
inspired me with a confidence in 
him that was equal to my affection. 
I had just experienced its effect. 
The look, however, was so transient 
that it rather resembled the reflec- 
tion of a distant light than any 
actual, real feeling. Whereas his 
mocking laugh and the tone that 
to-day for the first time accompan- 
ied it were — alas! I could not 
doubt it — the expression of his real 
sentiments, and this contradiction 
terrified me. . . . He seemed to 
possess two xiatures, and my head 
grew weary iu trying to decide 
which of the two was his real one — a 
question I frequently had occasion 
to ask afterwards, and to wait a 
long time for the reply — as doubt- 
ful to him then as it was to mv- 
self. ... ^ 

I left the window, and, buried in 
an arm-chair, I allowed the time to 
pass away in reflections of this kind 
without opening the book I held in 
my hand, or noticing the gradual 
obscurity of the sky, that a short 
time before had been so clear. It 
was not threatening enough, how- 
ever, to hinder me from going on 
foot to Vespers, which it was near- 
ly time for, the hour not being as 
late at S. Roch's as elsewhere. I 
started without any delay, giving 
orders for my carriage to be at the 
church door at the end of the ser- 
vice. 

The salutary impressions of the 
morning and the excessive anxiety 
and sadness that I after^-ards ex- 
perienced had somewhat counter- 
acted the more or less unhealthv 
influences that result from a con- 
tinued life of pleasure. I was now 
in that frame of mind when it is 
easy to collect one*s thoughts; 
when the soul, so to speak, flies to 
the first place of refuge in which it 
is sure of repose. . . . Who- haii 



754 



The Veil WUhdrawn. 



not experienced the strange, mys- 
terious, refreshing influence of 
prayer, even when mute and inar- 
ticulate ? . . . Who has not, in this 
way, laid down for an instant all 
his sorrows, all his fears, all his suf- 
ferings, and afterwards taken up the 
load again with a renewed strength 
that seemed to have lightened the 
burden? . . . 

I had suffered but little at that 
time in comparison with what life 
still had in reserve for me. But 
after a while we learn to suffer, and 
in this science, as in all others, it is 
the beginning one always finds the 
most difficult. A fearful storm, it 
is true, had assailed the first flower 
of my spring-time, and spread dark- 
ness and gloom over the heavens 
of ray sixteenth year; but spring- 
time and the sun returned, and at 
an age when others only begin life 
I was commencing mine the second 
time. But this new life of happi- 
ness was, I now felt, threatened in 
a thousand ways. Apprehension, 
a worse torture than sadness; a 
vague, undefined fear, more diffi- 
cult to endure than the woes it an- 
ticipates; the uncertainty, doubt, 
and suspicion, so much more intol- 
•erable to one of my nature than 
any positive suffering, rendered my 
heart heavy and depressed, and I 
felt it would be a relief to weep 
;is well as to pray. 

I knelt on the only vacant chair 
in the church, and remained a long 
time motionless, my face buried in 
my hands, unable to give utterance 
to my wants, but knowing God 
could read my heart, as, when we 
meet a friend after a long separa- 
tion, we are often silent merely be- 
< ause we have so much to commu- 
nicate, and know not where to 
begin. In this attitude I heard 
Vespers sung for the first time in 
niyilife, this office of the church 



being, as b well known, much less 
frequently used in the south of 
Italy than in other places. I have 
already mentioned the public re- 
ligious observances of my child- 
hood. I had, therefore, never heard 
Vespers chanted in this way. The 
voices of the choristers were har- 
monious, and the responses were no 
less so. A large number of the 
congregation joined in the chant. 
There was something monotonous 
rather than musical in it, but it was 
more musical than reading, and it 
produced a strangely soothing in- 
fluence on me. I laid aside all 
thought of myself, and attentively 
followed the admirable lines of the 
Psalmist ; and when the Magnificat 
was intoned, I rose with the whole 
congregation to chant this divine 
hymn with a sensation of joy and 
hope that, for the moment, made 
me forget the painful impressions I 
felt when I entered beneath these 
arches now resounding with its 
words. . . . 

Benediction followed, recalling 
the earliest, dearest remembrances 
of my childhood, and increasing the 
emotion I already felt. When the 
monstrance containing the divine 
Host was placed above the altar, I 
lost all thought of where I was. I 
forgot whether it was Paris, Rome, 
or Messina, and whether the arches 
above me were those of some magni- 
ficent church, or some humble cha- 
pel, or a mere oratory like that in 
which I had prayed from my child- 
hood. What difference did it make ? 
The sun shines everywhere alike, and 
diffuses equal light in all places. 
How much more truly shines 
throughout the whole Catholic 
world the living, uncreated Light, 
present on all our altars ! Time 
and place were forgotten. I was 
once more with my beloved mo- 
ther, once more with Livia, my 



Pius VI. 



755 



t, saintly sister, and the faith- 
Ottavia; and when, at the 
of one of those hymns that 
isually sung before the Bless- 
Sacrament, a young voice, 
and clear, uttered the word 



Patria^ it seemed at that moment 
to have a double meaning, and de- 
signate, not only my earthly, but 
my heavenly country. 

• In the O SaiuiarU Hntia I 



rO BB COKTIKUBD. 



PIUS VI. 



[09E were terrible days. Even 
lithful quailed, and asked each 
timidly whether it was pos- 
that God's enemies had at 
revailed, and that the Rock had 
shaken and the Word pass- 
way. Voltaire had come and 
his work, and gone, leaving a 
generation behind him to fight 
devil's cause, to flaunt his 
lard over Christendom, to re- 
*the Galilean," and wage war 
ist his church — the subtle, dead- 
irsevering war of envious ha- 
conquered impotence, malig- 
fury. There was a shout 
illish triumph throughout the 
i of Voltaire's disciples; it 
ed as if their victory was now 
e ; the old man of the Vatican, 
for generations had remained 
nquerable as fate, was in the 
r of the soldier who had con- 
jd fate, who held Europe 
le hollow of his hand, who 
1 up kings with a nod, and over- 
f dynasties with a word. He 
overcome the world, why 
Id he not overcome the pope ? 
bad demolished a score of 
les, why should he not annihi- 
this fisherman's chair that for 
iteen centuries had defied the 



combined forces of the world? 
Poor fools ! Why not ! 

Jean Angelo Braschi was born 
at Cesena on the 27th of Decem- 
ber, 17 1 7, of a noble but poor fam- 
ily. His parents left him all the 
patrimony they had, a faith of the 
royal antique sort, and an education 
worthy of the name he bore. He 
was little more than a boy when 
Clement XIV. saw of what stuff 
the young cleric was made, and ap- 
pointed him his secretary. This 
was Braschi's first step on the lad- 
der which was to lead him to the 
perilous heights of the purple — " the 
dye of empire and of martyrdom." 

When Clement XIV., pursued by 
the entreaties and threats of Euro- 
pean potentates, yielded a weak con- 
cession to their cabals, and spoke 
of " reform " to the general of the 
Jesuits (who answered, Loyola-like, 
in royal scorn of the implied cal- 
umny : Sini ut sunt, ant non sini)^ 
Braschi, then cardinal, took his 
stand by their side, resented every 
outrage offered to the sons of Igna- 
tius, those courtiers of martyrdom 
in all ages, and thus vindicated his 
future claim to a place in the palm- 
bearers* ranks. He opened his 
house to the perstcM\.Q.d ^^^\i\\.^\ V^ 



756 



Pius VI. 



braved everything in his unswerv- 
ing, uncompromising fidelity to 
their order. What else could be- 
fall him but the crown of the con- 
fessor or the martyr ? 

Europe hailed his accession with 
delight. The pulses of the rising 
monster, Revolution, were beginning 
to beat, and the nations were grow- 
ing afraid, they knew not yet of 
what ; but all eyes were turned to 
Rome, as to the rock where the 
safety of the world was anchored. 
The advent of a man like Pius VI., 
firm as adamant, who could brave 
death, not merely for the faith, but 
for every tittle of principle which 
the uttermost integrity of the faith 
included — a man whom his enemies 
likened to Moses for his meekness, 
and to Solomon for his strong wis- 
dom ; who lived like an anchorite 
and officiated with the splendor of 
the prophet king, who loved the 
beauty of God's house and the 
place where his glory dwelt — the 
advent of a priest like this to the 
papal throne gave joy all over 
Christendom. 

Pius VI. was elected on the 15th 
of February, 1775. Seldom has 
the weight of that unearthly crown 
fallen more heavily on its wearer's 
brow than it fell on that of the new 
pontiff. In the temporal order he 
saw before him a mountain to be up- 
lifted ; in the spiritual order no far- 
seeing eye could fail to detect the 
ominous signs of the coming storm. 
Pius lost not a moment in design- 
ing and carrying out vast schemes 
of material improvement in his 
dominions. In those days the Pon- 
tine marshes were swamps of poi- 
son that had hitherto defied all pet- 
ty attempts at reclaiming them. 

" How do you live in this dread- 
ful place ?" inquired a traveller of 
one of the inhabitants of the dismal 
soil. 



"Signor, we do not live; wc 
die !" was the answer. 

Pius VI. declared that henceforth 
they should live. Colossal works 
were set on foot, and, if the pesti- 
lential marshes were not radicallv 
purified, they were so much im- 
proved as to justify the people in 
proclaiming the energetic pontiff 
as the worker of that miracle. 
During his pontificate the draining 
was so successful that Pius himself 
declared this alone was ample 
reward for all his sufferings. The 
port of Ancona was repaired, and 
its entrance adorned with a light- 
house ; works of art were sought for, 
revealed, and cherished. Spiritual 
works were founded and fostered 
with royal munificence and pater- 
nal care. The Christian Brothers 
were called to Rome and a noble 
school built for them, on the front 
of which was inscribed the title so 
glorious and so dear to the Vicar 
of Christ : " Pius VI., the Father 
of the Poor." 

But not even the wisdom and 
prestige of this ideal pontiff could 
suffice to shelter him from the 
tempest that was slowly but stead- 
ily travelling towards the Holy 
City. The infidel philosophers of 
France and Germany had done 
their work; they had sown, and 
now the time had come for reap- 
ing. Austria first showed symp- 
toms of disaffection. Joseph II., 
who was too cowardly to rescue 
his own sister * from the hands of 
the torturers, had become the tool 
of his minister, Kaunitz, whose 
delight it was to worry the pope 
with the small artillery of a cun- 
ning and treacherous diplomacy. 
These weapons, however, were not 
the ones that could move Pius VI. 
They glided off from the shield 

* Marie Aotooette. 



Pius VI. 



7S7 



of his unalterable patience, humil- 
ity, and truth like arrows from a 
marble surface. Nor could the 
weak monarch withstand the charm 
of the saintly pope when he came 
within its influence. He rallied to 
his side when he visited Rome in 
1783, and promised to be faithful 
to him. But it was a broken reed, 
the friendship of the vacillating 
Joseph. 

Spain, Tuscany, and Venice next 
came to sadden the Holy Father's 
heart and strengthen his growing 
fears. His gentleness held them 
captive for a time; but they too 
were of the tribe of broken reeds. 
When friends prove false, then is 
the time for the treason of foes to 
flourish. Catherine of Russia, the 
woman with the wily head of the 
snake joined to the cruel heart of 
the tiger, came with honeyed words 
of reverence to tender offers of ser- 
vice, nay, even of allegiance, to 
Pius. A far-sighted woman, this 
tiger queen who was stealing into 
Poland, and sucking the nation's 
blood, as she crawled into its heart. 
Then there was Frederick of Prus- 
sia, more honest than many a self- 
styled son of the church in those 
days ; he was grateful to the prince 
who flrst assigned him his title of 
king. Gustavus III. came to do 
homage to the man who had 
drained the Pontine marshes, and 
made a noble road through that re- 
gion, so long the tomb of all who 
dwelt within its poisonous area. 
Pius received these marks of cour- 
tesy with his accustomed gentle 
grace ; he knew what they were 
worth, and was grateful without 
being beguiled. They were, in 
truth, the last rays of the sun that 
was soon to set in darkness over 
his reign, and to close it in suffer- 
ings unparalleled for fourteen cen- 
turies in the annals of the church. 



France was to give the signal, and 
she was now ready. P'rance, that 
had so often raised the standard of 
the church, and defended it with 
the blood of her fairest chivalry — 
France was to sound the war-crv 
hounding on the fanatics to the de- 
struction of her own purest glory. 
The Reign of Terror was inaugu- 
rated. The Constituent Assembly 
had decreed the civil constitution 
of the clergy. Bishops were no 
longer to be what they had hitherto 
been; they were henceforth to be 
the nominees of an unbelieving 
mob ; the beautiful structure of the 
spiritual hierarchy was to be de- 
stroyed. To legalize the crime, an 
oath was exacted from the priest- 
hood; those who refused to take 
it — and their name was legion — 
were deprived of the pittance al- 
lotted them by the state, and turned 
away to starve. Sixty thousand 
preferred starvation to the bread 
thus bought at the price of perjury. 
Of one hundred and thirty-eight 
bishops, four only took the oath. 
Monasteries were dissolved ; scan- 
dals arose on all sides. The pai)al 
nuncio, Cardinal de Bernis, was in- 
sulted and compelled to fly from 
Paris. The pope was burned in 
effigy. Thus did France sound the 
tocsin that was to herald in the 
earthquake — " a great horror of dark- 
ness and shakings of the world, and 
a cup of trembling which all the na- 
tions shall drink." Faith is being 
driven out, and " philosopliy " is rid- 
ing in like a conqueror on her ruins. 
Peace and the brave pageant of 
virtue and all goodly things are 
banished, and in their place enter 
decay and chaos and unbelief; 
and then the Revolution is ready. 
The world is wheeling round, hu- 
manity is going mad, nothing is 
stable on the earth — nothing but 
the rock of Peter ^ ^^^.vc^^V. ^Vi\0«v 



758 



Pius VI. 



the storm beats in foolish and im- 
potent rage. Pius raises his voice 
above the whirlwind, and those 
who hearken hear it : " God is un- 
changeable. Truth is immutable. 
The church can make no compro- 
mise. Let us stand faithfully by 
the cross. God will save his own 
and redeem his word." Avignon 
exhibited a hecatomb of murdered 
priests. On the 24th of October, 
1 791, over two hundred were butch- 
ered in the Glaciire of that city. 
In September of the following year 
three bishops and three hundred 
priests were on one day massacred 
in Paris. Numbers fled to Rome 
for protection. The fragments of 
the altar and the throne met in the 
Eternal City — Mesdames de France 
and the King and Queen of Sardi- 
nia, proscribed prelates and priests ; 
and Pius opened his fatherly arms 
to all. This shelter was, however, 
soon to be torn from them. 

On the 15th of February, 1793, 
the commandant of the French 
fleet at Naples walked into the 
Roman consulate, and ordered the 
consul to hoist the red flag and the 
cap of liberty over the building. 
The consul refused ; a row ensued ; 
blood was shed. The French gov- 
ernment declared itself insulted, 
and threatened the pope in violent 
language. Meantime, the Directory 
succeeded to the Convention, and 
people drew a long breath, and 
hoped a change had come for the 
better. But, as Camot said : " If 
now there was less blood shed, 
there were more tears." The guil- 
lotine was still erect, and its work 
only slackened because the arms 
of the executioners were weary. 
The republican armies were pro- 
gressing in their triumphal march- 
es. Italy still remained to be con- 
quered. Bonaparte was entrusted 
with the expedition. A. s^jries of 



victories brought him quickly to 
the gates of Rome. He proposed 
the most humiliating conditions to 
the Sovereign Pontiff. Pius was sum- 
moned to cancel every bull, brief, 
and pastoral that the H<^y Sec had 
issued from the beginning of the Rev- 
olution to the present time. The 
pope firmly refused to comply. Bo- 
naparte was at flrst full of insolent 
fury, and threatened to annihilate 
Rome and the Vatican. He relented, 
however, not out of defe rence to Pius, 
but to show his defiance of the home 
government, and drew up a treaty of 
his own invention, which, ruinous as 
it was, the Holy Father meekly sign- 
ed, in order to save his people and 
prevent bloodshed. This treaty 
of Tolentino, as it was called, secur- 
ed to Bonaparte the sum of thirty- 
one millions of francs, sixteen hun- 
dred cavalry horses, and a portion 
of the Romagna. The Roman 
treasury was drained by this mon- 
strous ransom ; the people were 
starving, the misery was terrible. 
Pius was broken-hearted, but his 
courage, fed by a faith that was 
anchored in God, never faltered. 
His conduct all through these 
dreadful days was that of a saint. 
He found his only solace in prayer 
and in fortifying the faith of his 
suffering flock. But he had as yet 
only tasted the flrst drops of his 
chalice. The Directory had resolv- 
ed to get possession of Rome. 
A pretext must be created, since 
Pius would not furnish even the 
semblance of one, for breaking the 
iniquitous treaty, which had thus 
far secured to him the integrity of 
the Holy City. General Duphot 
was fired on by the Roman troops 
acting in discharge of their duty. 
Berthier was at once ordered to 
leave Ancona, where he was station- 
ed with the French army, and to 
march on Rome and encamp under 



Pius VI. 



759 



ills. His first step was to 
a proclamation exciting the 
IS to revolt, insulting and 
niating the pope and his 
iment, and announcing him- 
the liberator of an oppressed 
He entered the city next 
id took possession by placing 
►n the museums and galleries, 
were '^henceforth the pro- 
of the grande nation that had 
to set free the Roman peo- 
A tree of liberty was planted 
capitol ; tricolor flags float- 
the public monuments, and 
•r ribbons decked the ears 
ircus Aurelius' horse. The 
Father was outraged in his 
ouse; his furniture was taken 
lim, and his jewels; he was 
led even of his pontifical 
; his private library, a valua- 
►llection of 40,000 volumes, 
ized and sold to a dealer for 
crowns. The deliverers of 
crowned these proceedings 
iting their victim to wear the 
r cockade by way of a badge 
lority from France. Pius VI. 
1 with majestic meekness : 
1 wear no livery but that with 
the church has clothed me." 
.nswer was distorted into an 
ng challenge to the French 
iment, and Haller immediate- 
eived orders to convey the 
)y force out of Rome. Pius 
pleaded his age and many 
ities, and entreated the poor 
of being allowed to die in the 
of his people. " Oh ! for 
tatter, you can die wherever 
e," was the brutal retort, and 
res were commenced for carry- 
m away by force, in case he 
iny resistance. This was not 
; but the old pontiff^s heart 
eaking. " God*s will be done !** 
irmured. ** Let us bow to 
^er he sees good to ordain !" 



Forty-eight hours were all that 
was allowed him to prepare for this 
sudden departure. He devoted the 
short time entirely to the affairs of 
the church and to the performance 
of his religious duties. The night 
of the 2oth of February was fixed 
for the departure. It was late 
when Haller brusquely entered the 
Holy Father's room, and found him 
prostrate before the crucifix, bathed 
in tears. " It is time to go," he said, 
and the French escort entered and 
rudely hurried the old man down 
the Vatican stairs and into the car- 
riage that was waiting for him. In 
it were seated his physician and 
his groom of the chambers, and two 
other officers of his household. 
The people followed the carriage, 
loudly lamenting, and invoking all 
blessings on their beloved pastor. 
At Viterbo many French priests 
flocked round him with the Italian 
crowds, and fell on their knees for 
a last benediction. The first halt 
of the travellers was in Tuscany. 
The Directory would fain have sent 
their august prisoner to Sardinia, 
but they were deterred in this by 
fear of the English government, and 
so proceeded to Sienna, where for 
three months the August inian con- 
vent had the privilege of harbor- 
ing the persecuted Vicar of Christ. 
Whilst here the finger of Providence 
showed visibly its protecting care of 
him. The Holy Father had just left 
his room one morning when the ceil- 
ing fell in, and crushed everything 
beneath it ; the house was violently 
shaken by an earthquake, and suf- 
fered much damage. This event 
forced Pius to seek hospitality at 
the Monastery of Chartreuse, in 
Florence, where he arrived on the 
2d of June. Here some tender con- 
solations awaited him. The Grand 
Duke of TvLScaiv^ c^rcv^ It^Q^^TNSN.'^ 
to the (eel oC \\vs v^tv^x^x.^^ ^^^\.Qt> 



76o 



Pius VI. 



to assure him of his loyal at- 
tachment. The King and Queen 
of Sardinia also gathered round him. 
driven from Rome, where they had 
been so lovingly welcomed on being 
robbed of the throne which the 
saintly sister of Louis XVI. had 
adorned so nobly. Her husband 
had ever been a devoted son of the 
Holy Father, and now declared that 
the sight of his serenity in the 
midst of trials so overwhelming was 
enough to make him forget his own 
sorrows. 

" I cannot regret my throne, for 
I find more than it gave me at the 
feet of your Holiness !" he once ex- 
claimed. 

"Alas! beloved prince," re- 
plied Pius, " all is vanity here be- 
low. What examples of this are we 
both ! Let us look up to heaven ; 
there await us those thrones that can 
never perish." They entreated him to 
go with them to Sardinia the moment 
it was possible for themselves to re- 
turn there ; but Pius refused. He 
alleged his age and suffering health 
as a reason for remaining where he 
was; but the true motive was the 
fear that his presence in the gener- 
ous king's dominions might prove 
fatal to him and his people. They 
parted with many tears, never to 
meet again on earth. 

All this time the captive pope 
devoted his whole mind to the gov- 
ernment of the church and the 
.strengthening of his afflicted chil- 
dren. He lost no opportunity of 
sending messages of encouragement 
to those who were at a distance, 
exhorting them to suffer cheerfully, 
pointing to the day of joy and 
of triumph that would soon dawn 
after the short night of darkness. 
His own serenity was a fountain of 
hope and sweetness to all who be- 
held it. Like the great apostle, he 
seemed in deed aivd m truth to 



glory in his infirmities and in Christ 
crucified. 

A multitude of proscribed priests 
and prelates had fled to England, 
whence they wrote eloquent letters 
of condolence to their captive chief, 
protesting their allegiance to him 
and to the faith, and their readiness 
to die for both, if needful. These 
proofs of devout affection deeply 
moved the Holy Father, and consol- 
ed him for much. The Directory 
began at last to feel alarmed at the 
attitude of foreign cabinets towards 
the Holy See. England spoke in 
fearless condemnation of the cruel- 
ty of the French government towards 
Pius, and made no disguise of her 
sympathy with the exiled priests 
and royalists. France commanded 
the Grand Duke of Tuscany to 
drive the pontiff out of his states; 
but that prince replied with royal 
dignity : " I did not bring the pope 
here, and I certainly will not drive 
him away." The grand duke paid 
for his boldness ; his dominions were 
forthwith invaded, and Etruria ad- 
ded to the French territory. Aus- 
tria was next appealed to, and re- 
quested to receive the pope into 
custody, a convent on the Danube 
being named as a suitable abode; 
but Austria haughtily declined. 
Spain lastly refused to become his 
jailer. 

Nothing, therefore, remained but 
to secure his person by bringing 
him to France. Humanity cried 
out against the barbarity of subject- 
ing the venerable old man to so 
long and painful a journey in his 
present state; but France had no 
ears for the voice of humanity. 
Pius VI. was now partially paralyz- 
ed; he was covered with blisters, and 
unable to move without labor and 
acute pain. But what of that? 
He was dragged to Parma, where a 
few days' rest was granted. The 



Pius VI. 



761 



al men even then declared 
would not take the responsi- 
of proceeding with their pri- 
lest he should die on the road. 
French commissioner, impa- 
)f so paltry an obstacle in the 
►f his orders, burst into the 
> room, flung down the bed- 
s, and, seeing with his own 
he truth of the report, turned 
heel with the remark, " Alive 
id, he must go on !" 
J cortege started accordingly. 
>ng the road the gentle mar- 
as cheered by the love and 
f the people. Multitudes ran 
les by the side of his carriage, 
raded, weeping, and invoking 
essing of the Most High upon 
Pius was moved to tears at 
ght of their courage in thus 
r compassionating him, and 
lis suffering hand, almost dis- 
as it was, he made an effort 
ss them again and again from 
ndow. 

the 24th they reached Milan, 
iscort, in order to hide his 
ice fronl the people, and pre- 
iimilar scenes of enthusiasm 
indignation, conveyed their 
er into the citadel at three 
k in the morning. On the 
they hurried him out of his 
in the dead of the night, and 
ycd him secretly to Oulx, and 
txt morning they started to 
;he Alps. Who shall describe 
ifferings of Pius VI. during 
ransit ? His body was now 
ound ; his feeble strength was 
t spent; he seemed scarcely 
han a breathin g corpse. They 
I him roughly in a sort of sedan- 
while the rest of the escort 
ed on mules. The road over 
Duntains was precipitous and 
; every step was agony to 
ffcring pontiff. The cold was 
e. Some Piedmontese officers, 



touched with compassion, took off 
their warm pelisses, and begged him 
to use them ; the Holy Father thank- 
ed them with emotion, but refused. 
" I do not suffer," said he gently, 
"and I have nothing to fear; the 
hand of God is upholding me. 
Courage, my friends! Let us put 
our confidence in God, and all will 
be well with us." 

On the 30th the wayfarers reach- 
ed Brian9on. Pius was visibly 
moved on beholding the soil of 
France, that unhappy land where- 
such fearful crimes were being per- 
petrated, but where God was al- 
ready preparing miracles of repent- 
ance. He was taken to the hospital 
for a lodging. The people, horrified 
at the wretched, attenuated aspect 
of the Vicar of Christ, a prisoner 
in the hands of the men who had 
deluged their country in blood, were 
loud in expressing their pity and re- 
spect ; they flocked in crowds round 
the hospital, calling out for the Holy 
Father to appear at the window and 
bless them. But the jailers forbade 
him to show himself, and forced the 
people to disperse. The few com- 
panions of his exile who had ac- 
companied him so far were now ta- 
ken from him, his confessor and 
valet being alone permitted to re- 
main. This cruel isolation lasted for 
nearly a month, and would no doubt 
have been continued still longer if 
the progress of Soovorof's army in 
Italy had not frightened the Directo- 
ry, and decided them to send their 
prisoner further on to Grenoble, 
where he was rejoined by his faithful 
attendants. Watched and humiliated 
as he was, his journey hither was one 
long ovation in every village and 
town through which he passed. 
The people would not be beaten 
off, but flocked in thousands to 
greet him, falling on their knees 
round the carriage, rending the air 



762 



Pius VI. 



with their cries, and calling down 
vengeance on those who persecuted 
Jesus C'hrist in the person of his 
>ic,tr. The momcn everywhere 
>^ eio :>r?:aost in. tesritying their de- 
X .^v.on :o :he Holy Father. They 
.v.x^" '.>;;%£ tiedselres as peasants, 
: > ><r x::csw rr Tenders, and bribed 
:v r:arvi:> fe? ad^cit them to his 
^ ."^^si r«j^. Triers lidies of the high- 
r>c nak ^ew prjad to perform any 

V.r Cnwnccie * htxndred young 

^*rs irTrss«fi ai win:e came forth 

•* ncec 'iim* ^io^ln^ canticles and 

-irr^itt;^ itrwir? :a his path. Pius 

*. >ntLic%x Iowtit^It oa them, and 

.*kcssw :av;nr wtch tears in his 

^*5r<* ?rcciucci» w;*re cseless; no 

!ifr-.ifs ^jitiii rescnia the hearts 

.'I '"TV.: -»Jlsiu^^^ ciiilviren, and this 

>^>irr^*'i;i ^ntrrhfir^ t3t spite of its 

-nvti-v-s rrr^cmbied the triumphal 

:k- it. -> ,*» d ittii^ amidst his people. 

' >v% "vtciKV Vjdeace on the 14th 

1 *»!tv. t^c t»pe was lodged in 

^c . i.tvici. Oo5< by* imprisoned 

.1 ^ ^k:^^cctICt•:x^ convent, were 

^.i^-;*%\* vrtcscs who had shared 

>.^ N^vitii.iuilv \tt Konw* and been 

*^'u»vi:vM :v» 'cave :c when he had 

Vn <i . .i. xv it .1^ iiv . They entreated 

/vi v^i v»tv>c* >^ Nr jdlowed to go 

v.k: i>ik >t5!. >i<*$;!k^»^: but the pray- 

.V ^A> .:v^tiv>i> Aini :he Holy Father 

v*.tx v;fvv*\ ?v»r»>wcett to |^> beyond 

■V v^:«.ivit <ii^^% wlkich was guarded 

...» nxi Kj;.!:. test ^v showing him- 

>v.! w ^iKHiiOt cwtte disturbance 

i,4iNS».;v., .X >vrlvv AH prohibi- 

.v-»*x Hvic j>x\* :o Fitts now, for he 

V ,; >»i. .V ivMl was at hand, and 

.>x v'>» *K> wv^aul soon be ended. 

., ^*.;x yu.tci*»^< terribly, and knew 

>v' >.i'K{ W death was upon 

.J vx*vvv >Mme the summons to 

., , ,:u vvjmii: " All journeys 

* ^vUs-iUCS to the weary.'' 

J V . , ^ui t^s^ the *tOTv\ ^a\\v, eTo%^. 

;.»Jvu UKv^Kk* Molten CTO^tveid,VvV^ 



him, with the thorny diadem of sa- 
crifice and love, and now the promis- 
ed land was in sight, and angel songs 
were breaking on the pilgrim's car: 
*' Come, thou who hast suffered per- 
secution for my sake; come and 
reign with me in my kingdom." 

For some days the Holy Father 
remained altogether absorbed in 
prayer, as if unconscious of cvcty- 
thing around him. Often in the 
midst of his prayer he would break 
out into expressions of pardon to- 
wards his enemies, or pity for the 
sufferings of his children. " WTiat 
are the sufferings of my body com- 
pared to what my heart endures for 
them?" he once exclaimed. "My 
cardinals, my bishops, scattered and 
persecuted, . . . Rome, ... my peo- 
ple, . . . the church, ... O my 
Saviour ! in what a state am I forced 
to leave them all." 

The symptoms of final dissolu- 
tion now rapidly increased, and the 
pains he endured were so terrible 
as to bring on long fainting fits. 

On the 28th of August Pius ask- 
ed for the last rites of the church. 
He insisted, in spite of the agonies 
he was suffering, on being dressed 
in full pontificals, and placed in a 
chair, so as to receive the Holy 
Viaticum with the greatest possible 
reverence. His supreme devotion 
all through life had been to the Bless- 
ed Sacrament. His desire was com- 
plied with, and then, placing one 
hand upon his breast, and the other 
on the Holy Gospels, he made with 
great solemnity his dying confes- 
sion of faith according to the pon- 
tifical formula. He then repeated 
several times, in the most impres- 
sive tones, his free forgiveness of 
his enemies, invoking the mercy 
and pardon of God upon them ; he 
prayed earnestly also for the conver- 
i\oxv cA Yx^xvce ; this done, he re- 



Ilfllie agih, the following day, 

Unction was administered 

rchbishop of Corinth. The 

'Atbei seemed to rally slightly 

" !, and was able to turn his 

a little to temporal atfairs. 

light the palpitations of his 

d other symptoms gave 

that the end had come. 

^Ihful little band of friends 

'" tw-captivcs gathered round 

pastor, and kissed the 

It could no longer lift itself 

tbem. The Archbishop of 

gave the papal absolution, 

Holy Father received with 

lility and fervor, and, after 

fort to give a last blessing 

who were kneeling in tears 

feet, he breathed his last 

words of the benediction 

ashed on his lips. It was an 

midnight on the iglh of 

'59, Pius VI, was in his 

fecond year, and had gov- 

i^e church for twenty-four 

ix months, and fourteen 

of anguish and of exulta- 

ng through Christendom 

« news of his death went 

The faithful mourned their 

i, the brave pastor who 

ted them and defended them 

death ; the wicked re- 

luid clapped hands, exclaim- 

have done with him ! 

Id man is the last of the 

. He has died in a fureign 

lUnled like a dog, without 

Wj or followers. His court 

^S hierarchy are dispersed ; 

tve done with Rome and Ro- 

popes!" Short-sighted fools, 

knew not how to distinguish 

defcol and victory, because 

luld not read the mystic 

;h the hand of God has 

lOve the cross: " In this 

shall conquer!" 



The remains of the venerable old 
man were exposed for several days ; 
the crowds were so great, both day 
and night, that it was found impossi- 
ble to remove them at once, as had 
been intended. The people pro- 
claimed the martyr-pope a saint, 
and flocked round the bier to gaze 
upon those worn and emaciated 
features where the majestic peace 
of death now sat like a golden 
shadow. For miles around Valence 
multitudes flowed in to see him, to 
touch the bier, to throw flowers 
upon it, and bear them away again 
as sacred relics. The authorities 
of the place did not even try to 
prevent these public demonstra- 
tions of respect and enthusiasm. 
The Directory thought fit to be si- 
lent regarding them, and even is- 
sued orders that the pope should 
be laid out with the state becoming 
a sovereign. Thus the victim who 
had been denied the commonest 
mercies of humanity when he was 
on his death-bed was surrounded 
in his coflin with the pomp and 
paraphernalia of royalty. 

The body was finally placed in 
the citadel of Valence, where it re- 
mained until Bonaparte, on being 
raised to the consulate, had it re- 
moved under a bombastic decree 
setting forth "the magnanimity of 
the gra/iiie nation to a good but 
weak old man who had for a while 
been the enemy of France, owing 
to perfidious advisers, etc." This 
grandiloquent proclamation ended 
in the remains of the first sovereign 
in Christendom being transported 
to ihc common btirial-grovmd, 
where the charity of a Protestant 
courageously raised a small stone 
chapel over his grave. A few years 
later {1801) the body was brought 
back to Rome, and placed in the 
fitting shrine of a mart^md '^'j't — 
the BasiUta ot S.teUt. ^li i-Qia 



764 



Pius VI. 



the King of Heaven overturn the 
designs of earthly kings, making 
sport of their power, and confound- 
ing their vain rebellion. 

• • • • • • 

" Elias smote the waters of Jor- 
dan with his mantle, and with Eli- 
seus passed over on dry ground. . . . 

And Eliseus said unto him : I pray 
thee let a double portion of thy 
spirit be upon me." 

And as the friends went on, be- 
hold a chariot of fire and horses of 
fire came and parted them both 
asunder, and Elias went up to hea- 
ven, and Eliseus saw him no more ; 
but he took up the mantle of the 
prophet that had fallen from him, 
and went back and stood by the 
banks of the Jordan, and smote the 
waters with the mantle, and they 
parted, and he went over as be- 
fore. 

And who are these that we be- 
hold like a cloud travelling towards 
us from the West ? Lo ! they come, 
a grand procession, cleaving the 
waters, singing glad songs, and bear- 
ing in their hands gifts of gold and 
frankincense. Welcome, ye goodly 
company of pilgrims, who " have 
feared neither distance nor danger " 
to come from the furthest ends of 
the earth to lay the tribute of your 
love at the feet of Peter. Thrice 
welcome ! ye sons and daughters of 
America, who have come to clasp 
hands with your brethren of the Old 
World, and to receive the loving em- 
brace of our common father. May 
ye be blessed ten thousand-fold for 
the joy your love has brought to his 
suffering heart ! 

One venerable figure shines forth 
amidst the band ; the wisdom of 



nigh fourscore years is on her brow, 
the peace of a long life spent in the 
service of her Lord. She gazes on 
the wonders of the Holy City, on it*; 
glorious shrines, its stately temples. 
its monasteries and convents, iu 
brave army of priests and monks 
and nuns, and, filled with holy enn 
at the sight, her fer\'ent spirit a- 
claims : " Oh ! if we could but cam 
this away with us. If we had these 
riches in America !" 

" Nay, lady, grudge us not our 
treasure! Pray rather that this 
likewise may not be taken from us, 
and give thanks to God for the 
great things that are being accom- 
plished in your own wonderful land. 
There the faith is like the sun it 
daybreak, scarcely yet above the 
horizon, but already powerful and 
splendid. What has become of 
that sun amongst us ? Oh ! I will 
not utter it. . . . Verily, there is 
One who will blow with his breath, 
and the cloud shall be scattered 
Let us pray only that the day be 
hastened." * 

The mystic m<'intle which Christ 
first laid upon his apostle has de- 
scended through the ages, through 
evil times and persecutions, to the 
prophet of our own days, untorn. 
unstained, a garment of immortality 
and strength. Now, as then, it 
bears him in safety through the 
flood ; now, as then, does he " throv 
salt upon the waters," and cure 
them, so that all those who come 
and drink thereof have life and 
salvation. For God changes not. 
nor can those who love him and 
love one another in his love perish, 
nor their hope be confounded. 

• Words of Monsif nor Nardi to Mrs. Peter. 



Assunta Howard. 



76s 



ASSUNTA HOWARD. 



1. 



JUXTA CRUCEM. 



IE full moon was pouring a 
of light upon the marble pave- 
of 8. Peter's, and, by its weird 
snce, increased to an almost 
ling immensity the vastness of 
mighty work of art, worthy off- 
g and expression of the faith 
h has subdued the world. The 
radiance in the nave seemed 
irow into deeper gloom and 
Imost immeasurable space the 
•burning lamps which, like fix- 
ars, surround the central point 
hristendom — the tomb of the 
t apostle, to whom was first 
1 the power of the keys. No 
could remain unmoved in such 
we-inspiring scene ; certainly 
wo, at least, of the three per- 
who alone stood within the 
ch, silently receiving impres- 
» which come but seldom in a 
ime. And yet, as the same 
cam, falling upon different 
cts, will produce different colors, 
n these three minds the im- 
>ions were stamped accord- 
o their preparation to receive 
I. To the man, in whom the 
nlight, bathing him in bright- 
, revealed the appearance of 
le birth and refined culture, it 
merely the human, the miracle 
rt, the power of man to design 
execute; while the pure soul 
fie fair young girl at his side 
struggling through the human 
D the divine. The patient old 
istan standing apart, keys in 
\, had dwelt for years in the 



midst of material and spiritual 
greatness with a faith so simple 
that he never dreamed it was sub- 
lime. 

" How grand !*' at length exclaim- 
ed Mr. Carlisle. " What a power there 
is in architecture ; and how well those 
master-minds understood and used 
this power for the elevation of 
man !" 

"Yes," replied his young com- 
panion ; " and it seems to me that 
in church architecture every detail 
should be symbolic, and the whole 
should convey to the soul the im- 
pression of some one of God's at- 
tributes. S. Peter's is so truly the 
home of the Christian world, and 
draws the heart so lovingly to it- 
self, that it always seems to express 
the paternity of God. But to-night 
there is more than this. It speaks 
to my very soul of the Father, but 
* the Father of an Infinite Majes- 
ty.'" 

Mr. Carlisle smiled. "Another 
of your pretty fancies, Assunta. 
One would hardly expect to find 
such grave thoughts beneath this 
shining hair, which the alchemy of 
the moonlight is fast turning into 
gold." 

The usual ready answer did not 
come ; for any light conversation 
was out of harmony with the emotion 
inspired by such surroundings. Be- 
sides, the young girl was struggling 
with herself and against herself 
in a contest little suspected b^ Vv<t^ 
companvoti. T\v^ ^oxv^^xWv \\i.^\N.- 



{ 



766 



Assunta Howard. 



ence of the time and place had 
brought near the moment of defeat 
or victory. It is sometimes the 
way of God with the soul to pre- 
pare it gradually for some struggle, 
and then suddenly and unexpect- 
edly to bring it face to face with 
the trial, and to permit its whole 
future to hang upon the decision 
of a moment. Thank God ! to 
the faithful soul the strength is 
never wanting. It was such a 
crisis as this which clouded the 
bright face and darkened with 
doubt the mind of one in whom 
youth and innocence would seem 
to preclude the possibility of men- 
tal conflict. 

It was but a few days since she ' 
had become convinced that the 
guardian who had been to her 
both friend and father had come to 
feel for her a love which indeed 
might include that of father and 
friend, as the greater includes the 
less, but which was something 
more than either. And with the 
consciousness there came a strange 
yearning of her heart to go forth 
and meet his heart with an equal 
love, to trust herself to the protect- 
ing care she knew so well, to yield 
to the happiness which promised to 
gild her life with a radiance too 
dazzling to be all of earth. But 
there arose a barrier between them, 
and hence the struggle. 

Strange how we play the devil's 
advocate against our conscience! 
Must she respect that barrier? 
What if he were almost an infidel ; 
would it not be her sweet mission 
to take heaven by violence, if need 
be, and by her importunate prayers 
obtain for him the light of faith ? 
Dangerous soj^histry ! And yet on 
this quicksand how many women 
wreck themselves, instead of steering 
the bark freighted 'w\l\\ \\\e \oNt^ 
soul into the calm walexs o^ txM\\v\ 



They two, the guardian and his 
ward, had entered the church while 
yet the setting sun was irradiating 
column and statue with a glowiog 
splendor; and they had continued 
to walk slowly and almost in silence 
up and down the long nave untO 
the light had faded and darkness 
had succeeded the short twilight 

They were about to leave the 
calm influence and the majesty of 
repose which this vast temple of 
God ever inspires, when suddenly 
the moon, rising to a level with 
the window above the porch, pour- 
ed its magic-working beams upon 
the pavement. They paused, axul, 
turning to the sacristan, who was 
about to close the doors for the 
night, begged a few moments' d^ 
lay, which he, with unusual cordial- 
ity, granted. 

And what were the busy thoughts 
which induced so prolonged a 
silence during that hour's walk, 
until the gathering darkness and 
then the rising moon warned them 
how the time was passing, of which 
they had taken so little note? 
Suffice it to say that the mind of 
each was filled with the other. 
With Assunta Howard, the new 
sentiments kindled in her heart had 
conjured up the memory of a scene 
which, associated with her fir^t sor- 
row, was a living picture to her 
imagination. Again, as if it were 
but yesterday, she, a little child, en- 
tered the room of her dying mother, 
and saw her lying pale and beauti- 
ful upon her bed, her crucifix in 
her hand, and beside her the little 
table covered with white linen, up- 
on which were the exquisite flowers 
and the still burning candles placed 
there in honor of her divine Lord, 
whom she had just received as the 
Viaticum of her journey home. 
'Wv^ \\\X\^ fvS5»\iTvta thought how 



Assunta Howard* 



767 



iful S. Catherine, borne in the 

of the lovely angels, which 
above her own bed ; and she 
ered if the angels would come 
e she had time to kiss her mo- 
once again. It was almost 
a feeling of awe that she whis- 
i in the ear of the good priest 
raised her in his arms, ** Is 
na a saint now ?" 
ly precious child," said the 
er, strengthened for this bitter 
)g by the divine Guest who 
:€posing in her heart, " mam- 
mst leave h^r little Assunta, 
i;ood little girl. But before 
I hope that I shall be with the 
Jesus and his sweet Mother, 
I you love so much. So you 
»e glad for mamma, and always 
nber how much she loves you. 

not very strong, my darling, 
ut your arms around my neck, 
our curly head close to mine, 

I say something to you. You 
lot understand me now, my 

child, but I know that you 
ry and remember all, and one 
^se days you will know what I 
. My darling, when you are 
1 up to be as tall as mamma, 

one will perhaps find a way 
that loving little heart. My 
daughter, if divine love claims 
d our dear Lord wishes you 

all his own, do not hesitate, 
ladly give your life as a sweet 
Qg to him who has chosen 

Give him your whole heart 
mt a fear. But if it is a hu- 
love which seeks to make my 
ire all its own, think long and 
and prayerfully, my child, be- 
you give your heart into its 
ng. And, O Assunta ! remem- 
lever marry one who does not 
ih your faith as you do ; who 
>t kneel with you before the 
and love you in God^ even as 
lo him, J do not ask you to 



promise me this, for I feel that it 
would not be right to bind you by 
a promise which you cannot under- 
stand. Yet it is your dying mo- 
ther's wish. But I must kiss the 
wondering expression away from 
those dear eyes. One of these days 
dear F. Joseph will remind you of 
my request when you are old 
enough to understand — will you 
not, father ? But my little girl can 
remember that she is to be poor 
papa's dear comfort, and never for- 
get the little prayer for him every 
day, that God will give to him — 
tell me what you ask for papa, my 
darling?" 

The little Assunta answered 
through her sobs : " I want papa to 
love my blessed Mother Mary, and 
I ask God to make him. And, 
mamma, you said I must say faith ; 
but I don't know what that means, 
except when I say it in the cate- 
chism, and so I ask God to make 
him as good as mamma is, and a 
saint just like S. Joseph in my pic- 
ture ; and I think he will, mamma, 
because you know he heard me 
once when I asked him to let me 
go to school to Sister Rose." 

The mother smiled, as she re- 
plied : 

** How earnestly I hope so, my 
daughter ! And papa has promised 
me to leave you with the good Sisters 
for a long time ; so you must please 
him by being his good, obedient 
child. And now, my dear, precious 
little girl, kiss me — once again, my 
darling. I am very tired, and must 
rest. Perhaps, when I wake up, I 
shall see, instead of my darling's 
golden curls, the golden gates of tlie 
celestial city. When I am gone, 
Assunta, child of Mary, say every 
day : * Dear Jesus, take mamma 
home soon.' Now call papa." 

The priest, who had stood by im 
silence, came toivjaxd^ ;s*xv^\\Vv.^^^^ 



768 



Assunta Howard. 



poor bewildeted child down from 
the bed. He saw that the strength 
which had until now supported the 
mother in this time of trial was 
quite exhausted. She uttered aloud 
the words, " Thy will, not mine " — 
words which, since that night be- 
neath the olives in Gethsemane, 
express both the bitterness of the 
chalice and the ministry of the angel 
— then her eyes closed ; and though 
for a short time consciousness re- 
mained, they never opened until 
the resplendent majesty of the glori- 
ous humanity of her divine Lord 
burst upon her soul's vision. 

As the child turned away to obey 
her mother's request, the priest be- 
gan to repeat the Proficiscere^ anima 
Christiana^ with which the church 
so lovingly speeds her children on 
their last journey ; and for the first 
time she realized that her mother 
was indeed going from her. She 
crept softly from the room, only to 
rush away to her own little chamber, 
where, kneeling before the picture 
of S. Catherine, evermore associat- 
ed with that great, first sorrow, 
she poured out the grief of her lov- 
ing, childish heart in sobs and 
tears 

And it was this scene which was 
again before the mental eye of the 
young girl as she stood there in 
the moonlight, herself* so fair a 
picture. Her sainted mother, with 
her look of heavenly repose, and 
the angel-borne S. Catherine, blend- 
ed themselves into one image in her 
mind, while the Holy Spirit was 
guiding her innocent soul. Sud- 
denly an impulse seized her ; per- 
haps it was what mystic writers 
call an inspiration. Turning to her 
guardian, whose eyes had for some 
time been wonderingly fixed upon 
her, she hastily exclaimed : " One 
moment, my friend," aTvdlWxvvf^iWL- 
ed quickly towards xYve cVv^jc^eV, 



where hung the lamp which told 
of the divine Presence upon the 
altar. 

Mr. Carlisle was quite accustom- 
ed to what he was pleased to call 
her " pretty, graceful piety," and 
so, without surprise, he turned to 
exchange a few words with tk 
patient sacristan, while, on hn 
knees before her Lord, Assunta 
fought and conquered in the first 
real battle of her life. She realized 
fully now the love which seemed to 
offer her such human happiness, 
and she knew what it would cost 
her to refuse it. But then canoe 
the remembrance of her mother's 
dying words — ** Unless he can love 
you in God" — and her heroic soul 
gathered up its strength for the 
consummation of the act of sacrifice. 
With one appealing, heart-breaking 
prayer for help, she bowed her 
head, and made to God the promise 
which her mother had not required 
from the child. And those alone 
who know what it is to offer up the 
crown and joy of life in sacrifice 
can understand the peace and rest 
which came to her troubled heart, 
even through the vision of a life 
robbed of its brightness. 

Absorbed as she was, she had 
forgotten the world outside and its 
distracting claims until her guard- 
ian stood beside her. 

'' Petite;' \iQ whispered, "in thy 
orisons be all my sins remembered. 
But since the list is somewhat long. 
I think you must not wait to recall 
them now. Your one moment has 
lengthened into fifteen by my watch, 
and I have exhausted my powers 
of eloquence in my endeavors to 
charm that good old man into for- 
getfulness of the flight of time. 
Can you not leave heaven for earth 
and us poor mortals .> There are so 
mamy angels up in heaven, they can 
^^o\^ \.c» ^^^\^ wsi <av\x ^iwly one." 



Assunta Howard, 



769 



P.ising hastily, Assunta exclaim- 
ed : "I have been very thoughtless, 
and you, as always, kind and pa- 
tient. We will go at once.** 

Her gentle apologies to the old 
sacristan added value to the gift she 
slipped into his hand; and as he 
closed and locked the door behind 
them, he muttered to himself: 

" She is a saint anyhow, if she is 
an American." 

As they passed down the steps to- 
wards the carriage, Mr. Carlisle sud- 
denly stopped, exclaiming : " Why, 
child, what is the matter.^ You 
have the real martyr-look on your 
face. I read there, as in a book, 
that combination of suffering and 
triumph which we see in pictures, 
representing those times when men 
were not so chivalrous as now, and 
inflicted persecutions on account 
of a devotion which is so natural 
to your sex, and which," he added, 
laughing, ** is so particularly be- 
coming where the woman is young 
and pretty. But," he said uneasily, 
" I cannot see that expression in 
the face of my petite. Sunshine is 
her element ; and the cloud which 
should cast a shadow upon her life 
would burst forth in thunder over 
mine. But what is it ? Has the 
moonlight enchanted you ?" 

" No, dear friend," replied As- 
sunta, endeavoring to speak gayly. 
" Enough that you grant me the 
triumph. The laurel wreath is a 
woman's ambition. You need not 
bestow the martyr*s palm until it 
is deserved. And now let us go 
home." 

" Indeed, that is the one thing in 
this world which I do not intend to 
do, at least at present. Thanks 
lo my good sister's well-timed head- 
urhe, we have a rare opportunity to 
follow out our own sweet will in 
tlic most unconventional manner. 
There is no respect for the world 

VOL. XIX, — 49 



and the propriety Clara preaches 
left in me to-night. I, for one, shall 
take advantage of the absence of 
that inconvenient third party and 
her friend Mrs. Grundy to drive to 
the Colosseum. If you decline to 
accompany me, I will just remind 
you that the walk home is some- 
what long and the hour somewhat 
late." Saying which, he gave his 
order to the coachman, and took 
his seat beside Assunta in the 
barouche. After a short silence, he 
continued : 

" The cat-is-away sensation takes 
me back to my school-boy days. 
Though I confess dear Clara to be 
the very best of the tabby race, still 
she does show her claws sometimes 
when I propose an escapade that 
shocks her sense of what is becom- 
ing at the advanced age of thirty- 
five. To see the Colosseum to-night 
is not to be resisted. There is no 
dampness whatever in the air, and 
the moon has risen just high enough 
to make the shadows perfect.'* 

" I think," said Assunta, " that it 
must be a very guilty conscience 
that needs so many words in its 
justification. I, for my part, am 
so strong in innocence that I will 
meet Clara on my return with an 
unblushing brow — to speak poeti- 
cally — as far as the Colosseum is 
concerned. The evening is cer- 
tainly lovely enough to reduce even 
your friend Mrs. Grundy to a spirit 
of meek acquiescence. * How beau- 
tiful is night!' Do you remember 
the first lines of Thalabal It must 
have been just such a moon as this 
that suggested the opening of that 
remarkable poem." 

" Did you not read it to me ? 
How can you ask, then, if I remem- 
ber? However, I did not hear it 
then for the first time. The dogs, 
with their human eyes, raad^ ol^^^l^^ 
imprcssvou cv^xv \x\iOVw tci^ \ia>{v^ 



770 



Assunta Howard. 



mind. But here we are." And 
jumping down from the carriage, 
he held out his hand to her. 

One moment she hesitated; for, 
by that instinct which is the shadow 
of a coming event, she felt that her 
trial was not yet at an end. But 
if it must come, why not then ? 
She might never again be so pre- 
pared to meet it. There is a fer- 
vor of heroism which immediately 
succeeds a sacrifice that makes us 
strong to endure. If there is a step 
to be taken, it is better not to wait 
until the inevitable reaction is upon 
us with its enervating influence. 

The hesitation was too instanta- 
neous to be remarked, and Assun- 
ta allowed her guardian to assist 
her to alight ; and placing her arm 
within his, they passed the sentinel, 
and entered the vast amphitheatre. 
It was indeed a perfect Roman 
night ; and, to an artistic eye, no- 
thing could be more imposing than 
the strong contrast between the 
deep gloom beneath those bewilder- 
ing arches, which threw their dark 
shadows across the open arena, 
and the brightness of a winter's 
moon. The two walked towards 
the centre, and seated themselves 
upon the steps of the large cross 
which rises in the midst of this 
mighty relic of heathen Rome. 
Assunta almost shuddered, as if at 
an evil omen, when she observed 
that she had unconsciously placed 
herself so that the shadow of the 
cross fell directly upon her, and 
stretched out its unnatural length 
at her feet. But even had she been 
superstitiously inclined, she might 
well have felt that no place could 
be so safe and sure as beneath the 
shadow of the cross ; it rested so 
l)rotectingly on her young head, 
seeming to stand between her and 
«vil. Soon she realized this, and 
checked the impulse which, alas ! 



too many of us follow when sud- 
denly we find ourselves close under 
Calvary — the mount whose crown 
is a cross, and whose cross is sal- 
vation — the impulse to move " out 
of the shadow into the sun/' out of 
the cloud which wraps us about in 
love into the sunlight with which 
the world seeks to dazzle us into 
forgetfulness. 

Gradually they fell into a quiet 
conversation, the beauty of the 
scene, the many associations of the 
past which cling to these ancient 
walls, furnishing ample topics. At 
last Mr. Carlisle, turning suddenly 
to Assunta, said : 

" And how many years is it since 
your poor father summoned me to 
his bedside, and told me of the 
troublesome charge I should find 
in the convent, to be transferred 
into my hands when the patience 
of the nuns had reached the limit 
of endurance, and my young lady 
the age of eighteen V* 

"It is five years since, my most 
ungracious and ungrateful guar- 
dian. But you will soon be releas- 
ed from duty. The fifteenth ol 
next August will be my twenty-first 
birthday. It was because I came 
into the world on the Feast of the 
Assumption that my dear mother 
gave me the name, at which all her 
good, practical American friends 
wondered and held up their hands. 
Well, on that morning I shall olfer 
you freedom, and I shall expect to 
hear you exclaim, quoting your 
favorite Shakespeare, * For this re- 
lief much thanks !' " 

" And I suppose you will think." 
said Mr. Carlisle, somewhat bitter- 
ly, " that it will be enough, after all 
these years, to say, ' You have been 
kind to me, my guardian, quite 
like a father; I am very grateful, 
and hope that we may meet .again ': 
and with a good-by and a pretty 



Assunta Howard. 



771 



courtesy shake off the shackles, 
and take yourself, with all your 
sunshine, out into the world to 
make bright the life of others, 
forgetting him whose life you alone 
have the power to darken by ab- 
sence. Ah ! child," he said, his 
tone changing to tender earnest- 
ness, " do you not know with what 
tie I would bind you to me so 
that no age could have the right to 
separate us ? Do you think that it 
is as a father that I love you? 
That might have been once ; but 
now it is the love of a man of 
thirty-five, who for the first time 
has found his ideal of woman real- 
ized. Assunta, do I ask too much ? 
When that day comes of which you 
speak, will you not give me the 
right to devote my life to you? 
You were looking forward to the 
day which was to give you free- 
dom ; and you hesitate to put 
yourself under bondage ? If you 
knew my love for you, you would 
believe that I ask but the right 
to love and protect you always. 
Have I been so severe a guardian 
that you dare not trust me as a 
husband ? Assunta, you do not 
speak. If you cannot love me now, 
will you not at least let me try to 
win your love ?" And as he looked 
into the face which she now turned 
towards him, he exclaimed with a 
mingling of doubt and triumph, 
" Child, you do love me !" 

It was well for Assunta that she 
had fought her battle beforehand, 
else she could hardly have hoped 
to conquer now. " My dear, kind 
friend," she said sadly, " I would 
have given much to spare you this. 
It seems indeed a poor return for 
all you have been to me to reject 
the love for which I am very grate- 
ful. But it must be so. I cannot 
marry you, Mr. Carlisle." 

The triumph in his face faded ; 



but, fortunately for his diminishing 
hope, doubt remained. 

" Petite,'' he said, " I have taken 
you by surprise. Do not give me 
your answer now. Let me take 
home to-night but a hope and 
your promise to reconsider your 
hasty decision, and I will try to be 
content. But you are so cold, so 
calm, Assunta. Can it be that 
I have entirely deceived myself, 
that perhaps some other " — He 
paused. 

" I am calm, my friend," she an- 
swered, " because there is no 
struggle of indecision in my mind. 
There is very great regret that I 
must give you pain, and it costs 
me more than you know to do so. 
I entreat you to be generous — 
more generous than I have been 
to you — and end this trying con- 
versation." 

" I cannot end it without one 
question more ; pardon me if I am 
wrong in asking it. Assunta, there 
is something that I do not under- 
stand. You do not say that you 
could not love me, but that you 
cannot marry me. Who or what 
is it, then, that comes between us ?" 

" God !" And she spoke the 
word so reverently that for one 
moment Mr. Carlisle was subdued 
and silent. Then the bitterness 
which was always latent in his na- 
ture gained the ascendency, as he 
replied : 

" Some interference of your 
church, I suppose." 

Assunta was not a saint, and her 
previous emotion had weakened 
her powers of self-control, for she 
spoke with unusual spirit. 

" Yes, the church does interfere, 
thank God, to save her children, 
else were she no true mother." 
Then, a little ashamed of her warmth 
of defence, she cont\^\iQ.d, \*\\.Vv^\iX 
seeming lo xvoUc^ '^x. C^i.'^v^^^ 



772 



Assunta Howard. 



ironical repetition of her words 
" save her children ** : 

" You will no doubt consider me 
fanatical, but you have a right to 
know why I refuse the love which 
I value so much, and which, at the 
same time, I must beg you to for- 
get. I can never marry one who 
is not of my faith. I believe that, 
in a true marriage, there must be 
more than the tie of human love — 
there must be the union of soul 
and the blessing of the church. 
And more than this, there is the 
insuperable barrier of a solemn 
promise made to God in conse- 
quence of my dying mother's last 
request. Need I say more ? And 
must I lose my best friend because 
I can only respect and love him 
* as friends love ' ? I had not look- 
ed for so great a sacrifice." And 
for the first time the tears stood 
in her eyes and her voice trembled. 

She waited for a few minutes, but 
no reply came. Then, noticing 
that the moon had risen above 
arch and wall, and, pouring its 
light full upon the open arena, had 
sent the shadows back to their hid- 
ing-places, she said gently : 

" Mr. Carlisle, it is getting late. 
Shall we go home.^" 

He started from his moody si- 
lence, and, taking in his the hand 
that rested on the cross, he said : 

*' Assunta, you are a noble girl ; 
but," he added with a faint smile, 
" this conclusion does not make 
your words easier to bear. But 
you are shivering. Is it so cold } 
Come, we will go at once." And 
as he led the way towards the car- 
riage, he wrapped her shawl closer 
about her, saying, " My poor child, 
how thoughtless I have been !" 

Once seated, there was again si- 
lence until thev reached the en- 
trance of the viWa. As t\\eY as- 
cended the long stau-case, '^x. 



Carlisle paused. His old tender- 
ness of manner had all returned, 
and he was her guardian, and no- 
thing more, as he said : 

" Assunta, I have not been gen- 
erous. I have taken an unfair 
advantage of my position, and have 
told you what I had not intended 
you should know until you were 
released from all obligation to me. 
My child, will you trust your 
friend and guardian to be only that 
until next August shall make you 
free } I cannot promise to give up 
all hope, but I will not repeat 
what I have said to-night. Can 
you forgive me so far as to go back 
to our old relations? Will you 
trust me ?" 

** Most gladly," said Assunta. 
" I feel as if my friend, whom I had 
mourned as lost, has been restored 
to me. And, Mr. Carlisle, the day 
will come when we will both look 
back without regret upon the de- 
cision which was made to-night 
under the shadow of the cross." 

" I hope so, even while I doubt, 
fair prophetess." 

But his thought was of the time 
when he might even yet win that 
stern conscience to his views, and 
then indeed he could afford to think 
without regret of a past disappoint- 
ment ; while she was thinking of 
that sweet providence of God 
which, in compensation for sacri- 
fice, always lets us see in the end 
that all things are for the best to 
those who can wait and trust. 

Mr. Carlisle opened the drawing- 
room door, and entered an apart- 
ment which had the rare combina- 
tion of elegance and comfort, of 
art and home. Mrs. Grey, his 
pretty, widowed sister, was fond of 
what she called the " dim religious," 
and therefore the candles were not 
\\^\\.^^\ Wt a blazing wood- fire 



Assunta Howard. 



773 



while the silver urn upon the side 
table hissed out an impatient wel- 
come. 

Mrs. Grey herself was lying upon 
the sofa in the most charmingly 
artistic costume and attitude ; and 
the injured manner she assumed 
rather added to her fascination. 
She idolized her only brother ; and 
when, after a short wedded happi- 
ness of two years, he had offered 
the childless widow a home with 
him, she had gladly accepted ; and 
after a few months of becoming 
weeds and retirement, she was so 
far consoled as to mitigate her 
crape, and allow her brother's visi- 
tors to gaze from a distance upon 
her charms. The mitigating pro- 
cess had gone on until she was 
now the gayest of the gay, except 
when an occasional headache re- 
minded her that she was mortal, 
and others that amiability is not 
to be found in perfection in this 
world any more than any other 
virtue. She was too frivolous to 
satisfy her brother's deeper nature, 
but he was as fond of her as her 
affection for him deserved. She 
had taken the orphan Assunta into 
her heart as if she had been a sis- 
ter; though she insisted that the 
position of matron to a beautiful 
young girl was no sinecure. 

** Really, Severn," she exclaimed, 
as he seated himself beside the 
sofa, " you must have thought it 
very entertaining for me to stay 
alone five mortal hours with only 
my poor head for company." 

** Dear Clara, if I had dreamed 
you would be doomed to such a 
dearth of companionship, I should 
not have gone at all." 

" Hush ! No impertinence," she 
said. ** Where have you left As- 
sunta V 

" Here I am," said the young 
girl, entering the room at the same 



moment, and answering for her- 
self. "And how is your head, 
Clara ? I hope you have not been 
suffering all this time." 

" Your sympathy is very pretty 
and pleasing, Assunta ; but, indeed, 
it is of too mushroom a growl li 
to be very consoling. Confess 
that this is the first time I have 
been in your thoughts since you 
left the house. But," she exclaim- 
ed, suddenly recollecting herself. 
" you have been out alone all this 
time. Dear me ! 1 hope you did 
not meet any one you knew, for 
what would they think ? Where 
have you been V And as she 
spoke, she rose from the couch, 
and went about the womanly oc- 
cupation of making tea. 

" We went to the Colosseum," re- 
plied her brother; "and truly the 
night was so lovely that if it had 
not been for you and your head, 
who knows but we might have 
wandered about until the Roman 
police lighted upon us, and com- 
mitted us to the care of the Hoh 
Office as vagabonds V* 

" Nonsense ! I would risk you 
with Assunta anywhere, as far as 
that is concerned. She is Papal 
protection in herself. She is wrap- 
ped about in the yellow and white, 
metaphorically speaking. Besides, 
I believe it is not exactly the 
province of the Holy Office to deal 
with vagabonds, but with here- 
tics." 

" And what am I r 

"Oh! I don't know anything 
about religion. Has Assunta been 
calling you a heretic .^" 

" Assunta never calls me hard 
names," he answered, and he could 
not forbear adding under his 
breath : " But she has made me 
count the cost of unbelief." 

" Has she been trying to convert 
you ?" asked his persistent sister. 



774 



Assunta Howard. 



"She has offered me every in- 
ducement," was his reply. 

"Assunta, here is your tea," 
called Mrs. Grey; for the young 
girl had been arranging her music 
in another part of the large draw- 
ing-room during the conversation. 

'* Yes ; and she needs it very 
much, poor child," said Mr. Car- 
lisle, placing a chair for her. " I 
was so selfish that I did not even 
notice it was cold until she was 
quite chilled through. You find 
your own head such poor company 
tliat you must go with us next 
time, Clara, and take better care 
of us." 

And then they relapsed into a 
quiet tea-drinking; after which, 
and the removal of the various ar- 
ticles which constitute the tea ser- 
vice, Mrs. Grey returned to her 
sofa, while Assunta went to the 
piano, and played some of Mendels- 
sohn's " Songs without Words," and 
Mr. Carlisle sat in deep thought be- 
fore the fire. 

It was a state of things which 
Clara could not endure long. Any- 
thing like constraint gave her the 
sensation of a caged bird, and she 



began at once to beat her wings 
against imaginary bars. 

" I never knew such stupid peo- 
ple. Severn, do please light my 
candle. I am sure I trust my 
dreams will be more agreeable, or I 
shall die of ennui. Good-night, 
dear Assunta. Do not fatigue me 
by your efforts to rival the larks in 
early rising, if you have any mercy." 
And looking the very picture of 
lovely discontent — if so paradoxi- 
cal an expression may be allowed 
— she retired to her own room. 

Assunta extended her hand as 
usual to her guardian. He held it 
a moment, and then said : " Good- 
night,/^/!*/^ y we will begin anew to- 
morrow " ; and then he returned to 
his arm-chair, which he did not 
leave for many hours. Assunta 
was very tired; but it was rather 
with the weight of the cross she 
had lifted upon her shoulders than 
from any physical fatigue. She 
soon dismissed her maid, and, like a 
victorious soldier wearied with the 
conflict, she fell into a dreamless 
sleep, not, however, until she had 
returned thanks for the victory to 
the God of battles. 



II. 



COR CORDIUM. 



It was an established custom of 
the household of Villa Moroni to 
be quite independent of each other 
until the twelve o'clock breakfast 
afforded occasion for an agreeable 
reunion. However pleasant an 
early family gathering may be in 
many home circles, where the 
habits and pursuits of all are en- 
tirely dissimilar and incongruous 
we escape much of the roughness 
of life by not attempting too early 
an interchange of forced courtesy. 
IndQGdj in Mr. Carlisle's {avwW^ W 
would have been dif&cuU lo tttticX. 



an earlier meeting than the one 
which suited all parties so well. 
Mrs. Grey declared that the morn- 
ing hours with Morpheus were ab- 
solutely necessary to her peace of 
mind. And certainly the drowsy 
god must have been lavish of 
bright visions during those hours 
when the sun was so carefully ex- 
cluded from the apartment of the 
fair sleeper; for when at last he 
permitted the pretty lady to awake 
from her dreams, she came from 
\.\\^ Voccv^s o^ Vv^r maid into the 



Assunta Howard. 



77S 



of amiability and freshness. Who 
would feel assured of such a result 
had she seen the sun rise? True, 
it might occur to some persons who 
take severe views of life to wonder 
what her soul was doing all that 
time ; but it never did to her. The 
su|>ernatural was to her 2l terra incog- 
nita. She had skimmed over her sor- 
row as sea-birds over the waves of 
the ocean, scarcely bearing away a 
drop on their spread wings. The 
waters had never gone over her soul 
and forced her to cry from out of 
the depths to the God whom she ac- 
knowledged in theory, but persis- 
tently ignored in practice. Yet she 
was so lovely and affectionate, and 
besides, when she chose to exert 
herself, she had so much good 
sense withal, by all means let her 
enjoy life's sunshine, and pluck its 
sweetest roses, carefully guarding 
her dainty fingers from contact 
with the hidden thorns. But why 
waste our time in moralizing over 
one who would smile in uncon- 
sciousness of our meaning if we 
uttered our thoughts aloud, and 
chanu the frown from our brow by 
some pretty petulance ? 

Mr. Carlisle understood as little 
of the supernatural as his frivolous 
sister. But he had a deep, earnest 
nature, which could not be satis- 
fied with the mere outside of life. 
Mental food he must have, though 
it may be a question whether the 
mind is ever fully nourished when 
the soul is starving. He there- 
fore, after taking his coffee and 
smoking his cigar, devoted his 
morning hours to reading or writ- 
ing in the cosey little room he 
used as a library. 

The carriage was thus left at As- 
sunta's disposal ; and she usually 
availed herself of it to assist at 
Mass, accompanied by her maid; 
and often an errand of mercy or 



charitable visit was accomplished 
before her return. It was her 
guardian's wish that she should 
never walk about the city, unless 
accompanied by himself, else she 
would many times have preferred 
to show her American indepen- 
dence by taking a morning stroll 
with her faithful Marie. 

The morning after the eventful 
visit to the Colosseum was Friday, 
and on that day Assunta was ac- 
customed to make her confession 
and receive Holy Communion. She 
awoke with a stunned feeling, as 
if recovering from a blow. It was 
still very early, but, remembering 
the duties before her, she arose 
quickly. She was so glad that it 
was Friday ; for good F. Joseph 
would certainly be in the confes- 
sional, as he always expected her, 
and she felt the need of his coun- 
sel. It was the same F. Joseph 
du Pont who had placed her be- 
side her dying mother, but who 
had shortly afterwards returned to 
Rome. When, a few weeks since, 
she had arrived in the Eternal City, 
he had welcomed her as a dear 
child, and she loved and respected 
him as a true spiritual father. The* 
sun was just rising when she enter- 
ed the carriage and drove to the 
Gesii. Her confession was soon 
made, and after the Precious Blood 
had poured its healing drops upon 
her soul through the words of the 
absolution, she said : " Father, can 
you spare me a few minutes more 
this morning.^ I want your ad- 
vice. 

" Certainly, my child," answered 
the good priest. '* It is nearly an 
hour before my Mass. How can I 
help you?" 

" Last evening," said Assunta in 
a low voice, '* I did what I believed 
to be Ti^V\l; \h\\. \\v<i vcvoTtw\xv^\\^S^^ 
has only coi\lws<id tci^ mvct^^ ^xiA'V 



776 



Assunta HowanL 



see nothing clearly. Father, Mr. 
Carlisle, my guardian, asked me to 
marry him." 

" And you, my child V* question- 
ed the priest somewhat anxiously. 

** I had been prepared somewhat 
to expect it. I had thought of my 
mother's request, and remembered 
that it was in accordance with the 
teaching of the church, and I was 
impelled to fortify myself by a 
promise to Almighty God to fulfil 
to the letter my dear mother's wish. 
Therefore, when the question came, 
I could only refuse." 

" It cost you something to do 
this, I can see, my poor child, and 
this morning you are suffering from 
the revenge our human nature 
takes upon us when we have done 
it violence. Let us look at the 
matter calmly before God. I be- 
lieve that you are right, but it will 
help you to look at both sides of 
the question. It is a reasonable 
service that God requires of us ; 
and, be very sure, he never leads 
us to the altar of sacrifice with- 
out bestowing upon us the strength 
and generosity we need to place 
our offering upon it. Perhaps you 
were a little too impulsive in bind- 
ing yourself by anything like a vow. 
We must always be very careful 
not to mistake impulse for inspira- 
tion. However, as I understand 
you, your mind was already decid- 
ed, and the promise to God was 
to act as a protection to yourself 
against your own human weakness. 
Am I right?" 

** Partly, father," replied As:un»a 
"and yet, as I knelt beloic the 
Blessed Sacrament, I felt thai the 
sacrifice was required of me in a 
way I thought I could not mis- 
take." 

" Then, my child, doubtless the 
Holy Spirit has inspired it for some 
end that we do not noYf ^^t. "!^>\\.^ 



aside from that, without that addi- 
tional and conclusive obstacle in 
the way of such a marriage, I think 
you acted rightly. Our holy mo- 
ther, the church, is very wise, as 
well as very lenient ; and it is with 
great reluctance that she risks the 
soul of one of her precious chil- 
dren by placing it under the con- 
stant influence of one without faith. 
It is very true that while there is 
wisdom in knowing how to keep a 
rule, there is still greater wisdom in 
knowing when judiciously to make 
the exception. And I confess that, 
from a human point of view, yours 
would seem to be an exceptional 
case. You are quite alone in the 
world ; and your guardian has been, 
and no doubt would always be, a 
faithful friend. As a man, I esteem 
him highly for his many noble quali- 
ties. The world will unquestiona- 
bly look upon such a marriage as 
eminently fitting ; and so it would 
be, but for the one thing which is 
so important. We, however, can- 
not act upon human principles, as 
if this world were all. It was not 
without reason, my child, that your 
poor mother, said those last words 
to you. When she was married, 
her faith was as strong, her life as 
true and pure, as yours. But your 
father's intellect was powerful, and 
her love for him so great that she 
yielded to him until she nearly lost 
her soul. God be blessed for his 
mercy, she had the grace to die as a 
saint, and is now, as I hope, in hea- 
ven. But I have seen her in an 
agony of remorse such as I should 
grieve indeed to witness in this 
dear child of hers. The last two 
years of her life after her return i ' 
her faith were truly years of mar- 
tyrdom, passed in the stniggle to 
reconcile those duties which never 
should conflict — her love of Go(\ 
^.xvdduty to her husband. It w-l> 



Assunia lloivard. 



777 



from Ihc very dej)lhs of her own 
sad experience lluit she pleaded 
with her little girl. My child, that 
mother is praying for you now.** 

"I believe it, father,** said Assun- 
ta, deeply moved by this story of 
her beloved mother, which she 
heard for the first time. 

*^ So, my child, the past is all as 
it should be ; «ind now for the fu- 
ture. May God grant you the 
grace to be always as good and 
brave as you were last night ! I 
would not discourage you, and yet 
I must remind you that the sacri- 
fice is only begun. It is not like- 
ly that your guardian, with only hu- 
man motives to urge him, will give 
up so easily where his heart is en- 
gaged. He will, of course, do all 
he can to turn you from your pur- 
pose, and no doubt your own 
heart will sometimes plead on his 
side. Here lies your further trial. 
And yet I cannot,' as under other 
circumstances I should do, advise 
you to shun the temptation. You 
cannot leave your guardian's care 
until you are of age; therefore you 
must face the trial. But I trust you 
entirely, my child — that is, I trust 
to the purity of your heart and the 
power of grace that is in you to 
guide your actions, even your very 
thoughts. You must try to be as 
you have been before ; try to for- 
get the lover in the guardian. 
Avoid coldness of manner as a safe- 
guard ; for it would only place you 
in an unnatural position, and would 
inevitably strengthen in the end the 
feelings you would conquer. It is 
not easy to give an exact rule of 
conduct. Your own good sense 
will teach you, and God will be 
with you. And, my child, you 
must pray for your guardian, and 
at the same time it must be without 
any future reference to yourself in 
connection with him. Is this too 



hard for you } Do your best, and 
grace will do the rest. By remem- 
bering him before God you will 
learn to purify your feelings towards 
him — tosupcrnaturalize them; and 
by committing your future unre- 
servedly to the loving providence 
of God, your prayer will be a con- 
stant renewal of the act of sacrifice 
you have made. Make it heroic 
by perseverance. Do I explain 
myself clearly, my child?" 

'* Yes, father, perfectly so ; and 
I feel so much comforted and 
strengthened.*' 

" Well, these are but the words 
of your father, spoken out of his 
love for you. Go now, child, and 
prepare to receive your divine Lord, 
and listen for the words of peace 
and comfort he will speak to your 
soul. To him I commend you with 
all confidence. One thing more — 
remember that there is nothing 
which helps us so much in such a 
trial as acts of charity towards the 
poor and the suffering. I kno^r 
that you never fail in this respect ; 
but now especially I would urge you 
to forget yourself in sympatliy for 
others as occasion offers, though 
you must always recognize those 
claims which your position in soci- 
ety entails upon you. Come to me 
freely whenever you feel that I can 
help you. God bless you ! I shall 
remember you in the Holy Sacri- 
fice.** 

The good priest went to vest him- 
self for Mass, while the young girl 
returned to the place before the al- 
tar where Marie was patiently await- 
ing her. She was herself a pious 
woman, and time spent in church 
never seemed long to her. 

When the Mass was over and 
her thanksgiving ended, Assunta re- 
turned home with her heart light- 
ened of its burden. She dressed 
herself for breakfast with her usual 



77S 



Assunfa Howard, 



care and taste, and, finding that it 
still wanted half an hour or more 
before the great gim of Sant' Ange- 
lo would boom out the mid-day sig- 
nal, she seated herself at the piano, 
and song and ballad followed each 
other in quick succession. Her 
voice and manner were in harmony 
with herself. Her music soothed, 
but never excited. It had not the 
dangerous power to quicken the 
pulse and thrill the heart with pas- 
sionate emotion, but it roused the 
better feelings, while it conveyed to 
the listener* a restful, satisfied im- 
pression which ambitious, brilliant 
performers rarely impart. She was 
just beginning Cherubini*s beauti- 
ful Ave Maria when Mr. Carlisle 
entered the room. 

" Here is our early bird welcom- 
ing us in true songster fashion. 
Do not stop yet, /^//V<f, 

** My soul in an enchanted boat. 

Which, like a sleepinf^ swan, doth float 
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing.*' 

But as Assunta had already left 
the piano to greet her guardian and 
his sister, he continued : 

" By the way, Clara, my quota- 
tion has suggested to me an answer 
to your question. Assunta, my 
fickle sister, who a week ago was 
ready to live and die in a picture- 
gallery, has just now assured me 
that the very mention of a picture 
or statue is a fatigue to her ; and 
she has mercilessly compelled me 
to find some new and original bit of 
sight-seeing for to-day. We cannot, 
of course, visit any church, since 
the Holy Father is, unfortunately for 
her, not an iconoclast. But, Clara, 
what do you say to making a Shelley 
day of it } We will take Frome- 
ihetis Unbound with us to the Baths 
of Caracal! a, and there, on the 
very spot which inspired the poem, 
we can read parts of it. And when 
we are tired, we can prolong our 



drive to the cemeter>% and visit 
Shcl]ey*s grave, as a proper conclu- 
sion. How do you like the plan V* 

"Oh!" said Mrs. Grey, "it wiU 
be deliciously sentimental; only 
breakfast is announced, and I am in 
a famished condition. I was up so 
early this morning. It must have 
been before eleven when that stu- 
pid girl called me, and it is an hour 
since I took my coffee." 

" Poor Clara !" said Mr. Carlisle, 
"your condition is truly pitiable. 
I should think you might find 
the almshouse a pleasant change." 
Mrs. Grey seemed only amused at 
her brother's sarcasm, when sud- 
denly she checked her silvery laugh, 
and, springing from the table, ai 
which she had just seated herself, 
she went towards Assunta with such 
a pretty, penitential air that she 
was quite irresistible. 

" My dear child," she exclaimed, 
"speaking of almshouses reminds me 
of something you will never forgive. 
Promise me not to scold, and I will 
devote myself henceforth to the 
cultivation of my memory." 

"What is it.?" asked Assunta, 
smiling at her earnestness. " I am 
sure such a pleading look would 
force forgiveness from a stone." 

" Well, then, for my confession, 
since you absolve me beforehand. 
While you were out yesterday 
morning that miserable woman of 
yours sent word that she was sick, 
and something about not having a 
mouthful of bread in the house. 
I forget the whole message. My 
maid saw the girl who came, and 
I promised to tell you. But you 
remember my wretched headache. 
You forgave me, you know." 

Assunta looked both grieved and 
vexed for a moment, and then she 
controlled herself enough to say : 

" I must attach a condition to 
my forgiveness, Clara. Will you 



Assunta Howard, 



779 



to the house on out 
aths ? I will only de- 
w minutes." 

* Assunta, you will 
; yourself?" exclaimed 
d Clara. " I dare say 
thy hole, and perhaps 
nay have fever. Send 

• with some money. 
^\t dollars." 

3u. I will take the five 
er willingly," replied 
irl; "but I will take 
I can easily walk," 
ooking for permission 
dian, as the occasion 
nal. 

e at his sister's thought- 
evident in Mr. Car- 
s he said : 

1 go in the carriage, 
I will accompany you. 
rn for Clara after the 
,nni, order a basket 
5 to be put up before 
and be ready yourself 
IS and take charge of 
that the matter is set- 
have some breakfast." 
Grey looked discon- 
she thought it her duty 
rther protest. 
i\y will not wear that 
a ? It will never be fit 
iin. 

le laughed outright at 
jection, while Assunta 
mile: 

ira, have you so soon 
ur admiration of Mrs. 
^ourt Lady^ who put on 
i jewels, and went to 
as to the court of the 
the same principle I 
rrayed in purple and 
)r I am going to the 
King of kings ; and if 
y much mistaken, this 
roman, whose contact 
mvLchf will find her 



place very near to the throne in 
the ranks of the celestial nobility. 
However, I should be sorry to ruin 
my new dress, as you predict, and 
I will be very careful." 

The breakfast was soon despatch- 
ed, the carriage came punctually to 
the door, and Mr. Carlisle and his 
ward drove rapidly towards the 
miserable home of the poor woman, 
who, in the midst of her poverty, 
possessed a faith at which Assunta 
often wondered. 

" You are very kind, Mr. Carlisle," 
she said. "I am sorry I have 
given you so much trouble." 

" In this case," he replied, " the 
trouble is not altogether disinter- 
ested. I must myself find out what 
the sickness is before I can allow 
you to enter the house. I cannot 
let you run the risk of fever or any 
other malignant disease. You see 
I came as a sort of police." 

" But," said Assunta, touched by 
his thoughtful care of her, at the 
same time anxious not to be pre- 
vented making what amends she 
could, " I am so accustomed to 
visiting the sick, I do not think 
there can be any danger." 

" My child," he said, " as long as 
your life can be guarded by me, it 
shall be done. You are under 
obedience still, you know." She 
dared not insist ; and, indeed, at 
the same moment they reached the 
wretched dwelling. After exacting 
from her the promise to remain in 
the carriage, Mr. Carlisle ascended 
the broken stair-case. In a few 
moments he returned, and, without 
saying a word, he took the basket 
from Giovanni, and again went up 
the stairs. As he reappeared, he 
said to the coachman : 

** Drive on slowly. I will walk a 
little. You must not go in, As- 
sunta." 

He contmued to IoWoti ^vt ^"^^' 



78o 



Assunta Howard. 



riage at a quick pace for a quarter 
of a mile ; then he hailed the driver, 
and took his seat beside the wonder- 
ing girl, saying : 

** I thought it would be best to 
give myself an airing after leaving 
that room. Petite^ the poor woman 
died two hours since of a terrible 
fever. You could have done no- 
thing, and, as usual, Clara was mis- 
taken in the message. They sent 
word to their * guardian angel,* as 
they are pleased to call a certain 
little friend of mine, of their suf- 
fering and need, but with the par- 
ticular warning that she should on 
no account direct her flight that 
way, lest she should expose the 
unangelic part of her nature to con- 
tagion. I left the basket, and 
money enough to supply all the 
temporary wants of the children ; 
but it was a dreadful scene," he 
added with a shudder. 

He had striven to speak lightly 
at first, because he saw the distress 
in Assunta's anxious face and tear- 
ful eyes. But his own feelings 
were strangely stirred, and he for- 
got his self-control, as he continued, 
in a voice low and husky from the 
very intensity of emotion : 

" Child, I am in an agony of 
terror at the bare thought of what 
might have been the result had 
you been exposed to that atmo- 
sphere, whose every breath was poi- 
son. My God! when I think of 
the danger you have so narrowly 
escaped. Oh ! if I might always 
shield this dear life at any risk to 
mine." 

" My life is in God's hands," said 
Assunta coldly, as she gently disen- 
gaged the hand which her guardian 
had clasped in his, as if he would 
show, by the action, the power of 
his love to avert any and every 
evil which might threaten her. 

Poor child! she longed to ask 



more about the woman's death, 
especially to express her grati 
to Mr. Carlisle for his kindn 
but she dared not face his pre 
mood. However, as they a 
reached the villa, she said hurrii 
and in a tone full of anxiety : 

" Mr. Carlisle, you have expc 
yourself to great danger, and I 
not forget that it was for my » 
I shall not be satisfied unless 
promise me that you will take e^ 
possible precaution to avoid 
future evil consequences. Ish( 
never forgive myself if any li 
came to you." 

Her eyes lowered beneath 
look he for one moment fixed u 
her appealing face ; then, with 
exclamation, " An unblessed W 
of little consequence," he spr 
from the carriage, and, saying 
Giovanni, "I will summon \ 
Grey," he dashed up the stone st 
case. 

Assunta sank back with a feci 
almost of despair at the task bei 
her. Even if she had not to str 
gle with her own heart, it wo 
have been hard enough to steer 
right, straight course between th 
contradictory moods in her gu 
dian ; one moment so tender : 
thoughtful, the next so full 
bitterness. How could she rcc 
cile them } How should she e 
be able to bear her burden, if 
weight were added to it day 
day .J* 

Assunta possessed the gift — ^wh 
advanced to a higher degree, m 
be termed the natural science 
the saints — of receiving relig 
impressions and suggestions f 
the natural objects about her. N 
as in a listless manner she loo 
around, her eyes fell upon the sn 
crowned hills which bound the 
man horizon, and rested there, 
had no thought of the classic a 



Assunta Howard, 



781 



ctations which throng those moun- 
tain-sides and nestle in the valleys. 
She needed strength, and instantly 
the words were present to her mind : 
" I have lifted up my eyes to the 
mountains, from whence help shall 
come to me." And following out 
the consoling train of thought, she 
passed from those peaceful Roman 
hills to Jerusalem and the moun- 
tains which surround it, even " as 
the Lord is round about his people." 
Then, by a natural transition, she 
turned her thoughts to the poor 
woman who had just left behind 
her poverty, privation, and suffering, 
and, accompanied only by that hope 
and love which had endured and 
survived them all, had entered, so 
she confidently hoped, into the 
possession of God — the Beatific 
Vision. What a contrast between 
the temporal and eternal ! 

Her silent requiem for the de- 
parted soul was interrupted by 
Mrs. Grey's bright presence and 
merry voice. 

" I cannot imagine what you 
have been doing to Severn," she 
said; **but he is in one of his un- 
accountable conditions of mind, 
and declares that he will not go 
to drive — pressing business, etc. I 
am sure we can do without him 
very well, all but the reading part, 
which had been assigned to him. 
It is so late, at any rate, that per- 
haps we had better give up the 
baths, and drive at once to the 
cemeterv. You see I have secured 
an excellent substitute for our re- 
creant cavalier," she added, as a 
gentleman emerged from the mas- 
sive doorway. "Come, Mr. Sin- 
clair, we are waiting for you." 

There was just a shade of state- 
liness in Assunta's manner as she 
greeted the somewhat elegant man 
of the world, who seated himself 
opposite to her. She would gladly 



have been dispensed from the drive 
altogether, feeling as she did then ; 
nevertheless, she submitted to the 
necessity which could hardly be 
avoided. 

"Truly, Miss Howard," said Mr. 
Sinclair, as they drove away, " 1 
begin to believe the ancient god- 
desses no myths. Flora herself 
would find in you a worthy rival. 
It is not often that I have the hap- 
piness to be placed opposite two 
such lovely ladies." 

" Very good for :i finale, Mr. Sin- 
clair," replied Mrs. Grey ; " but if 
you were to speak your mind, you 
would be calling me Ceres, or some- 
thing else suggestive of the *sere 
and yellow leaf.' " 

"That is a gross injustice, not 
only to me, but to yourself," an- 
swered Mr. Sinclair in his most gal- 
lant tone. " Have not the poets 
ever vied with each other in dis- 
putes as to the respective merits of 
spring, with its freshness, and the 
rich bloom of early summer ? And 
permit me to add that neither has 
yet been able to claim a victory. 
In such a presence it would be 
rash indeed for me to constitute 
myself a judge." 

" Unwise, certainly," rejoined 
Mrs. Grey, "to take into your hand 
such an aj>ple of discord. Women 
and goddesses are pretty much 
alike, and the fate of Paris might be 
yours. Remember the ten years* 
siege." 

" Ah!*' said Mr. Sinclair, " there 
you do not frighten me. Welcome 
the ten years* siege, if during that 
time the fiiir Helen were safe with- 
in the walls. After ten vears one 
might perhaj)s be reconciled to a 
surrender and a change of scene, 
since even the lovely Trojan's 
beautv must have lost the freshness 
of its charms bv that time." 

*'0 faithless men!** said Mrs. 



782 



Assunta Hotvard. 



Grey, very much as if she were pro- 
nouncing an eulogy. 

" Miss Howard," said Mr. Sin- 
clair, " you are silent. Does our 
classic lore fail to enlist your inte- 
rest, or are you studying antiqui- 
ties?" 

"Pardon me," replied Assunta; 
"it was rude in me to be so ab- 
stracted. I must excuse myself on 
the ground of sympathy for suffer- 
ing which I have been unable to 
alleviate." 

" By the way, Assunta," exclaimed 
Mrs. Grey, " how did you find your 
prot/g/e f" 

" She is dead," replied the young 
girl, softly. 

" Oh ! I am so sorry. How very 
sudden ! Mr. Sinclair, you were 
telling me about the Braschi ball 
when Severn interrupted us. When 
did you say it is to be V* 

" In about three weeks," replied 
the gentleman. " I hope that you 
ladies will be there. Our Ameri- 
can blondes are greatly in demand 
among so many black eyes. You 
are going, are you not V* 

" Most certainly we shall," an- 
swered Mrs. Grey with ready con- 
fidence, the future being to her but a 
continuation of to-day. The cloud 
that might appear on her horizon 
must be much larger than a man*s 
hand to turn her attention to it 
from the sunshine immediately about 
her. 

And so, between pleasantry and 
gossip, the time passed until the 
carriage stopped at the gate of the 
ccmeterv. 

** You have chosen a very serious 
termination to vour afternoon's 
drive, Mrs. Grey," said Mr. Sin- 
clair, as he assisted the ladies to 
alight. " I always carefully avoid 
whatever reminds me of niy latter 
end." 

"Let me play E^^^Uslw coffin, 



then, for once," replied Mrs. Grey, 
but with a merry laugh that belied 
her words. " I will lead you to a 
contemplation of the fate of genius. 
I dote on Shelley, and so we have 
made a pilgrimage to his grave." 

" You have every appearance of 
a pilgrim about to visit some sacied 
shrine," said Mr. Sinclair with an 
echo of her bright laugh. ^^ Lead 
on, fair pilgrim princess ; we hum- 
ble votaries will follow wherever 
your illustrious steps may guide." 

A small, horizontal slab, almost 
hidden beneath the pyramid of 
Caius Cestus — ^itself a tomb — is all 
that marks the resting-place of the 
gifted, ill-fated Shelley. 

" Here is your shrine, my lady 
pilgrim," said Mr. Sinclair, as he 
removed some of the green over- 
growth from oflf the inscriptioiL 

" Somebody make a suitable quo- 
tation," said Mrs. Grey. "You 
know we ought to be sentimental 
now." 

Assunta at once rejoined ; 

'* * How wonderful is Death— 
DeaUi and his broUier, Sleep V 

Poor Shelley! But I do not like 
the inscription, Clara ; or rather, I 
do not like such an expression on 
such a grave." 

"What do you mean, dear As- 
sunta.^" said Mrs. Grey, looking at 
her as if she were talking Sanscrit. 
**I think it is lovely. Cor cor- 
dium — the heart of hearts, is it 
not } I am sure nothing could be 
more appropriate." 

" It does not seem to me appro- 
priate," answered Assunta; **but 
then you know I always do have 
strange ideas — so you say. Whv 
should Cor cordium be written 
over the ashes of one who was 
burned in true pagan fashion, and 
who, as I think, should rather be 
pitied for what he did not do, with 



Assunta Howard. 



783 



rvellous gifts, than loved for 
ag he has done ?" 
she paused, a voice beside 
claimed, " I am sure I can- 
mistaken. Is not this Miss 
d?" 

mta turned and welcomed 
pleased surprise the young 
ho appeared so unexpected- 
1 she presented him to her 
nions as Mr. Percival, of Bal- 
, the brother of her only in- 
school friend. He was tall 
lender, not handsome, but 
manly and at the same time 
al face. His eyes were his 
feature, but their beauty was 
that of the soul speaking 
h them. Assunta had not 
Im since her school days at 
mvent, and then she had 
him but slightly; so she 
jrself surprised at her ready 
ition of him. 

id what has brought you so 
ly from my dear Mary ?" she 
after the first greetings were 

am on that most unenvia- 
xpeditions — health-seeking," 
s reply. " After graduating 
ege, the physician doomed 
a year of travel ; and so we 
gain at Shelley's grave T" 
s," said Mrs. Grey, " and As- 
md I were in the midst of an 
e quarrel when you found us 
[ engage you on my side, Mr. 
al. It is about the inscrip- 
hich I like and Assunta does 
•r reasons which are Greek 



»» 



A'as just going to say," said 
a, ** that Cor cordium seemed 
a sacred phrase wholly mis- 
i, though I have no doubt 
2verence was unintentional." 
Liming to Mr. Percival with 
rt of spiritual instinct which 
3 us where to look for sym- 



pathy even in a crowd, she con- 
tinued : 

" I hope that I am not guilty of 
the same want of reverence in think- 
ing that if those words are to be in- 
scribed on any grave, they should 
be written upon that stone which 
was rolled against the opening of 
the new sepulchre in the garden, 
and sealed with the Roman seal ; 
for there the true Cor cordium was 
enclosed." 

" Mr. Percival, I see that you 
have gone over to the ranks of the 
enemy," said Mrs.. Grey; "and if 
Mr. Sinclair deserts me, I shall 
never be able to stand my ground 
against two such devotees." 

"I am yours to command, Mrs. 
Grey," replied Mr. Sinclair with an 
expression of contempt in his tone. 
" But perhaps it might be well to 
transfer our operations to another 
battle-field. Allow me to offer you 
a souvenir of the occasion." And 
he handed to each of the ladies a 
sprig of green from beside the mar- 
ble tablet. 

Assunta quite simply shared hers 
with Mr. Percival at his request, 
and then they retraced their steps. 
As they approached the carriage, 
Mrs. Grey very cordially begged 
Mr. Percival to occupy the fourth 
seat, which he reluctantly declined, 
as also the invitation to visit them. 

" For," said he, " to-morrow I 
start for Jerusalem ; and, Miss 
Howard, when I am kneeling, as I 
hope to do, in the Chapel of the 
Holy Sepulchre, I shall remember 
you and those suggestive words of 
yours." 

" You could not do me a greater 
kindness," replied Assunta, ** than 
to remember me there. And when 
you return, what do you intend to 
do in the way of a profession ? You 
see I am interested for Mary's sake. 
I know what her desire is." 



784 



Assunta Howard. 



An hour before, if this question 
had been proposed to him, Augus- 
tine Percival would have been able 
to give a probable answer. Though 
he had not yet decided, his few 
days' sojourn in Rome had stirred 
up within him a feeling which had 
been latent even in his boyhood, 
and from the depths of the Cata- 
combs and beneath the lofty domes 
he had thought he heard an inte- 
rior voice which whispered to him, 
" Follow me." And now a fair 
young face had made him hesitate, 
though, in justice to him, it must 
be added that no mere charm of 
beautv would have touched him for 
a moment. It was the purity and 
beauty of mind and soul, which he 
read and appreciated, that caused 
him to reply to Assunta's ques- 
tion : 

" The matter of my future voca- 
tion will be left, I think, until my 
return." 

Then, with many pleasant fare- 
well words, they parted ; and, ex- 
cept to mention the meeting to her 
friend in her next letter, Assunta 
thought no more of the thread of 
another life which had for a mo- 
ment crossed hers. 

That evening there were guests 
at the villa ; and, as usual, Assunta's 
amiability was taxed by the repeat- 
ed demands for music. As she sat 
absently turning over the leaves 
before her in one of the intervals, 
Mr. Carlisle came and stood beside 
her. 

" Pciiie;' he said, " I have been 
to see the authorities about the 
family of that poor woman who 
died to-day, and everything will be 
arranged comfortably for them ; so 
vou need feel no further anxictv !" 

*' How good you are, dear friend !" 



she replied. "God bless you for 
it!" 

" It is your blessing that I want," 
said he. "It was for you that I 
took the little trouble you are 
pleased to magnify into something 
deserving of gratitude." 

" Please do not say so, Mr. Car- 
lisle/' said Assunta earnestly. 
" You do such noble acts, and then 
you spoil them by your want of 
faith." 

The word was unfortunatdj 
chosen. 

" If by faith," Mr. Carlisle replied, 
"you mean your Cathalic faith, 
I cannot force myself to accept 
what does not appeal to my reason. 
I can respect an honest convictioD 
in others when I am in turn treat- 
ed with equal liberality ; but," he 
added in a low tone, " I could hate 
the faith, so called, which comes be- 
tween me and the fulfilment of my 
dearest wish." 

There was a call for more music, 
and so there was no opportunity, 
even had there been inclination, for 
a reply. But as Assunta was pass- 
ing wearily to her room after the 
last guest had departed, Mr. Car- 
lisle stopped her, and, after his 
usual good-night, he said : "For- 
give me, child. I have not been my- 
self to-day." 

Two weeks afterwards, when her 
guardian lay prostrate on his bed 
in the delirium of fever, Assunta 
remembered those few word& 
which at the time had given her 
pain, with that agony of sorrow 
which can only be aroused by the 
knowledge that the soul of one 
beloved may at any moment be 
launched upon the immeasurable 
ocean of eternity, rudderless and 
anchorless. 



TO UE CO.VTINUBD. 



Church Music. 



CHURCH MUSIC* 



CONCLUDED, 



(ed that plain chant 
part, and indeed a 
ir choral service, but 
lUsic should not be 
mains for us to say 
Qsic is to be used in 
I plain chant, or sub- 
plain chant is com- 

to imagine that no 
is suitable for the 
at which is termed 
They urge the 
this species of mti- 
purposes ; for, like 
t, it is ancient, can 
d exclusive connec- 
'atholic ceremonial, 
personal display, is 
I the music of the 
liters the words or 
o them, is not only 
:siastical but papal, 
>Iemn and grave as 
hile it is of wider 
far more pleasing 
h written in strict 
ows the tonality of 
Its origin is holy, 
5 and S. Philip were 
iciated with Pales- 
:gain, it has the best 
iration — that of hav- 
for the last three 
by the popes, lo the 
the whole world, 
IS well as Catlio- 

these claims. But 
■ of this species of 

rare Ibc CulUallc Union of 



music amongst US there is a fatal'^ 
objection. 

It was written to be sung without 1 
instrumental accompaniment, whic' 
when used in conjunction with it, 1 
always mars its effect; and hence, , 
though nothing more suitable can i 
be imagined for Lent and Advent, , 
when, according to the nibrics (too | 
often slighted), the sound of the J 
organ should not be heard, we c 
not be expected to sing it at other | 
times ; for we absolutely need the \ 
organ tomakeamendsforourscantjr J 
numbers, our lack of proficiency in \ 
execution, to support the voices, I 
and lo give variety to the servii 

The organ is regarded by u 
essentially a church instrument by .^ 
its nature and the association 
connect with il ; indeed it never -^ 
fails to arouse in us deeper feel- 
ings of reverence and devotion, and | 
we cannot do without it. 

An attempt was made in several j 
of the German cathedrals some J 
years ago to revive music of the * 
Palestrina style, to the exclusion of 
the more modem; but circumstan- 
ces, we think, have already led to 
some modifications of the strict 
rules first proposed. 



Practically, we can hardly hope 
ever to exclude from our churches 
modern figured music — as Bene- 
dict XIV. says, that would be an 
extreme measure; but we can 
dude, and are bound, he says, to I 
exclude, such compositions of it as | 
are unsuitable for church purposes. 



786 



Church Music. 



But how shall we determine 
what is suitable and what is not? 

Music, it will be said, is a mere 
matter of taste, and the adage has 
it, De gustibus non est dispuiandum. 

But there is bad taste as well as 
good taste. Moreover, church mu- 
sic is a matter of principle as well as 
of taste, and good taste in this case 
is closely allied to principle. 

Taste is the instinct or habit, or 
rather the instinct following habit, 
and perfected by it, whereby we 
are enabled to discern and detect 
what is most proper and congruous 
in each province of art. 

Now, the reason for employing 
music in the service of the church 
is religious or it is none. Unless the 
musical sounds, therefore, subserve 
the meaning of the text, they are 
better away. " Where the religious 
song is accompanied by musical 
instruments," says Benedict XIV., 
" these must serve solely for adding 
to its force, so that the sense of the 
words penetrate deeper into the 
hearts of the faithful, and their 
spirit, being roused to the contem- 
plation of spiritual things, be ele- 
vated towards God and the love 
of divine objects." That style of 
music, then, will be the most reli- 
gious which deals most reverently 
with its subject, and gives the least 
scope to the play of irreligious dis- 
positions. Being the most suitable 
to its subject, it will also be in the 
truest taste. 

Hence that music will be the 
most suitable and the best which 
in its construction will correspond 
most perfectly with the peculiar spirit 
of each festival and with the special 
character of each service ; which 
will most naturally and reverently 
render the sense of the words with- 
out changing, inverting, or abridg- 
ing them, or marring their sense 
hy useless and tiresome tepeUVvoxv^^ 



— which, in other words, will speak 
as distinctly and as religiously to 
the ear as the altar, the vestments 
of the priest, and the ceremonies 
speak to the eye. Music and cere- 
monies, and everything connected 
with them, should be in the most 
perfect harmony, reminding all thai 
they are in the house of God, and 
assembled in his presence to par 
him homage on earth like that ren- 
dered him by the members of the 
church triumphant in heaven. 

Hence, i, church music should not 
in any way recall the world, its 
temptations or its pleasures; and 
the prohibition made by popes and 
councils against the introduction 
into the church of compositions 
written originally for the theatre or 
the concert-room, but with other 
words, or of compositions written 
for the church, but in a style sug- 
gestive of the stage, is so evidently 
just and proper that any one who 
objects to it must be wanting in 
common sense. 

" Humana nefas miscere divinis 
finds its application here. To carry 
the minds of worshippers in the 
church back to the theatre by the 
music is a crime, for it is a dese- 
cration.* 

Hence, 2, not even the feelings 
of the congregation should ever 
tempt the director of the music of 
the church to admit what is not in 
every respect most suitable to the 
place, the time, and the occasion. 
Fortunately, we have no difficulty 
here in the United States with our 
own people. The only trouble is 
when we go out of our way to 
satisfy the expectations of non- 
Catholics who occasionally are 
present at our services, or of a few 
musicians not otherwise interested 
in the services. 



Church Music. 



ce, 3, undue prominence 
never be given to individual 
It is, to say the least, very 
ting. 

Ce> 4. the director of the 
should never be willing to 
le the liturgy, even the least 
it, to the exigencies of the 
whatever they may happen 
but, on the conirary. he 
be ever ready, if need be, 
Ifice even the most admira- 
sical numbers to the exigcn- 
ihe ceremonial, 
ther words, he should never 
;hat music is one of llie many 
to our public worship — 
the essential — and is never 
heard merely for its owni 

is brought out clearly and 
Uy in two decrees that have for 
lis section of country the full 
[law — a decree of the Second 
jr Council of Baltimore, and 
"r decree of the Third Pro- 
Council of New York : 
at all may be done according 
icribed order, and that the 
I rites of the church may be 
n their integrity, we ad- 
t pastors of churches to 
tamest ly to remove those 
which in our country have 
into the churf-h chant. Let 
bcrefore provide that the ma- 

•bservient to the Holy Saeri- 
iht Mass and the et/ier offices, 
Xthe divine offices to the music. 
tmalso bear in mind that, ac- 
\ to the ritual of the church, 
It lawful to sing hymns in the 
ular languages at High Mass 
solemn Vespers."* 

solemn Masses singers arc 
iled from so protracting the 
»y, the Sancltts, and the Bene- 
Aat the celebrant is obliged 

yart Cnmeil «/ Sill/miri, No. 



to deEay till they have made an end 
of singing."* 

The general principles we h^ve 
laid down will be still belter under- 
stood if we examine the declara- 
tions made by the church throLiyh 
scver;il of the popes. 

The most notable and the m-st 
precious of these are the brief of 
Benedict XIV, already mentioned, 
and the rules for composers j{iven 
by Pius IX, 

Pope Benedict XIV., in his Con- 
stitution Annas 19, February, 1749, 
begins by laying down the gene- 
ral principle that the music of llie 
church must be so ordered that no- 
thing profane, nothing worldly, and 
especially nothing theatrical, be 
heard in it. He repeats this prin- 
ciple again and again, and says that 
there is no one wiio does not detest 
operatic music in the church, and 
who does not look for and desire 
a difference between the music of 
the church and the music of the 

He then reminds us of the Con- 
stituti^on of I'ope Innocent XII., by 
which it is forbidden to sing at 
solemn Mass ■and Vespers motets 
or liyinns that are not a part of the 
Mass or the Vespers of the day ; 
that is, at solemn Mass, the only 
pieces allowed to be sung besides the 
Kyric, Gloria, Credo, Sanclus, £ettf- 

* TUrit n^liiUt CtHMll if Km Virt.At- 



■> mlK>>t euUr lie tunK wltbln the pmcrlbcd 
n«, Italy lu*s nulncd whit Ibey had, lod Ibut 
rg [rf^uinUy ottUccd lo lnicrrui>t ibe Stmitmi 
I Iho inMaiean navmiaiit.mnd beron) ri*lf Ihe 
'ordi bkTC beea pnmouncod. Someiiniei ihe^ 

'ordi antr tAe KUmlin)). mnil Ihtn Iber Atx) It 
npuaitbic to liDi (he Bmdiitmi, wbieb *houl4, 
I ii esidsnl, Imiacdlitaly futlow iha cflntectn- 
un. It li true Ihm it Ibc llich Mhi IhccglB- 

inn utual.hmb far ibe tivinitb*ri)r* ilii cokm- 



788 



Church Music. 



dictus^ and Agnus Dei are the In- 
troit, Gradual, Offertory, and Com- 
munion of the Mass of the day (a 
single exception being made for 
Corpus Christi, when the OSalutaris! 
or other hymn of the office of the 
Blessed Sacrament may be sung 
at the Offertory), and at solemn 
Vespers only the Antiphons and 
the proper hymn with the 
Psalms. 

He then proceeds to condemn 
frequent repetitions of the same 
words, and places the chief distinc- 
tion between theatrical music and 
church music in this: that in the 
former the words are made quite 
subservient to the singing and the 
accompaniment ; whereas in the lat- 
ter the words are rendered intelligi- 
bly, and the music is made subservi- 
ent to them. 

He next instructs bishops to 
banish from the church absolutely 
all instruments except the organ ; 
but with the organ he allows the 
use of violins, violas, violoncel- 
los, contrabassos, and bassoons, 
because these add, he says, to 
the force of its tones ; but he pro- 
hibits cymbals, horns, trombones, 
oboes, flutes — in general, all wind- 
instruments, as also harps and 
guitars, because all these, he says, 
recall the theatre. 

He directs that while the singing 
is going on 'the instruments must 
merely accompany, never take the 
place of, the voices. 

He allows suitable symphonies 
when these are dissociated from the 
office proper — probably meaning 
the pieces played at the beginning 
and the end of service, and to fill 
up pauses when tlie choir is si- 
lent. 

He closes by urging the Italian 
bishops to comply with these in- 
structions faithfully, that foreign 
bishops coming to Rome may see 



in Italian, and especially in Roman, 
churches the public offices proper- 
ly carried out, and thus be induced 
to imitate them. 

The present vicar-general of 
Pius IX., Cardinal Patrizzi, by or 
der of the Pope, wrote two letters 
to composers of church music in 
Rome, on the i8th and 20th of 
November, 1856, and in them he 
so far supplements the directions 
of Benedict XIV. that we have 
wherewith to determine without 
much difficulty what music is, and 
what music is not, admissible in 
Catholic choirs. 

In his first letter he says : 

" The most sustained gravity is 
to be observed, and nothing intro- 
duced suggestive of theatrical pie- 
ces, either by the arrangement or by 
the melody ; too many repetitions^ 
and all changes and arbitrary- 
inversions of the words are to be 
avoided. 

" At Mass, Exposition, and Bene- 
diction of the Blessed Sacrament, 
and other sacred ceremonies, organ- 
ists are forbidden to execute the 
whole or parts of theatrical pieces, 
or to play in a too florid or dis- 
tracting style; and their music 
ought to be such as to promote the 
recollection and devotion of the 
faithful. 

" As we consider an interruption 
between the various parts of the 
words of the liturgy very unbecom- 
ing, even when any verse is finish- 
ed, as being an occasion of distrac- 
tion and noise among the musi- 
cians and hearers, we order that 
every part of the offices, especially 
at Mass, shall be sung through 
continuously, so that the Kyrie^ 
Gloria^ and other parts may each 
have a unity of structure." 

In his second letter he teaches 
composers the necessity of their 
having for their object the praise 



Church Music. 



789 



of God and the devotion of the 
faithful, and shows how church 
music in its whole construction 
ought to differ from that of the 
stage. 

" If all composers," he says, 
"drew their inspirations from piety 
and religion, as some of them have 
the good spirit to do ; if they al- 
ways kept before their minds that 
their music ought to tend to praise 
God in his holy temple, and to ex- 
cite the devotion of the faithful, 
there would have been but little 
need to make rules for musical 
composition. But it is only too 
true that, in some instances, to the 
great surprise of the truly religious 
among the faithful, there has been 
heard in the churches certain mu- 
sic unworthy of the house of God, 
and showing that the composer, far 
from having in view the service of 
the divine Majesty and the edifica- 
tion of his hearers, has only aimed 
at displaying his own imagination, 
and that he has forgotten the 
church and written for the theatre, 
not only by borrowing its style of 
melody, but also by introducing 
portions of theatrical music, to 
which he has sometimes violently 
adapted the words of the sacred 
liturgy. In order that so great a 
scandal may not be renewed, and 
that those who write music for the 
church may have a rule to keep 
them within due bounds, we pre- 
scribe as follows : 

** I. Music destined for execu- 
tion in the churches ought to be 
distinguishable from profane and 
theatrical music, not only in its 
mehdUsy but also in its whole char- 
acter; hence 

*'2. Those movements are for- 
bidden which would not be natu- 
rally inspired by the sacred charac- 
ter of the words, and which would 
be suggestive of the theatre. 



" 3. We forbid too lively or ex- 
citing movements ; if the words 
require cheerfulness and joy, let it 
be expressed by the sweetness of 
religious mirth, and not by the un- 
bridled liveliness of the dance. 

" 4. In all movements, whether 
slow or quick, the words of the sa- 
cred text must be pronounced clear- 
ly, and never more quickly than in 
ordinary discourse. 

" 5. The words must be put to mu- 
sic in the order which they occapy 
in the sacred text. When the sense 
has been entirely expressed, it will 
be allowable to repeat some word 
of it, or some phrase of it, as may 
be necessary, without inversion, 
without confusion of the sense, and 
with the required moderation. 

" 6. All the words must be sung, 
and none added nor any omitted. 
It is not allowed for one syllable of 
them to be changed. 

" 7. We forbid ariettas, duets, and 
trios in imitation of theatrical 
pieces. Recitative and everything 
approaching to it is forbidden ; as 
also operatic finales, such as are 
known by the term cabaUiia. 

** 8. As regards instruments, long 
introductions and long preludes are 
to be avoided, whether with full or- 
chestra or with solos. 

"9. Without depriving instru- 
mental music of the grace and co- 
loring which art and good taste sug- 
gest, an effeminate softness is to be 
avoided, as well as immoderate 
noise, which is always tiring and 
unbecoming in the house of God. 

** 10. The composer must not for- 
get that the use of instrumental music 
in the churches is in a state of simple 
toleration ; the object of it must be 
to sustain and enrich the singing, 
to be far from overpowering it, or 
from enfeebling ana deadening it, 
or reducing it to a mere accessory.'* 

These rules, if adhered to, would 



790 



Church Music. 



give us music which would meet 
the requirements both of devotion 
and of art ; nor do they exclude 
such variety as the diversity of our 
feelings calls for. It could, by its 
placid, quiet, and smooth-flowing 
measures, soothe and subdue us into 
that mood which best fits us to offer 
to God reverential homage, and to 
make acts of resignation when we 
feel the hand of affliction bearing 
heavily upon us ; but also, by more 
joyous and inspiriting strains, dis- 
j)0se us to praise God according to 
the immensity of his greatness, in 
joy and gladness, on loud-sounding 
cymbals (/» cymbalis jubilaiioni$\ 
and send us back to the battle of life 
with renewed courage and strength. 

IV. 

But, it will be asked, can this 
style of music which we have just 
sketched be had ? Most certainly. 

It is true our organists do not 
know it ; for they are lamentably 
ill-read in musical lore. They 
seem to imagine that whatever is 
published as music for the service 
of the Catholic Church is to be re- 
garded as " Catholic music," and 
perfectly proper, and they scarcely 
dream of looking further than to 
the publications or importations of 
Ditson, Peters, and Novello, or of 
critically examining these to test 
their fitness for the purposes of 
divine worship. To take the two 
best composers of their class, how 
few organists have taken the 
trouble to study critically the 
Masses of Haydn and Mozart. Of 
the sixteen Masses composed by 
Haydn, there are only four in which 
the words are all correct. These 
are Nos. 4, 5, 6, and 9. All the 
others are consequently defective. 

In Nos. 7, 8, and 11, although all 
the words are to be found in one or 
other of the voice parts, yet each 



voice is often singing difTerent 
words at the same time. 

In Nos. I, 2, 3, and 16 the words 
Qui ex pat re filioque procedit are al- 
together omitted. In Nos. 3 and 
16 the words et in unum Dcminum 
Jesum Christum^ filium Deiunigeni- 
tuftty are wanting. In No. 2 the 
words Qui cum Poire et Filio simwl 
adoratur et conghrificatur are omit- 
ted. In No. 10 the words JDomine 
DeuSy Agnus Dei^ FUius Patris^ qm 
tollis peccata mundi miserere nobis^ 
are omitted. In the Credo all the 
words from et in unum JOominum 
as far as per quern omnia facta sunt 
(inclusive), and again all the last 
part of the Credo from et in Spiritum 
to the end, are altogether omitted. 

In No. 12 the words Qui tollis 
peccata mundi (secundo) are omitted. 

In No. 13 the words fesu Chrisle^ 
Domine Deus^ are omitted. The 
words Filius Patris are immediate- 
ly followed by miserere nobis, quo- 
niam tu solus^ etc. 

Again, in the Credo of this same 
Mass, after the words et imnsibilium 
we find the text read thus : credopcr 
quern omnia, etc., with all the inter- 
mediate part left out. No. 14 con- 
sists of a Kyrie and Gloria only. 
In the Gloria the words Qui tollis 
peccata mundi, suscipe, etc., qui sedes, 
etc., are omitted. In No. 15 the 
words Qui tollis peccata mundi (se- 
cundo) arc omitted. In the Credo oi 
this Mass, beginning with Et resur- 
rexit, different words are sung simul- 
taneously by each part, as remarked 
above of Nos. 7, 8, and 11. 

While it cannot be denied that 
much of the Mass music of Haydn 
is the most beautiful in the world, 
some of it is trivial and undevo- 
tional, and it would seem as if, by 
some of his movements, he wished 
to 

*^ Make the soul dance a j is: to heaven.^ 

Concerning the sacred composi- 



Church Music, ' 



791 



lions of Mozart, a recent French 
author, M. Felix Clement,* makes 
the following startling assertion : 

'* The religious musical compo- 
sitions of Mozart are much less 
numerous than is generally be- 
lieved, and the catalogues of music 
publishers and the repertories of 
mattres de chapclU are not to be 
trusted. Many of these musicians 
frequently take the liberty of steal- 
ing from Mozart's operas, and even 
from his compositions for instru- 
ments, and of adapting them to 
a Latin text, let the adaptations 
be worth what they may. . . . 
The only authentic religious com- 
positions of Mozart are the follow- 
ing : 

" A Stabai mater for four voices, 
without instruments, and very short. 

** A Veni SancU Spiritus for four 
voices, two violins, two hautboys, 
two horns, a clarinet, tympanum, 
alto, and violoncello. 

'* A solemn Mass for four voices, 
two violins, two hautboys, two al- 
tos, four clarinets, and tympanum, 
1768. 

" A short Mass for four voices and 
the same accompaniment, 1768. 

'* A Grand Offertory for four 
voices and similar accompaniment, 
1768. 

'* An Ave Verum Corpus^ 1791. 

"The Mass of Requiem. 

**Two solemn Masses in C major." 

There are adaptations in many of 
Peters' publications that are simply 
shocking, and even our most worthy 
Anthony Werner forgot himself 
while he was compiling the Memo- 
rare and the Caniate, and inserted 
a few compositions that are out of 
rule, and therefore out of taste. 

Again, few organists amongst us 
have a sufficient knowledge of 
l^tin, of the structure of the ritual. 



and of the traditions of the church 
to judge of the .ippropriateness of 
compositions ; and the evil is aggra- 
vated to the last degree by the 
custom of making the organist the 
director of the music as well. 
Hardly any of them know either 
the theory or the practice of plain 
chant. 

Music of the kind we have describ- 
ed as fit for church use abounds 
in Italy, but mostly in the con- 
dition of MS. The works of the 
Augustan age of Italian music, from 
the time of Carissimi to that of 
Jomelli, including those of Durante, 
Leo, Clari, Steffani, Martini, and 
Pergolesi, and even of later masters, 
like Terziani, afford inexhaustible 
treasures almost entirely neglect- 
ed. 

The new order of things in Italy 
has wrought and is working mis- 
chief there in more ways than one. 
Thus it has alreadv been the occa- 
sion of the loss of a great number 
of valuable musical manuscripts, 
and unfortunatelv the end is not 
yet. The revolution of 1848 caus- 
ed a great deal of wanton destruc- 
tion, the result of that spirit of 
vandalism which seems to possess 
all revolutionists; and the recent 
suppression of so many church- 
es by the Italian government has 
brought about the dispersion and 
consequent loss of the manuscripts 
of as many musical libraries — a 
loss that can never be repaired. 

If we do not resume the execu- 
tion of the compositions of the old- 
er masters, we must at least recur 
to them for the purposes of study. 
In no other way can we shake off 
the influence of the drama. 

We have learned from the in- 
structions of Benedict XIV. and 
the cardinal vicar of Pius IX. that 
there is a distinction between the 
music of the stage and that of the 



792 thurcli 

cliurcJi, and that this distinction is 
based on the fact tlial in tlie latter 
the music must be ivritten to suit 
the words of the sacred text, and 
that the music, whilst having that 
serious and chastened expression 
which befits the language of devo- 
tion, should be distinctively vocal 
and choral ; whereas in the former 
the tendency is to make the words 
suit the modulations of the music, 
to subordinate the voices to the 
rich and powerful instrumental 
symphony which accompanies them, 
to flatter the popular ear by ligbt 
and taking airs, and to display to 
tht: best advantage the voices of 
individual singers and their won- 
derful execution. 

These characteristics of secular 
music, due to the influence first of 
Mozart and afterwards of Rossini 
more than to that of any other 
composers, have been too long felt 
in the music of the church, and 
to be rid of them we must lean more 
towards the past, and return to the 
study of those grave and solemn 
forms which existed prior to their 
day, and in which the instrumeatal 
accompaniment contained no sug- 
gestion of levity, and was used to 
support and enrich the vocal har- 
mony without drawing attention 
from it. 

The celebrated Robert Franz is 
now editing some of the works of 
Durante, who flourished not long 
after the departure from Palestrina 
was made, and whose piety and 
exclusive devotedness to church 
music have given a more ecclesias- 
tical character to his compositions 
than to those of any other compo- 
ser of his day. 

In France the war between 
those who advocate the exclusive 
use of plain chant and those who 
plead that music may have some 
share in the divine setv\ce « via^ei 



fiercely, and the consequence i« 
that both parties go to extreraei. 
and both assert principles with re- 
gard to the respective merits of (he 
two styles that are utterly untena- 
ble. Tiiere is no country in tiif 
world where plain chant is so muci 
sung, and none where so muci 
wretched stuff is palmed off assi- 
cred music. Nevertheless, Franct 
has composers of merit, who migiii 
achieve great results if they had \ 
public of broader views to wrirt 
for, chief among whom is Gounod, 
who, in his Messt SolennelU and his 
Ave Verum, has struck the right 
chord, and proved himself able lo 
write sacred music for great Deci- 
sions, in which all the| resources o( 
modem art may be combined wilti 
a solemnity and an expression of 
piety not less remarkable than llut 
which we find in the compositiODi 
of Palestrina. 

In England the advocates of 
what we may call the canontcil 
style of church music arc cot in- 
active. 

The late Cardinal Wiseman lud 
an excellent collection of Palesttici 
music, published in the most elt- 
gant style by Bums. 

Years ago Monsignor NewthalBi 
at the cardinal's suggestion, con- 
posed for smaller choirs fourtAo- 
rus Masses, to be sung in unison or 
in parts ad libitum. They are eJSjr, 
flowing, and very devotional, tnd 
strictly in rule. They are publiii^ 
ed by Novello, 

Mr. Richardson, an excdkm 
musician, has revised some of tlit 
Masses of Haydn and Mozart, and. 
without altering substantially ihc 
music of these two great compo- 
sers, reset the words with rati 
skill ; so that we have all the beau- 
ty of the music, while the text of 
the Mass does not suffer. X^ 
Mft ■^vj.\i\\slved by Burns 



Church Music. 



Of late years Archbishop Man- 

'ng has had a series of six Masses 

mposed by excellent musicians, 

hiefly for unison singing, but tliey 

tiso be sung alternately in 

They have a full and artistic 

[g3n accompaniment, and are so 

inged that the efTect produced 

f them is scarcely inferior to that 

vocal part music, while they are 

t hard to learn, and do not over- 

E the voices. 

He has also had other Masses 
Iblished for four voices in the 
khest style of art. These are 
eminent composers, and have 
o6bligato accompaniment. 
ire full without being of in- 
Kivenient length. 

these, as in the preceding 
ics, the Sanetits and Benedicius 
fno case exceed the proper limits. 
i They are published by Bums & 
^ates. 
h Other compositions of the same 

s are promised. 

\ Of what is being done in Belgium 

r cannot speak so confidently; 

t at the last Catholic Congress 

\ Mechlin the subject of church 

received due attention; 

Izeswcre offered for compositions 

jBt would meet the requirements 

■devotion as well as art, and a con- 

p-jtM actually took place, and the 

>iks of the contestants published. 

I Germany that the move- 

mt in favor of the reform of 

lurch music has been the most 

nive and has made the most pro- 

kss. 

We have alreidy mentioned the 
mtroduction of the Palestrina style 
of music into some of the German 
cathedrals, and four immense vol- 
umes of music of that class have 
been published by Puslet, of Mu- 
nich ; and, as we have just said, 
Franz is publishing and drawing at- 
jention to the works of Durante, who 



represents the style that came inl 
vogue when Palestrina was first 
parted from, 

But they have a large and abi 
society, called the Cecilia, extend- 
ing all over Germany, which lasl 
year numbered 7,000, and 
increasing. They have at theil 
head F. Francis Witt, an exempli 
priest of»Spire, whom the Germai 
call " the modern Palestrina." HeJ 
is trying to achieve in our day th| 
success that Palestrina met 

The number of compositions ft 
the church published by this sociel] 
or under its own influence is imi 
mense. 

A writer in the London TaHt 
stated recently that by me; 
Cecilia's Society a thorough rcfoi 
had been effected in the churd 
music of Germany, and that friv* 
olous compositions in the seculai 
style have at last been banishei 
from the churches. 

The writer of this paper remetn> 
bers hearing in the autumn of i86( 
in the Cathedral of Mur 
Masses of this school, which con.^J 
tained no passages for soli, 
which the words were treated as n _ 
spectfully as in the compositions of I 
Palestrina and his school, none 
ing repeated or inverted. The 
companiment of the organ and the 
orchestra, in which no wind inslrii- 
menis were heard — except, perhaps, 
the bassoon — was so fully subordi- 
nated to the voices and so perfect 
otherwise that his ear has bi 
spoiled, as it were, and every simi 
lar performance heard ; ' 
other places has been a grievous 
disappointment. He never heard 
any music more pleasing artistically, 
and at the same time more devo- 
tional and proper. It showed that 
composers can give us the best mu- 
sic which modern art can furnish, 
and yet keep strictly within the 



i 



794 



Church Music. 



limits marked by ecclesiastical au- 
thority. 

The Cecilia Society of Germany 
has a branch in this country, which 
has recently begun to publish se- 
lect music, and to issue a musical 
journal called- the Cecilia, The 
editor is F. Singinberger, and the 
publishers Fisher & Brother, Day- 
ton, Ohio. • 

The publications of sacred music 
amongst us have not been very nu- 
merous or very remarkable for ex- 
cellence. Among the very best we 
feel bound to notice the publica- 
/ tions,* and especially the elegant 
compositions f of Mr. Falkestein, 
who has shown that he knows how 
to unite in his skilfully-constructed 
and charming yet devout composi- 
tions the depth and severity of the 
old ecclesiastical masters with the 
graceful and flowing melody and 
orchestral effects of the modern 
school. 

There is no lack of good-will and 
talent amongst our musicians, but 
the trouble is that they have not 
the models by the study of which 
they may form a true ecclesiastical 
style. A library is as necessary 
to the student of music who hopes 
to be a composer as it is to the 
student of literature who has the 
ambition of becoming an author. 
Our directors of church choirs need 
a larger acquaintance with the 
great masters, especially the older 
ones. Above all, they need to have 

• Musica Sacra. Boston : Carl Prtlfer. 
^Av€ yerum^ and othtr PUcts, Boston : Oli- 
rer Ditson. 



a better knowledge of Gregorian 
chant. For this chant should not 
only form a part of our service, as 
was already stated in the first part 
of this paper, but it should also be 
the source of inspiration to those 
who wish to compose for the church, 
as it was to Palestrina and his fol- 
lowers, as it is to-day to Gounod 
The language of Mr. Ritter mij 
be exaggerated, but it conveys i 
truth to be remembered : * " The 
Gregorian chant," he says, "runs 
like a red thread through the musi- 
cal part of the service of the Ca- 
tholic Church ; this really sacred 
song creates in Catholic countries 
the first impressions which touch 
the soul of the young Christian on 
his entrance into the church, and 
is, as such, the indestructible echo 
of his first sacred associations. As 
Holy Writ forms the invariable foun- 
dation of the religious and moral 
principles of the true Christian, so 
the Gregorian chant ought to form 
the ground and invariable theme of 
the true church composer; and as 
long as composers understood and 
valued this inestimable, noble, and 
really sacred practice their works 
composed for the church truthfully 
and appropriately fulfilled their 
solemn office; these works wtre 
thus imbued with the sacred cha- 
racter derived from the themes of 
the sacred songs ; then necessarily 
a distinct line of demarcation was 
drawn between secular and sacred 



music. 



»> 



• History of Muiie, Boston : OUrcr Ditson AC^ 



I Wfi'i in IVordswert/i's Haunts. 



WEEK IN WORDSWORTH'S HAUNTS. 



ly a week to spare, 
.ot long in choosing 
d our holiday. At 
: Lake Country was 
t not yet crossed 
hrough, by railroads. 
us from London al- 
to Windermere, but, 
gate of the sanctu- 
no further. We had 
' Black Country," a 
f coal-mines and fur- 
scarcely a blade of 
le eye; interminable 
vilh gaunt machinery 
with tall brick chim- 
idc, oven-like build- 
■om the track of the 
r as the horiiion; a 
rumbling and crack- 
ly sound besides the 
f the engine; the sky 
li the promise of ten 
ier-storms, the inurky 
a pall over the earth, 
r flame shoot up now 
a the mouths of the 
night ihe scene is 
idid; everywhere lu- 
) up from these open- 
work is incessant 
:ed forms stalk from 
;, wheeling giant bar- 
ling forward heavy 
iways; no sound but 
ing rumble of wheels 
flames — apparently a 
ionium or Dantesque 
at any rale, a sight 
not easily forget. 
I is the largest, the 
lie, and the best known 
lakes. It was Satur- 



day night when we reached it and 
went to an inn overlooking the , 
calm sheet of water. The moon 
was up, and streaked the shadows 
of the great mountains that lay 
across the lake with her shimmer- 
ing silver pathway; the little boats 
moored by the various landings 
rocked to and fro in the gentle 
breeze, and the wavelets came with 
a " swish " against the pebbly 
shore. Next morning, on inquiring 
for the Catholic church, we were 
told that there was a private chapel 
in the house of a Catholic gentle- 
man who lived on an island in the 
lake, and allowed any respectable 
tourist to come on Sunday. We 
rowed over to the island, and found 
it al! a garden : smooth lawns to 
the water's edge, broad gravel- 
paths through groves of elm and 
chestnut, a glowing parterre, rustic 
seats, fountains and marble balus- 
trades, and by the boat-house a 
little group of gay skiffs dancing 
up and down on the blue water. 
The chapel was up-stairs, and 
there was an outside stair-case i 
leading to it, down which we sav>^ 
a familiar figure coming slowlfV 
towards us. It was that of a Lon-1 
don priest whom we knew, and"! 
who, like us, was spending a brief i 
holiday among the lakes. He had j 
come over to say an early Mass; J 
the master of the house was not atl 
home, he said, but the chaplainJ 
would be glad to welcome all Ca-f 
tholics, many of whom came dur-.' 
ing the touring season. After! 
Mass we strolled for an hour abouti 
the garden, admiring the vistas coa- J 



796 



A Week in Wordsworth's Haunts. 



trived between the trees, at the end 
of which glimpses of the blue sky 
and sparkling water, with^ome gray 
or purple peak cleaving the line of 
the horizon, could be seen. From 
every point of the lake itself these 
mountains strike the eye; for the 
most part bare of trees, their lower 
ledges covered with green pasture- 
land, and seamed here and there 
with the foamy streak of a beck or 
stream ; their summits sheer rock. 
Their names all have a grand, free 
sound that suits their craggy, ma- 
jestic beauty — Helm Crag, Ham- 
mar Scar, Silver How, Skiddaw. 
This one is the monarch of the 
lake country. Great How is a 
single, conspicuous peak rising at 
the foot of Lake Thirlmere, to the 
west of the lovely vale of Legberth- 
waite, near the high-road between 
Ambleside and Keswick. Amble- 
side is a favorite resort of stu- 
dents; young men from the two 
universities often come to spend 
the long vacation here, where |;ead- 
ing, walking, and boating can be 
combined. The scenery is very 
beautiful ; the valleys are broken up 
into a thousand nooks where fern 
and heather grow, and some tiny 
rivulet trickles beneath the broad- 
arched fronds of the bracken ; 
every old wall wears a golden 
crown of celandine, or, in native 
dialect, pilewort ; the " ghyll" — i.e,^ 
a short, steep, narrow gorge, a 
miniature cafion — is traversed by 
the foamy brook, leaping to the 
waterfall called in Cumberland a 
" force " ; the birch, the rowan, 
the oak, cling to the rocky ledges 
that jut out over the little cataract, 
and everywhere above the green- 
ery lies the shadow of the great 
lonely hills. Black Comb in Cum- 
berland Wordsworth calls a spot 
fit for a ** ministering angel " to 
choose, for from \ls ^\immit^ on 



a tolerably clear day, England, 
Scotland, and Ireland are all three 
visible. Many of the mountains, 
both in Cumberland and West- 
moreland, have traces of inscn'p- 
tions on the native rock which 
have by some learned men been 
supposed to be Runic, but which 
it is now generally agreed to call 
Roman. They are very rude, and 
much effaced by time and the ac- 
tion of the weather ; hence the un- 
certainty. 

It was by the shores of Winder- 
mere that a party of young men, 
all enthusiastic Tractarians, spent a 
vacation in one of the first years of 
that movement now called Puseyite 
and ritualistic, but then known as 
the Young England movement. In 
those days ladies washed and iron- 
ed the church linen, and wore their 
dainty fingers to the bone sewing 
surplices and embroidering altar- 
cloths ; while others would take it 
by turn to sweep the churches and 
dust the pews ; and others again, in- 
tent on doing penance, would kneel 
for hours on stone fioors, and even 
use the discipline unsparingly, until 
the doctor's verdict put an end to 
their misguided zeal. Blindly they 
were beating about for the truth, and 
thought they had found it in prac- 
tices of self-denial. It was a touch- 
ing blindness — one that God often 
and often enlightened during those 
fruitful years. Young men made a 
point of exercising bodily mortifi- 
cation, even in vacation time, and. 
when thrown by circumstances 
amid unsympathizing companions, 
would carry their zeal into the 
commonest actions, and make a si- 
lent boast of their new-found faiih. 
One Friday, for instance, a fev 
young members of Parliament, as- 
sembled in the lobby of the House 
of Commons, called for "tea and 
toast " instead of the unfailing mui- 



A iViel: in WerdsioorlKs Haunts. 



m\ 



lon-cliop of iradilion, and ihc mild 
protest created quite a sensation. 
On going home they were receiv- 
ed by Ihcit several households as 
I champions of a holy cause who, 
'rom humble beginnings, were go- 
blg lo bring about a mighty revolu- 
Jpn, a national awakening. It was 
■ry beautiful, this child-like faith 
\ iheir own ideal — so beautiful that 
I rewarded majiy of those who 
Hd it ^y leading them into the 
Kriasting reality of the great uni- 
raal, apostolic church. The ath- 
' : young hermits of Ambleside 
: not left out of the rcckon- 
k. One day one of them strayed 
t alone over the hills, with some 
volume of the fathers under 
i arm, and his questioning young 
nl eager for the knowledge which 
wonderful serenity of this 
ptintain region seemed at the 
■e to typify so well. He was out 
pong time, and, when he came 
e to his companions, he seemed 
them transfigured. A new peace 
I yet a more ardent enthusiasm 
I come to him, and he spoke in 
■da almost incomprehensible lo 

r 1 have found the man who hsa 
^fdea!" 

[Vhat had happened to him was 
In his walk he had met a 
hag stranger, and spoken to him. 
kdred thoughts and aspirations 
1 led them into a long and eager 
iversation, wherein it soon ap- 
kred that the stranger, with his 
B', girlish face and dreamy blue 
I the master, and his new 
tnd only the humble disciple. 
f had talked on into the Iwi- 
lit} and the latter, entranced, at 
t asked the name of him who 
L few short hours had tawghi 
t to see things in a clearer, di- 
Itglit than all the patristic 
kding had been able to do dur- 



ing his college course. The young, 
man opened the book he h.id with 
him, and showed him his n.ame 
written on the fly-leaf. It 
Frederick Willi.im i-'aber. 

From Windermere we started OB'1 
our real tour. The native convey I 
ances arc called "cars," and hold j 
four people sitting opposite each 
other,but sideways and parallel with \ 
the horses. From a rough, wiuotc 
box, painted dark blue or green, 
up to a rcnl town-mndc carnage 
in the same shape, this conveyance 
is universally in use over the north. 
Everywhere the same beautiM I 
scenery — moist nooks, a nalutd I 
fernery, tumbling walerfallii, w^lts 1 
covered with wild flowers; here | 
and there an old-fashioned inn i 
with an old-fashioned landlord, waifr 
ing himself on his customers, and 
sitting down to tell them at his ease 
all the gossip and the guide-book 
lore of the neighborhood, the beat 
time to go up the mountain, when \ 
it was safe lo lake a boat out c 
the mere, the accident in the lead- | 
mine last year, etc., etc. At such I 
an inn, " The Swan," we panted onv 
night, and bad an excellent and 
abundant rustic supper, not a 
dredyardsfrom thcbrand-ncw loofw j 
ist hotel, "The Prince of Wales," 
gas-Iightcd and high-priced, with 
sjucy waiters and London uphol- 
stery, and each floor exactly the 
counterpart of the other, like a 
penitentiary. 

Ullswater is a stonny lake, a 
sort of caldron enclosed in sicqi, i 
forbidding rocks rising perpendi- 
cotarly from the water. Above 
them is b wooded tahle-Und, with 
old houses hidden up the slopes 
beyond, one a ruined inotua* 
teiy, with a modem home fash- 
ioned out of a few available frag- 
ments of strong medixval nuuoi 
ry, and a sort of muscnin or i 



798 



A Week in Wordsworth's Haunts. 



. mory contrived among the standing 
arches of a less useful portion of 
the, building. It was a steep climb 
to get to it, and for miles on either 
side of the pathway, that was half a 
natural staircase, there was no other 
road to it. The view over the dark 
lake was impressive ; the waters, 
calm enough now, lay beneath us 
like a floor of black marble, with a 
fringe of heavy shadows along the 
edge where the cliffs overhung it. 

Now and then we would pass de- 
tached hamlets with their sturdy, 
grave population all astir, the wo- 
men fine specimens of their sex, 
with that frank expression and 
grand physical development which 
are bred of mountain training and 
open-air life. Together with all 
the people of the north, they have 
many peculiar customs, and alto- 
gether form a race apart from the 
inhabitants of other English coun- 
ties. The accents of their ner- 
vous, expressive dialect, the names 
of their mountains and lakes, the 
flavor of quaintness and individual- 
ity that hangs about their life, 
somehow suggest the old times of 
early Christianity when S. Wilfrid 
ruled in York, or struggled inch by 
inch for his invaded territory and 
ignored rights. Stopping to water 
your horses in one of these ham- 
lets, you may see a knot of men 
standing silently and expectantly 
round the door of a clean, home- 
like cottage, and just outside, laid 
on the porch seat, a basin filled 
with sprigs of box-wood. The 
men are waiting for a coffin to be 
borne out, and, when it comes, they 
will all fall into line behind it, and 
each, taking a sprig from the basin, 
will throw it into the grave after 
the prayers have been said. Of 
course this is a Catholic reminis- 
cence of the days when the box 
sprigs were ustd lo spimVA^ the 



coffin with holy water, as they are 
now in most countries on the Con- 
tinent ; but, besides this, box- wood 
is an evergreen, and therefore a sym- 
bol of the immortality of the soul. 

Sometimes we would come to a 
little mountain tarn, across which 
we were ferried, car, horses, and all 
The regular travelling in these re- 
gions is done by stage-coaches, of 
which we availed ourselves for 
sending forward our slender bag- 
gage, so as to be quite independent 
and unencumbered in our moTc- 
ments. The mountain lakelets, 
that are never mentioned in guide- 
books, are very beautiful with their 
fringe of rushes and boggy earth 
starred with white and golden flow- 
ers, and their flocks of teal and 
wild duck dwelling in peace in 
these undisturbed wildernesses. 

Grasmere, a village on one of the 
larger lakes bearing the same name, 
was Wordsworth's home for eight 
years, the first eight of this cen- 
tury. He was bom in Cumber- 
land, and the home-passion that 
has gained him his title of Lake 
Poet never left him. Fortunate in 
his worldly circumstances, he went 
to Cambridge, and, though a desul- 
tory reader, took a fairly creditable 
degree after four years' study. He 
made tours on foot through Wales 
and Germany, and published his 
poetical reminiscences, though with 
little success; but through their 
medium he gained the friendship 
of Coleridge, his fellow-poet and 
life-long companion. He settled 
at Grasmere in 1799 ^i^^^ ^'^ 
sister, who was throughout his life, 
even after his marriage, his guiding 
star — the kindred spirit whose ap- 
proval and sympathy were the se- 
cret sources of his intellectual life. 
Of her he says, speaking of a peak 
which they could see from their 
" orchard-seat " : 



A Week in Wordsworth's Haunts. 



799 



*' There is an emioeoce, of these our bills. 
The last that parleys with the setting sun. 

The meteors make of it a favorite haunt ; 
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
In the mid«heavens, is never half so fair 
As when he shines above it. *Tis, in truth, 
The loneliest place we have among the clouds. 
A nd *kt who dwtii* with m/, whom I hav4 

/oved 
IVitk such eommunian that nc/lac4 om emrtk 
Cmn rvtr ty* a solHudt to mt. 
Hath to this lonely summit given my name." 

Of his wife he wrote, after three 
years of marriage, words contrast- 
ing his first impressions as a lover 
with the sweet, solemn experience 
of a husband. Then '* a phantom 
of delight, ... a lovely appari- 
tion, . . . a dancing shape, an image 
gay, To haunt, to startle, and way- 
lay," but now 

** A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller betwixt life and death ; 
The reason firm* the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd. 
To warn, to comfort and command ; 
And yet a spirit sliil, and bright 
With something of angelic light." 

Song seemed to gush from Words- 
worth's soul as naturally and copi- 
ously as water from a mountain 
spring. Some of his verses were writ- 
ten with a slate-pencil on stones in 
lonely places ; for instance, in a de- 
serted quarry on one of the islands 
St Rydal, on a stone half way up 
the grim mountain of Black Comb, 
in Cumberland, or with a common 
pencil on a stone in an outhouse on 
the island at Grasmere. He lived 
poetry. Everything with him was a 
pretext for verse ; neither the com- 
monest household occurrence nor 
the sublimcst spectacle of nature 
Qp there among those rocky fells 
and green valleys lying under awful 
shadows of coming storms, was a 
stranger to his ready pen. He says 
of himself that 

** The sounding cataract 
Hmumied mu like m ^uion .- the tall rock. 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colors and their forms were then to me 
Am m^^tiU^ a/€*limi^ amd a l«v*y 

There are few places so thorough- 



ly fitted for a poet's home as the 
lake country of Cumberland and 
Westmoreland, yet more so then 
than now, when it has become the 
fashion to make a tour among the 
lakes, even as one does down the 
Rhine. England has wakened to 
the consciousness of her own beau- 
ty within the last forty years, and a 
home- tour often takes the place of 
a foreign one ; yet to those who first 
visited these Eden- spots the rare 
charm is gone, for sight-seers have 
taken the place of the " wanderer," 
and regular guides usurp the simple 
escort of a stray shepherd whom 
in old times you might have hap- 
pened to meet by sorwt forcty on the 
cool banks of which he would have 
told you, in his racy dialect, the old 
traditions and legends of the neigh- 
borhood — the legend of the horn 
of Egremont Castle, for instance, a 
Cumberland tale, telling how Sir 
Eustace Lucie and his brother Hu- 
bert rode away to the Holy I^nd, 
and the former, pointing to the 
"horn of the inheritance" that 
hung by the gate-way, and wliich 
none could sound, 

*' Save he who came as rightful heir 
To Egremont's domains and castle fair,** 

said to his brother : " If I fall, and 
Christ our Saviour demand my sin- 
ful soul, do thou come back straight- 
way, and sound the horn, that we 
mav have a livinji house in thee." 
And Hubert promised. But out in 
Palestine Sir Eustace disappeared, 
and, when the news was brought to 
Hubert that his elder brother lay 
"deep in Jordan flood," he said 
darkly to the messengers : " Take 
your earnings. Oh I that I could 
have seen my brother die." He 
went home, and whether he sound- 
ed the horn or not none knew ; it 
was never heard, but Sir Hubert 
lived in glee for years, with wife 



8oo 



A Week in Wordsworth* s Haunts. 



and sons and daughters, until one 
day 

*' A blast was uttered from the horn 
Where by the casUe gate it hung forlorn," 

and Sir Eustace came back safe 
and unsuspecting. Hubert rose up 
and fled in silence, and it was years 
before he was again heard of; then 
he came and asked forgiveness, and 
obtained it, and ended his penitent 
life in the cloister; so that Eustace's 
" heirs of heirs, through a long pos- 
terity, sounded the horn which they 
alone could sound." The same le- 
gend is told of the Hall of Hutton 
John, an old house of the Huddle- 
stones in a lonely valley on the river 
Dacor, also in these parts. 

Or it might be the tradition of 
Henry, Lord Clifford, the shepherd- 
boy, whose father lost his title and 
estates during the wars of the 
Roses. Henry was restored, after 
twenty-four years of shepherd life, 
in the first year of the reign of 
Henry VH., and it is recorded that, 
when called to Parliament, he be- 
haved nobly and wisely, but other- 
wise came seldom to London or 
the court, and rather delighted to 
live in the country, where he re- 
paired several of his castles, which 
had gone to decay during the late 
troubles. " There is a tradition," 
says Wordsworth himself, " current 
in the village of Threlkeld (in Cum- 
berland, where lay the estate of his 
father-in-law. Sir Lancelot Threl- 
keld), that in the course of his shep- 
herd life he had acquired great as- 
tronomical knowledge." The poet 
clothed this incident (as he did 
every other that struck his fancy in 
that poetic land of the north) in 
verse, singing a lay of the Red 
Rose, revived at last, the flower of 
Lancaster, and weaving in the tale 
of the boy's wanderings on " Car- 
rock's side," m " Rostdale's 



groves," and " Blencathara's rugged 
coves." The common name of this 
Iast*mentioned mountain is Saddle- 
Back. Near Threlkeld, hidden in 
the gorges of the purple hills, lies 
Bowscale Tarn, where the people 
of the country still believe two im- 
mortal fish to dwell. Tarn signi- 
fies, in north-country dialect, a small 
mountain mere, or lake. Words- 
worth's descriptions of scenery are 
exquisite ; everywhere you find the 
traces of that personal love of the 
places he paints, that patient, detail- 
ed minuteness of touch which only 
comes of long gazing on a favonte 
scene, and of familiarity with its 
every aspect, in winter and summer, 
in storm and sunshine, in mist and 
rainbow. Every place has some 
tender associations in his memorv; 
the stately fir-grove whither he was 
wont 

** To hftstea, for I found beoeath the roof 
Of that perennial shade a cloistral place 
Of refuge, with an unencumbered floor ,"i 

reminds him of a dear friend, "a 
silent poet " but a sailor by profes- 
sion, after whom he called the path- 
way to the grove, whence 

** The steep 
Of Silver How, and Grasmere*s placid lake 
Atid one green island " 

could be distinctly seen. That 
friend never returned, but perished 
by shipwreck in the discharge of 
his duty. Here, too, in this beauti- 
ful lake country, both at Grasmerc 
and at his later and more celebrat- 
ed home, Rydal Mount, in West- 
moreland, Wordsworth lost others 
dearer yet — two of his children, who 
died young, and Dora, his favorite 
daughter, who died six years after 
her marriage. When on his own 
death-bed, three years later, his wife, 
brave and self- forget ting to the 
last, comforted him by whispering: 
" William, you are going to Dora." 
His poems are so complete a guide- 



A Week in Wordsivortfis Haunts. 



8oi 



hook to the lake country, as well as 
a series of living sketches of the 
people of the north, that it is almost 
unavoidable to treat them as tour- 
ists in Scotland do The Lady of (he 
Lakey or tourists at Rome Childe 
Harold. In his day, however, many 
popular traits were in full vigor 
which now have almost disappear- 
ed. For instance, he says himself 
that " the class of beggars to which 
the old man here described belongs 
will probably soon be extinct. It 
consisted of poor and mostly old 
and infirm persons, who confined 
themselves to a stated round in 
their neighborhood, and had cer- 
tain fixed days, on which, at differ- 
ent houses, they regularly receiv- 
ed alms, sometimes in money, but 
mostly in provisions." In his verse 
he describes the Old Cumberland 
Beggar " thus : 

** Him from my childhood have I known ; aad 
then 
He wms so old, he seems not older now. 



ilc Umvels on, a solitary man— • 

Ilia age has no companion/' 

The passing horseman docs not 
throw him a careless alms, but 
stops, lingers, and drops a coin safe- 
ly into the old man's hat ; the toll- 
bar keeper sees him from a distance, 
and leaves her work to lift the latch 
for him ; the post-boy slackens his 
horse's speed, and turns with less 
noisy wheels out of his path ; the 
very dogs do not bark at him. 

"* Bat deem not this man useless. Statesmen ! ye 
Who are so restleM in your wisdom, ye 
Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud 
ll«art-swoln» while in your heart ye contem- 
plate 
Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not 
A bardcu of the earth." 

No ; he is " a record binding to- 
gether past deeds and offices of 
charity"; "a silent monitor" to 
those who sit sheltered ** in a little 
grove of their own kindred " ; an ob- 
ject to call forth that blessed fecl- 
VOL. XIX. — 51 



ing that you have, though " poorest 
poor," been " the fathers and deal- 
ers-out of some small blessings " ; a 
prompter to " tender offices and 
pensive thoughts." See this pic- 
ture; 

** Such pleasure is to one kind beins known. 
My neighbor, when with punctual care, each 

week. 
Duly as Friday comes, though press'd herself 
By her own wants, she from her chest of meal 
Takes one unspsriuR handful for the scrip 
Of this old mendicant, and from her door. 
Returning with txkiiarateii hearty 
Sitt by her fire^ and buildt her ko^e in 
heaven** 

And the poet, the lover of nature, 
the child of the mountain, ends by 
a warning and a prayer : 

*' Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousnesi 
Gives the last human interest to hi« heart. 
May never House, misnamed **of Industry,'* 
Make him a captive ! For that pent-up din. 
Those lite-consuminK sounds that cloi; the air. 
He his the natural silence of old ajge !** 

Though we have quoted Words- 
worth's poetry, it is not as a poet 
but as a man that we speak of him 
here, not desiring to criticise his 
verse or to enter into discussions 
concerning the jud lament given of 
it by critics of his own time. In the 
Lake Country his personality strikes 
you with the same sense of re- 
ality and continued presence as do 
the everlasting hills and the change- 
less lakes themselves. He died 
only a quarter of a century ago, 
though his principal poems all be- 
longed to the first and second de- 
cades of this century. In 1814 
The Excursion was published, and 
the poem Avhich has made his chief 
fame was so severely criticised at 
the time that one of the reviewers 
boasted that he had crushed it. A 
brother poet, Southey, exclaimed : 
"He crush The Excursion f He 
might as well fancy he could crush 
SkiddaAV !" If his verse was coldly 
received at first, it was chiefly be- 
cause emotional, passionate poetry, 
such as By con*Sy Moore's, Scott 's» and 
Campbeirs, was the fashion then. 



802 



A Week in Wordsworth's Haunts. 



Wordsworth's was calm as na- 
ture herself, and concerned itself 
little with man's history, past or 
present. When he did mingle the 
deeds of men with the loving 
touches of his scenery descriptions, 
he would choose pure, white lives, 
such as would not jar with the 
calmness of lake and fell, of opal 
sky and shimmering water. Here 
is what the legend of the ruined 
hermitage on S. Herbert's Island, 
on Ljike Derwentwater, suggested 
to him. The story of the holy 
friends is told also in Montalem- 
bert's Monks of ike West, 

*"* This island, guarded from profane approach 
By mounuinH high and waters widely spread. 
Is that recess to which S. Herbert came 
In life's decline, a aelf-secluded man. 
After long exercise in social cares 
And offices humane, intent t* adore 
The Deity with undistracted mind, 
And meditate on everlasting things. 

But he had left 
A fellow-laborer whom the good man loved 
As his own soul ; and when within his cavo 
Alone he knelt before the crucifix, 
While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore 
PeaPd to his orisons, and when he paced 
Along the beach of this small isle, and thought 
Of his companion, he would pray that both-. 
(Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) 
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain 
So prayed he ; as our chronicles report, 
Though here the hermit numbered his last day. 
Far from S. Cuthbert, his beloved friend : 
Those holy men both died in the same hour.*' 

Derwentwater is the most pictur- 
esque of all the lakes in point of smil- 
ing landscape. It has several little 
wooded islands dotting its surface ; 
its waters are clear and more blue 
than those of the other lakes, and 
the mountains round the shore are 
less abrupt and naked. Lodore 
Force tumbles almost perpendicu- 
larly into it from the steep, shelving 
rocks that jut out from the dense 
forest growth, like the backbone 
of a huge black snake wriggling 
through the underbrush. These are 
the same waters whose sound swept 
over the lake and smote the ears 
oi the hermit- saint twelve centuries 
ago. It is, except otve^ iVve xcio^\. 



romantic waterfall in the Lake Coun- 
try. Below^ this wooded hill, and 
on the very margin of Derwentwa- 
ter, stands a little old-time inn, as 
clean as a Dutch house, with a rus- 
tic porch and a little lawn before 
it, ringed in with chains hung in 
festoons from four or five low 
posts. In the middle is a minia- 
ture gun, which is fired off every 
now and then for the amusement 
of the tourists. The echoes thus 
^awakened among the surrounding 
^hills are almost endless. 

This beautiful North Country has 
another interest not so romantic— 
that of its mines, which are mostly 
of lead. Just across Derwentwater 
there is a fine mine, which, from its 
convenient position, is often visited. 
We rowed across the lake to see it; 
but if you have seen one mine, you 
will scarcely care to see a second— 
at least if you have no better motive 
than curiosity. To us on that first ex- 
pedition it was simply /"//;?. Lucki- 
ly, there was no proposition made 
to don male attire for the only wo- 
man of the party ; a huge oilskin 
coat with an ample hood quite 
wrapped her up and protected her 
for the downward journey. We 
got into a rough box or "basket," 
preferring this quicker and more 
adventurous mode of descent to 
the species of chair contrived for 
the visitors to the mine, and 
were shot down in an incredibly 
short space of time to the sec- 
ond "level." But of what we saw 
there is really very little to tell 
The lodes or veins of metal 
looked like irregular lines of shin- 
ing moisture drawn on the rocky 
walls; there was a tramway occu- 
pying the whole of the narrow gal- 
lery that formed the level, and up 
and down this tramway, at a tre- 
mendous rate, and with a noise like 
\\vuxvder, came the trucks loaded 



A Week in WordswortKs Haunts. 



803 



with ore. We had to squeeze up 
against the wall as they passed. 
The path was more than half sub- 
merged ; we splashed into pools 
and puddles at every third or 
fourth step, and the moisture 
dropped persistently from the glis- 
tening roof. We should have gone 
to the third and lowest ** level " 
had it not been so thoroughly un- 
der water that the miners had to 
wear long waterproof boots mid- 
way up their thighs when they 
worked there. On going up again 
we stopped at the first level, which 
looked exactly like the other. We 
did not gain much information by 
bur excursion, but it was a rare 
frolic, and we were greatly excited. 
Our clothes came out of the ** bas- 
ket " in a soaked and streaky con- 
dition; but nobody cared, the 
achievement was enough to make 
up for anything. Some years later 
we tried the same sort of experi- 
ment, and did not find it nearly so 
exciting. It was at an iron-mine 
in Monmouthshire, near the river 
Wye, famed in the legends of the 
Round Table; we were let down 
the shaft in a kind of iron cage 
(the miners* regular conveyance), 
which swung unpleasantly to and 
fro, grinding against the sides of 
the narrow opening, and bumping 
us roughly down at the bottom, 
where, as their time was nearly out, 
the men were gathering, ready to 
go up. Here there was literally 
nothing to see. The work was done 
a long way off, and there was no 
time to go there ; besides, the place 
was several inches under water. 
The interest of this expedition con- 
sisted simply in going down and 
coming up again, and in the feeling 
that we could "say we had done 
it." What was really interesting 
on this same occasion was the 
sight of the iron-works and fur- 



naces at nightfall. The metal was 
put into the furnaces at one end, 
and came out at the other in a 
continuous stream of intensest 
light; blindingly white it poured 
out, running slowly and si)readinj^ 
itself into a network of grooves 
all parallel with each other, ready 
fitted for its reception, where it was 
left to cool. Few things so truly 
realize one's idea oi U^ht as molten 
metal. There seemed no color in 
this beautiful stream, and one could 
fancy just such an intense glow as 
that to be the very radiance round 
the throne of God. It was impos- 
sible to stand near it for more than 
a second, the heat was so fierce, 
and we had to watch the calm, un- 
interrupted lustre from a respectful 
distance. This work was going on 
in a kind of open shed, sheltered 
above to protect the furnaces and 
machinery, but open at the sides, 
where in the darkness all kinds of 
strange groups and forms succeed- 
ed one another. The commonest 
circumstances took on solemnity 
and mystery in this half-light, the 
red flashes from inside darting like 
tongues into the fading light, and 
making of it all a wonderful, living 
Rembrandt. 

To return to our lakes. We had 
seen all the great ones, and driven 
across the country in all directions — 
through nioiintain passes where 
the bare crags and bowlders lay 
heaped together, as if the Titans had 
fiung them there to bar the passage 
to their fastnesses; through smiling 
pastoral valleys where the summer 
stream bubbled peacefully enough, 
hiding its secrets of roads washed 
awiiy and trees uprooted by its 
anger in early spring; by Esthwaite 
Lake with its solitary yew-tree cele- 
brated by Wordsworth ; out into a 
bleak region of gray stone walls and 
hungry-looking pastures to West- 



8q4 



A Week in Wordsworth's Haunts. 



dale (valley) and Wastwater. 
Lonely and silent lies the black 
mere under its frowning cliffs; no 
house, no inn, near it ; tourists sel- 
dom pass it, and tradition says that 
its depths have never been plumb- 
ed. We got a boat at a fisherman's 
hut ; it was not often he used it for 
anything but the necessities of his 
craft. And yet, in spite — or rather 
because — of this desolation, Wast- 
water has made a more lasting im- 
pression on us than the show-lakes 
with their pretty activity and cheer- 
ful bustle of tourist-life. Westdale 
would be just the place to live in if 
the mind needed bracing and re- 
storing; few places within the pale 
of civilization can so truly boast of 
being absolute solitudes. We trust 
it is not changed even yet. Quite 
close, but you would not suspect 
it from the grim, rocky aspect of 
the scenery, is a little waterfall. It 
is in a narrow gully, a mere cleft in 
the rock, but alive with a thousand 
varying shades of green — ferns in 
abundance and in every stage of 
development, broad, dark, glossy 
leaves of water-plants, and waxy 
spikes of rockwort. The incline of 
the waterfall is so gentle, and so 
many bowlders jut out from the 
stream, that you could almost climb 
up this natural staircase; the snow- 
white spray dashes all over the banks, 
turning to diamonds in the hearts 
of the tiny flowers, and to rainbows 
on the broad surface of leaves ; and 
the noise of the waters — their plash, 
their gurgle, or their trickle, as they 
strike moss, pebble, or little hollows 
round the big bowlders — seems like 
a living voice. 

Our week was nearly up, and we 
were to meet the noonday train ^t 
a station several miles beyond 
Wastwater. The road lay through 

rocky passes, and was teckoxvtd ». 

bad one. Our cai-duvex >n3i^ 



doubtful as to whether we could 
make the distance in the time that 
remained ; for we had been tempted, 
by the rugged beauty of the love- 
ly vale, to overstay our appointed 
time for exploration and natural- 
history collections. The drive was 
sufficiently exciting, a last bit of 
" fun " to end our holiday, and 
we jolted over the rough road, 
crossing the worn channels of 
mountain streams, and noticing on 
the steep sides of the hills what 
looked like moving bowlders, but 
what were in reality small, sure-foot- 
ed sheep, white, brown, and black. 
The country grew bleaker as we 
went on, till at last we reached the 
primitive railway station just in 
time. We were very sorry to part 
with our North-CountryMriver and 
his car, and return to the civilized 
mode of rapid locomotion ; the more 
so as the scenery through which 
we flew for two or three hours was 
as barren and as desolate as the 
shores of the Dead Sea. Gray 
stone walls made a sort of magni- 
fied chess-board of the level coun- 
try, enclosing small fields of forlorn- 
looking stubble or bits of dark-red 
ploughed land. It was inexpressi- 
bly dreary, and a marvellous con- 
trast to the beautiful region, bold 
and rocky, or wooded and smiling, 
which we had left behind us. 

At last we reached Furness, our 
last halting-place. Here there was 
a coquettish little station, gay with 
ornamental wood and wire-work, 
and with autumn flowers and late 
climbing roses, while beyond the 
trim lawn stood an inviting hotel- 
modern, it is true, but decked out 
in villa style, full of bay-windows 
and gables, with green Venetian 
blinds and long French windows 
opening into a garden. There was 
xvo u^^^ Ck^ a. village near, or of 
^itw^ \\M\sv^tw ^"^^wi^Xwx >^^tsR. two 



A Week in Wordswortli $ Haunts. 



805 



buildings. The reason was that 
both of these were subservient to 
the ruins of S. Mary's Abbey, 
which stood, as it were, within the 
hotel-garden. S. Mary's, Furness, 
is one of the three most stately and 
most perfect ruined abbeys in Eng- 
land ; the others are Fountain's 
Abbey in Yorkshire, and Tintern 
on the Wye, Monmouthshire. It 
is built of red sandstone, the warm 
hue contrasting beautifully with 
the luxurious growth of evergreens 
all round and inside its arches and 
cloisters. The tracery of the great 
pointed windows is almost intact, 
but here and there the tracery of 
delicate climbing plants is so inter- 
woven with it that the marvel of 
carving is lost in the wealth of each 
summer's renewed growth. The 
church is built in the shape of a 
cross. The walls and windows of the 
nave are untouched, and down the 
centre are the two rows of columns 
that divided it from the aisles — 
round Saxon pillars, alternating 
with clustered Gothic shafts, a 
sheaf of colonneftes forming one 
support. The bases of all of them 
remain, though every one is broken 
more or less near the base, none 
being more than two or three feet 
high. Of course the roof is gone, 
and everywhere around shaft and 
pillar grow tall flowering grasses, 
shrubs with bright berries and 
spear-like leaves, while a carpet of 
grass as green as an emerald covers 
the stone floor. There were seven 
altars in the church, and the steps 
to the smaller ones are even now 
marked by the gradual ascent of 
the turf. Poking into the earth 
with a walking-stick, we soon came 
to the stone steps, not more than 
three inches under ground. The 
chancel and sedilia are very perfect, 
and everywhere the piscines are 
vJsiWe in the walls. The chapter- 



room preserved its stone groined 
roof up to twenty or thirty years ago, 
when it fell in. On the walls are 
the remains of lovely, intricate dia- 
per-work. The refectory is a long 
hall with a row of columns (only 
the bases exist now) down the cen- 
tre, and the principal dormitory is 
said to have been exactly above 
this. The whole is now open to 
the sky. The quiet cloister, with 
some of the old graves of dead 
and gone Cistercian monks, is 
still traceable, and beyond is a 
little enclosed and railed-in stone 
chamber, contrived out of the 
ruined walls, but carefullv roofed 
in, and used to stow away such 
fragments of sculpture as have 
been found within the precincts 
of the abbey. They are thus pre- 
served from the rapacity of tour- 
ists. There are bones and skulls 
among them, too. The North of 
England was once called the gar- 
den-land of the Cistercians; their 
abbeys abounded in that region, 
and their power, temporal and 
spiritual, was paramount. The ab- 
bots at the head of those religious 
corporations of early days had 
episcopal jurisdiction and claimed 
episcopal privileges, and were far 
more powerful than the wander- 
ing bishops who had no abbey to 
back their authority. They had 
tracts of land and many serfs. In 
many respects the "villeins " of the 
church were a happy and a privi- 
leged set of people. They were 
not obliged to serve in the king's 
armies, as were the serfs of secular 
lords, and they could not be sued 
for debt or trespass, or any other 
local offence. They were immedi- 
ately and solely under the jurisdic- 
tion of the abbot, which super- 
seded, in their case, that of the 
commou lavj. \tv x^Vvsax^ Vix >^'!iw 
service, a^t\ew\\.Mxi\. ^w^ o"Cc^RX^>a«^ 



8o6 



A Week in WoreiswortKs Haunts* 



the abbot gave them shelter, food, 
clothing, and protection — not an 
unequal bargain, even for our days ; 
but when we transport ourselves 
into the conditions of life in the 
middle ages, it will be easily seen 
how desirable a fate it was to be 
** made over to the church." In 
those days protection was a greater 
boon than even food, lodging, or 
clothing ; it was then what ** habeas 
corpus " and the right of inviola- 
bility of domicile are now ; and so 
long as the substance existed, it is 
idle to quarrel with the garb in 
which it was clothed. 

The ruins were thronged all day ; 
that was the only drawback to our 
enjoyment, but we remedied that at 
night. Every train came laden 
with tourists to see Furness Abbey ; 
they walked about with guide*books 
and luncheon-baskets, and popped 
champagne-corks in the cloisters, 
and strewed chicken-bones among 
the bases of the great Saxon pillars, 
chatting, laughing, and joking, and 
evidently enjoying themselves as 
they would at a country fair or a 
cattle-show. This went on all day 
long ; but towards night, after a late 
dinner at the hotel, they subsided, 
and scarcely a soul was to be seen 
in the garden. The men were in 
the billiard-room, and the women 
probably packing their things for 
the morrow's journey ; so we slipped 
out, two of us, and went over to 
the deserted ruins. The moon was 
up, not quite at her full, but bright 
enough to make the scene very 
beautiful, and there were many 
stars as well. It is not easy to de- 
scribe the impression this night- 
view of the old Catholic abbey 
made on us ; one might as well try 
to catch a moonbeam, and examine 
it and find out what it is made 
of. Every one can sketch the pic- 
ture for himself; every oti^ V\\.\v ^. 



love of the beautiful, the spiritual- 
ized, will understand what was its 
solemn charm. We roamed about 
in silence from nave to cloistei^ 
from refectory to chapel-room, and 
then, hand-in-hand, went with some- 
thing of awe in our hearts into 
the old chancel, where in the 
days of the monks none ever went 
but the cowled, white-robed Cister- 
cians themselves — ^an angel and vir- 
gin choir meet to sing the praises 
of the Lamb. By the sedilia^ in the 
beautiful carved recesses of whidh 
scarcely a stone is out of place or 
an ornament broken off, we knelt 
down and said the rosary together 
for the conversion of England. 

Presently a strange green light 
flashed before our eyes, right above 
the place where the high altar had 
stood of old ; it was gone in a min- 
ute, and the calm radiance of the 
moon was still undisturbed. Seen, 
as it was, in this dim, silent place of 
song and worship, it was very im- 
pressive ; and had it been nothing 
but what we first took it for — i.e.^ a 
railway signal — even then it would 
have remained in our imagination, 
idealized into something symbolic. 
Green is the color of hope, and 
where is there more room for hope 
than under the arches of a ruined 
abbey, once the pride of a Catholic 
country, the home of learning and 
charity, the representative of a na- 
tion's civilization ? We stayed a 
long while yet, lingering about the 
dusky arches^ catching sight of the 
starry sky through the Gothic trace- 
ry of the windows, repeopling the 
place in fancy with its silent, pray- 
erful denizens in their white robes 
and hoods, and wondering what 
that fitful flash might have been. 
Next morning we saw in the news- 
paper that just at that very hour a 
meteor of greenish hue had appear- 
ed and been observed in many 



On the Wing, 



807 



places all over England. You may 
imagine how glad we were to find 
that it had been no railway signal 
that had cleft the white moonlight 
while we were praying in the chan- 
cel- It was a beautiful remem- 
brance to carry away from the Ab- 
bey of S. Mary at Furness. God 
does not forget the places where 
his feet have rested, and there are 
heavenly, undying flowers yet in 
the gardens of Paradise which the 
jangels fling down on those conse- 
crated spots which princes once 
endowed, because they humbly ac- 
knowledged that " the roses and 
flowers of kings, emperors, and 



dukes, and the crowns and palms of 
all the great, wither and decay, and 
that all things, with an uninterrupt- 
ed course, tend to dissolution and 
death."* 

So we took leave of the beauti- 
ful North Country, its lakes, its sol- 
emn mountains, its abbeys, and its 
hardy, independent people, whose 
character has in it yet all the ele- 
ments out of which God, infusing 
into them his grace, moulded the 
great Northumbrian saint, Wilfrid 
of York, the Thomas k Becket of the 
Vlth century. 

* From the introducUon to the foundatioii- 
charter of the Abbey of S. Mary at Funu 



ON THE WING. 

A SOUTHERN FLIGHT. 

VI. 

** An eril apirit swept the kad, 
Of ruin and unrest." 



Not far from the villa we occu- 
pied there stood an uninviting 
house, as it appeared to me, the 
Icggia of which was surrounded on 
three sides with green trellis-work, 
and commanded a fine view of 
Naples and the bay. Outside the 
door I had noticed barrels of oys- 
ters, as indicative of what we might 
find inside. This was the CafTe 
Frisio, renowned in Naples, spite 
of its unattractive appearance. I 
was somewhat surprised when, a 
few days after our engagement, Don 
Emidio suggested to Mary that we 
should all dine there, including, of 
course, the Vernons. I remonstrat- 
ed. I did not sec the fun of leav- 
ing our own quiet, cool house, with 
a modest but sufficiently well-cook- 
ed dinner prepared by Monica and 



served with the honest awkwardness 
of our unpretending Paolino, for 
the hurry of noisy waiters and the 
click-clack of other people's plates 
and glasses.' I stood up for my 
point with my usual undiscerning 
obstinacy until I thought I saw a 
puzzled and half-pained expression 
come over the usually serene brow 
of my future master. Of course I 
yielded instantly, and, before I had 
stammered out a dozen words, 
found I had gone the length of de- 
claring that my appetite for that day 
would fail me unless I dined at the 
CafTe Frisio. That point gained, 
Don Emidio hurried ofif (no ! I am 
wrong there ; I never as yet have 
seen him hurry about anything) to 
press the Vetivotvs Vo \i^ ^1 onslx 
party. ¥tom xYvetve^ >ci^ ni^xiX^ T»a 



8o8 



On the Wing. 



doubt in his usually leisurely style, 
to order dinner for us. He was no 
sooner gone out of the room than I 
turned to Mary a bewildered face 
of inquiry, and asked her if she 
could at all understand Emidio's 
being so anxious we should dine at 
a caffe. Mary's reply was an indi- 
rect one. She took my hand in 
hers, and said with a smile : 

" I sometimes wonder, my dear 
girl, whether you will quite easily 
take to the foreign ways of your in- 
tended husband.'* 

** Do you doubt it, Mary ? I think, 
on the contrary, there is something 
so charming in that strange mix- 
ture of childlike simplicity and 
manly generosity which is so re- 
markable in the really good and 
noble Italians. Emidio always re- 
minds me of a high-bred school- 
boy." 

" That is even more the charac- 
teristic, perhaps, of a thoroughly 
consistent Catholic life from child- 
hood upwards than of any particu- 
lar nation ; though I agree with you 
that it is generally evident amongst 
Italians. Joy is the attribute of 
childhood, as distinct from any 
other period of life; and a joyful 
spirit is one of the marks of hidden 
sanctity. But I was 'not thinking 
of anything so serious as this. I 
mean that I wonder whether you will 
take easily to the out-of-door, un- 
private life which is engendered 
amongst Italians by their beautiful 
climate, and which makes it not 
only a simple, but almost a necessa- 
ry, thing that Don Emidio should 
immediately think of celebrating 
your engagement by dining at the 
celebrated Caffe Frisio." 

"I certainly wondered why he 
wished it, but I suppose it is the 
custom, and I am quite content." 

" You will doubtless, as you go 
on, find many customs \\\\\e\\ >jo\i 



will have to comply with. At Capo 
di Monte you will sit in the open 
loggia of your husband's house, in- 
stead of in your drawing-room with 
closed doors, as you would do in 
England. When you want your 
man-servant, you will call for him at 
the top of the stairs at least quite 
as often as you will ring a rare and 
occasional bell. You will order 
your dinner, from the balcony, of 
the cook below, just starting for his 
marketing. And I am afraid you 
may very possibly see your maid 
surreptitiously laying out your fine 
linen to dry on the trim-cut box 
hedge which surrounds the geomet- 
rical divisions of your garden. Of 
course in your palazzo in Rome 
you may succeed in keeping up a 
little more state. But even there, 
and certainly in Villegiatura * at 
Naples, you may have to make up 
your mind to your r^/r/" calling your 
attention to an unusually fine piece 
of beef in its uncooked state which 
he designs for your dinner that 
day." 

" Do you remember, Mary," I re- 
plied, laughing, " the man-servant 
one day in Rome bringing you in 
a beautiful pigeon with an ever- 
varying purple breast that remind- 
ed me of the shot silks or stuffs 
in Raphael's pictures 1 You asked 
the man if he supposed you could 
by any possibility eat it an hour af- 
ter you had fondled it." 

" I had to go without meat for 
luncheon that day, and the pigeon's 
life was spared. I fed it with rice, 
and it used to sit on my chest and 
pick the grains from between mv 
lips." 

"At last it got too bold, and. 
mistaking your teeth for grains of 
rice, pecked at your lips till they 
bled." 

^ kcottiitry-hoiitt. 



On the Wing. 



809 



mischievous bird it was ! 
came home, after leaving 
y in the house, we found 
ads of a bouquet of vio- 
tood in water picked off 
ed ou the table, and all 
taken from the pen- tray 
>n the floor. Finally one 
>ins had been extracted 
pin-cushion and put on 
and the long, black hair- 
out of Mary's silver toi- 
id laid on the bed. At 
ticed a black pigeon that 
•me often and sit on the 
; of the house opposite, 
closed the windows on 
i our purple pigeon, as 
own no disposition to 
luman friends for others 
v'n kind. But blood is 
lan water ; and no doubt 
pigeon had wonderful 
3II of the many roofs of 
presenting eligible habi- 
.nd of the daily mar- 
i Piazza Navona and be- 
shadow of the Pantheon 
ig an easily-obtained re- 
ng the refuse. So one 
wc came home, the win- 
Dpen, and the pigeon no- 
be found. Nor did we 
11 see the black seducer 
I the neighboring water- 
til we were very much 
t our dinner at Frisio. 
niiii di mare* and ma- 
essed with pomi d'oro.\ 
3at the less said the bet- 
arely thought any of it 
[aples ; though no further 
Jorrento the beef is excel- 
provisions are, in fact, 
:re than at Naples. Our 
butter came from Sor- 



t." T!ie name giren ftt Naples to 
, which they eat fried. 
I, ctLll9d mpplea of gold. 



rento, and was obtained for us by 
Pascarillo, our coachman's master; 
so that frequently, as we passed 
his door returning home from our 
drive, his wife would hail us, and 
hand into the carriage the fresh but- 
ter wrapt up in green vine-leaves. 

When dinner was over, and we sat 
looking out on the sea, I remem- 
bered that Emidio had promised 
to tell us the story of Padre Catal- 
do's escape at the time of the Ita- 
lian revolution in i860, and I asked 
him to give us the particulars. 

" This will be a very good time 
to do so. Miss Jane," was his re- 
ply, " because we are quite safe at 
Frisio from the father's presence. 
He does not like talking of it. 
You very probably have heard of 
the earthquake in Italy that took 
place in 1857 ; though I dare say 
the devastation it caused was hard- 
ly noticed in the English papers. 
The Jesuit Fathers had a college 
at Potenza which was partly 
thrown down at the time, and con- 
sequently the boys had been sent 
home to their parents and most of 
the fathers dispersed. Padre Ca- 
taldo and one other alone remain- 
ed. You arc aware that Potenza 
is the principal town of the Basili- 
cata, and is the see of a bishop. 
There were forty villages in the 
same province destroyed at the 
same time. The king (of course 
I mean Francis II.) had obtained 
that Padre Cataldo should be 
sent on a mission to the inhabi- 
tants of these unfortunate villages, 
not only to preach in the different 
places, but to carry relief to the 
inhabitants, and to organize the 
proper burial of the dead, who 
lay neglected among the ruins at 
the imminent risk of breeding a pes- 
tilence. He was also to encourage 
the poor people to reUvivVd lk\w 
habital'votvs, ^tvd \.o ^\^ >i^««^ wss:.^ 



8io 



On ifu Wing. 



again to gain their livelihood and 
resume the cultivation of the land. 
He was engaged in this arduous 
labor for a period of about fifteen 
months, during which he lived 
amongst the people with the affec- 
tion of a father and almost the 
authority of a ruler ; for there was 
nothing they would not do at his 
bidding. 

" The work accomplished, he re- 
turned to the half-ruined college at 
Potenza. There was but one other 
priest in residence with him there, 
and Padre Cataldo had hardly 
joined him when the revolution 
broke out. The Jesuits were far 
from apprehending any violence at 
first from the inhabitants of Poten- 
za, a great many of whom were 
much attached to them. But at 
that time they had not had personal 
experience of the insidious ways by 
means of which the revolutionists 
instil their doctrines into the minds 
of the unsuspecting. They soon, 
however, began to notice that the 
caff^s were thronged with noisier 
guests than usual, and who remain- 
ed till late into the night discussing 
and disputing over their wine or 
coffee. The few shops where books 
or newspapers could be found in 
the not highly-educated or literary 
town of Potenza began to display 
pamphlets with brilliant-colored 
covers and dubious titles. The 
men frequenting the churches were 
fewer, and those that came were 
less respectful in their demeanor. 
At night the young men wandered 
about in file, arm-in-arm, walking 
rapidly with what no doubt they 
thought a military step, a flower 
stuck behind the ear, the hat on 
one side, and singing revolutionary 
songs in a loud and often inebriated 
voice. The symptoms were all bad. 
And the fathers were nol swx\>x\s^^ 
when one morning, \\avm^ wouc^^ 



an unusual agitation in the streets 
and the piazza, they received a se- 
cret message to the effect that they 
would do well to leave the town as 
quickly and as quietly as possible, 
for the one simple reason thit 
where there is a Jesuit the rev(du- 
tionist is his enemy. The persoes 
sending this message to the fathes 
added that if their advice were oot 
forthwith taloen, acts of violence 
might follow. 

" Not very far from the Jesuit col- 
lege there lived a priest who had 
known Padre Cataldo for manjr 
years, and who, though himself cor- 
rupted by revolutionary principles, 
and not in any way an honor to his 
sacred calling, maintained a great 
friendship and regard for the father. 
He had gone on from one thing to 
another in his own downward 
course until at this time he was ac- 
tually one of the leaders of revola- 
tionary principles in the Basilicati. 
He had nevertheless always told 
Padre Cataldo that in case of need 
he would befriend him. And he 
kept his word ; for one night, when 
Potenza was getting too hot for a 
Jesuit to remain in safety, and the 
only question seemed to be what 
kind of violence against the college 
would be attempted, the apostate 
priest arrived in his own carriage, 
to fulfil his old promise, and safe- 
ly conveyed Padre Cataldo to a 
house at some distance where he 
could lie hidden for the night. The 
flight had been so sudden that 
Padre Cataldo, who was not likely 
at any rime to be cumbered with 
wealth, had come away without a 
franc in his possession. The next 
morning he despatched three mes- 
sengers to various friends in the 
neighborhood to say where and in 
what condition he was ; and they, 
vcv Tt\>\xTv^ sent him the money he 



On the Wing. 



8ll 



self the disguise of lay 
and set out to join the Je- 
iding at Bari. When he ar- 
; found the Jesuits had al- 
ft; and the condition of 
try was such that he was 

proceed with any hope 
'' to Noci, his native place, 
s parents lived. 

many days be had to fly 

ce to place disguised as a 

and with a false beard. 

1 so there was something in 
I appearance which betray- 

One day he was walking 
5 street, swinging a walking- 
en he heard one man say 
ler, as they passed him, 
;oes a Jesuit in disguise.' 
ly residing at Bitonto con- 
lim in her house for one 
ie left the house before 
ut already the rumor had 
liat a Jesuit was in hiding 
d early in the morning the 
3f the lady, who was a li- 
1 the syndic of the town, 
tell her the people were in 
tate of excitement that if 
lot give up the father, they 
>urn the house to the 

And it was not till she 
a him into every hole and 
* the place that she could 
him there was no one 
i there, and that his asser- 
hat effect calmed the mob. 
!ces have holes, and the 

the air nests,' but, like 
ster, the priests of the Son 
lad not where to lay their 
Thus driven from place to 
d hunted down like a wild 
'adre Cataldo at length 
Venosa, where, as he had 
lached a very successful 
he was well known and 
spected. He took up his 
the house of some friends, 
next morning, wh fch was 



the Feast of S. Ignatius, the found- 
er of his order, he went to the 
church to say Mass. While he was 
vesting in the sacristy he received 
a message that the iniendenie or 
governor of the place wanted to 
speak with him. It so happened 
that the iniendente was the brother- 
in-law of a man who had been 
condemned to death for murder a 
short time previous. Padre Catal- 
do had been acquainted with the 
case ; and as he considered it had 
been attended with extenuating 
circumstances, and that the crime 
was not premeditated, he had used 
his influence with success to get 
the sentence commuted to a term 
of years' imprisonment at the gal- 
leys. He also obtained permission 
for the man, who was a jeweller, to 
work at his trade during his incar- 
ceration. Padre Cataldo had not 
happened to see any members of 
the family since that event, in which 
he had saved them from so great a 
calamity. Very naturally, therefore, 
on hearing that the brother-in-law 
of the criminal wanted to see him, 
he thought he had come to thank 
him for saving his relative from the 
guillotine. But on going to the 
door to receive him he found the 
governor surrounded by soldiers, 
who, at a word from him, seized the 
father as their prisoner. He was 
at that time suflering from fever 
brought on by exposure to all 
weathers in his endeavor to elude 
his enemies; creeping into some 
sheltering house late at night, when 
the evening damp, so fatal in Italy, 
was falling; making his way over 
fields and mountains in the noon- 
tide heat, and getting from place 
to place through by-ways, as he 
dared not take the frequented road ; 
and of course often without suflicient 
food. He was put uyoti a lvot^^^ 
and conduel^d \i^ ^ ^-ax^ ^'l v^* 



8io 



On the Wing. 



again to gain their livelihood and 
resume the cultivation of the land. 
He was engaged in this arduous 
labor for a period of about fifteen 
months, during which he lived 
amongst the people with the affec- 
tion of a father and almost the 
authority of a ruler ; for there was 
nothing they would not do at his 
bidding. 

" The work accomplished, he re- 
turned to the half-ruined college at 
Potenza. There was but one other 
priest in residence with him there, 
and Padre Cataldo had hardly 
joined him when the revolution 
broke out. The Jesuits were far 
from apprehending any violence at 
first from the inhabitants of Poten- 
za, a great many of whom were 
much attached to them. But at 
that time they had not had personal 
experience of the insidious ways by 
means of which the revolutionists 
instil their doctrines into the minds 
of the unsuspecting. They soon, 
however, began to notice that the 
caffes were thronged with noisier 
guests than usual, and who remain- 
ed till late into the night discussing 
and disputing over their wine or 
coffee. The few shops where books 
or newspapers could be found in 
the not highly-educated or literary 
town of Potenza began to display 
pamphlets with brilliant-colored 
covers and dubious titles. The 
men frequenting the churches were 
fewer, and those that came were 
less respectful in their demeanor. 
At night the young men wandered 
about in file, arm-in-arm, walking 
rapidly with what no doubt they 
thought a military step, a flower 
stuck behind the ear, the hat on 
one side, and singing revolutionary 
songs in a loud and often inebriated 
voice. The symptoms were all bad. 
And the fathers were not surprised 
when one morning, having noticed 



an unusual agitation in the streets 
and the piazza, they received a se- 
cret message to the effect that they 
would do well to leave the town as 
quickly and as quietly as possible, 
for the one simple reason that 
where there is a Jesuit the revolu- 
tionist is his enemy. The persons 
sending this message to the fatheil 
added that if their advice were not 
forthwith taken, acts of violence 
might follow. 

" Not very far from the Jesuit cd- 
lege there lived a priest who had 
known Padre Cataldo for many 
years, and who, though himself cor- 
rupted by revolutionary principles, 
and not in any way an honor to his 
sacred calling, maintained a great 
friendship and regard for the father. 
He had gone on from one thing to 
another in his own downward 
course until at this time he was ac- 
tually one of the leaders of revolu- 
tionary principles in the Basilicata. 
He had nevertheless always told 
Padre Cataldo that in case of need 
he would befriend him. And be 
kept his word ; for one night, when 
Potenza was getting too hot for a 
Jesuit to remain in safety, and the 
only question seemed to be what 
kind of violence against the college 
would be attempted, the apostate 
priest arrived in his own carriage, 
to fulfil his old promise, and safe- 
ly conveyed Padre Cataldo to a 
house at some distance where he 
could lie hidden for the night. The 
flight had been so sudden that 
Padre Cataldo, who was not likely 
at any time to be cumbered with 
wealth, had come away without a 
franc in his possession. The next 
morning he despatched three mes- 
sengers to various friends in the 
neighborhood to say where and in 
what condition he was ; and they, 
in return, sent him the money he 
needed. With this he procured 



On the Wing, 



813 



ne time after, when the trou- 
id calmed down, that he was 
■} return to Naples in safety.'* 
sat silent for a few seconds 

end of Don Emidio*s ac- 
It seemed to bring the na- 
ind qualities of revolution 
before us when we thus 
of what it had done to one so 
nown and so beloved by us 
da was the first to speak ; 
he told us that not long 
hey had settled at Posilippo 
Padre Cataldo, a gentleman 
ailed to see him on some 
ss, accompanied by a young 

Ida remarked that when the 
came into the room, as soon 

eyes fell on Padre Cataldo, 
led deadly pale. As he was 
n attendance on the other 
nan, he sat a little back, and 
e paid much attention to 
k'hile she watched him. She 
* was greatly overcome and 
ed very much. She tried to 
into conversatioYi with him, 
; seemed too absent to talk, 
at length the gentleman had 
ded what he came to tell 

Cataldo, the latter turned 
Is the younger man, who 
p and approached him, ex- 
ng, "O father! how is it I 
Du here 1 I thought you had 
.t Rionero. I witnessed the 
ent you received there, and 

many others believed you 
dead. By what miracle did 
cape V* When the conversa- 
became more general, the 

man, who could hardly re- 

from his emotion, told Ida 
le should never forget the 
s countenance, as he sat si- 
nd calm on his horse, with 
, sticks, and missives of all 
flung at him. The blood 
I from his head; but there 
i to be a, celestial light beam- 



ing from his face which reminded 
him of the pictures he had seen of 
the martyred saints. 

We finished our evening on our 
own loggia. It was a lovely night, 
and we felt we could never weary 
of watching the moonbeams on the 
sea, and, when the moon had gone 
down, the fishermen's little boats, 
noiselessly sailing one by one from 
the dense, dark shadow of the caves 
where they are moored, and then, 
each with a burning torch at the 
prow, casting anchor and waiting 
for the fish to rise to the light. 
From time to time the fishermen 
utter a soft, monotonous cry to 
each other in a minor key, which 
comes floating through the dark- 
ness on the still night-air like an 
echo from another world. There 
must be a strange fascination in 
this life of the fisherman, whose oc- 
cupation begins as other men are 
laying aside theirs, and is con- 
tinued through the silence of the 
night on the vast solitude of the 
ocean. 

Don Emidio drew his chair near 
to where I was sitting, leaning on 
the low wall of the loggia and look- 
ing down upon the plain of waters, 
which so mysteriously appear to 
flash an unreal light from their 
dark bosom, as if the sea itself gave 
out sparks. Presently I heard a 
voice asking me if I thought I 
could learn to love the world-fa- 
mous beauty of the Bay of Naples. 

"I have learnt to love it from 
the first moment I saw it ; for I 
love all that is beautiful. And 
when the beauty of this glorious 
land comes to be wound up with 
the duties of my life, I shall love it 
doubly." 

" Say with life's affections too, 
dear Jane." 

" Why should I not say it ? Of 
course 1 m^^jv '\\. ** 



8l2 



Vv 



On the Wing. 



diers to a small place called Rio- 
nero. It was a long day's journey, 
and his sufferings were intense. 
Having been seized before he had 
begun his Mass, he had not tasted 
food. When they reached Rionero 
in the evening, they found a terrible 
scene. The revolutionists had en- 
tire possession of the town. It is 
said that the piazza — the large open 
place in the centre of every Italian 
town — literally ran with blood. 
Strange to say, many persons con- 
nected by family ties with the /«- 
tendente who had so cruelly betray- 
ed Padre Cataldo perished in the 
massacres of that night. I know a 
man who saw the father brought 
into the town in the midst of the 
guard. The insane fury of the 
mob at the sight of a Jesuit knew 
no bounds. It was the Ecce Homo 
over again in the person of one 
of his servants. He was taken 
through the piazza on horseback, 
and the soldiers did nothing to re- 
strain the people. They flung at 
him every missile they could lay 
their hands on ; and as it was eve- 
ning, a band of masons were return- 
ing from their work, and, transport- 
ed with rage, actually threw their 
tools at him, and beat him with 
them as he passed. To all this ill- 
usage he made no other reply than 
by blessing them. Some of the 
most violent cried out^ * Here is 
the King of the Basilicata.' Did 
they know they were parodying the 
cry of * the King of the Jews ' ? 
At length the prison-doors shut 
him in from his persecutors; and 
as he lay there, bruised all over, 
and severely cut about the head 
and face, he could hear them cry- 
ing out that they would yet get at 
him to burn him alive, while ac- 
tually they began building up a pile 
in the centre of the piazza for that 
purpose. 



" The liberal priest who had been 
his friend in the first instance, and 
had brought him away from Po- 
tenza, had by this time heard of 
his arrest, and immediately came 
to the rescue. This, however, was 
no easy matter. He was himself 
one of their leaders ; and, lest thcr 
should accuse him of infidelity to 
their cause, he was obliged to begin 
by pretending that he shared their 
views with respect to Padre Cataldo. 
It was only in this way that he 
could succeed in getting himself 
heard. By degrees he induced 
them to consider whether, on the 
whole, the burning alive of a well- 
known Jesuit priest in their piazza 
would be altogether a wise pro- 
ceeding. It might get them into 
trouble at some future day. It 
might be considered an extreme 
measure. At length he gained suf- 
ficient influence for them to pro- 
pose that the question should be 
decided by an appeal to the people. 
The general inhabitants of the 
town were not a bad set of people. 
They were probably not very cour- 
ageous in a good cause, and they 
were overwhelmed by the noisy 
and daring wickedness of the revo- 
lutionists. But when thus ap- 
pealed to, their real sentiments 
found expression; and Padre Ca- 
taldo, whose prison-cell overlooked 
the piazza, could hear the shouts 
of Noi lo vogliamo salvo,* Soon 
after his prison-door was unlocked, 
and in the dead of the night he was 
conducted by two guards to a dis- 
tance from the town, where they 
left him,- Faint with loss of blood, 
bruised, and weary, he managed to 
reach the house of some friends. 
He lay there for a fortnight, iH 
from fever and the cruel treatment 
he had received. And it was not 

^ yr« wCU hare bin aife. 



On the Wing. 



813 



e time after, when the trou- 
i cahned down, that he was 

return to Naples in safety." 
at silent for a few seconds 
end of Don Emidio's ac- 

It seemed to bring the na- 
id qualities of revolution 

before us when we thus 
f what it had done to one so 
own and so beloved by us 
[a was the first to speak ; 
e told us that not long 
ey had settled at Posilippo 
adre Cataldo, a gentleman 
lied to see him on some 
s, accompanied by a young 
Ida remarked that when the 
ame into the room, as soon 
;yes fell on Padre Cataldo, 
ed deadly pale. As he was 
L attendance on the other 
lan, he sat a little back, and 
paid much attention to 
iiile she watched him. She 

was greatly overcome and 
d very much. She tried to 
ito conversatioYi with him, 
seemed too absent to talk, 
t length the gentleman had 
led what he came to tell 
Cataldo, the latter turned 
\ the younger man, who 

and approached him, ex- 
g, "O father! how is it I 
u here } I thought you had 

Rionero. I witnessed the 
nt you received there, and 
many others believed you 
ead. By what miracle did 
ape V* When the conversa- 
ecame more general, the 
man, who could hardly re- 
from his emotion, told Ida 
; should never forget the 

countenance, as he sat si- 
d calm on his horse, with 

sticks, and missives of all 
ung at him. The blood 

from his head; but there 

to be a celestial light beam- 



ing from his face which reminded 
him of the pictures he had seen of 
the martyred saints. 

We finished our evening on our 
own loggia. It was a lovely night, 
and we felt we could never weary 
of watching the moonbeams on the 
sea, and, when the moon had gone 
down, the fishermen's little boats, 
noiselessly sailing one by one from 
the dense, dark shadow of the caves 
where they are moored, and then, 
each with a burning torch at the 
prow, casting anchor and waiting 
for the fish to rise to the light. 
From time to time the fishermen 
utter a soft, monotonous cry to 
each other in a minor key, which 
comes floating through the dark- 
ness on the still night-air like an 
echo from another world. There 
must be a strange fascination in 
this life of the fisherman, whose oc- 
cupation begins as other men are 
laying aside theirs, and is con- 
tinued through the silence of the 
night on the vast solitude of the 
ocean. 

Don Emidio drew his chair near 
to where I was sitting, leaning on 
the low wall of the loggia and look- 
ing down upon the plain of waters, 
which so mysteriously appear to 
flash an unreal light from their 
dark bosom, as if the sea itself gave 
out sparks. Presently I heard a 
voice asking me if I thought I 
could learn to love the world-fa- 
mous beauty of the Bay of Naples. 

" I have learnt to love it from 
the first moment I saw it ; for I 
love all that is beautiful. And 
when the beauty of this glorious 
land comes to be wound up with 
the duties of my life, I shall love it 
doubly." 

"Say with life's affections too, 
dear Jane." 

" Why should I not say it } Of 
course I megji \\.." 



Si4 



On tJte Wing. 



" Will you never tire of this un- 
mitigated beauty ? Will you never, 
cara mia^ have a pining for a soft, 
gray day, with the perfumed damp 
that comes up from the velvet moss 
and dense greenery of an English 
copse ? Will you heave no sigh for 
the pale but varied and most 
abundant wild flowers of your chilly 
springs, a lapful of primroses, a 
wealth of cowslips ? Shall I have 
you longing after a narrow lane of 
yellow sand, the trees meeting over- 
head, the meadow-sweet growing 
lavishly in the moist hedge, and 
the ripe nuts hanging just with- 
in reach, crisp and sweet in their 
slippery brown shells ? Shall I 
hear you reproaching me that the 
mushrooms are dotting the Sussex 
downs all round the fairy rings, 
and that you long to tread the close, 
fine grass where the sheep are 
browsing, with the little hillocks of 
purple thyme scenting the breeze 
with its aromatic breath? When 
your nerves are overstrung by the 
continuous dry heat and the brisk 
air of our joyous land, will not your 
Saxon nature long for one of the 
short autumn days of old England, 
when you might walk through the 
fields to the edge of the western 
hill, and watch the sun sink amidst 
yellow and red clouds painted on a 
pale blue sky, and then, returning 
in the soft wind of evening redolent 
with nameless perfumes, feel the 
damp like a creamy balm uncurl 
your locks and bathe your cheek 
as if with moist kisses ? It will be 
almost dark when you reach home ; 
there is a low wood-fire flickering 
on the hearth, and the steam of 
the urn curling up with a scent of 
new-made tea. Papers, pamphlets, 
magazines, and new volumes by the 
dozen from the London library are 
there to greet you. Xt\d da^ \i^ 
day, hour by hour, \\\ \.\\al \aTid ol 



rapid thought and universal intclli- 
gence, the latest news from pole to 
pole finds its way with every post 
into the remotest depths of the 
country. Cara mia^ it will not be 
so here." 

There had been a choking sensa- 
tion in my throat as Emidio de- 
scribed the dear old land of my 
birth, and brought so vividly before 
me exactly those little touches of 
home and country life which 1 
should most certainly not find in 
my future Roman palazzo or in the 
villa at Capo di Monte, beyond 
the garden of which I could not 
stray into any wild woods and bar- 
ren but ever-beautiful heaths, as in 
England. But there was som^ 
thing in the close of the vision he 
called up before me which turned 
the current of feeling and made me 
smile. Strange as it may seem, I 
felt it was the newspapers and the 
rapid intelligence that I could spare 
the more easily. 

" There are good old books I 
have never read, Emidio, and which 
you have in your library. From 
time to time we will get a few new 
ones from the teeming British press. 
I am none the happier in England 
for tracing day by day the progress 
of modem ideas. I will turn my 
thoughts upon the past. I may 
sometimes sigh for the shady lanes 
and breezy downs of England; 
but I think the imperious beauty 
of Italy will hold quite as much 
sway over my heart in time. Arc 
you satisfied.?" 

" I am satisfied as much as my 
jealous Italian nature will allow roc 
to be." 

" Are all Italians jealous V* 

" Nearly all, especially hus- 
bands." 

" But I shall never %\^t yon 

^'' \ ^XCi <2i^\\fc ^>\T^ ^^ llva-t. But 



On the Wing. 



815 



not prevent my being jea- 
Do not look frightened, 
na* I am not going to prove 
lar Bluebeard, like some of 
►untrymen. But it would 
strange to your English ears 
N the intense sense of appro- 
n which an Italian has with 
to his wife. . It is true he 
her ; but it is an adoration 
would exclude the remotest 
^ of the merest stranger, 
tits upon her, watches her, 
her. But it is possible to 
)o much of that, particularly 
t is done with an evident in- 
to prevent the approach of 
ler human being. I had an 
itance — for I cannot exactly 
n a friend ; he was too great 
or that — who would not al- 
. wife to set her foot outside 
or unless he accompanied 
)he was not permitted to 
it of the window, if he could 
t it ; and he actually one day 
ed me on the possibility of 
I a railing in front of his win- 
nside the rooms to prevent 
ting near enough to look out." 
d they did not shut him up 
idman V* 

t at all ; though I think the 
ity allowed he was eccen- 
rhe poor woman had a mel- 
f time of it ; for of course, if 
Id not allow her to look out, 
would he allow any one 
look in." 

11 ! and how did it end V* 
e only way any man of sense 
expect it to end. She got 
the window and over the 
le fine night, and left him. 
oor thing went no further 
no other place than her fa- 
house. But nothing would 
jrsuade her to return to her 



husband, who grew yellower and 
greener every day until he finally 
died — of jealousy. " 

"Serve him right," was all I 
deigned to reply, being too indig- 
nant to be grammatical. 

" I knew a young girl," continued 
Don Emidio, "who had made up 
her mind she would marry a certain 
Neapolitan duke of immense wealth. 
Her parents did not object (which 
they ought to have done). But 
her confessor, that Padre Cristo- 
foro whom you heard preaching 
through the month of May at Santa 
Catarina, did everything he could 
to dissuade her. The only answer 
she would ever make to his remon- 
strances was that she should have 
a carriage. All life seemed to r^- 
sum^ itself in her mind in the pos- 
session of that one luxury, with just 
the addition of gowns from Paris. 
She was married to the old duke, 
and very soon after came to Padre 
Cristoforo to complain of her hard 
lot. He could only repeat that he 
had warned her how it would be, 
and recommend her to take a 
drive in her carriage, and ever 
more and more to drive in her car- 
riage, reminding her that it was for 
that she had married. Alas ! she 
had to confess that even that con- 
solation was denied her, as her 
husband was too jealous of the 
passers-by to allow of her being 
seen driving out, and that for the 
most part she was kept to the 
house. It is true he was constant- 
ly making her magnificent presents 
of that other great object of her 
ambition — dresses from Paris ; but, 
as she represented to him, they 
were quite useless to her, as she 
could not wear them shut up alone 
with him in the house. Now, are 
you not frightened by this peculi- 
arity in us Italians, carina^ or ate 
you prepated ioT \\."^'* 



8x6 



On t/u Wing. 



Emidio was laughing, and so was 
I, when he more gravely added : 

" The other day we were talk- 
ing of the reverse of the medal, 
as regards the good or bad quali- 
ties of different people and na- 
tions. And I think I can promise 
you, cara viia^ that as my respect 
for you, and I hope my own good 
sense, will always preserve me from 
this ludicrous excess of a national 
characteristic, so the only form 
which it will take will be in mak- 
ing me more observant that you 
should receive from my hands 
alone those little attentions, and 
what the French call peiiis soins* 
which are so necessary to a woman, 
and which make up so large a 
share in the lesser enjoyments of 
her life. I hope never to bore 
you. But I hope always to wait 
upon you." 

I looked over my shoulder as we 
came to this point in our dis- 
course. Frank and Elizabeth 
were discussing their future also in 
another part of the loggia. And I 
thouglit to myself, if we could have 
compared notes, we should no 
doubt have traced many differ- 
ences characteristic of English and 
Italian future husbands. But I am 
convinced that both English mai- 
dens were equally content with 
their prospects. 

We paid more than one visit to 
the great museum of Naples, now 
called the Museo Nazionale, but 
which Mary and Frank remem- 
bered as the Museo Borbonico. 
Since they were last here, the dy- 
nasty being changed, the name of 
the collection and the arrange- 
ment of the objects have also 
changed. Mary, who is very de- 
cided in her artistic preferences, 
had her favorites here, as I have 



«Uit\e 



always found she had in every col- 
lection of pictures or statues she 
had once visited; and faithful to 
her old loves, she never could rest 
or look at other objects till she 
had revisited those that had al- 
ready struck her imagination. I 
do not know whether it may arise 
from the fact that in Rome the at- 
tention is naturally more turned, in 
the collections at the Vatican, to 
those which have reference to the 
life and customs of the early Chris- 
tians, in preference to the indica- 
tions of pagan life ; but certainly 
the objects in the museum at Na- 
ples brought before me, with a 
vividness I had never felt elsewhere, 
the very minutest details of old 
Roman existence. And I believe, 
in point of fact, no collection equals 
that at Naples, enriched as it is by 
the treasure-trove of Pompeii and 
Herculaneum. It would be quite 
easy to furnish a house with ever)- 
requirement of life from roof to 
kitchen out of the abundance of 
these interesting relics of the long 
ago past. And as I wandered 
about the large chambers filled with 
kitchen utensils, lamps, vases, and 
female ornaments, and then passed 
into the halls where are the frescos 
that decorated the walls of their 
dwellings, I felt I could realize to 
myself the many differences in the 
external forms of their life and our 
own. 

The first conclusion I arrive at 
is that there was more sameness 
and less multiplicitj'. For in- 
stance, there was a certain received 
form for lamps. You had your 
choice, in the ornamental parts, of 
the heads of lions or of griffins, 
but the shape was the same. In 
the kitchen the like shape reigned 
as in the triclinium or the (eci — the 
dining-room and drawing-rooms 
of the ancients — ^minus the oma- 



On the Wifig. 



817 



>.* The same absence of di- 
y is observable among the 
s. There could be very little 
jnce, except in size and 
t, between one lady's neck- 
md another's. The houses, 
ng from the discoveries at 
eii, and borne out by the clas- 
riters, were all built on the 
model, some large and mag- 
nt, others small and mean, 
Jike in structure. I pause, 
Lsk myself how life went on 
ut modern china in the houses 
2 great. Though much of 
glass was beautiful, yet what 
jrence between their earthen- 
)ots and our Sevres and Dres- 
Vorcester and Minton ! Every- 
the tables and seats and 
were alike. The difference 
the draperies and the cush- 
lever in the shape. It sounds 
and trite to register these re- 
► ; but if we carry out the 
ht, and try and place ourselves 
the men and women of Rome 
ts subject provinces stood, 
1 imagination sleep in a cubU 
f six feet long and four wide, 
a marble representation of a 
•stool, and lay our work or 
00k — which latter will be in 
iconvenient shape of a long 
' papyrus — on a round marble 
with three lion's paws for 
if we fancy our rooms divided 
rom the other by portieres, or 
igs, instead of doors, artisti- 
draped in longitudinal folds, 
astened with cords by the 
nable upholsterer of the day ; 
this we add an almost entire 
ce of washing-basins, and, in- 
a lavishness in the article of 
e baths, all more or less taken 
)lic ; if from vestibule and at- 

re are some exceptions, such as ihc 
1 candelabra of the Villa Diomed. 
•chamber. 

VOL, XIX. — ^2 



rium* from hospitium \ and exedraX 
we dismiss all notion of knicknacks, 
all glass-fronted cabinets, all buhl 
zxi^marqueierUy all enamelled snuff- 
boxes, china pug-dogs, and filigree ; 
with no Berlin-wool work and no 
miniatures ; a few severely beauti- 
ful bronze figures, some busts, some 
heathen goddesses in tinted marble, 
standing cold and naked in a niche ; 
an ever-plashing fountain like the 
pattering of incessant rain — if we 
bring all this vividly before us, we 
shall soon feel that the minute yet 
all but infinite circumstances of ex- 
ternal life having been so different 
from our own, the whole flow of 
thought and fancy must have been 
different. 

We owe more than we are aware, 
both for good and evil, to the way 
we furnish our houses. And if we 
decorate them according to our 
own ideas, we must remember that 
those decorations are for ever 
throwing back our ideas upon our- 
selves in a perpetual reflection 
until a sort of moral identity is es- 
tablished. 

My impression is that the greater 
simplicity of form, combined, as. 
was the case with the ancients, with 
a very high though but slightly va- 
ried style of decorative art, may 
have left a greater solidity, unity, 
and intensity in the old-world 
characters, as compared with what 
we find in modern minds, distribut- 
ed amongst such an endless variety 
of objects. 

It is a great thing to be elevated 
by noble desires and high Christian 
aims above the trivialities of mo- 
dern life. But if those high aspira- 
tions are absent, it is perhaps a 
safeguard to take to old china, old 
lace, and Louis Quinze furniture. It 
breaks up the thoughts into a kalei- 

♦ Court, t RtcevVvou-toom. \^<c^Q«x,V^x^i:MRfiou 



8i8 



On the Wing. 



doscope of fancies ; and that, on the 
whole, is decidedly preferable to 
the restlessness of youth, health, 
and idleness, leading to a craving for 
gladiatorial fights and scenes of 
bloodshed and cruelty. In those 
days the virtuous were nobly virtu- 
ous, and were very rare. The vi- 
cious were horribly vicious, and 
formed the generality. It always 
struck me that an old Roman house 
must have been a dull home. And 
cmiui is the mother of naughtiness 
quite as surely as the devil is the 
father of lies. There are minds 
which cannot be great, as there are 
lives which never are much more 
than harmless. Surely for these 
the multiplicities of modern times, 
the toys of fashion, the novelties of 
the day, in dress, furniture, and or- 
nament, are safety-valves and almost 
godsends ! At least they are bet- 
ter than the arena, with its brutal- 
izing scenes of blood and horror, 
where a vestal had but to turn her 
thumb to take the life of the victim 
bleeding before her eyes ! 

These results of modern civili- 
zation are not Christianity; and I 
am taking a very low standard in 
all I am now saying. But they are 
the dross of a civilization leavened 
by Christianity, and they are very 
different from the poison that 
found its way into the daily life of 
Roman men and women from the 
seething wickedness of the great 
heathen empire. 

Nothing can exceed the inte- 
rest of the paintings taken from 
Pompeii. Of course I was inti- 
mately acquainted with them from 
engravings, and had been all my 
life. One of the early impressions 
of my childhood was the delight 
of finding that the grave old Ro- 
mans (and therefore the Greeks be- 
fore them), for whom I had a very 
pagan admiration, were capable of 



appreciating humor as expressed 
in the movements and attitudes of 
animals. I was overjoyed at this 
touch of sympathy with a dead 
past; and I recommend all visi- 
tors to Naples to look out for cer- 
tain cocks and hens and other 
creatures among the lesser murai 
decorations taken from Pompeii 
The well-known dancing- girls I 
had never properly admired until 
I saw them being copied by a 
Neapolitan artist in the Museum. 
He had not deviated one hair's 
breadth from the original outline; 
but the mere restoration of vivid 
coloring had imparted to them an 
airy, floating grace which I had 
failed fully to detect in the scratch- 
ed and faded originals, but which 
I at once felt must have belonged 
to them when they decorated some 
rich Pompeian's house. 

While I was wandering about, 
trying to live for an hour the.inner 
homespun life of a Roman maid- 
en by gazing long on the walls she 
must have looked on, Mary had 
gone in search of the Famesc 
Bull and the exquisite half- 
head and figure of the Psyche, 
that wonderful embodiment of vir- 
ginal grace and feminine delicacy 
which makes one long to have seen 
the statue in its unmutilated con- 
dition. She had stood for a good 
quarter of an hour before the 
Aristides (for we insist on believ- 
ing it is Aristides), and was, as she 
told me afterwards, growing more 
and more in the consoling belief 
that many of the old pagans will 
have found a place among the 
thrones of the blest through the 
mercy of Him who never asks for 
more than he has given, and who 
since the creation has never leA 
the world without a witness of him- 
self. Then she visited the Farnesc 
Flora, that wonderful triumph of 



On the Wing. 



819 



art over matter, where in a statue 
of above twelve feet such floating 
grace is expressed that she seems 
to be skimming along the ground, 
while the light wind plays in the 
drapery. 

I found Mary lost in thought be- 
fore a beautiful bronze statue of 
Mercury in repose. The lithe figure 
has just sat down to rest on the 
edge of a rock. The tension of 
the muscles is gradually relaxing. 
One foot as yet only touches the 
ground with the heel. Wait a 
moment, and the foot will yield 
and rest. Never was fatigue grad- 
ually giving way to repose more 
exquisitely depicted. Then Mary 
turned to the dead Amazon with the 
death-wound beneath her breast, 
and finally declared that having 
satisfied herself by revisiting these, 
that for one reason or another had 
haunted her for twenty years, slie 
was ready to admire the others. 
It is curious how the long lines of 
statues and busts seem to give out 
cold. The same stone walls cover- 
ed with pictures could never be so 
severely cold. The old gods and 
heroes seem to breathe upon you 
with an icy breath from out of the 
grave of the old classic world. 

The best pictures in the Naples 
Museum are not very numerous, but 
arc admirable specimens of the Ita- 
lian schools. They are collected into 
one or two rooms, deserving time 
and study. A cursory view of the 
others will be sufficient to satisfy 
most people. There is much more 
to be seen besides the relics from 
Pompeii and Herculaneum, the 
statues and pictures. It is all 
worth visiting, and, to be fully ap- 
preciated, requires many hours to 
be spent on each different class of 
objects. 

I had a very distinct and not al- 
together a pleasant recollection of 



the mysterious grotto of Pozzuoli, 
which had haunted my imagination 
ever since I was here as a child. 
Ida and I had made an engagement 
to visit Astroni, Victor Emanuel's 
happy hunting-grounds, one day 
when we were to have the carriage 
to ourselves; and accordingly we 
were to pass through the grotto. 
You approach it by a deep cutting 
in the rock, the sides of which 
are draped with ivy and hanging 
plants, with bright tufts of wild 
flowers wherever a few grains of 
earth give them a roolhold. There 
is a small oratory to the right as 
you enter, of a most simple and 
rustic kind, and kept by a Capuchin, 
whom I cannot call a venerable 
hermit, as he happened to be of 
rather youthful appearance. On 
fesias his little altar was covered 
with flowers, and a few votive can- 
dles burnt before the obscure pic- 
ture of the Madonna within the 
dark recesses of the cave. When 
the poor Capuchin heard a carriage 
approacliing, he would hurry forth 
with a little tin box, which he held 
up to us for an alms. We seldom 
failed to give him some, and from 
time to time it would be silver in- 
stead of the more frequent coi)per; 
and then his gratitude became elo- 
quent, and many a blessing follow- 
ed us down the murky gloom of 
the long, unsavory grotto. Certain- 
ly, this strange road, which it ap- 
pears dates from the middle of the 
first Christian centurv, is not calcu- 
lated to leave a pleasant impression, 
though in many ways it presents 
picturesque bits which reminded 
me of some of Salvator Rosa's pic- 
tures. It would be quite dark but 
for the yellow, faint light of gas- 
lamps, not suthcient in number to 
dispel the gloom, which is greatly 
increased by the clouds of dust the 
numerous carts, carriages, and herds 



820 



On the Wing. 



of goats are constantly raising, the 
latter adding thereto their own pecu- 
liarly suffocating odor. It is paved 
in the same way as the Neapolitan 
streets, and the noise reverberates 
from the roof. It has a curious effect 
when you lean forward to see the 
bearded goats just visible through 
the dusty air, and further on, perhaps, 
a cabriolet laden with people — six 
inside, four out, and one boy at least, 
after the Neapolitan fashion, hang- 
ing in a net beneath the vehicle — . 
drawn by one horse, always equal 
to his load, no matter how starved 
and miserable he may be. On it 
comes, the merry inmates singing, 
shouting, piercing the darkness, 
but compelled thereby to slacken 
their pace a little, lest there should 
be a collision in this Erebus. We 
were always silent and a little un- 
comfortable in the din, the dust, 
and the darkness. Yet it had to 
be passed through again and again, 
as being the only road out into the 
country, unless we went all round 
by the Strada Nuova and Nisida. 
At the entrance of the grotto from 
Naples is the supposed tomb of 
Virgil, hidden beneath ivy and 
acanthus leaves — ^just as a poet 
would have wished ! We came out 
from the grotto on the busy, pic- 
turesque village of Fiorigrotta, 
where the whole population seem 
to live out in the one long street. 
Astroni is an extinct volcanic crater, 
the sides of which are clothed with 
ilex and other trees. It is circu- 
lar, and a wall runs along the upper 
rim to prevent the escape of the 
deer and wild boar that are kept 
there for the king's pleasure. There 
are two carriage-roads through the 
dense forest. At the bottom of 
the basin there are a few open 
spaces, marshy land, and water. 
The solitude and silence arc in- 
tense ; for, as usual m lXa\^, there 



are not many singing Birds, and 
what there are do not give song 
during the heat of the day any- 
more than in our northern climes. 
I never shall forget jthe silence that 
reigned, nor the feeling of solitude 
induced by peering through the 
trees, looking down on the small 
lakes of intensely blue water below, 
and knowing that in those dense 
thickets myriads of wild animals 
were hiding in their lair, while we 
were the only human beings. The 
gates are kept locked, and it re- 
quires a special order to pene- 
trate this sylvan scene. It does 
not seem to me a very satisfactory 
way of sporting. You are too sure 
of your game, walled in as it is all 
round. After visiting the extinct 
crater, we saw the emptied lake 
of Agnano, once notorious for ma- 
laria, now drained off and leaving 
a wide plain more or less adapt- 
ed for agriculture. At present it 
seems in a rather neglected state, 
of which nature has taken advan- 
tage to cast her unsolicited gifts 
of flaunting bright wild flowers 
broadcast over the whole space. 

One of our most interesting ex- 
cursions was to the Solfatara, not 
far from the Lago Agnano. This 
also is an extinct crater; and 
yet so barely extinct that we 
feel, as we tread the sulphur-check- 
ered soil, and hear the hollow re- 
verberation if we stamp on the 
ground, as if at any moment it 
might again burst forth. 

From lime to time our nostrils 
were disagreeably met by a puff of 
steam redolent of sulphur; and oc- 
casionally these puffs grow stronger 
and more threatening. The stones 
you pick up are tinged with yellow. 
The vegetation is sparse and dwarf- 
ed. At the further end of the plain 
is a cave, from whence at regular 
intervals rush clouds of hot steam, 



On i/ie Wing. 



821 



while a roaring, boiling sound sur- 
ges within. The aperture is large 
enough for a person to enter by 
stooping a little. Most of our par- 
ty peeped in, but instantly retired 
from the suffocating and horrible 
stench and great heat. 

The rocks are covered with sul- 
phur and alum ; and in my eager- 
ness that we should all equally 
benefit by the sight, I wanted to 
persuade Ida just to take one peep. 
It would, however, have been a risk 
to do anything which even for a 
second might embarrass the action 
of her delicate lungs and weak 
heart. She tried to approach, but 
turned back with the feeling that 
one puff more would have suffocat- 
td her. 

I think we all felt as if we were 
standing in one of the outer halls 
of a region never to be mentioned 
"to ears polite," and almost too 
** Dantesque " to be pleasant. We 
gladly breathed a purer atmo- 
sphere as we passed out of the 
gate (inside which is a fabric of 
sulphur-works), and bent our stei)s 
between white walls on which the 
green lizards basked, and between 
fields of unripe corn and mulberry- 
trees, till we reached an open 
space commanding a fme view of 
the Gulf of Pozzuoli and the hills be* 
yond. From thence we turned into 
the Capuchin church dedicated to S. 
Januarius, and said to be built over 
the spot where he suffered martyr- 
dom in 305. There is a stone, on 
which he is believed to have been 
beheaded, let into the wall, and 
protected with an iron grating. It 
is seamed with red marks as of 
blood. It is very probably a stone 
on which he knelt and on which the 
blood fell. But a block, whether 
of stone or wood, for tlie purposes 
of beheading, is a modern invention. 
The Romans used a sword — as 



the Turks use a scymitar for that 
ghastly purpose to this day — ^and 
the patient knelt upright. 

It was pleasant to rest in the cool 
church, which, humble as it is, is 
not without its quota of beautiful 
marbles, and is kept exquisitely 
clean, with fresh flowers on the 
altar, and all care taken of it as 
if the community were still there. 
We found only a lay brother left 
in charge. I think he said he had 
a companion. All the poor fathers 
were dispersed by Victor Emanuel's 
government, and Mass is only said 
on feast-days ; though it seemed to 
be the only church in that imme- 
diate neighborhood, and the poor of 
the district must greatly miss the 
presence of the Capuchin fathers, 
those special friends of the poor. 

As we came down the hill, we 
were met by peasant lads, who 
wanted us to buy lumps of sul- 
phur and the skeletons of the pret- 
ty little fish called the sea-horse, 
which abound in this part of the 
Mediterranean, and which are just 
like the knights among chessmen. 
They may be seen alive in quan- 
tities in the aquarium at Brighton. 
They twist the tapering end of their 
tails round a fragment of sea-weed, 
or indeed, as the buoyancy of the 
water keeps them up, they need 
but to touch something stationary. 
And there they stand in groups, 
motionless, and looking for all the 
world like a grave assembly of 
horses* heads of the most delicate 
race, and with noses slightly turned 
up. Nothing can be more graceful 
than the way they hold themselves. 
Their heads are not bigger than 
those of ordinarv-sized chessmen. 

As the Vernons had been at 
Posilippo all through the eruption 
of Mount Vesuvius in April, iSyj, 
they were naturally anxious we 
should see something of the dcvas- 



822 



On tfie Wing. 



tation it had occasioned. We de- 
termined, therefore, to drive to San 
Sebastiano, a village which was al- 
most entirely destroyed. As we 
approached the spot, it seemed as 
if we were driving into the king- 
dom of chaos, where " the earth was 
void and empty.** On either side 
lay wide plains of gray-black lava, 
looking as if a dead, unfertile earth 
had been furrowed with the burn- 
ing shares of some gigantic and 
infernal plough, and had remained 
calcined and sterile for ever after. 
We left the carriage and climbed 
up a large mound of lava. I found 
myself nearly on a level with the 
low roof of the small church, round 
which the lava had crept, but had 
spared it. I looked down into the 
basement of a house below me. 
The lava had poured in and filled 
what once were rooms, but had 
left the walls and the roof standing. 
There was part of a street left, the 
lava having, with seeming caprice, 
turned off to the left, as it poured 
down the mountain, just in that 
spot. Our friends told us that as 
they used to sit by the hour and 
watch the progress of the burning 
stream through glasses, they could 
see the small white houses, with the 
fiery flood approaching, when sud- 
denly each house seemed to leap 
into the air like a lighted straw, 
and then was seen no more. A cat 
ran past me, in haste to save her 
paws. We could not stand still 
long, for, though more than a year 
had elapsed, the land was still too 
hot to be pleasant; and when we 
reached home, we found our feet 



were blistered. The poor creatures 
whose homes have thus perished 
approach you timidly with bits of 
lava to sell. They still have a 
scared look in their faces. But 
nothing will persuade them to shift 
their quarters and leave their grand 
but dangerous neighbor. They are 
trying to rebuild their village, and 
are deaf to all the remonstrances 
of the great scientific philosopher * 
who lives a hermit's life in the ob- 
servatory half-way up the mountain. 
He has a Capuchin priest as a com- 
panion ; and the latter was able to 
give the last rites of the church to 
about forty of the unfortunate peo* 
pie, who, actuated by curiosity, had 
attempted to climb the mountain 
during the eruption. It seems they 
had never calculated upon the effect 
of the burning heat from a distance. 
They thought if there were a cer- 
tain space between them and the 
lava, they should be safe. They 
forgot that actual contact was not 
needed ; and they were scorched to 
death long before the stream reach- 
ed the spot where they stood. Not 
one of those thus licked up by the 
breath of the volcano ever recov- 
ered, or even lived long enough to 
quit the place. 

Signor Palmier and the Capu- 
chin saw a carriage full of people, 
coachman and two horses, advanc- 
ing up the mountain. Suddenly 
the whole was submerged. They 
could only tell where it had been 
arrested by the carrion birds hov- 
ering over a certain spot for many 
days after ! 

* Signor Palmier. 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



823 



A DISCUSSION WITH AN INFIDEL. 



VIII. 
LAWS OF NATURE AND MIRACLES. 

Biichncr, We differ very widely 
in many points, sir; but there is 
one point about which we shall have 
no difficulty in agreeing — the immu- 
tability of natural laws. In fact, 
you have already conceded that 
the laws of nature are unchangeable. 

Reader. Yes, I admit the un- 
changeability of the laws of nature ; 
but 1 most strongly protest against 
your rash inference that therefore 
miracles are impossible. 

Buchner, Yet my reasoning is 
very plain. " The law of nature, 
observes Moleschott, is a stringent 
expression of necessity. There ex- 
ists in it neither exception nor lim- 
itation ; and no imaginable power 
can disregard this necessity. A 
fttone not supported will in all eter- 
nity fall towards the centre of the 
earth ; and there never was, and 
never will be, a command for the 
sun to stand still " (p. 33). 

Reader. Is this what you call 
" reasoning " ? 

BUchner. Yes. "The experi- 
ence of thousands of years has im- 
pressed upon the investigator the 
firmest conviction of the immuta- 
bility of the laws of nature, so that 
there cannot remain the least doubt 
in respect to this great truth " (p. 

34). 

Reader, This I grant. 

Buchner. Science has gradually 
taken all the positions of the childish 
belief of the peoples; it has snatch- 
ed thunder and lightning from tlie 
hands of the gods ..." (ibid^ 



Reader. It was Christianity, not 
science, that conquered the gods. 

Buchner. " The eclipse of the 
stars and the stupendous powers 
of the Titans of the olden times 
have been grasped by the fingers of 
man " (ibid,) 

Reader. How can the fingers of 
man grasp the eclipses and the 
Titans } 

Buchner. " That which appeared 
inexplicably miraculous, and the 
work of a supernatural power, has, 
by the torch of science, proved to 
be the effect of hitherto unknown 
natural forces " {ibid.) 

Reader, You dream, doctor. 
Has '* the torch of science " made 
known those hitherto unknown 
forces ? No scientific work has yet 
explained how, by an act of the 
will, water can be changed into 
wine, how the deaf and dumb can 
be instantaneously cured, how the 
blind can be made to see, the para- 
lytic to walk, and the dead to rise, 
at the sound of a voice, four days 
after burial, and when already in 
a state of advanced putrefaction. 
You may of course deny these facts, 
as you deny that the sun ever re- 
ceived a command to stand still ; 
but to say that " the torch of sci- 
ence " has shown these facts to be 
the effect of unknown natural forces 
is to tell us the most stupid lie that 
can be uttered. Lies, you know, 
should at least be credible. 

BiUhner, " We have the fullest 
right, and are scientifically correct, 
in asserting that there is no such 
thing as a miracle. Everything that 
happens docs so m ^. xv^VvwA ^-a.^^ — 



824 



A Discussion %vith an Infidel. 



1.^., in a mode determined only by 
accidental or necessary coalition 
of existing materials and their im- 
manent natural forces. No revo- 
lution on earth or in heaven, how- 
ever stupendous, could occur in any 
other manner " (p. 34). 

Reader, These are mere words. 
I deny that scrence* gives you the 
least right to suppress miracles. 
How can you establish such a 
right ? 

Buchner, "Wherever fire and 
water meet, vapors must arise 
and exert their irresistible power. 
Where the seed falls in the ground, 
there it will grow ; where the thun- 
derbolt is attracted, there it will 
strike. Can there exist any doubt 
as to these truths ?'* (p. 35). 

Reader. Please, doctor, come to 
the point. 

Buchner, " How is it possible 
that the unalterable order in which 
things move should ever be disturb- 
ed without producing an irremedi- 
able gap in the world, without de- 
livering us and everything up to 
arbitrary power, without reducing 
all science, every earthly endea- 
vor, to a vain and childish effort V 

(P- 36). 
Reader. All this rhetoric is most 

absurd, doctor. " The order in 
which things move " is not unalter- 
able; and He whom you call an 
" arbitrary power " can alter it when 
he pleases without asking your per- 
mission, or without reducing sci- 
ence to a childish effort. 

Buchner. What ? You contra- 
dict yourself, sir. For, if the order 
in which things move is changeable, 
the laws of nature cannot be un- 
changeable. 

Reader. Not at all. You sophis- 
tically confound two things entirely 
different — the law of nature, and 
the course of nature. The first is 
unchangeable, because it is con- 



nected with the essence of things ; 
but the second is changeable, as a 
constant and universal experience 
compels us to admit. However 
much you may hate "arbitrary 
power," you cannot deny that, be- 
sides necessary causes, there are 
others which are free in their exer- 
tions. Can you deny, for instance, 
that a stone may be thrown upwards 
in spite of gravitation, or that we 
can catch hold of the stone from the 
window, and, in spite of gravitation, 
we can prevent it from falling back 
to the ground } Now, if we do this, 
we do not change the law of nature, 
and nevertheless we modify the 
course of nature by freely producing 
a phenomenon which nature would 
not produce. 

Buchner, Would you call this a 
miracle 1 • 

Reader. The question is imper- 
tinent. I call it a change in the 
course of nature. Now, if the 
course of nature can be modified 
without the law of nature being al- 
tered, it is absurd to pretend that 
there is contradiction in holding 
the unchangeableriess of the latter 
and the changeableness of the for* 
mer. This being evident, let us go 
a step further, and draw an obvious 
conclusion. We can, when we 
please, catch the stone from the 
window, and prevent it from falling; 
and cannot God do the same } We 
are free to exert our power ; but is 
not God free, or has he less power 
than we have } If you are honest, 
you will own that what can be done 
by us can be done by our Creator 
and Lord. Now, if he stops the 
stone in the air, a miracle will be 
wrought, and no law of nature vio- 
lated. You cannot deny the possi- 
bility of miracles without denying 
God. 

Buchner. " A spirit independent 
of nature cannot exist ; for never 



A Discussion with an Infidel, 



825 



has an unprejudiced mind cultivat- 
ed by science perceived its mani- 
festation " (p. 36). 

Reader, Are you not ashamed, 
doctor, to repeat such a nonsensi- 
cal assertion ? You have already 
failed to prove it, and I have shown 
its absurdity in a preceding discus- 
sion. Must I answer it anew ? The 
only answer you now deserve is 
that '^ The fool has said in his heart, 
* There is no God.* " Fools, in fact, 
deny God in their hearts, but can- 
not deny him in their minds, be- 
cause atheism is not the result of 
intellectual knowledge, but of mo- 
ral depravity. Our i)resent ques- 
tion, however, is not theism or athe- 
ism, but the possibility of miracles 
without any breach of natural laws. 
Surely, if there were no God, no 
miracle would be possible ; but your 
argument was that if the laws of 
nature are unchangeable, no miracle 
is possible ; and this I have shown 
to be false. If there is a Ciod, as we 
must now assume, miracles are pos- 
sible. In the same manner, if a 
single true miracle has ever been 
wrought, there is a God. 

Buchncr. ** Apparent exceptions 
from the natural order have been 
called miracles y of which there have 
been many at all times " (p. 36). 

Reader, You should know bet- 
ter, doctor. The church is not sat- 
isfied with " apparent ** exceptions 
from the natural order ; the excep- 
tion must be rigorously proved. 

Buchner, *' We should only 
waste words in our endeavor to 
prove the natural impossibility of 
a miracle. No educated, much less a 
scicntiiir, person who is convinced 
of the immutable order of things 
can nowadays believe in miracles. 
We find it rather wonderful that so 
clear and acute a thinker as Lud- 
wig Feuerbach should have ex- 
pended so much logic in refuting 



the Christian miracles. What found- 
er of religion did not deem it ne- 
cessary, in order to introduce him- 
self to the world, to perform mira- 
cles ? And has not his success 
proved that he was right } What 
prophet, what saint, is there who has 
not performed miracles.^ The mi- 
racle-seeker sees them daily and 
hourly. Do not the table-spirits 
belong to the order of miracles ? 
All such miracles are ecpial in the 
eye of science ; they are the result 
of a diseased fancy" (|>p. 36, 37). 

Reader, This is miserable logic, 
doctor. Why do you speak of the 
natural impossibility of miracles? 
Have we ever taught that miracles 
are naturally ])Ossible } We know 
that nature works no miracles, and 
that all miracles are supernatural. 
It is therefore either a mean trick 
or a logical blunder on your part 
to pretend that the natural possi- 
bility of miracles is the point in 
question. That no educated or 
scientific man can nowadavs be- 

m 

lieve in miracles is not onlv an 
empty boast, but also a di-igraceful 
calumnv. We Christians believe in 
miracles, and yet, I venture to say, 
we need not resort to vou for les- 
sons in science or education. As 
a reason for not believing in mira- 
cles, you allege ** the immutable 
order of things*'; that is, you as- 
sume what is to be proved. The 
order of things is so far from being 
immutable that we see it modified 
at everv moment. It is the laws of 

m 

nature, not the order of things, that 
are immutable. That Feuerbach 
** expended so much of loi;ic in re- 
futing Christian miracles " I will 
not deny; I only say that his logir, 
like your own, is mere sophism and 
cavil. Of course vou call him "v* 
clear and acute a thinker**; bu» 
we know what this means on tlie 
lips of Freemasons. If he was " so 



826 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



clear and acute a thinker," why did 
he not furnish you with at least one 
good argument against Christian mi- 
racles ? 

Besides, you pretend that all 
founders of religion deemed it ne- 
cessary to perform miracles. What 
then ? Were it true, the fact would 
scarcely help your cause ; for it 
would only prove that there have 
ever been impostors, as there have 
been quacks and coin-forgers. 
Now, who would think of selling 
counterfeited articles, if there had 
existed none genuine ? Would 
there be quacks, had there been no 
doctors ? And yet your reasoning 
leads to the conclusion that, be- 
cause there are so many quacks, 
there can be no doctors. Are you, 
then, a mere quack yourself.^ 

You say with a malicious sneer 
that all prophets and saints per- 
formed miracles. Yes ; they per- 
formed miracles, or rather, to speak 
more correctly, God wrought mira- 
cles through them. Yet, in the 
teeth of sacred and ecclesiastical 
history which testifies to an infinite 
number of unquestionable miracles, 
you are shameless enough to con- 
clude that no miracle has ever been 
performed, on the plea that mira- 
cle-seekers, table-spirits, and dis- 
eased fancy must have conspired to 
deceive the world. Is it necessary 
to refute such a silly assertion } 
Was Elymas the magician a mira- 
cle-seeker when S. Paul, to punish 
him for his opposition to Christian- 
ity, struck him blind with a word 
in the presence of the Roman cen- 
turion } Was it a trick of table- 
spirits that made the blind see, the 
lame walk, or the dumb speak.' 
Was it diseased fancy that impress- 
ed on an immense crowd the belief 
that they had been miraculously 
fed by Christ in the desert, where 
no provisions were at hand } No, 



doctor, you are not silly enough to 
believe anything of the sort 

Biichncr. But what do you an- 
swer to the following dif&cultics? 
First, if we admit miracles, *^ sci- 
ence will be reduced to a vain and 
childish effort " (p. 36). Secondly, 
how can we conceive '* a supreme 
legislator who allows himself to be 
moved by prayers and sobs to re- 
verse the immutable order which 
he himself has created, to violate 
his own laws, and with his own 
hand to destroy the action of na- 
tural forces.?" (p. 38). Thirdlr, 
" every miracle, if it existed, says 
Cotta, would lead to the conviction 
that the creation is not deserving 
the respect which all pay to it, and 
the mystics would necessarily be 
obliged to deduce from the imper- 
fection of the created world the im- 
perfection of the Creator " (p. 38). 
Fourthly, " is it a view worthy of 
God to represent him as a power 
which now and then gives a new 
impulse to the world in its course, 
and puts on a screw, etc., like the 
regulator of a watch "> If the world 
has been created by God perfect, 
how can it require any repairs.^" 
(P- 39)' Fifthly, we see that nature 
works without superior control; 
" its action is frequently quite inde- 
pendent of the rules of a higher 
reason, now constructing, now de- 
stroying, now full of design, then 
again perfectly blind and in contra- 
diction with all moral and rational 
laws. That in the formation of or- 
ganic and inorganic bodies, which 
are constantly being renewed, there 
can be no direct governing reason 
at work is proved by the most 
striking facts. The nisus forma- 
tivus inherent in nature is so blind 
and so dependent on external cir- 
cumstances that the most senseless 
forms are frequently engendered, 
that it is often incapable of obviat- 



A Discussion wit A an Infidel. 



827 



overcoming the slightest ob- 
ons, and that frequently the 
ry of what according to rea- 
ould happen is effected " (pp. 
|. These are serious difficul- 
r. 

ier. I hardly think them to 
ious, doctor. The first en- 
disappears when you reflect 
he conclusions of physical 
I are all hypothetic^ inasmuch 
y regard phenomena which 
take place under the action 
en powers, to the exclusion 

other power extraneous to 
taken into account. Such 
sions, therefore, imply the 
ion that no extraneous agent 
) disturbing cause interferes 
be production of the pheno- 

If an extraneous power in- 
S the conditions are chang- 
i with them the phenomena ; 
ience is not upset. A stone 
^ported must fall. Not sup- 
; such is the condition, 
vhether you, or I, or the roof, 
d, or an angel support it, the 
uence will be that the stone 
3t fall. Now, I ask you, is 
I " reduced to a vain and 
h eflbrt " because you or I 

roof prevent the stone from 
? I presume, doctor, that if 
rere the case, science would 
ince have disappeared from 
)rld. Why, then, should sci- 
)ecome a vain and childish 
as soon as God would do 
f what we can freely do with- 
stroying science } Take an- 
example. Nature builds no 

palaces, no fine steamers, no 
)tives, no railroads. All such 
are our free creations. Yet 

you will not maintain that 
tiding palaces or by boring 
ains we destroy science, al- 
i we may interfere very ma- 
' with the works of nature. 



Now, if our free action upon nature 
does not destroy science, why 
should God's free action destroy 
it } Answer me in the name of 
reason : What theory of natural 
science would be falsified were 
God to send angels to build you a 
palace, or devils to dig you a 
grave 7 

And now I come to your second 
difficulty. You assume that the 
supreme legislator cannot work a 
miracle without destroying the ac- 
tion of natural forces and violating 
his own laws, thus reversing the 
immutable order which he himself 
has created. But you are mistaken. 
The order of things is not immuta- 
ble ; this I have already shown. On 
the other hand, we have just seen 
that no law of nature is ever vio- 
lated by a miracle. Lastly, God's 
action does not destroy the action 
of natural forces, but produces an 
effect superior to and independent 
of them. Nor is this strange ; for 
we ourselves can do the like within 
the range of our limited powers. 
When we go up-stairs, do we de- 
stroy the action of gravity that ur- 
ges us downwards } By no means. 
The action of gravity continues its 
work, but our contrary exertion 
prevails ; and thus our body obeys 
the resultant of the two opposite 
actions, both of which obtain their 
effect. You see, therefore, that 
there is no need of destroying the 
action of natural forces in order to 
produce an effect which natural 
forces cannot produce. After these 
remarks, nothing remains of your 
second difficulty but " the prayers 
and sobs " which you cruelly ridi- 
cule as useless and superstitious. 
But our Father who is in heaven 
listens to such prayers and is mov- 
ed by those sobs. This is abun- 
dantly proved by innumerable au- 
thentic facts; and this sufices {cit vxV. 



828 

Your third difficulty is based on 
Coita's notion that the creation dt;- 
serves respect on account of its 
|)erfection. Cotta may be one of 
your great men, but surely he does 
not know what he is speaking about. 
What " respect " do we owe to crea- 
tion? Benighted barbarians thought, 
indeed, that the sun, the earth, a.nd 
the stars deserved respect ; but how 
can a man who pretends to be a 
philosopher, and who professes 
himself an enemy of superstition, 
adopt such a stale pagan view, un- 
less he blinds himself and renoun- 
ces reason by bestowing upon mat- 
ter the worship which he refuses to 
the living God? To say that the 
world is " perfect " is a mere equi- 
vocation. The world is perfect 
afler its own manner, inasmuch as 
it serves all the purposes for which 
it has been made; it is perfect in 
the same sense in which we say 
that a ihermometcr, a telescope, or 
an engine is perfect ; it is a perfect 
instrument In God's hand for the 
attainraenl of a deleraiinate end; 
and therefore its perfection is reJa- 
tive only, and might be greater and 
greater without end. Now, Cotta's 
argument overlooks this obvious 
restriction, and presents the world 
as alisoluUly perfect. If the world 
is imperfect, says lie, God is imper- 
fect ; but miracles would show that 
the world is imperfect ; and there- 
fore miracles would show that God 
is imperfect. Now, is not this, 
doctor, asinine logic ? We might 
as well argue thus : If an engine is 
imperfect, its maker is imperfect ; 
but the opening of a turning-c&ck 
for admitting more steam shows 
that the engine is imperfect; and 
therefore that opening shows that 
theengine-maker is imperfect. And 
this leads me to your fourth diffi- 
culty, which is nothing but a repe- 
tition of the third. 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



You ask: "Is it a view wot'.hj 
of Gqd to represent hira as a power 
which now and then gives s net 
impulse to the world in its cours*!" 
I answer, Yts ; it is quite wonh| of 
God to exercise bis power in ibl 
world in the way he thinks fit 
Sliall we say, then, that God, "lib 
the regulator of a watch, puts i 
screw on the world " ? Why ooi! 
The watchmaker is not dcgradtd 
by regulating his work. But, (hen, 
" the world requires repairs" ? 1 
say, Y(s. And if you conclude tbal 
tile world " has not been cruicd 
perfect," I reply that although il 
came out relatively perfect ftnmttit 
hands of the Creator, it has p»- 
dually and most sadly deteriorated 
by the malice of man. Moreow, 
the world, whether more or Icu 
perfect in itself, without aconstut 
active intervention of iu Cicatu 
can neither work nor last for a mo- 
ment. The world is, thcrcfott, 
constantly "repaired," to use yoot 
expression, and has " screws jiuton 
it," as history testifies; and oth« 
" screws " arc undoubtedly read)' 
for further "repairs" when ihej 
will be wanted. 

Your last difficulty arises from 
your assumption that nature worb 
without being controlled byasupe- 
rior power. But how do you koo" 
that nature is not controlled? Whit 
are the " striking facts " wWch 
prove that " there is no direct go(- 
erning reason at work " in ihefto- 
mation of organic and inorpnic 
bodies ? Your nisus /ormalmi' 
proves nothing. You say thai tta 
nisus is "blind." You may "t" 
call it blind, in.ismuch as it M * 
work of secondary causes; but jfoo 
cannot deny that it is ruled by > 
superior reason. What docs ■' 
matter if " most senselets fonw 
are frequently engendered " ? 
■^ovusiiW admit that the <i 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



829 



mdtivus depends very much " on 
external circumstances," which may 
mar or spoil the work of organiza- 
tion, and which nothing obliges the 
superior reason to alter or improve. 
On the other hand, such senseless 
forms arc not so ** frequently " en- 
gendered as you pretend ; and if a 
few such senseless or monstrous 
forms can move you to doubt 
whether their formation is control- 
led by a superior reason, I do not see 
why the immensely greater number 
of other forms perfectly constituted 
should not constrain you to banish 
the doubt, and. to recognize that 
matter not controlled and not di- 
rected by reason cannot co-ordinate 
its efforts towards the formation of 
an organism of which it knows 
neither the plan nor the object. 

I trust, doctor, that these re- 
marks suffice to solve your difficul- 
ties, and to show that the world is 
governed by a superior reason. 

BuckiHr, It may be ; yet " what 
this or that man may understand 
by a governing reason, an absolute 
jiower, a universal soul, a personal 
God, etc., is his own affair. The 
theologians, with their articles of 
faith, must be left to themselves ; 
so the naturalists with their science. 
They both proceed by different 
routes " (p. 43). 

Reader, This is no reply, doc- 
tor, and your remark is misplaced. 
The e.xistence of a personal God, 
the possibility of miracles, and 
many other such truths, are proved 
by natural reason. Had I refuted 
your objections by quoting " theo- 
logians " and " articles of faith," 
your reply might have some mean- 
ing. But since your allegations 
have been answered by reason, 
what does it avail to say that 
** theologians, with their articles of 
faith, must be left to themselves " } 
Moreover, you unwittingly con- 



demn your own tactics. For if 
theologians are to be left to them- 
selves, why do you, then, who are 
no theologian, and not even a phi- 
losopher, invade the province of 
theology, and fight against faith } 

If you have any desire to know 
the truth about the reality of mira- 
cles, I will tell you what you have 
to do. M. Artus, a Frenchman, 
on the 23d of July, 187 1, public- 
ly challenged all the free-thinkers 
of the world to show the falsity of 
any two out of the many miracles 
registered in M. Lasserre's book 
entitled Notre Dame de Lourdes^ 
and staked 10,000 francs upon the 
issue of the contest. This money 
was safely deposited by him in the 
hands of a notary-public in Paris ; 
and fifty judges were appointed, 
some of whom were members of the 
French Institute, and others fellows 
of other celebrated institutions and 
academies, or members of the bar, 
including even a Protestant ; so 
that there could be no suspicion 
of fanaticism, ultramontanism, or 
mysticism about them. Now, in- 
credible as it may appear to you, 
none of your great braggarts has 
dared from that day till now to ac- 
cept the challenge. It is for you, 
who are so peremptory in denounc- 
ing miracles, to come forward, and 
to blot out by an act of philosophi- 
cal valor the stain which the cow- 
ardice of your enlightened friends 
has left on the glory of free-think- 
erism. It is for you, I repeat ; for 
if a man of your standing and repu- 
tation quails before the challenge, 
the world will most reasonably con- 
clude that you have no faith what- 
ever in your own doctrines. 



IX. 



THE HEAVENS. 



Reader. The lac^s. ol T^aic^^ ^s». 



830 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



universal. Such is the subject of 
the seventh chapter of your Force 
and Matter, I need hardly say 
that, while admitting with you the 
universality of the natural laws, I 
cannot but condemn the materialis- 
tic spirit which disgraces your ex- 
planation of that obvious truth. 
But in the chapter which follows 
you speak of tj^i, heavens in a most 
objectionable style. 

Buchner, " Every school -boy 
knows that the sky is not a glass 
shade covering the earth, but that, 
in contemplating it, we behold an 
immense space interrupted by in- 
finitely distant and scattered groups 
of worlds ** (p. 51). 

Reader, This I grant ; but I am 
at a loss to understand how the 
contemplation of the heavens can 
furnish you an argument against 
the existence of God. Is it not 
strange that what has hitherto been 
considered to proclaim most loud- 
ly the existence, and magnify the 
power, of God, has become, in your 
hands, an evidence in support of 
atheism } 

Biichner. The heavenly masses 
" are in constant motion — a motion 
singularly combined and compli- 
cated, yet in all its modificati6ns 
merely the result of a single univer- 
sal law of nature — the law of attrac- 
tion. , . . All these motions may be 
determined and predicted with ma- 
thematical exactness. As far as the 
telescope of man reaches, the same 
law, the same mechanical arrange- 
ment, according to the same calcu- 
lated mechanical formula, is found. 
Nowhere is there a trace of an ar- 
bitrary finger which has ordered 
the heavens or pointed out the 
path of comets. *I have searched 
the heavens,' says Lalande, *but 
have nowhere found the traces of 
God.* And when the Emperor 
Napoleon asked the ce\e\ii3.t^d as- 



tronomer Laplace why there vas 
no mention of God in his M^can^ 
ique C^lestCy he replied, * Sire^ ji 
h'avais pcu besoin de cette hypothhe.' 
The more astronomy progressed in 
Its knowledge of the laws and mo- 
tions in the heavens, the more \\ 
repudiated the idea of a supema> 
tural influence, and the easier it 
became to deduce the origin, groap- 
ing, and motions of the heavenlj 
bodies from the properties inher- 
ent in matter itself. The attrac- 
tion of atoms rendered the bodies 
compact, whilst the law of attrac- 
tion, in combination with their 
primary motion, produced the mode 
of their reciprocal rotation which 
we now observe " (pp. 51, 52). 

Reader, Waiving the more than 
problematic plausibility of your 
premises, and setting aside the 
blasphemies which you have dili- 
gently copied from the books of 
the French unbelievers, and which 
are too stolid to need an answer, I 
reply, doctor, that you are always 
too hasty in drawing your conclu- 
sions. Why did you not reflect 
that the matter of which the celes- 
tial bodies are formed must have 
had an origin, that the revolutions 
of those bodies cannot be ruled by 
an abstract law, and that their 
enormous distances, as well as the 
expanse of their orbits through the 
immensity of space, compel the ad- 
mission of an infinite being ranging 
infinitely above matter and neces- 
sarily prior to it 1 You should not 
have overlooked the fact that the 
heavens proclaim God*s existence 
by their immensity far more elo- 
quently than by the revolutions of 
the celestial bodies. You speak of 
movements ruled by a law. I ad- 
mit the movements and the law 
which rules our calculation of the 
movements. But without space 
there is no movement, and without 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



831 



God there is no space ; therefore 
without God there is no movement. 
Extricate yourself, if you can. Do 
you concede that without space 
there is no movement ? 

Buchner. It is evident. 

Reader. Do you admit that 
without God there is no space ? 

BUchner, This I deny. 

Reader, Then what do you 
mean by " space *' } 

Buchner, I fancy that space is 
nothing but the volume of bodies. 

Reader. How is this possible.^ 
A body moves through space. 
NoWy does a body move through 
its own volume, or does it move 
through the volume of other bo- 
dies.^ On the contrary, the body 
cannot move without pushing away 
before it all other bodies and vol- 
umes whatever from the space they 
occupy. It is therefore evident 
that space, as such, is not the vol- 
ume of bodies. 

Buchner. Then I shall say that 
q>ace is the capability of bodies 
and motion. 

Reader. This definition of space 
may be admitted if properly un- 
derstood. But what is such a ca- 
pability ? Is it, in your opinion, a 
real and positive entity ? 

Buchner, I should not think so, 
unless, indeed, it be occupied by 
bodies. 

Reader. I know that many are 
of this opinion, that the reality of 
space depends on the presence of 
bodies ; but I say that, if such were 
the case, then empty space would 
be mere nothing. Now, if you ad- 
mit this, you will be compelled to 
admit also the absurdity that a 
mere nothing can be greater or 
smaller. For between two neigh- 
boring atoms there may be a great- 
er or smaller interval of space; 
and' such an interval, by the hypo- 
thesis, would be nothing. Hence 



it is evident that space, no matter 
whether occupied or unoccupied, 
must be something real. 

Buchner, Then I say that space 
is a mere relation of material ob- 
jects. 

Reader. There are relations of 
bodies in space ; but all such rela- 
tions presuppose the existence of 
absolute space^ and therefore s[)a<:e 
itself is none of those relations. 
Moreover, since all real relations 
have their reason in something 
real, which is the foundation of the 
relativity, it follows that space, as 
that through which one body is 
really related to another, is in it- 
self a reality, independently of the 
relations which may result from 
the existence of bodies in it. And 
again, before bodies can be consid- 
ered as related through space, they 
must l)e each located in space. 
But, evidently, they cannot be lo- 
cated in space if there is no space. 
And therefore there must be space 
before any local relation of bodies 
can be imagined as possible. Hence 
you cannot maintain that space is 
a mere relation. 

Buchner. Perhaps I shall be 
obliged to say with Kant that space 
is only a subjective form of the 
mind. 

Reader. Then you will entangle 
yourself still more. The assump- 
tion would imply the denial of all 
real distances, of all real volumes, 
of all real movements, of all real 
phenomena, and of all natural laws. 
For if space is only a subjective 
form of our mind, then there is 
no space out of the mind ; and 
consequently there are no real dis- 
tances and no real movements in 
the outside world, and science be- 
comes an array of lies. 

Buchner, What is, then, your 
notion of space } 

Reader, Space is the region of 



832 



A Discussion with an InfideL 



all possible ubications and move- 
ments. Do you accept this defini- 
tion ? 

Buchner. Why not ? It is sub- 
stantially the same as that which I 
have given by saying that space is 
the capability of bodies and mo- 
tion. 

Reader. Very well. Then, since 
I have shown that this capability 
of bodies and motion is a positive 
reality, space is a positive reality. 
Moreover, space is neither matter 
nor any of the forces of matter, nor 
dependent on matter, but prior to 
it, and is prerequired as a necessary 
condition for the existence of mat- 
ter. Lastly, space is independent 
of time and motion, and therefore 
is absolutely and strictly eternal 
and unchangeable. Do you object 
to these conclusions 1 

Buchner. No, sir. 

Reader. Then you concede that 
space is an infinite, eternal, un- 
changeable, independent reality, 
prior to matter and above matter, 
and therefore, according to your 
own theory, prior to the world and 
above it. Now, to concede so 
much, and then to deny God, would 
be an evident contradiction. For 
you must admit that absolute space 
is either a substance or not. If it 
is a substance, then it is an infinite, 
eternal, independent, unchangeable 
substance, embracing and tran- 
scending with its immensity all im- 
aginable worlds; and a substance 
having such attributes is what we 
call God. If space is not a sub- 
stance, it must still have the reason 
of its reality in a substance from 
which it borrows its infinity, its 
eternity, its immutability, and of 
which it is the extrinsic manifes- 
tation. Hence the contemplation 
of the heavens and of " the im- 
mense space interrupted by \tvf\mte- 
\y distant and scaUei^d ^xovl\)^ 



of worlds " affords an irresistible 
proof of God's existence, and leaves 
no room for your pretended "sci- 
entific " objections. If there is no 
God, there is no space ; and if there 
is no space, science is a dream and 
scientists mere visionaries.* 

Buchner. I cannot fight on this 
ground, sir. Space is a mystery 
which our reason has no power to 
explain; and I decline to argue 
about anything that transcends 
reason. The strongest argument 
in favor of the existence of a per- 
sonal God was ever drawn from 
the necessity of a first mover, in 
order to account for the movement 
of the celestial bodies. But such a 
necessity has never been proved; 
and therefore " even in this remote 
position a personal creative power 
cannot hold its ground " (p. 52). 

Reader. You cannot cover your 
retreat by pretending that space is 
a mystery ; for '\{ space is a mys- 
tery, then science also is a mys- 
tery — a conclusion which you do 
not accept. But while you thus 
implicitly acknowledge your defeat, 
you try to secure a safer position 
by alleging that the movement of 
the heavenly bodies may have 
originated in the powers of matter 
itself without any exterior impulse 
from a first mover. I wish you 
to remark that the words "first 
mover " can be understood in t\ro 
manners; for not he only who di- 
rectly imparts the first movement, 
but he also who governs the exer- 
tions and establishes the conditions 
on which the first movements dc- 

* The above doctrine concerning the reality"' 
absolute space is taken from Lesstus' magai£ceot 
^ork, Dg Perffctionibux Morihuxqnt Divinis^- 
ii. c. a), where he shows that absolute sptce i> 
the virtuality of God's immensity. We ctoa* 
here develop this doctrine, nor discuss the objec- 
tions of those who hold a different opioion. Tkit 
would lead us too fiir from our present objed. 
and give to our dialogue with Dr. BOchceri 
V\%^«t metaphysical character than bis vf;^ 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



833 



can be called "first mover." 
Id philosophers, who did not 
the fact of universal gravita- 
>roved the existence of God 
rming the necessity of a first 
— that is, of a first cause — giv- 
i first impetus to the heavens, 
;overning their revolutions, 
since gravitation became 

philosophers have acknow- 
. that all matter could re- 
motion through the action 
her matter, and therefore 
le first movements in the ma- 
world could arise from mat- 
!lf, with no need of a special 
e from without. This, how- 
ioes not mean that we can 
se with a " first mover." 
/er great your effort to con- 
yrourself that " matter is eter- 
id the motion of matter as 
1 as matter itself" (p. 53), you 
ot succeed. Matter is cre- 

and He who created it 
\ it in definite conditions, 
: could exert its powers in a 
e manner and give rise to dc- 
iffects. To him, therefore, as 
rst cause, are to be traced all 
lovements arising from his 
ztion and arrangement of all 
roximate causes. Now, the 
:ause of all movements is a 
mover." What can science 

against this evident truth? 
hner. " Why matter assumed 
nite motion at a definite time 
yet unknown to us; but the 
igations of science are as yet 
plete, nor is it impossible 
re may get some clue as to 
iriod of the first origin of in- 
lal worlds. Even at this day 
omers give cogent reasons 
ome of the nebular spots are 
s in embryo, which, by gra- 
ondensation and rotation, >vill 
le worlds and solar systems, 
have, therefore, concluding 

VOL. XIX, — ^5J 



from analogy, a right to say that 
those processes through which the 
existing solar systems have arisen 
can have formed no exception to 
the general laws inherent in matter, 
and that the cause of the first defi- 
nite motion must have existed in 
matter itself " (p. 53). 

Reader. This is possible; but is 
it true ? 

Biichner. " We are the more jus- 
tified in asserting this, as the many 
irregularities, contingencies, etc., 
in the economy of the universe 
and individual bodies, exclude the 
thought of an external personal ac- 
tivity " {ibid.) 

Reader. What 1 Are you seri- 
ous.? 

Biichner. " If it were the object 
of a personal creative power to 
create worlds and dwelling-places 
for men and animals, why, we may 
ask, these enormous, waste, useless 
spaces, in which but here and 
there suns and planets swim, float- 
ing about as imperceptible points > 
Why are not all planets of our sys- 
tem so formed as to be inhabited 
by man ? Why is the moon with- 
out water and atmosphere, and 
consequently adverse to every or- 
ganic development ? Wherefore 
the irregularities and enormous dif- 
ferences in the size and distances 
of the planets of our solar system } 
Why the deficiency in order, sym- 
metry, and beauty } Why have all 
comparisons, analogies, specula- 
tions, in regard to the number and 
forms of the planets, proved idle 
fancies } Why, asks Hudson Tut- 
tle, did the Creator give rings to 
Saturn, which, surrounded by its 
eight moons, can have little need 
of them, while Mars is left in total 
darkness } And again, the moon's 
rotation round its axis is, in rela- 
tion to that of the earth, such that 
it always \>i^stxA.s \.o '\\. >Ocv^ 'Sk^xs\fc 



834 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



surface. What is the reason of 
this? If there be design in this 
arrangement, it must be admitted 
that it is very imperfect. Why did 
the Creator not impart to the celes- 
tial bodies that order from which 
the intention and the design could 
irresistibly be inferred .'^" (pp. 53, 

54). 

Reader. Unfortunate man that 

you are! You have already re- 
ceived the just punishment of your 
rebellion against truth ; you have 
been struclc with blindness. The 
thing is evident, say what you will. 
You make a fool of yourself, as 
your preposterous queries prove 
nothing but your arrogance, igno- 
rance, and malice. You will never 
.be cured of your blindness till you 
'lower your tone and humble your 
.pride before the God whose works 
you disregard, and whose wisdom 
you call in question. You are a 
smoky little candle challenging the 
sun thus : " Why these enormous, 
waste, useless spaces?'* Is it ne- 
cessary to inform you that those 
spaces are not waste and useless? 
We have just seen that the ex- 
panse of the heavens reveals the 
infinity of the Creator; according- 
ly, the enormous spaces which you 
arrogantly call waste and useless 
proclaim most eloquently the high- 
est truth, the necessary truth, the 
source of all truths. "Why are 
not all planets of our system so 
formed as to be inhabited by 
man ?" In return let me ask you. 
Why is not the atmosphere so 
formed as to be inhabited by 
fishes? Indeed, if God has no 
need of peopling the air with fishes, 
it would be hard to say on what 
principle he can be obliged to peo- 
ple the planets with beings exactly 
similar to us in their organization. 
It is plain that man, l\\o\^^\\ X\\^ 
best creature on earth, \s woX \.\\^ 



last effort of Omnipotence; there 
can be rational beings made ac- 
cording to other patterns, having a 
different organization and different 
needs. But whether there are or 
not, it is not for you to ask why 
the planets are not so made as to 
be inhabited by man. It is no less 
preposterous to ask, " W^hereforc 
the irregularities and enormous dif- 
ferences in the size and distances 
of the planets of our solar system?" 
If the planets were all alike, and 
their distances equal, would you 
not pronounce the world monoto- 
nous, and the plan of creation a 
limited conception of an unintelli- 
gent mind ? But now it is variety 
that offends your aesthetics; and 
you denounce it as being " irregu- 
larity." Did you never hear that 
variety is a source of beauty? To 
me, the musician who always harps 
on the same chord is a nuisance; 
and I am sure that you too would 
prefer a full orchestra, with all the 
" irregularities and enormous differ- 
ences in the size, etc.," of the in- 
struments employed. You find in 
the heavens " a deficiency in order, 
symmetry, and beauty." This only 
shows your bad taste. Do you 
think that symmetry is indispensa- 
ble for beauty? An oak is beauti- 
ful, though its branches are not 
symmetrical. The sea-shore, the 
hill, the valley, the mountain, would 
lose much of their beauty, were 
they to be reduced to symmetrical 
forms. Then you speak of a want 
of " order." Wliat do you imagine 
order to be ? Look on a chess- 
board when the game is going on. 
Is there any order? If you are no 
chess-player, you will not perceive 
order, but confusion ; and yet there 
is order. Order is a suitable dis- 
position of things in pursuance oi 
2lW end, and must be different when 
\\. \\^^ Vq V^^ \^ ^ different end. 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



835 



He who has no knowledge of the 
end pursued cannot judge of the 
suitableness or deficiency of the 
arrangements made in view of such 
an end. When you think that 
the pieces are most disorderly mix- 
ed up on the chess-board, then per- 
haps they are in the most perfect 
order, and the intelligent player 
already knows that he is about to 
checkmate his adversary. So do 
not speak again of the order of the 
heavens until you are called into 
the secret council of Divinity. I 
thought, doctor, that you had some 
ability ; yet how dull that man must 
be who asks " why all comparisons, 
analogies, speculations, in regard 
to the number and forms of the 
planets, have proved idle fan- 
cies " ! The U'/iy is evident. It is 
because men are ignorant, and yet 
presumptuous. Ikit does our ig- 
norance show that there is a defi- 
ciency of order in the heavens ? 
No ; our ignorance only shows that 
the best thing we can do is to hold 
our tongue. As to the rings of Sa- 
turn, what do you know besides 
their existence ? And how could 
you show that, because Saturn has 
eight moons, the rings can have no 
duty to perform.? But then, you 
say, " Mars is left in total dark- 
ness." I reply that twelve hours 
of darkness are not a total darkness. 
Moreover, the dense atmosphere 
and the small diameter of Mars are 
calculated to afford it a long cre- 
puscle, which may shorten very 
sensibly the length of its night. 
And, after all, what need is there 
that Mars should have a moon } 
Could we not do on earth without 
our moon ? But you are scandal- 
ized that our moon "always pre- 
sents to us the same surface," and 
never deigns to show its other side. 
What a disorder ! What an evi- 
dence of a want of design ! This 



it is that causes you to exclaim that 
" if there be design in this arrange- 
ment, it must be admitted that it 
is very imperfect." I remark that 
you here admit with Tuttle that 
there may be design in this arrange- 
ment. But if there is a design, 
there is a designer. Who is he ? 
Is he not the Omnipotent? For 
how can he fulfil his design if he 
does not hold the heavens in his 
hand ? The design, however, in 
your judgment, is imperfect. Why ? 
Only because your ignorance can 
put a question to which it cannot 
make an answer. You say : " Why 
did the Creator not impart to the 
celestial bodies that order from 
which the intention and the design 
could irresistibly be inferred.'" 
Your curiosity, doctor, lacks mo- 
desty. What right have you to be 
instructed in detail of the inten- 
tions of the Creator.? Is he not 
the Master.? Is he obliged to dis- 
cover his secrets to you, rebel and 
arrogant being, who disregard the 
most clear evidence of his very ex- 
istence .? Would you be able to 
understand his plan if he were will- 
ing to reveal it .? The heavens 
proclaim God*s existence and attri- 
butes; they glorify him by their 
beauty, variety, and harmony ; they 
reveal the general scope of crea- 
tion ; but they withhold the secrets 
which God has reserved for him- 
self. God's providence and his 
government of the world are infi- 
nitely wise, but they are inscrutable. 
B lie liner. Although you treat me 
with little regard, and apply to me 
very hard epithets, I wish to make 
a short remark on what you call 
" providence " : " Some perceive in 
the position and relations of tlic 
earth to the sun, moon, and stars a 
designing providence; but they do 
not consider that they confound 
cause and e(r^cl^;x.Tvd\.\\^\.^^^VkKi>2\?5^ 



836 



A Discussion with an IrtfideL 



be differently organized if the in- 
clination of the ecliptic were dif- 
ferent or not existing " (p. 55). 

Reader, I think that you would 
have done better if you had with- 
held your remark. That I treat 
you with little regard I do not de- 
ny ; but, in truth, I believe that if 
you deserve respect as a doctor, 
you deserve only contempt as the 
author of Force and Matter, Free- 
masons praise your person and ex- 
tol your book; be satisfied with 
this. To us you are nothing but a 
blind and obstinate sophist. If we 
apply to you some hard epithet, you 
gave us the fullest right to do so ; 
for remember that you have called 
our great men "charlatans." We, 
at least, when we call you ignorant, 
arrogant, presumptuous, take care 
to prove that such epithets are well 
applied; whilst you make denun- 
ciations, and give no proofs. 

And now as to your remark 
about Providence. " Some," you 
say, " perceive in the position 
and relations of the earth to the 
sun, moon, and stars, a designing 
providence." Indeed, all great phi- 
losophers, nay, all mankind, per- 
ceive that designing providence ; 
but, from your words, it would 
seem that this is only a peculiar 
bias of a few obscure and eccentric 
thinkers. Hence those words, 
^"^ some perceive," are calculated to 
conceal or disguise a great histori- 
cal truth — the testimony of man- 
kind in favor of divine providence. 
This may be called a trick. But 
what follows is a real blunder. 
Those who recognize a providen- 
tial order "do not consider," ac- 
cording to you, " that they confound 
cause and effect." Where is there 
confusion.^ Do you mean that 
what we call " Providence " is an 
effect of natural laws 1 

Biichncr, Exactly so. 



Rectder. Natural laws are ab- 
stractions, and abstractions can 
produce nothing. Did you ever 
imagine that a law of geometry 
could make a circle, or that a law 
of harmony could write a quarietio! 
Laws do not produce facts, but 
are gathered from facts of which 
they exhibit the general expression. 
Thus the natural laws are not na- 
tural causes, but abstract formulas, 
and do not rule the world, as scien* 
tists too often assert, but only our 
calculations and scientific induc- 
tions. Your blunder is evident. 
But is it true, at least, that "we 
should be differently organized if 
the inclination of the ecliptic were 
different or not existing".? No, 
doctor, you are not happy in your 
illustration. A change of inclina- 
tion of the ecliptic would only alter 
the distribution of heat on the ter- 
restrial surface without altering its 
amount ; and as now men can live 
under different latitudes and in dif- 
ferent climes without being differ- 
ently organized, so also they would 
live and thrive under some differ- 
ent inclination of the ecliptic with- 
out acquiring a different organiza- 
tion. And if so, it would appear 
that your physical knowledge is as 
limited as your philosophical at- 
tainments. 

BiUhner, Of course I am a doc- 
tor in medicine, not in physics or 
in philosophy; but this I know: 
"that empirical philosophy, wher- 
ever it may search for it, is no- 
where able to find a trace of a su- 
pernatural influence, either in time 
or space " (p. 55). 

Reader. Quite true. Your " em- 
pirical philosophy" is unable to 
find anything supernatural, wher- 
ever it may search for it.. But are 
you so simple as to believe that, if 
there is a God, you should be able 
to reach him with the telescope, or 



A Discussion wUh an Infidel. 



83r 



lebt 
Kncl 



to detect him by the microscope, or 
to get by the balance an indication 
of his presence, or to find hitn in 
, retort, as a residue after some 
Aemical manipulation? Shame! 
ibame ! Is this your method of 
Sdnvincing yourself that there is no 
d? Then, by shutting yourself 
a dark cellar, you should be able 
to convince yourself that the 
t does not exist. Is it not a 
Inockery to pretend that there is 
"tothing supersensible, because it 
Suinot be reached by experimen- 
tation upon sensible things? I 
cannot bul repeat that you have 
received the punishment of your 
lebellion against truth. A man of 
jTOur ability would never fall into 
Mch absurdities from want of light ; 
Jitis your hatred of tnilh that dis- 
torts your reason and instigates you 
to heap sophism upon sophism, and 
blasphemy upon blasphemy- Vou 
^Seed not search for God ; you know 
^Wm, and try in vain, like Cain, to 
■jr from his face. 

BUehner, Vou make a sermon 
|i>ther than a discussion. 

Reader. But whose fault is it if 

iour assertions are so openly in- 

KCngruous as not to bear diseus- 

pHOn? Even your " empirical phi- 

MOphy "is a mylh. Are you not 

Ishamed to appeal to a science 

' ' ;h has no existence? Chemis- 

s empirical, and other parts of 

ihysics may be empirical; but em- 

' pirical philosophy is nothing but a 

bombastic word without meaning, 

a fit conclusion to a chapter where- 

in you try to make the heavens 

^U>ear witness against their Maker. 

Hryi 
■youi 



THE EARTH. 



Reader. After ihe heavens you 

f to enlist the earth also among 

IVouf witnesses against God. Bul 



what can the earth say in yoi 
favor? 

Buchner. " The investigations of 
geology have thrown a highly intei 
esting and important light 
history of tlie origin and gradui 
development of the earth. I: 
in the rocks and strata of the crust 
of the earth, and in the organic re- 
mains, that geologists read, as in an 
old chronicle, the history of Ihe 
earth. In this history they found 
the plainest indications of several 
stupendous successive revolutions, 
now produced by fire, now by wa. 
ter, now by their combined action. 
These revolutions afl'orded, by tha 
apparent suddenness and violence 
of their occurrence, a welcome pre- 
text to orthodoxy to appeal to thft'' 
existence of supernatural powers, 
which were to have caused thi 
revolutions in order to render, by 
gradual transitions, the earth fit for 
certain purposes. This successive 
periodical creation is said to have 
been attended with a successive 
creation of new organic beings and 
species. The Bible, then, was right 
in relating that God had sent t'j 
deluge over the world to destroy a 
sinful generation. God with hi^ 
own hands is said to have piled ug^ 
mountains, planed the sea, createot 
organisms, etc." (p. s^)- 

Reader. And so he did. But 
Diark that these Biblical expressions 
are metaphorical. 

Biichner. " Alt these notions con- 
cerning a direct influence of super- 
natural or inexplicable forces have 
melted away before the age of mo- 
dern science" (p. 57). J 

Reader. Melledaway? Indeed?! 
And how? \ 

BUchner. " Like astronomy, 
which with mathematical certainly 
has measured the spaces of the hea- 
vens, so does raodwc\. ^eKi\Q'yi,'«^ 



I 
I 



838 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



millions of years which have passed, 
lift the veil which has so long con- 
cealed the history of the earth, and 
has given rise to all kinds of religi- 
ous and mysterious dreams " (ibid^ 

Reader. To call our views " re- 
ligious and mysterious dreams " is 
no argument, doctor. We have a 
history of the earth far more certain 
than all your modern geology; and 
that portion of geology which is not 
fiction and charlatanism not only 
does not contradict, but rather com- 
pletes and confirms, the Mosaic his- 
tory. 

Buchner, This is what I cannot 
admit. " It is now known that 
there can be no discussion about 
those periodic creations of the earth 
of which so much was said, and 
which to this day an erroneous con- 
ception of nature tries to identify 
with the so-called days of creation 
of the Bible; but that the whole 
past of the earth is nothing but an 
MwioXAtdi present'' (ibid.) 

Reader. You say, ** It is known." 
No, sir, it is not known ; it is only 
wished. You infidels pretend to 
know a great many things of which 
you are ignorant. If you know that 
geology refutes the Bible, how does 
it happen that you cannot impart 
to us such a knowledge in a ration- 
al manner — that is, by proving what 
you assert ? 

Buchner, " Geology, supported 
by the knowledge of surrounding 
nature and its governing forces, is 
enabled to trace the history of what 
has happened in infinite periods of 
time with approximating exactness, 
fre(iuently with certainty. It has 
proved that everywhere and at all 
times only those material and na- 
tural forces were in activity by 
which we are at present surround- 
ed " (p. 59)- 

Reader. This cannot be proved 

by geology. 



Buchner. " Nowhere was a point 
reached when it was necessary to 
stop scientific investigation, and to 
substitute the influence of unknown 
forces " {ibid,) 

Reader, Not even for the origin 
of life ? 

Buchner. "Everywhere it was 
possible to indicate or to conceive 
the possibility of visible effects from 
the combination of natural condi- 
tions ; everywhere existed the same 
law and the same matter " {ibid) 

Reader. Of course. But this 
does not exclude the intervention 
of a superior cause. 

Buchner. "An enlightened in- 
tellect no longer requires the aid of 
that powerful hand which, acting 
from without, excites the burning 
spirits of the interior of the earth to 
a sudden rebellion, which pours the 
waters as a deluge over the earth, 
and shapes for its designs the whole 
structure like soft clay " (p. 60.) 

Reader. This is openly false. 
All enlightened intellects acknow- 
ledge that He who declared his in- 
tention of desolating Sodom by fire 
and the world by the Deluge must 
have had a hand in the fulfilment 
of his menace. 

Buchner. This is your Bible his- 
tory, which we reject. 

Reader, But can you refute it? 

Buchner. " How curious and 
whimsical is not the conception of 
a creative power, which conducts 
the earth and its inhabitants through 
various transitions and immense pe- 
riods of time to a more developed 
form, in order to make it finally a 
fit dwelling-place for the most or- 
ganized animal — man ! Can an ar- 
bitrary and almighty power require 
such efforts to attain its object ? 
Can it not immediately and without 
delay do and create what seems 
good to it? Why these round- 
abouts ? The natural difficulties 



A Discussion with an Infidel. 



839 



alone which matter meets with in the 
gradual combinations and forma- 
tions of its parts can explain to us 
the peculiarity of the origin of the or- 
ganic and inorganic world " (p. 60). 

Reader. It is ridiculous to speak 
of " efforts " of the Almighty ; for 
no one but a fool could dream of 
such an absurdity. Moreover, you 
confound creation with formation. 
By creation matter received exist- 
ence -immediately, without " round- 
abouts " ; for creation is not move- 
ment, and therefore needs no time. 
This creation of matter was the 
work of God alone ; but the forma- 
tion of the earth was successively 
brought about, according to God's 
plan, through the exertion of the 
natural powers, which were not cre- 
ated to remain idle, but to carry on 
the objects intended by their Cre- 
ator. Now, the exertion of natural 
powers could not give rise to a per- 
fect order of things " immediately 
and without roundabouts.*' Hence 
your argument is worthless; and it 
is worthless precisely on account 
of the " difficulties which matter 
meets with in the gradual combi- 
nations and formations " of complex 
things. But matter meets with a 
much greater difficulty, which you 
omit to mention. The difficulty 
is that matter does not know how 
to form a molecule of hy drogen ; 
and yet there is hydrogen. 

BUchner. It chanced to be form- 
ed by nature. 

Reader, Indeed ? Chance might 
form one molecule, or two^ but could 
not form millions of millions of 
them all perfectly equal to one 
another, for chance excludes uni- 
formity. Nor does it avail to say 
that their formation is the work of 
nature ; for nature, according to you, 
is only matter, and consequently it 
cannot do more than matter itself is 
capable of doing. 



Bilchner, Science is still imper- 
fect ; we cannot as yet explain eve- 
rything. But geologists refute the 
Bible as to the six days of creation. 
" The so-called coal formation alone 
required, according to Bischof, 
1,004,177 ; according to Chevan- 
dier's calculation, 672,788 years. 
The tertiary strata, about 1,000 feet 
in thickness, required for their de- 
velopment about 350,000 years ; and 
before the originally incandescent 
earth could cool down from a tem- 
perature of 2,000 degrees to 200, 
there must, according to Bischofs 
calculation, have elapsed a period 
of 350 millions of years. Volger 
finally calculates that the time re- 
quisite for the deposit of the strata 
known to us must at least have 
amounted to 648 millions of years ! 
From these numbers we may form 
some notion as to the extent of 
these periods of time. They give 
us, moreover, another hint. The 
enormous distances in the universe 
which stagger our imagination, in 
combination with these almost un- 
limited periods of time, lead us to 
acknowledge that both time and 
space are infinite and eternal " (p. 
61). 

Reader, You are always the same. 
Your conclusion that time is /Vyf- 
nite is pinned on the statement 
that the periods of geology are al^ 
most unlimited — that is, not alto- 
gether without limit. I need not 
show that such a rash conclusion is 
contradicted by your very calcula- 
tions. And again, as to the geo- 
logical periods themselves, their 
length does not clash with the six 
days of creation as described by 
the Bible. The word "day" is 
often used in the Bible to express 
a great interval of time, and may 
be interpreted as an " epoch," or, 
as you say, a "period." This is, 
in jfact, the vivl^i^x^\.;sX\ati. ^\ ^^^ 



840 



A Discussion with an InfideL 



word now accepted by our writers 
when explaining the days of crea- 
tion. Only our writers, more pru- 
dent than you, do not pretend to 
determine the length of those epochs 
or periods ; for they do not indulge 
in wild calculations or imaginary 
data. When we see a difference of 
331,389 years between the results 
of two calculations regarding the 
period of the coal formation, we 
may well suspend our judgment, 
and not commit ourselves by the 
premature choice of either opinion. 
But we admit the periods, nor are 
we afraid of identifying them with 
the days of creation. The Bible 
has nothing to fear from geology or 
any other science. We might, on 
the contrary, prove from geology 
the truth and divine inspiration of 
the Mosaic narrative. Moses was 
no geologist, and could not know 
the order of the events which took 
place before the creation of man, 
except by supernatural revelation. 
Now, in his cosmogony we observe 
not only the description of an order 
of events like that deduced from 
modem geology, but " a system in 
the arrangement, and a far-reaching 
prophecy," as Prof. Dana well re- 



marks,* *' to which philosophy could 
not have attained, however instruct- 
ed." You see, doctor, that your 
geological periods, instead of refut- 
ing the Bible, furnish us with a new 
argument in support of its divine 
origin. Have you anything to re- 
ply? 

Buchner. Your explanation of the 
Bible is quite new. 

Reader, Be it so. Our ancient 
doctors, however, knew very well 
that the word " day " in the Bible 
frequently means a great length q{ 
time. Had they known geology, 
they would have unanimously in- 
terpreted the six days as six great 
geological periods, just as we do. 

Biichner, But I have still other 
arguments deduced from the pri- 
meval generations. 

Reader* I am ready to meet them. 
But I really think it is scarcely 
worth the trouble to continue the 
discussion, as you have hitherto 
uniformly failed in every point you 
have tried to establish. 



♦ J. D. DaoA*s Manual of Gtalogy. See also 
Pianci&nrs Cosmogonia Naturale Cam^arAia eei 
G€ties$\ Rev. Gerald Molloy^s Gtology and Re- 
velation^ and Card. Wisemaa's Tvoelve Ltciuui 
en the CoHHiction between Science and RevtaUi 
Religion, 



(to bx continubd). 



Hymn of the Flowers. 841 



HYMN OF THE FLOWERS. 

MKMOIXAL OF THB FIKST MASS OP , ONE OP KLKVRN YOUNG JV8UIT8 WHO SAID THSIR FIRST MASSKS 

AT WOODSTOCK ON THS PBAST OP S. ALOYSIUS, JUMB 9Z, xZj^, 

I. 

Chosen from many, 
Tenderly nurtured, 
We budded to sunlight. 
Our fragrance we scattered ; 
Queens of the garden. 
Languishing beauties. 
Reserved for high favor — 

Fair flowers ! fair flowers ! 

II. 

Emblems of purity, 
Fitting for virgins. 
Our sisters are gathered 
To grace the blithe maidens 
Who go to their bridals — 
Oh ! fair be their fortune. 

Glad flowers ! glad flowers ! 

III. 

Emblems of innocence, 
Fondly we're sought for : 
Young mothers will scatter 
The blossoms just budding. 
Will scatter our sisters. 
Kept still fresh and dewy. 
With sad pearls of affection. 
O'er the vanishing image 
Of the lost darling — 
Ah ! kindred with blossoms. 

Sad flowers ! sad flowers I 

IV. 

Emblems of triumph. 
Emblems of glory, 
The nations will cull them. 
Will cull from our sisters 
To honor their true oi^es. 



842 Hymn of the Flowers. 

Mingling with life, 
Mingling wilH death. 
The flowers will crown the hero's brow, 
Or wreathe the stone that marks his grave. 

Frail flowers ! frail flowers ! 



V. 

But we — O glad fortune ! 
O blest among flowers ! — 
We have been chosen 
High o'er our sisters : 

Culled for the altar, 
We gave all our beauty, 
We spent all our perfumes, 
When God's priest in oblation 
Pronounced his first yf^r/. 
How we trembled with rapture 
When the Christ was descending ! 
Oh ! our bloom caught new glory 
From the priest's face all radiant, 
As he held for adoring 

His God in his hands. 
And our odors were mingled 

With prayer from his lips. 

And, oh ! the pale mother 

Who guided his lisping, 

Who gave up her peerless. 

The one jewel left her, 

Robbed her breast for God's warfare. 

The gift ne'er recalling — 

How her heart is now pealing. 

Ringing out unto heaven 

Glad chimes that are drowning 

The dull whispers of sorrow ! 

And the prayer of th' Anointed, 
The heart-voice of the mother. 
The breath of the flowers. 
Triple incense, are wafted 
Up, up to God's footstool. 

Ah ! such incense is treasured ; 
Our odors shall die not. 
They give fragrance in heaven 
To that glad first oblation 
Of God's priest at the altar. 

Blest flowers ! blest flowers ! 



Kathleen Waring* 



84a 



KATHLEEN WARING. 



E loveliest of autumn days 
!ts warmth and brightness over 
ificent Rome, while the bells 
many towers announced the 
of twelve, and a still more em- 
: reminder of mid-day boom- 
om Castle Sant' Angelo, the 

of whose cannon frequently 
2S strangers, though even 
soon become unconscious of 
ud report. Citizens meeting 
lained of the horrible sirocco 
visitors congratulated one an- 

upon such beautiful weather 
e fulfilment of their plans ; and 
' perceptible thing was that not 
in the Eternal City can every 
dual be satisfied. In no way, 

an unbeliever be better con- 
d of this solemn truth than 
leep into the principal parlor of 
dtel d'Angleterre, where a tra- 
g party had just arrived. An 
y gentleman stamped up and 

the apartment, furiously ges- 
ting, and undoubtedly mak- 
5e of rather forcible language, 
gning hotels in general, and the 
i d'Angleterre in particular, to 
1 uncomfortable quarters. At 

approach to a small tete-k-tete 
d near the window he fiercely 
i upon a lady, evidently his 
whose sweet, smiling face serv- 

exasperate her husband be- 
endurance. A large fan, plied 
triously, stirred not only the 
. feathers of her own bonnet, 
he scarlet ones jauntily stuck 
iark gray hat that persistently 
Ded, for no reason in the world 
to conceal a very amused 
tenance which might have add- 
lel to the fire of the gentle- 



man's anger. Though for a time he 
is denied the gratification of a peep 
at so winning a face, we will take it 
ourselves, and see what is under that 
gray hat with the scarlet plumes: 
A pair of dark eyes sparkling 
with fun, which all those curling 
black lashes cannot hide, while a 
few saucy rings of hair, lying here 
and there on the forehead, cause a 
surmise as to whether they are the 
result of nature and warm weather 
or curl-papers nightly twisted up. 
It would be difficult to form an esti- 
mate of a mouth whose under-lip is 
being held in bondage by two rows 
of exceedingly white teeth, but we 
will imagine it a rose-bud, and has- 
ten to make the acquaintance of 
yonder thunder-cloud, who pouts so 
abominably, and is still so like her 
of the mischievous aspect. Agathe 
Waring leaned on the back of her 
chair, and, when her father stamped 
his feet, she did likewise ; when his 
frown deepened and voice waxed 
louder, her pout became more de- 
cided, and very beautiful hands 
doubled into fists that shook de- 
fiantly at invisible landlords. Mrs. 
Waring, observing this, remarked : 
" I think, Agathe, you have chosen 
a dangerous employment for hands 
so valued as yours. Do you not 
fear your vehemence will be the 
cause of a sprained wrist or finger } 
Then where will be our delightful 
evening music. A young lady who, 
at the faintest suspicion of danger 
ahead, generally clasps her hands 
behind her, is to be wondered 
at when seen bravely challenging 
our most dreaded enemies." 

" It may b^ \^i^ ^\a>\'^\xw^ v.^ ^^^^ 



844 



Kathleeti Waring. 



and Kathleen, mamma; but I con- 
fess to not perceiving the joke," re- 
plied Agathe, glancing complacent- 
ly at her formidable weapons. " How 
you can see papa so worried, and 
be perfectly unconcerned, is more 
than I understand." 

" But, my dear, would it mend 
matters in the least were your sister 
to weep tears of vexation, and I to 
vociferate against the unfortunate 
people of this hotel, who were never 
less in fault than now ? If your fa- 
ther had taken my advice, and tele- 
graphed for rooms, this occasion for 
trouble would have been avoided ; 
but, as he considered such a pre- 
caution unnecessary, we need not 
regard ourselves as dreadfully-in- 
jured travellers." 

"Am I not sufficiently annoyed, 
madam, by this turn of affairs," 
shouted the elderly gentleman, " that 
yoti should consider it essential to 
remind me what your advice was in 
Florence.? I have never yet met 
the woman who did not delight in 
being able to say, *I told you so.' " 

" Now, papa," said Kathleen with 
a merry glance from her bright eyes, 
" I look upon that speech as a 
calumny and an injustice to Agathe. 
When all our luggage was left in 
Paris, simply because you would not 
heed her injunction to be very 
careful in looking after it, she did 
not gratify herself by any such ma- 
licious words as *I told you so.* 
Indeed, her sympathy was far greater 
than ours, as we only felt indignant 
at having nothing to wear." 

This boldly-uttered sentence 
proved quite soothing to Mr. War- 
ing, who ceased his restless walk to 
twine an arm about his daughter's 
waist, whose head leaned fondly 
against the dusty sleeve, and de- 
sired no sweeter resting-place. 

" Yes, whatever my faults, what- 
ever my grievances, ll\is little daugh- 



ter is ready and willing to share 
them," said he, gently patting Aga- 
tha's cheek. ''It has always been 
a wonder to me that a brute Uke 
myself should possess three treap 
sures such as my wife and daughters. 
But the more valuable the treasure, 
the more difficult its keeping. U 
that atrocious landlord will only give 
us an apartment for this afternoon, 
I'll go in quest of permanent quar- 
ters, and leave you to rest until my 
return." 

An immediate ringing of the bell 
brought the attendant, who was re- 
quested to inquire into the possibil- 
ity of procuring at least a single 
room for the remainder of the dav, 
during which time other accommoda- 
tions might be sought. An answer, 
to the effect that there was a small 
chamber, engaged by a party who 
would arrive that night, which until 
then was at the service of the Ameri- 
can gentleman, caused a gathering 
together of bags, boxes, and baskets, 
an ascent of several stairs, and a 
happy entrance into the nicely-fur- 
nished and exceedingly pleasant 
apartment. The waiter, before his 
departing bow, made many apolo- 
gies for the crowded condition of 
the house having rendered it im- 
possible to receive monsieur, and 
hoped their inability to please would 
be forgiven. Mr. Waring's wrath, 
until then on the wane, appeared 
gradually gaining ascendency, and a 
convenient lunch-basket would cer- 
tainly have made the acquaintance 
of the waiter's head had not the 
latter prudently withdrawn. " The 
impudence of that dog in presuming 
to beg my pardon ! What do I care 
how crowded the house may be or 
how impossible it is to accommodate 
us } I don't suppose this hotel is the 
only habitable place in Rome; if 
so, I'll just take up my abode in the 
Colosseum, and be done with it." 



Kathleen Waring. 



845 



:her Mrs. Waring nor Agathe 
resist smiling at this outburst, 
Kathleen laughed outright, 
hall consider it my first duty, 
ering the Colosseum, to set 
3 as a statue of Perversity, 
nded by imps of contradic- 
During the last half-hour you 
een in a towering passion be- 
:he Hotel d'Angleterre could 
mtain you. Now the poor 
humbly laments the numerous 
s and non-elastic material of 
ise, and you are ready to anni- 
him for supposing us anxious 
am m it. 

; you not ashamed of your- 
athleen Waring?" cried Aga- 
Were I papa, you should not 
to me in that rude manner, 
arely do not approve of it, 
a?" 

yr dear Agathe," said her mo- 
I cannot disapprove when I 
ly appreciate the spirit in 
your sister thus addresses her 
Do not imagine you are 
^n your affection for him, and 
e sole mode of expressing that 
)n is by unvarying respect- 
; in language and constant 
ng. We all know you to be 
dignified than Kathleen, and 
isess much greater stability 
iracter; then how can you 
her to be otherwise than more 
itless and much saucier than 
If?" 

5 last sentence, accompanied 
meaning smile, brought a 
m flush to Agathe's cheek 
I angry retort to her lips, the 
ice of which was stayed by a 
rom her sister, who whis- 

• 
• 

;ver mind, Aggie ; just be as 
id stable and dignified as you 
;. ril be your admiration- 
for ever, and I am sure mam- 
as proud of her model of 



strength and her impersonation of 
sauciness as she can be ; then why 
need we quarrel ?" 

" Well, it would be a waste of 
ammunition, mavourneen," replied 
Agathe ; " so, instead of letting loose 
my tongue, 1*11 exercise my arms. 
Be good enough to get me the 
clothes-brush from your bag, that I 
may dust papa's coat." 

By plentiful application of soap 
and vigorous use of towels Mr. 
Waring now appeared resplendent, 
and announced his intention of at 
once going in search of rooms. " In 
my absence," said he, pausing at 
the door, " I desire the three trea- 
sures to repose, and hope to find 
them bright and sparkling this eve- 
ning." 

The ladies did retire, and slept 
soundly several hours, while Mr. 
Waring made every effort to obtain 
a suite of rooms, first at the different 
hotels, which were all full, next at 
two or three casas recommended 
by his banker. At last in a small 
house, opening on the Piazza di 
Spagna, he succeeded in engaging 
five bright, cheerful apartments, 
though at quite a high price, since 
the number of visitors at Rome in- 
creased rents far beyond their usual 
rate. Leaving orders with his pa- 
drone to secure a man-servant as 
soon as possible, he next made ar- 
rangements with the proprietor of 
the nearest restaurant to supply 
him with the necessary breakfast 
and dinner, which must be daily oc- 
currences to sustain the vitality of 
even the most enthusiastic tourist. 
With a sigh of relief that his prepa- 
rations were complete, Mr. Waring 
returned to the hotel, and found 
his wife and daughters radiant in 
their fresh toilets and expectant 
eagerness. There is nothing so de- 
structive of beauty as fatigue added 
to the dust aud soot oC x^vV^vj \x^.- 



846 



Kathleen Waring. 



veiling; and an individual emerging 
from this double ordeal deserves 
the congratulation of friends. Mr. 
Waring bestowed a gaze of admira- 
tion upon each lady in turn, kissed 
his wife, pulled one of Agathe's curls, 
and whirled Kathleen round and 
round to the tune of a cracked 
hand-organ stationed beneath the 
window, which just then ground 
out a very fine waltz. Breathless 
and panting, Kathleen soon sank 
on the sofa, while her mother came 
to the rescue with a fan, and Aga- 
the opened the window to throw 
the musician some coppers. 

" There is little need to inform 
us of your success," said Mrs. War- 
ing, " as this emphatic greeting 
tells its own tale. I am really glad 
you were able to return before dark, 
as we feared you might be detained 
later." 

" Well, you cannot fail to like 
the rooms," said Mr. Waring ; " for 
they are ^\wq in number, quite hand- 
somely furnished, and two overlook 
the Piazza di Spagna. I think, as 
it is a mere step from here, we had 
better walk, and have our luggage 
sent by these people. If you are 
half as tired riding as I am, you 
will infinitely prefer proceeding to 
our destination on foot." 

" We should like nothing better !" 
cried the three ladies, and imme- 
diately began to collect their scat- 
tered property. This being duly dis- 
posed of, the black bonnet and gray 
hats donned, our party set out. 
The Ave Maria was ringing, and 
the sweet sound of many bells pen- 
etrated the hearts of even these 
Protestants, who understood so im- 
perfectly its beautiful significance. 
Dusk was fast changing into dark- 
ness, while black clouds chased 
each other over the sky, and the 
rising wind betokened the sure ap- 
proach of a storm. Out \.T;x.\d\^T^ 



hastened their footsteps, and only 
reached their parlor when a terrific 
flash of lightning poured through 
the windows, and the rain fell in 
torrents. Mr. and Mrs. Waring at 
once went on a tour of investiga- 
tion, in which neither of the girls 
could be induced to join. Agathe 
approached the window and gazed 
upon the outdoor fury, with only 
clasped hands and awe-stricken 
countenance to betoken her feeling. 
Kathleen buried a miserably pale 
face in the cushions of her arm- 
chair, and sobbed most piteously; 
for the poor child dreaded nothing 
so much as thunder and lightning. 
After a short lapse of time, Agathe 
turned impatiently from her post 
of observation, and exclaimed : 

"Without exception, Katy, you 
are the greatest goose I ever met, 
to be sitting there crying when you 
might have the benefit of yonder 
magnificent panorama. It is /^.■ 
absurd that the least sign of a storm 
must send you into hysterics. D' 
you not suppose there is quite a- 
much danger for me as for you ' 
Yet let me sob as you are doing, and 
how foolish you would think me! Do 
control yourself this once, or your 
eyes will be red and ugly to-mor- 
row, and you not presentable." 

Agathe had intended simple ex- 
postulation ; but anger got the bet- 
ter of her, and her last words were 
very commanding — so much so as 
to rouse Kathleen, who cried : 

" I am sure I don't care for eyes, 
or appearance, or anything else, and 
I wish you would let me alone. 
Because you have a reputation for 
courage and firmness, you imagine 
you are justified in persecuting me; 
but I tell you you are not. I can- 
not see any great courage and firm- 
ness in facing that lightning. It" 
there should ever be a call upon 
me for such qualities, I will beg 



Kathleen Waring. 



847 



the good Lord to give them to me, 
but not for the purpose of staring 
at a storm." With this the dark head 
again took refuge in the cushions, 
and Agathe returned to her former 
position. The scene was indeed 
magnificent, and fully compensated 
for any uneasy feeling she might 
have experienced in thus exposing 
herself. The entire sky within 
range of vision seemed one dense, 
black cloud, hangihg but a few feet 
above the house-tops, every mo- 
ment sending forth flashes of light, 
at times sharp, forked, fearful, 
again soft, widespread, and of suffi- 
cient duration to illumine the en- 
tire piazza beneath. The pouring 
rain could not conceal surrounding 
objects, but rather served to en- 
hance their beauty, since they ap- 
peared through a mist that served 
to screen the hard, substantial real- 
ity. High up, beyond the fine steps 
which are a prominent feature in this 
piazza, rose the church and con- 
vent of the Trinitk di Monte, look- 
ing, in its elevation and noble 
strength, a fit emblem of a religion 
so true and sublime. Inclining 
from its height to the level beneath, 
the aforesaid steps were lonely and 
deserted, deprived of their lounging 
idlers, but nevertheless beautifully 
reflecting from their wet surface 
the brightness above. One might 
have imagined the piazza, with its 
brilliant shops, caffes^ hotels, and 
booths, to be the noisy, bustling 
world, having in its midst those 
steps so numerous, so difficult of 
ascent, but in the end leading to 
rest, peace, heaven ! How pitiful, 
then, to see no foot ascending ! And 
if this little picture be one of sor- 
row, how much worse the great, 
real world, where so few mount the 
stairs within reach of all ! Some 
walk round, others glance up and 
promise a beginning to morrow; 



but how many heed the warning .> 
Now, now is the time ; to-morrow 
may never come ! 

It is not probable, however, that 
such thoughts found favor with 
Agathe, whose Protestant mind was 
in no way addicted to pious mus- 
ing, since her church furnishes such 
meagre food for heart and brain. 
Her eyes, roving restlessly about, 
suddenly became fixed upon the 
tall, muffled figure of a man hurry- 
ing through the rain with bent 
head and quickening speed. De- 
void of fear, of suspicion, she watch- 
ed until he neared the piazza's cen- 
tre, when, after one long, blinding 
streak of lightning, a fearful crash 
followed, and she distinguished the 
object of her curiosity lying pros- 
trate on the ground. A sharp cry 
from her lips brought Mrs. Waring, 
to whom, with trembling limbs and 
horror-stricken face, she pointed 
out the prostrate form. Kathleen, 
who had crept up behind her mo- 
ther, no sooner beheld it than she 
ran from the room, and, meeting 
her father in the hall, breathlessly 
exclaimed : " O papa ! do go quick- 
ly. .. . There is a poor man lying 
in the street who has been struck, 
. . . and nobody seems to know 
it. Please go to him. . . . Bring 
him here. Get some one to help 
you ; for he may not be quite dead." 

Before she had ceased speaking 
her father was down-stairs ordering 
a servant to follow him ; and from 
their position Mrs. Waring and 
Agathe saw the two rush into tlie 
driving rain, gently raise the body, 
and carefully bear it towards the 
entrance. Kathleen had hastily ar- 
ranged pillows and blankets on the 
sofa ; so there was no delay in fixing 
something on which to lay the poor 
fellow, and very soon the entire 
family were making a desperate 
effort lo xe^loi^ ^v.mtcv-aXvycv^'^fi*'^^. 



848 



Kathleen Waring. 



Waring declared there was life in 
/ the body. His assertion was veri- 
fied when, after a while, the young 
man drew a long breath, and open- 
ed such bewildered, astonished eyes 
as made every one smile. 

" Ah ! my fine fellow," cried Mr. 
Waring, "1*11 wager you you are 
on the road to life again, and we 
are spared the trouble of attending 
your funeral — a thing, I candidly 
assure you, I had expected to do not 
very long ago.*' 

"Opapa!" whispered Kathleen, 
glancing timidly at the pale face, 
blue eyes, and curling brown hair, 
" don't talk to the poor fellow about 
funerals when he has been so near 
the grave ; it cannot be pleasant." 

" Never mind, Miss Puss, I will 
set him straight," replied her fa- 
ther. ** Now, my friend, I have al- 
ways heard, and there is an indis- 
tinct idea of my having read it, 
that people struck by lightning 
never feel it. As you are a living 
witness to the truth or falsehood 
of this statement, I would like to 
have your views on the subject." 

This, delivered with the air of 
a man thirsting for knowledge, 
brought a smile to the patient's 
mouth, and caused a general laugh. 
" I am truly grieved," replied 
the lightning-struck, " that my 
knowledge is of questionable au- 
thority, because I cannot tell 
whether I felt a blow on the head 
or not, though there is a half- 
defined recollection of some one 
pounding me there, and producing 
about five hundred simultaneous 
sensations; whether really so or 
the fruit of my active imagination 
I am unable to avow." 

"Well, for our own satisfaction, 

we will believe you did have five 

hundred feelings jumbled together, 

and take it as a watning to avoid 

\\\s.t strokes." 



" Such profanity shall not be al- 
lowed !" said Mrs. Waring ; ** and I 
really think, Mr. Waring, you should 
conduct our patient to a comfort- 
able room where he may sleep 
away his weakness. Kathleen will 
share Agathe's apartment, that he 
may occupy hers." 

All protestations to the effect 
that he could walk to his hotel 
being indignantly denied, the young 
man was immediately consigned to 
bed, and commanded to sleep as 
long as he could. For about half 
an hour the family sat up discuss- 
ing the accident, and did not sepa- 
rate until its victim was unani- 
mously pronounced handsome, ele- 
gant, charming! 

The sun was many hours iigh 
next morning before our friends 
thought of stirring, and the two 
girls were yet sound asleep when 
their mother came tapping at the 
door. Her knock was %o slight as 
to be scarcely perceptible, and, re- 
ceiving no response, she entered. 
The change from bright sunshine 
to this darkened room at first 
made it impossible to distinguish 
clearly; but opening the blind a 
very little way, Mrs. Waring smiled 
to herself, as, glancing about the 
apartment, she murmured : " Those 
careless, careless girls ! What is to 
be done with them.?" Evidently, 
the careless girls had taken small 
trouble to arrange their things be- 
fore retiring, and now a somewhat 
confused picture greeted the de- 
spairing mother's eye. The bu- 
reau appeared the favorite recepta- 
cle for almost all articles. A co- 
lossal brush, instead of properly 
supporting the rightful partner of 
its joys and sorrows, made despe- 
rate love to an ink-stand, a red 
bow, and a bottle of cologne, whose 
stopple had stepped over the way 
\.<:> cwcswl^ an oracle of a watch 



KathUem 



&(9 



about the probable comfort of the 
poor, deserted comb that patiently 
reposed on a prickly pin-cushion. 
The oracle, unwound and unmov- 
ed, refused utterance, and sullenly 
stared at a crowd of rings, brace- 
lets, belts, reticules, hair-pins, false 
curls, and handkerchiefs indiscri- 
minately gathered together. They 
were not interested in the watch, 
but bemoaned the sad fate of a 
coquettish gray hat with a scar- 
let plume, one string of which had 
caught in a tightly-shut drawer, 
and cruelly hung its fair possessor. 
A grand civil war had transpired 
in other parts of the room; the 
washstand implements were horri- 
bly mutilated and dashed about; 
the four shoes and stockings had 
taken leave of each other, and an- 
grily stationed themselves in differ- 
ent comers ; and, last, a huge trunk 
had brutally emptied itself of its 
contents, that now lay limp and 
helpless, here, there, everywhere. 

Had not Mrs. Waring been well 
accustomed to such a display, it 
is possible she might have been 
dismayed ; but as nothing is equal 
to habit, she preserved her equa- 
nimity, and, approaching the near- 
est bed, her attention was at once 
arrested by a tiny pair of beads 
which she perceived dangling from 
Kathleen's wrist. With a dark 
frown she retreated to the door, 
and cried : 

** Girls ! girls ! it is time to get 
up. You have slept long enough 
even for weary travellers, and your 
patient has been waiting an hour 
to see the young ladies before 
taking leave. Do hurry and come 
at once to the parlor." 

" Yes, mamma, we will," an- 
swered two very lazy voices. 

** Yes, my dears, I do not doubt 
it," said Mrs. Waring; "but let me 
you well out of those two com- 
VOL. XIX. — 54 



fortable beds, as you cannot be 
trusted in my absence.*' 

In the midst of the commotion 
which followed Mrs. Waring es- 
caped, and, slowly walking along 
the hall, murmured : 

"Is it possible Kathleen still re- 
tains those absurd convent notions, 
and am I ever to regret having 

sent her to Mt. dc C ? Surely, 

in three years she must have for- 
gotten those ridiculous impres- 
sions; yet what does that rosary 
mean, and why should she sleep 
with it encircling her arm ? Well, 
it will only make matters worse to 
discuss them, and, until I am cer- 
tain what the poor child intends, I 
shall say nothing." 

By this time the drawing-room 
was reached, and, entering, Mrs. 
Waring found her husband and 
their guest in hot dispute as to 
the best manner of sight-seeing in 
Rome. Mr. Waring expressed ab- 
horrence of guide-books and his 
resolution never to use them. The 
stranger intimated such a resolve 
rash. Mr. Waring inquired why. 
The young man said guide-books 
being absolutely essential in a place 
so filled with objects of interest as 
Rome, he was willing to wager Mr. 
Waring would have three or four 
in his possession by the end of the 
week. Mr. Waring indignantly re- 
pudiated this idea, and the argu- 
ment might have continued indefi- 
nitely had not the girls made an 
opportune appearance. In their 
wake came a delicious breakfast, 
after partaking of which the young 
man rose to depart. 

" I cannot," said he, " pretend to 
thank you for such kindness to a 
stranger, for words are inadequate 
to express my gratitude. My obli- 
gations will be increased tenfold if 
you only permit me to continue an 
acquaintance so happily begun." 



850 



Katkiecn Waring. 



"My dear fellow," cried Mr. 
Waring, "don't mention gratitude; 
and as for an acquaintance happily 
begun, if you choose to consider as 
such one brought on by lightning, 
we arc at your disposal, and no- 
thing will delight us more than re- 
ceiving you as our friend. But 
friends should know what to call 
one another, and, though my name 
is Alexander Waring, yours is still 
a dead secret." 

"A thousand pardons!" exclaim- 
ed the stranger. " My negligence is 
truly shocking; but it is Mr. a-nd 
Mrs. Waring, with their lovely 
daughters, who have charmed me 
into a forgetfulness of Howard Lee, 
and it is they who must forgive 
him." 

Of the two lovely daughters, 
Kathleen pouted bewilchingly at 
the foregoing speech, while Agathe 
gracefully inclined her head. The 
gentlemen shook hands most hear- 
tily, and Mrs. Waring cordially in- 
vited Mr. Lee to return often, as- 
suring him of a sincere welcome. 
Thus, amidst compliments and ac- 
knowledgments on both sides, How- 
ard Lee took leave of his friencis, 
promising to see them very soon 
again. 

It is scarcely necessary to add 
that the promise was observed, and 
during the next month or two lie 
was almost constantly one of the 
gay little party which roved among 
the grand old ruins of Rome, 
wandered about its art-galleries 
and into its temples and churches, 
always consulting guide-books with 
a faith in, and a dependence on 
them that undoubtedly made Mr. 
Lee winner of his wager. It is 
very remarkable what wonderftil 
things can transpire in a little while, 
though we are not certain whether 
you consider it remaiVaWe vXxaV 
Mr. Lee soon manifesVeA csUaQxiv 



nary interest in the t 
Miss Kathleen. If that young per- 
son chose to stare an old statue out 
of countenance, she would not be 
long without the assistance of an- i 
other pair of eyes that had sudden- 
ly remembered some never-before- I 
known merit about the image, and 
were instantly intent on it. If '] 
Kathleen thought proper to sit I 
among the ruins, he, completely 
overcome by fatigue, would rest bv 
her side. We are much afraid this 
was not all thai happened; for 
there were certainly some very ar- 
dent glances sent from his eyes to 
her sparkling black ones, tlui soft- 
ened and glowed as they drank in 
the language of the blue ones. And 
at every new approach of the tall, 
manly figure didn't the gray bat 
with the scarlet plume droop lovci ' 
and lower; didn't the round, din- I 
pled checks beneath rival tk 
feather in color; didn't the link 
hands clasp each other tightly. ttH 
their trembling might not make too 
bold a confession of her happy «ff- 
lation ? You cannot be surprtied 
that, standing together by ihc beau- 
tiful Trevi fountain one moonligbi 
night, to her was told in cloqRBI 
tones the old, old story which c»0)f 
woman hears once in her life, be gbt 
ever so poor, so ugly, so dtsagree^lt 
But this woman was lovely, bevitclr 
ing; and the tale seemed cxquiiiu 
harmony when softly, bcseechinf^]' 
it fell upon such ears. Long iftei 
thelow voice had ceased tellingwhal 
was music to her soul Kathleen stood 
silent. The water dashed fiwm 
and over rocks in playful sporti 
defying the peaceful glance of the 
moon, which bade it be quiel- Tht 
church-bells rang out the booT of 
ten, and from the distance sounded 
Agathe's laugh, with the accompa- 
■ft-jTO'j, txijosluUlion from several 



Kathleen Waring. 



bus 



egging her to sing. At last clear 
and full to these lovers came the 
fiweet old song, " Kathleen Mavour- 
Howard waited till the 

lusic died away, then whispered. 

Why .n IbDii silent. 



" Oh ! spare me, spare me," cried 
Kathleen. " I cannot, cannot an- 
If you but knew \" 

"And do I not know you are 
jrhat I love with all my heart, what 
t long to call my own ? Have you 
fiot encouraged me? allowed me 
bo believe yoti cared for me ?" 

" Oh ! I never meant it. I would 
pot have had you know that I cared 
»r you. Have pity on me, Mr. 
'i*e, and do not ask why ! I can 
'ive no answer to your kind words, 
j^ieve me that it is best as it is." 
'"Miss Waring, your friends are 

tning — wilt interrupt us in one 
linute ; can you give me no hope ? 
ere nothing you will say to 
IDmforl my yearning heart ?" 

" All I can say is, Wait ; in a lit- 
le while you will cease to wish for 
By aHection when you have learn- 
1 what it is essential you should 
mow before I can give an answer 
p your question." 

" Nothing can change my desire," 
)leaded Howard, gazing upon the 
ear-laden eyelashes and trembling 
" Only tell me now what you 
hink I must know, and then see 
fit makes the slightest difference." 

"No, Mr. Howard," said Kalh- 

;n, regaining composure, " wail a 
ew days; then I will either send 
br you or write what I have to 
lunicate. With you will rest 
decision. Remember always 
flat I have cared for you, and ihat 
low it is a sad good-night I wish 
foti, knowing it may be my last." 

Here they were joined by their 

irty, and Kathleen flying lo the 



protection of her mother's 
Mr. Lee took his place by Agathe'i] 
side, and thus they returned home. 
Poor Kathleen passed a miserable 
night, and awoke next morninj 
with head aching so badly as U 
prevent her appearance at breat 
fast. Towards noon she improvi 
and by three o'clock presented h< 
self in the drawing-room, whi 
were her mother and sister. Tell- 
ing them she was going out for a 
little fresh air, and to feel no un- 
easiness if she did not immediately 
return, she left the house, ran 
across the piazza, up the steps, and 
stood in front of the Triniti di 
Moute. Pausing a minute, 
is the 8th of December, the Ft 
of the Immaculate Concept! 
certainly there must be BenedH 
tion here this afternoon, 
tell me the church belongs to t| 
Ladies of the Sacred Heart, 
try, anyhow." 

The little portress, in her 
ugly cap, informed la sigiiom 
" Yes, benediction would be gii 
in one hour from that time. W 
she walk into the chapel now 
wail, or would she prefer goii 
away to return?" La signorii 
would wait; so she was shown " 
the church, and there left to hi 
own reflections, which were oi 
long struggle with feelings so con- 
trary that to make them agree was 
impossible. The poor child had, 
ever since leaving the convent of 

Mt. de C , been praying for 

courage to avow a faith which shi 
knew would anger her father, di 
tress that darling mother, and ci 
forth words of bitter ridicule fr< 
Agathe. Now to these considei 
tions was added the fear of losi 
Howard Lee's affection 

" Ah ! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph^ 
she cried, " helij \ft« "Lti. \\\v» 
agony. Seui io"«-n.-a\iQ'ft.'va^"i •=>"*■■* 



she 

I 



852 



Kathleen Waring. 



blessing, that I may be strengthen- 
ed in the path which has become 
so difficult to my faltering feet! 
Endow my heart with that courage 
I once boasted I would ask for 
when its need should be discover- 
ed« O my Father in heaven ! look 
upon thy child with pity, and heed 
her earnest supplication." 

For an entire hour she wavered 
between the earthly devotion that 
awaited but a word to be hers, 
and the higher Love, that requires 
many crosses and sacrifices before 
it recompenses the heart. It will 
never desert, never wound. The 
sun sank lower in the heavens, and 
the light in the chapel took a soft, 
mysterious tone that lent super- 
natural quiet and stillness to the 
place, greatly soothing Kathleen's 
restless mind. Her head leaning 
on the railing in front of her, her 
lips moving in unconscious prayer, 
she fell into a deep, dreamless 
sleep that was only disturbed 
when over her senses stole the 
faint sound of music, gradually, 
gradually unclosing those delighted 
eyes shining with blissful wonder, 
as she supposed it all must have 
been a dream, from which she wak- 
ed to find herself safe in the dear 
old convent. Surely, there was the 
beautiful altar, the Blessed Sacra- 
ment exposed, many candles burn- 
ing amid vases of exquisite flowers, 
the venerable priest kneeling at the 
altar's foot; above all, the convent 
giris, in blue uniforms and white 
veils, entering two by two, making 
their genuflections, and standing 
in their places till all were ready, 
when tap ! from the Sisters* bench, 
and down they sat. From the or- 
gan-loft the sweet litany she knew 
so well came pouring into her ears 
just as of yore ; as of yore the 
priest, the Sisters, and convent 
girls sang in fam\\\ai \.otv^^\ 



With happy heart and tearful 
eyes she sang oat the Ora frt 
nobisy while many looked to ser 
from whence came the joyiil 
notes, so splendidly swelling thdr 
chorus. Tnrongh the litany, tk 
O Salutaris! and the Tanium Erg^ 
her strong, young voice was clear and 
sweet, and none guessed that in 
the girl's heart a fearful straggle 
had taken place, and that there 
the good Lord had come and left 
a gift which would never decay, 
never be worthless, but crcr bright 
and glorious. A last prayer for 
strength was uttered daring Bene- 
diction, and Kathleen felt half her 
difficulties were overcome when 
she stood up at the Laudaie D<h 
minum. 

That night she confessed to her 
parents her intention of becoraing 
a Catholic, and besought their per- 
mission to take the step. Mr. Waring 
was furious at first, and vowed she 
shouldn't — ^not if* he knew himself: 
but three days' fussing and fuming 
brought him to the conclusion she 
might do as she chose, "but, for 
heaven's sake, never expect him to 
love her as much again," and en- 
forced his resolution by hugging 
and kissing her on the spot. Mrs. 
Waring was very sad at the aspect 
of affairs, but had so long antici- 
pated it as to be little surprised. 
Deeming a refusal of her sanction 
worse than useless, she also said 
her daughter might do as she pleas- 
ed. Only Agathe was inexorable; 
for, having begun by condemning 
her sister's course, she considered 
it incompatible with firmness ever 
to change. 

" How you can have allowed 
yourself to be so wound about the 
V\VXle fingers of those priests and 



Kathleen Waring; 






K" 



nuns I can't divine," she cried. 
" It indicates such cotitemplible 
weakness to turn from tbe religion 
in which you were bom to that of 
a. Papist — above all things, a Papist ! 
Were I to live a hundred years, I 
could not do it." 

No, niy poor sister," thought 
Kathleen ; " with aJl your character, 
fear you have not the daring coiir- 
je required to combat the distress 
of parents, the anger of friends, the 
loss of a beloved object. No; it is 
a. precious gift of God, and must be 
prayed for." 

Next Kathleen wrote to Mr. Lee, 
iforming him of all that had taken 
,ce, of her intention to become a 
■mber of the Catholic Church in a 
iw weeks, and renewed her request 
,t he would forgive the pain she 
caused him in remembering the 
:f she herself endured; with many 
les for his future prosperity, she 
lained his true friend. No an- 
siitpr came to this at all, and the 
Warings saw nothing more of 
Howard Lee. Delicacy prevented 
their asking an explanation from 
Kathleen, and, as she proffered 
none, his name was never mention- 
ed among them. 

The days passed on, and Kath- 
leen, being at last considered suffi- 
ciently instructed, had prevailed 
m the Sisters of Triniti di Monlc 
allow her retreat to be made 
ith them, and her baptism and 
irst communion to take place in 
their church. Christmas was the 
time appointed for the consum- 
mation of Kathleen's desire. The 
pe! had been beautifully deco- 
■d by the nuns and girls; and 
little Bethlehem, removed some 
;ht distance from the altar, was 
blem of the glorious feast, 
new Mass had been learned, 
id, while the organ pealed forth 
first tones, the white-robed 



girls filed in, followed by Mr. 
Airs. Waring and Agathe, who, 
dint of persuasion, had been 
duccd to appear on the occasii 
Last entered Kathleen, and knell 
in front of the altar. She was faint 
and trembling, but did not lose a 
syllable of the words that made her 
a Christian, a Catholic, and soldier 
of heaven. She was baptized, of 
course, before the celebration of 
Mass, and during it received for 
the first time the Holy Commuoion, 
Mr. Waring seemed much moved, 
liis wife cried outright, and Aga-, 
the's flushed face and shining eyi 
belied the unconcern she tried 
hard to assume. 

No one noticed the tall, dark fig- 
ure standing in the furthest cor- 
ner of the church, nor saw the gaac 
riveted upon the fair, sweet giri at 
the altar. As everything here must 
have an end, so did the music, the 
lights, all that had brightened the 
chapel. The dark figure had hur-i 
ried away, the girls in white hi 
disappeared, the W'a rings 
gone; only the little Babe of Beth^ 
lehem still lay in the manger, a 
one lamp shed its faint lustre 
honor of that Blessed Sacrametil 
which is for you, for me, for all' 
who but seek it. 

On the evening of the same day 
Kathleen was playing soft chords 
on the piano, and indulging in 
waking dreams, when she was 
greatly disturbed by the entrance 
of a man bearing in his arms 
huge package of something 
delicate, to judge from the 
with which said package was de- 
posited on the table. Before Kath- 
leen could frame a question con- 
cerning the matter the man was 
gone. Approaching the very re- 
markable bundle, she perceived 
a card suspended bearing these 
words; 



;d. 

ja- I 



-as 

■h- ' 



M 



854 



Kathleen Waring. 



"A Christmas gift for Miss K. 
Waring." 

Still wondering, she gently detach- 
ed the paper cover, and there, de- 
lighting her eyes, was a tiny Christ- 
mas-tree literally filled with bon- 
bons, colored candles, and children's 
toys, while two or three small papers 
concealed some more valuable pre- 
sents no doubt. In perfect amaze- 
ment she ran to the door and call- 
ed father, mother, and sister, who, 
hastening to the room, uttered ex- 
clamations of pleasure at the sight. 
The candles were instantly lighted, 
and the tree admired from every 
point, though a thorough mystifi- 
cation ensued as to the donor. Each 
surmise only seemed to make the 
matter worse ; so they instituted a 
search among the separate parcels. 
The first opened displayed a gold 
locket with the initials A. W. in pin- 
heads of pearls ; the next contained 
a handsome silver tobacco-box for 
Mr. Waring; the next, a musical 
work-box with Mrs. Waring's 
name ; yet still there was nothing 
for Kathleen. More astonished 
than ever, they examined once 
again ; and right on the very top of 
the tree, buried deep in its branches, 
was a round pasteboard box about 
the size of a lady's watch. Being 
opened, it disclosed a knot of hard- 
twisted note-paper, which Kathleen 



unwrapped and unfolded until she 
came upon an old, worn medal of 
the Immaculate Conception, fras 
which hung a blue ribbon. As the 
paper in her hand had something 
written on it, she made haste to read 
and here is the secret : 

" Will ray dear one take for a 
Christmas gift the little medal here- 
in enclosed, which was put around 
my neck by my mother when I 
made my first communion eigh- 
teen years ago ? I have kept away 
from you, that you might have a 
pleasant surprise for this Christmas 
day, though I went to communion 
for you this morning, and also saw 
the triumph of your brave spirit in 
the Church of the Trinity di Monie. 
If, when I come to you this evening* 
my little medal is about your neck, 
I shall know you accept me as your 
devoted Howard Lee." 

Kathleen stood looking at the 
words through gathering tears, and 
was not conscious of the quiet with- 
drawal of her parents and sister 
until the door opened gently to ad- 
mit Howard, who, glancing quickly 
at the blue ribbon on her bosom, 
advanced eagerly, and, bendinj^ 
low, exultantly murmured : 

** Why art thou silent. 

Thou voice of mj heart? 
Oh ! why art thou silent, 
Kathleen Mavoumeen?** 



4 



I^tw Piiblicatiojts. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Grant. Fir5t Bishop op Sootk- 
WARK. By Grace Ramsay. Wiih iwo 
poimils. London: Smilii, Elder & 
Co. 1874. [New York : Sold by The 
Cilholic Publicaiion Society.) 
The late Bishop Gram vas remarkable 
tor learning, ability, and sanctity. The 
events of his life, both before and atlur 
the period of his ordination, are interest- 
ing. As rector of the English College 
iti Rome, atid as bi&tiop. his administra- 
tion was successful and filled with great 
services to the Catholic Church in Eng- 
land, particularly in respect 10 the re- 
el lab I ishment of the regular hierarchy. 
The stoiy of his life is told in a lively 
and pleasing manner, and the publisher 
bu issued the volume in a style which 

■!i it atiraciive, though somewhat 
y. The author, whose Horn <U filumt 
nee Ratnsay, is one ot the best of 
English Catholic writers. We have 
indebted to her graceful pen (or 
tome of the most agreeable articles in 
our magazine, and we are pleased to learn 
that some remarks in The Catholic 
World on ihe character of the lale illiis- 
Irious Bishop of Soulhwaik first sug. 
gesied to her the idea of writing his 
biography. 

Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. 
A brief jccount of her life. To which 
are iidded a selection from her sayings 
and the Decree of bet Beatification. By 
the Rev. Charles B. Garside, M.A, 
London: Burns & Dates. 1B7J. (New 
Votk : Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Socif ly.) 

This tiny and pretty little book cosis 
only iifiy ceuis. We make its small site 
and price thus prominent, in order to 
encourage those ivbo have not money or 
time to bestow on large books 10 buy 
■his one and to help its circulalion. It 
contains the substance of the larger 
biographies of a saint who has done one 
B' id ihe most wonderful works of modern 
I, and has become justly the object 
1 extraordinary devotion among iKe 
lltbful, 

kc devotion to the Sacied Heart of our 



Lord has become (he great devotion of 
our day, to the incalculable benefit of the 
church and the promotion of the most 
solid piety among iho faithful, Pius IX. 
has constituted himself the Superior-Gen- 
eral of the Congregation of Missionaries 
of the Sacred Heart, and has expressed 
to several of its members his desire to 
consecrate the universal church to the 
Adorable Heart of our Lord, if he is ask- 
ed 10 do it. Wo (rust that the petition 10 
1I1C Holy See will not long be delayed, 
and that it will be made in such away 
as to show most conclusively how ardent 
is the sympathy of the members ot the 
church with their august head in his 
pious sentiments. It. is most natural 
that all who love this dcvolion should 
desire 10 know something of Ihe favored 
recluse of Paray-le-Monial who was cho- 
sen by our Lord as the medium of his re. 
velaiion, making known his will that it 
should be universally promulgated and 
cherished. There can be no doubt of iha 
real, supernatural, and divine charactei* ' 
ot (he extraordinary graces conferred 
upon her for ibis intention, Tlie Sov- 
ereign Pontilf, In his Decree of Bealilica< 
tion, declares that "whilst she devoleif 
herself day and night to eon 
prayer, being often rapt in ecstasy. th<^ 
gifts of divine grace were most plen- 
teously showered upon her " {p. Sq)t 
Again, (hat " it was now, as she was pray- 
ing before the august Sacrament of the Etl- 
charisl, that Christ our Lord intimated to 
her that it would be most pleasing to him 
if the worship of his most Sacred HeatI, 
burning with love for mankind, were estab- 
lished, and that he wished Ihe charge of 
this to be consigned to her " (p. 90). li^en 
the Pope speaks in this manner, and the 
most learned and holy bishops, theolo- 
gians, and other sound and judicious 
Catholic writers everywhere re-echo, am- 
plify, and confiim by solid reasoning and 
evidence the calm and cautious state- 
ments of the supreme aulhority, hesita- 
tion, criticism, and doubt are out of place. 
Infidels and heretics may scotT; we ex- 
p-oct them to do it, But devout Ca- 
tholics do not need to wait for a positive 



«56 



Ntui JHiilicatioHs. 



command under pain of sin in mder lo 
believe ceadjlyand joyously; and lo lei 
iheir hearts lake fire with the devotion 
that burns everywhere among ihc failh- 
lul. kindled by a spark from heaven 
which fell into a virgin bosom, and has 
been communicatEd (rom her, under tlie 
fanning of the wings of the divine Dove, 
until ii baa enkindled the whole world. 



Wel[ 



[ the ti 






in of (he Blessed Marjjare 
Mary will give lo the whole cliurch llie 
privilege of celebialiof; Mass in b-er 
honor, aod make her day a uoiversai 
feast. 

In Ihe meanlime, we welcome and 
mo4l eameslly recommend ibo lilllo 
book of P. Garside, and wish for il Ihe 
widesi possible circulation. 

The SrtKiruAL Conflict AND CoNQtiBSiT. 
By Dom J. CastaniM, O.S.B. Edited 
with Pieface and Notes by Canon 
Vaufihan, Monk of the English Bene- 
dictine Congregiiiion. Reprinted from 
the Old-English translation of 1653. 
London : Burns&Oale;. 1S74. (New 
York: Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society.) 

Vast numbers of Catholics have read 
the treatise which in English has been 
known by the title of The Spiritual Com- 
iiil, and has been widely circulated in 
many otherlanguages besides the Italian, 
from which the English translation was 
made. Ii has been always attributed to 
F. Scupoli, a Thcaline. who in reality 
only translated and adapted it, with alter- 
ations and additions, from the Spanish of 
Dom Casianiza, a Benedictine who lived 
at the same lime with S, Teresa. In this 
altered form it has been gensrally es- 
teemed as second only lo the Imitation 0/ 
Christ, which, by the bye, has lately been 
conclusively proved not to be the work 
of Thomas X Kempis, Gcrson, or any 
otSer writer to whom its authorship has 
been ascribed. The complete work af 
Dom Casianiza, which was Itanslaled 
into English in i&sz, is now once more 
brought to light, and republished in the 
most perfect manner, with a preface and 
tiotes, increasing its value very consider, 
ably, by a member of the remarkable 
Vaughan family, a brother, we pcesumo, 
of our illustrious and highly-honored 
friond, the Bishop of SaKord. We are 
disposed lo regard this treatise in its 
present complete foim as decidedly the 
hta apirilnal guide in the English lan- 



guage for ihe great majority c 
Catholics. This is reiy high pd 

it is, in our opinion, nr" 

Let our readers examine 

and we arc inclined lo think % 

find our judgment correct. 

We ought to say that eve 
stands, a considerable portion of ibe 
first part of the book is made Dp q4Sc 
poll's additions. In the main, we havenv 
fault to find with the translation, ffi 
like that old-fashioned, terse, stroi^ 
English which is found in Old Engliilt 
writers. But it is sometimes tudc ux! 
even coarse, and in the present work 
ihcre are a few passages wbtcb are » 
voliing to the more correct modem tanft 
and which therefore becorae leaJIy iti«- 



The Month has : 






', though. 



as is always the case in that pEttodical, 
a courteous and polile. eriii^ut on the pre' 
face and notes of Canon Vaughan. Il 
accuses him of boasting too much of bii 
order, and of "girding" nt other peo- 
ple. We have looked through the boot 
with this criticism in our hand, aiiiJ ■« 
must say that we find it.ovttstiuntd. 
We cannot see any evidence ibal Catui 
Vaughan is disposed to undervalae iHiiM 
orders different fTom his o 
remarks upon methods of c 
used in other s 

censure anything except indiscrei 
exdusiveness in their applicalioid 

Grapes ami Thorns. By M. A, \ 

ihor of Tkt Home of YerktA 

York : The Catholic Publicati^ 

ciely. 1S74. 

Another story from the pen o( Il 
Ihor of Tki Heme af Yerit. Turn 
the inieresl of the tale does on 1I 
covery of a. criminal in whose s 
innocent man is imprisoned and actuillj 
condemned, it is }-et so skilfully cod- 
ducted that none of the disgusting reiiit' 
lie details of whal is known as the unn- 
lional school are brotighl in lotnarlbt 
work. It teallj is a case of toudlilff 
pilch, and yet not being, in a liKr»r 
sense, defiled. The circumstaWia! f* 
dence on which Ihc supposed mui^MM 
is condemned is very well managed, and. 
until the facts are thrust uponibeieadfr. 
there is no chance of his discovering (lit 
real criminal. This is a very great af 
lainment In novel -writing, and, lo thi* 

day of hackneyed ' 

seldom reached. It is difficull ■ 



N'ew Publuations. 



8S7 



o take up any book, especially one 
refciriny Itr such evenis as nro ireaied in 
Gnifita»d Titonw, ivilhout al once seeing 
Ihrough ihe convenlional skeloton of ihe 
stoiy, and picking out [he main poinla in 
it betoiehand. As lo style, we can only 
MM|r of thii book what all the llierary 
|Ktld said of ThiHaauBf yor,fr— that it 
^Wone would recommend even the flimsi- 
est web of story. The author has, in ad- 
dition to this rare charm of style, a fac- 
ulty, so far as we know peculiar to her- 
self among current novelists, d( investing 
Willi poetical grace Ihe most common, 
place things of every-day lile, even such 
hopelessly prosaic subjects as the engine 
and engine-diivet of a night-ttain, and, 
worse still, a grocer's shop and a palcile 
full of syrups! The descriptions of 
Rome are a feature of the book, bat so 
arc Ihe delineations of New England 
scenery, in snow-slortn and autumn glo- 
rirs as well as in its summer dress o( 
fresh greenery and moistness, which Is so 
delicately sketched in iho picture of the 
Pond farm, the water-lilies, and the sltcng, 
beautiful young boLit- woman. 

But to come to the chief point, the 
chaiacters ; for of the story itself we say 
nothing, hoping that every reader of lliis 
nolice has cither read ihe book or will 
immediiiltly do so. Annette is unques- 
lionably the only heroine of llie tale, al- 
though in Ihe beginning one may be in- 
duced lo consider the beautiful, conscien. 
lious, high-principled llouora Pembroke 
as enlilled lo that place of honor- 
Mrs. Gerald is another well-drawn fe- 
male character in ihe story. The most 
touchinf; thought in the whole stoiy is 
contained in her gentle words after she 
has found lier son's footsteps on the ficsh 
mould of the viotet-bed under her win- 
dow : " I mean to sow little pink quill 
daisies in those two foot-prints. . . . When 
ihey come back, the tracks will be green." 
Anila. the lillle convent-flower, is a very 
beautiful conception: she js like one of 
iht! ethereal angels of Fra Angciico. nol 
a common mortal. Mrs. Fetrier is the 
very reverse, but her generous champion^ 
ship of Max SchOninger goes far to re- 
deem the vulgarity that shocks one in 
the early part of the book, where she con- 
stitutes herself spy over Lawrence's ac- 
tions, and lectures bim to the verge of 
insanity 

We have now mentioned the name of 
the heto of the story, Sehflninger, the 
Jewish musician, on whom falls ihe fLilse 



accusation of murder. His charnclcr is 
all but faulilcss, the only exceptions, pet- 
haps, being his rather uncontrolled an^ 
fierce burat of joy when released from his 
seven months' imprisonment, and hia 
general altitude towards F. Chevreusc. 
The latter is more excusable than the 
former; but if the hero of a book were 
faultless, he would be unnatural as a 
man. SchOninger is a wonderful con- 
ception ; so self-reliant, self-contained, 
and yet not harsh, not repulsive even, in 
his defiance. The opinion of the world 
is nothing lo him ; he has his own stand- 
ard of right and wrong, and he lives up 
to it 1 he would think marts-rdom a trifle, 
if endured for the truth ; he sues straight 
ta the core of things, and will be as un- 
compromising a Christian after his con- 
version as he was an earnest Jew before 
it. We think, however, that ihe author 
has made a mistake in making him a 
Reformed Jew. Doubtless it was meant 
to enable him lo parade the superior 
spiiiluaiily which was the only form of 
religion possible for such a man ; but the 
S-r/Brmtd Jews are no nearer to a high 
spiritual standard, as contrasted with iha 
orthodox Jews, than Iho Lutheian or 
Calvinisl sects are as contrasted with ihS 
true Church. They are mete secession- 
ists from the old faith, and, like all 
branches divided from the parent trunk, 
are more or less withering into atheism 
and infideiily. An orthodox Jew is much 
m.ore likely to bo converted to Cathali-' 
city than a Reformed Jew. 

F. Chevreuse is a very beautiful cha- 
racter, especially after the scene In Law- 
ruDce's room, where the priest and his 
penitent are alone with their solemn se- 
cret, and face to face with God. Some 
Ode once said of The J/auie »f YarJU 
that there w.is an undcjinabic "some- 
thing" wanting in the character of the 
priest of that story, and that doubtless it 
was not given lo any one to be able to 
delineate truly a perfect priest. Perhaps 
it is so, for It is most difficult lo portray 
a life in which Ihe supentalutol mingles 
with and effaces the natural lo luch an 
extent as it does in ihe life of a true 
priest; but in F. Chevreuse the author 
has gone as near to the ideal ns any one 
could well go. Lawrence Gerald is a 
very diHicuU character lo analyie — B pe- 
culiar product of American civiliration 
(this assertion would be very hard lo 
prove categorically, but every one who 
has read the boob will undei«t3.nil vV<»x. 



I 



858 



Ivew Publicaticns. 



I 



\ 



we mean) ; a man for whom our feelings 
change, during ilie progress of ihe lale, lo 
a degiec iliat nlmosi gires him at tlie 
lasl Ihe moiBl pte-emincnee which at iho 
beginning would have bct^n difficult lo 
award CTcn to sainily F. Chevreuse. 
Truly, in his case, aa he himself says, 
"Noihine but utier ruin could hare 
brought him to bis senses." There are 
souls whose salvation God works in this 
war, and Lawrence's penance certainly 
reads like some biography fif a medi- 
eval sinner gradually turning into the 
life of a grand saint. The human ele- 
ment is not absent, either, in this picture, 
of a most unusual expiation, and no 
scene in the book wilt be read with more 
emotion than that of the artist skelchins- 
ihc sleeping Lawrence, and adding, at the 
eager suggcslion of the "woman under 
the arch," the "cluster of yMlow flowers 
which touched his head in the form ol a 
crown." We venture lo say that nolhirg 
short of ihc influence of a sojourn at 
Rome and the personal contact with a 
life of exuberant, all-pervading Catholi- 
city, such as thai of the Italians, cnu Id 
have suggested such a remarkable ending 
to Lawrence's career. Of Ihcsubordinate 
cha(aeierBofC>n/fjo»rf7"AiJfTM— John, the 
ahtewd. hard, honest footman; Jane, the 
faithful but exasperating housekeeper of 
F. Chevreuse ; Dr. Person, the Crichton 
cynic and man of the world; F. O'Dono- 
van, the fast friend at need of his brothcr- 
ptiest J Mother Chevreuse, the bright, 
lender, biave woman, of whom we g-et 
but a glimpse ; Sister Cecilia, a counter- 
part of Honora— w« can only say thai 
they show the varied acquaintance of the 
author nith many and widely dilTereni 
lypes of mankind. The pettiness and 
prejudice of " liberal " Crichton are well 
defined in the hue-and-crj- which soon 
follows SchOningcr's arrest, and ihc equal, 
ly iniemperaio revulsion in his favor 
when he is proved Innocent. It is re. 
markable that no one bul F. Chevreuse 
and Mrs. Feriier believed firmly in his 
innocence while circumstances nil point- 
ed so suspiciously to him as the tnur- 
derer,except, of course, those who already 
knew the miserable secret- 
in spile of the gre.-it merils of this 
sIor)-.i[ has, nevertheless, like TAe ffeaie 
ef Yffrte. one great defect which mais its 
excellence, not perhaps as a work of art, 
but as a specimen of the Catholic ideal 
in ar(. Annette, the hetoine. acts fooi- 
IsMy, unreasonably, and aga\Yi^lt\w^i:Ti.wi 



of pei^onal dignity and wottb wU _ 
perfect Christian maiden must chetish,u^~ 
next to her faith and honor, in ruariying 
the unhappy Lawrence Gerald. This 
shows that the author's ideal woman is 
not Ihe highest type of bet sex, and thai 
she fails lo appreciate the lofty. Chris- 
tian idea of conjugal love and of mar- 
riage. Honora Pembroke ought to have 
been the heroine, and although she has 
not been fortunate enough to win ihe 
aj-mpathy of critics and readets gene- 
rally, especially of ihe fair sex, we are 
glad lo see Ihil the authoi has given us 
at least one specimen of a wotnaa who ic 
governed by conscience and reasoD.iDd 

Another fault, against which we beg 
leave here lo caution all our writers of 
UghP articles and stories for Ac maga- 
zine, is Ihe introduction of Ae writer's 
private and personal opinions on inai- 
ters connected with religion knd the 
church. We request, once for all. Din 
such matters may be loft lo the editor <d 
the magaiiine and ihoso whom he }iid 
compclcnl la ircat of them BKpiCE 

An Essay Contributing to > 

THT OF Literature. By B 

ladelphta: Claxlon, Remsen 

finger- 1874- 

The aim of this essay is to gil 
principles as aie calculated 
the false and baneful ideas prop 
our textbooks on English lileianne^ 
The author, one of the Broihers of iIm 
Christian Schools, who ruodeslly concsili 
his name, is a worthy {&n/rlre of GeisM 
Griffin. EMdently, his reading is exien 
live, his tasle fine and accurall, and bi* 
mind truly philosophical. The unassura' 
ing book he has put forth is one which 
teachers in Ihe department of Engliill 
literature and intelligent students of the 
same will find lo be of great serrice. 

Amelia; or. Thr Taicwpii ov Piirv. 
Translated ftoro ihe French. Phila- 
delphia: P. F. Cunningh.-un & Soft. 
1674. 

This is a story quite romantie and seB' 
sational in its character, but wiiha! rtiy 
pious, and showing very dnmatieallr 
high virtue In conliast with great wick- 
edness, and triumphing over it- In OM 
pati of it Amelia makes a promise iriikt 
a Catholic could not make wilhouigmr' 
ous sin. She promises, namely, her> 
^Qcci patents, ^vho were ProiesiuiUhl| 




ly, her>i#.. 

SlUlUhlM^B 



N'fw Piiblicatiovs, 



8S9 I 



r D ihey wiil lisli:n (o a discussion bclwecn 
a priest anJ a minisler. she will embrace 
■.heir teligion, provided they declare ihcir 
conTictlon that (he minister has the bc«i 
of it. Tlio use of the word "Catholi- 
dsm " to express Iho Catholic religion, 
though Bomotimes allowable, is awkward 
and unsuitable as it occurs in the siory. 
Critically speaking, iWs story is not 
much, bul it may amuse children, who 
arc generally not very critical if (here 
arc plenty of remarkable incidents to ex- 
cite [heir emolions. There are hosts of 
slorieslike this in the French language, 
many of which ate much better, it is a 






' that I 

somelimes sho« 

them for translat 



The Chubch and the Empiius, Htsto- 

mcAL Periods. By Henry William Wil- 

berforce. Preceded by a Memoir of 

ihc Auihor by J. H. Newman, D.D. 

With a portiuil. London: Henry S. 

King & Co. 1674. (New Voik : Sold 

by The Caiholic Publication Socieiy.) 

"titt essays contained in this volume 

ate leprinLs of aiiictcs from ihe /Jui/in 

Sivitta. The memoir, by the dear friend 

of th» auihor, Dr. Newman, though brief, 

is ji complete little biography of a justly 

distinguished and most calimable man, 

who honored the illustrious name of 

Wilberfotco by his sacrifices, his virtues, 

d his valuable literary tabors. 



WANDKR TUB Great. A Dn 

By Aubrey do Veie, Author 
Vvf "legends of S. Patrick." London: 
nHeoty S, King & Co. 1874. (New 

York : For sale by The Catholic Pub- 

lUcntlon Sodciy.). 

A diam»tic poem by Aubrey de Vcrc 
could not be oihcr than noblo in theme 
and (bou^hlful and delicate In execution. 
Almost alone among the poets of the day, 
not many of whom equal, and not one of 
whom surpasses, him in the higher quali- 
lies of insight and subtle imagination, ho 
Eceras never 10 have felt the debasing 
touch of that materialism which in one 
department of leltets seeks to elevate 
science at Ihc expense of faith, and in 
another to degrade poeiry 10 be the beau- 
tiful but shameless minister to all (hat is 
lowest in m.in-s nature. Religion, which 
he has served so faithfully, has tawardod 
his dovoiion by lifting him into a clearer 
almo^pliere tli.tn can be breathed by-ulB^ 
<li'void of f;iilh, and has made him worthy 



m be ranked wiih those Irue poets who 
sing not alone for the busy, itching ears 
of (heir contemporaries, but for a wider, 
because a mote enduring, audieuce. 

Nevertheless, Mr. dc Vcre'a lyric poet- 
ry, subtle and delicate as it is, could 
hardly, we should say, have prepared his 
readers for the power shown in his con- 
ception and delineation of the hero of his 
drama, Alexander, the greatest of the 
great conquerors whom ihe vrorld hai*, 
seen. His poem Is absolutely simple in 
aim and in delail, and gains interest. If 
not solely, yet almost solely, from the 
m.inner in which he has Strongly though 
brietly expressed his idea of what a great 
conqueror, a man with aims truly impe- 
rial, swayed by no mean passion, and Ail- 
ed with the idea of welding into one all 
peoples. and informing them by the high- 
est purely human Intelligence, should be. 
What literal ituih there is in the picture— 
bow nearly the Alexander of the play re- 
sembles him who died at thirty-three, the 
master of half the world — is not a question 
of any special interest. It is enough that 
Mr. de Vere's hero it a noble and Jnirin- 
sically true cooceplion, and a fit measure 
by which to estimate the true proportions 
of those lesser men whom the world once 
in an age sees lilicd with the lust of em- 
pire, hut void of the skill and quick in- 
sight wliich should make them avoid its 
perils. In his pl.ty, indeed, Mr, de Velo, 
who follows Ihe tradition of Josephus, 
and makes Alexander visit once the ten> 
pic ai Jerusalem, and pay in its high- 
priest such teveicoce as be had never 
shown lo moTial man, makoi him listen 
there to the warning that bis power must 
have Its '• term and limit." and thai hs 
who would indeed wear the world'* 
crown '■ should be the Prince of Peace." 
And yet the errors and mistakes h^ 
wliich great men seem blindly to throw 
aivay at last the fruits of their long toll 
seem 10 the on-lookcr as if ihcy might 
hnvc been so eavily avoided that it is al. 
ways necessary 10 remind one's self hovr 
liiile is truly in the power of man, and 
how surely God conltols even the crimes 
and follies of those who seem to rule Ihs 

Aside, however, from the fine scenes 
in which Mr. de Vere brings out his idea 
of his hero, the play has many subsidiary 
bcauliesof a different kind. 

What poet but himself could have 
wiillcn the two lovely scenes between 
Uephcstion and AisinoE, and wiidt 'oa.v 



1 



86o 



New PublicalioKS. 



icadeia see so well ihe love which either 
Tell, but ot whose return aalthec was 
awnre? The minor chnracters, indeed, 
are drawn throughout with thehand □( a 
master who never wastes a stroke, nnd 
tfho has the art of showing his readers 
whnt he willsbyliriing (hem and not by 
lowering himself. WIio has painted in 
our day a lovelier picture than that in 
which Hephestion shows us Aisino^'a 
mother? 

moUiH- 







knew you 




duthi 




Th 


uehdo 


hly^lawer 


Th 


re liTod 






ineiperl 


encsd trust 


SI, 










shB 




flower-lik 






monit her 


Tb 


n, WBkc 


nedbvwi 



mothiil 



1 1 err or Uuth, 



Pome qualities ot Mr, dc Veto's work, 
which arc more generally known than the 
virile force displayed in his giasp of the 
characters of his play, are shown at iheir 
best in the two or three lyrics which 
occur in il. Let us end an inadequate 
notice, which may send our readers to the 
poem itself, byqooiing his exquisite para, 
phrase of one of the most beautiful of 
the Psalms; 
'•IVe ■St* beside tbe BibTlonlin rirer; 



" A tionB tbry cUlmed— the nen our Itslu who 
How cau WB tiog It la the sttinKei'a iknd I 



ADEUSik'DG CtiAKAt. ; OR, FiKsT Exrtu- 
yntiyor the World after LeaMho 
SutooL. TranslalM UoA [he Freacb 
by a sister of* S. J.os^*- P^ilaW 
phia: P. F. Cunningh^tn. 1S74. 
A great number of young gtaduana 
arc just now beginning this " hrst expe- 
rience," after receiving iheir medals, 
crowns, and premiums, and listening to 
the valedicioties with which Rood-by is 
said to academic halls and groves. 
Miss Adeline da Chnxal's experience, 
and her remarks upon the same, will 
probably come home to this elns* of 
young ladies with more interest than la 
any other set of readers. They will find 
it edifying and hislructive, and, if ikqr 
act upon Ihe advice il contains, Ihcj will 
certainly uke a safe course. The llfl fit 
books for reading is good, so &r is 11 
goes, but might i 



L contldcnUe' 



The Helpers of the Holv 
the Rev. C. & Gnrside, 
Burns & Oates. 1S74. <Ni 
Sold by The Catholic Pnblii 

Tlie Helpers of the Holy 
religious congr^ation of 
France, whoso special devotion H |a ■«■ 
the souls of the faithful depaiWl in pur- 
gatory by their prayers, good voilts, and 
other suffrages. F. Gar^ide gives an %t- 
count of their foundress and a hitluty of 
Iheir institution, with suitable reflections 
on the great utility of Ihe special objMt 
which they have undertaken 



" in forget thee. Sdom, InlhyndaeH, 

M»7 Ibis right hind forget the burper'sBtt! 
If t foiKet Ibee, Salem, In mjr glidneu. 


ROSEUARV. ByLadyGcorgixH^lfl^^l 


Short SroRiES. By the same. ^^H 


Mytoaguedry up, uid wlihet.like myheul t 






Winnie, Neiv York ; P. CrShca. \%th 


" Daugbler of Bibylon, with ml.ery WHitd, 
Blest shall he be, the man who heara ihy 


The first two of these pttlty books 6)r 




children ate reprints from the EnstlA 


Who Bfvei thee back Ihe cup ihM we liave 


editions already noticed in this ouga- 


Who lifts Ihy babei, anil hurls Ihem on the 


zine; the ibitd is a lively, «bolt«OIM 


•tones r 


story imilating Oliver Opric. 




t 



mmiiiiiiiiii 

3 bios 007 350 5MM 



2 363 



StMhrl Unlienily LInni 

Stanford, 



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please return it as soon as possible, but 
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