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THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

MONTHLY MAGAZINE

General Literature and Science.

VOL. XX.
OCTOBER, 1874. TO MARCH, 1875.

NEW YORR:
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,

9 "Warren Street.

1875-

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, ^y

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY.

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

JOHN ROSS & CO., PRINTERS, 2J ROSE STREET, NEW YORK,

CONTENTS.

A^ScMBsa, The Present State of, 4I.

AMabaftlie McMsTroopem^aaa.

Aaatker Gcaeial Coaventioa of the P. E. Church,

465.
An yott my Wifo ? 596, 738.

I H«vard, 6a, »34, 33a, 474-

ht OB Matter, A, 786.

Bkcf Modem Thonj
KSad Stadcat, The, ^,^,m^
Boffae aad the Revohation, 833.
Wciii»*s A Legend of Alaace, 91, 360.

in the Thirteenth Centuzy, 500.

Cbuch Authority, etc, pB.

Chorek Cham vs. Chorcli Music, 145, 317*

CSviiaiioo of Ancient Ireland, 506.

C4^wntion of New Sooth Wales hy Great Bntam,

Coasves ottfae Catholie Gennaiu at Mayence, 109.
Ccs*ca*s Veil Witbdravm, 15, 193, 997, 440, 630, 767.

Discssaioe with an In&del, A, 73« X7S« 405*

Eickteca Hundred and Seventy-Four, 561.
£i^;&hand Scotch Scenes, 539.

Fac^StaHes of Irish National MSS., xos, 2x3.
Ffltare of the Russian Church, The, 544, 703, 8x0.

Gcnsaa Eaipire, The Peisecution of the Church in
«he,a»9,433..

loe>Wi(wafli of Minnehaha, The, 494.
IsfidcL A Discussion with an, 73^ X75, 405.
Ifcbod, The QTilixation of Ancient, 506.
IriA Nstiooal MSS.. los, 313.
ItaSaa DocvBcats cf Freexaasonry, 7ax.
Isdsbar, The Poes of. xjS.

La Safle, Robert Cavefier de, ^90, 833.
Legend of Ahaff, A, 9X, a6a

Log Chapel on the Rappahannodc, The, 847.
Lucerne, 123, 345.

Matter, x, ara, 487, 666. ,

Matter, A Bit of Modern Thought on, 786.
Minnehaha, The Ice-Wifin»razn of, 434.
Moss Troopers, Axmals of the, 933.

New South Wales, The Colonisation of, 650, 759.

On the Wing, X 58.

Ontok^^ism and Psychologism, 360.

Persecution of the Churdi in the German Empire,

The, 28Q, 433.
Personal Resoocsibility, 578.
Poem of IzduDar, The^ 13^.
Present State of Anffbcanuon, The, 41.
Protestant Episcopal Churdi, General Convention

of the, 465.

Religion and State in our Republic, 615.

Remmiscences of a Tile Field, 374.

Rigi, The, 38!.

Robert CaveUer de La Salle, 690, 833.

Robespierre, 519, 680.

Russian Church. The Future of the, 544, 703.

Russian Sister ot Charity, A, 428.

Scotch Scenes, 529.
Southern Flight, A. X58.
Summer in Rome, A, 658.
Swinburne and De Vere, 346.
Switserland in 1873, 133, 345.

Tile Field, Reminiscences of a, 374.
Tondini's A Russian Sister of Charity, 498.
Tondini's Russian Church, 544, 703, 810.

Veil Withdrawn, The, 15, 193, 997, 446, 630, 767.

Year of our Lord X874, The, 56X.

POETRY.

AacaraadZara^ss.

Better Christmas, The, sA
B«li of Prayer, The, 7x3.
Birth-Days. 703.
Brooldet, The, 649.

C ■erdi in F , The, 595.

ChristiBas Tide, 443*
Chsrch Song, 404
Crwra Jew^ 737.

Dcstiay. 193.

Tp i mk. ia the Guaaref ftu. MacMaboo, S57*

Ingenious Device, The, 387.
Inscription on the Bell Gabrielle at S. Mary's of the
liJce, Lake George, 244.

Leap for Life, The, 557.

Rele^e, 620.
Requies Mea, 359.
Roger the Rich, X35.

September— Sabbath Rest, 40.

Three Edens, The. 174.

Turning from Darwin to Thomas Aquinas, 809

Vision, A, 157.

Wbd and Tide, 371.

Contents.

NEAV PUBLICATIONS.

AUog*s Universal History, 987.

Aneolote Biographies <» Thackeray and Dickens,

Augustine. S^ The Works of, 575.
* ■*— -* Meditr**

Avandnus

Utations, 7x4.

Bateman*s leme of Armorica, 730.
Bric-a-Brac Series, 143, 576.

CaddeD*s Sununer Talk about Lourdes, 388.
Catholic Family Almanac for 1875, A^
Characteristics from the Writings 01 John Hesry

Newman, 860.
Charteris, 388.

Complete Office of Holy Week, The, 860.
Cumplido's The Perfect Lay-Brother, 859.
Curtiuft' History of Greece, a88.

Didtot*s The Religious State, 850.
Dodge's Rhymes and Jiggles, 576.

Escerpta ex Rituali Romano, 716.

Father Eudes and his Foundations, 859.
Fleuriot*s Eagle and Dove, 575.

GreenleaTs Testimony of the Evangelists Examin-
ed, 7x8.

Hari>er^s Peace through the Truth, 860.

Hewit*s King's Highway, 574.

History of Greece, 288.

History of the Catholic Church in Scotland, aS?.

Holland's Mbtress of the Manse, 430.

Holy Week, The Complete Office of, 860.

leme of Arraoricaj 790.

Illustrated Cathohc Almanac for 1875, 499.

Katherine Earie, 388.
King's Highway, 574.

Leguay's The Mistress of Novices, 859.
Lessons in Bible History, 7x5.
Letters of Mr. Gladstone and others. 7x6.
Letter to the Duke of Norfolk 00 Gladstone's Ex-
postulation, 857.
Libnuy of the Sacred Heart. 5^.
Life ot Axme Catherine Emmerich, 149.

Marptfet Roper, 860.

Marta Monk's Daughter, ^^.

Marvin's Phikisophy of Spintualism, 860.

Mediutions on the Liie and Doctrine of Jesns

Christ. 7x4.
Meline's Charteris, 988.
Mill's Three Essays on Religion, 575.
Milwaukee Catholic Magacioe, 790.
Mistress of Novices, The, 859.

Mistress of the Manse, ^ jo.
Montgomery's On the Wing, 860.
Mcmtzey's Father Eudes. etc., 859.
Morris* Prisoners of the Temple, 714.
Murray's Manual of Mythology, 987.

Newman's Characteristics, 860.
Newman's Letter, etc., 857.
Nobleman of '89, The/7i4.
Notes on the Second Plenary Council of
430.

On the Wing, 860.

Ordo Divim Officii Recitandl Missaeqne

brandae, juxta Rubricas Breviarii

Romani. Anno 1875, 7x9.
Oriental ana Linguistic Studies, 573.
Outlines of Astroncmiy, 7x7.

Peace through the Truth, 860.
•Brother, The, 8j
linii
Hodder, 576.
■ ' ifSp

Cole

Perfect Lay-
Personal Kei

le, 8w.

by Barham, Hamcsa,

■i

Phiksophy of Spiritualisin, The, 860.
Prisoners of the Temple, The, 714.
Protestant Journalism, 988.
Purgatory Surveyed, 7x5.

Qninton*s The Nobleman of '89, 7x4.

Ram's Life of Anne Catherine Emmerich, 149
R^ement Eccleriastique de Pierre Le Grand, 7x9.
Refigious State, The, etc., 859.
Rhymes and Jingles, 576.

Sadliers' Catholic Directory for 1875, 790.

Searie's Outlines of Astronomy, 7x7.

Sins (rf'the Tongue, 718.

Smith's Notes on the Council of Baltimore, 43a

Stewart's Margaret Roper, 860.

Summer Talk about Lourdes, 988.

Testimony of the Evanp;elists Examined, etc, yxt.

Three E»avs on ReligKm, 57^.

Tondini's K^lement Ecdesiastique de Pierre Lc

Grand, 719.
Torrey's Theory of True Art. 988.
Traftoo's Katherine Eatle, 986.

Unirersal Church History, 989.

VaKant Woman, The, 718.

Walah's History of the CathoKc Church in Scot-

fauxl,987.
Mliitney^B Oriental and Linguistic Studies, 573.
Works of Aurelius Augustine, 575.

Yoong CmthoBc's Ouatnted Schod Series, 143.

^rJ- '9S8

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rport fiw'/ar/j ta the !ot*ai pof<tma^(t^r.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOU XX-. No. J 15.— OCTOBER, 1874.

MATTER,

III.

Tnff pNm philo^oplkicd and sci*-
by whtcli wc have

:i ^ul&cieni, io our jtidgmcnl,

nnncc every unlnas%ed reader

• Iftitli of tht* view we have

•1, may ncvcrtbelesiij prove

L* If) ryifio%'t.* the prejudice

ho regard Ihc timc-hon-

. iriDe of oclioD by niateri.il

aol^i M ajuumatic and unasi^iiU

* It It true ihai ihcy cannot

• mtf sirt^umcnts; but they op-

' Her arguments, which

itly liclicve Id lie im-

ntbJc It it therefore ncces-

»' ■ lar tt% let 5tipplement our pre-

IOU9 <lefnanstrMian by a careftil

/s%«» nf the oltjcctions which

-- i»c rnjule aicaiivil il, antl U^

|tbc iniriniic unsoynducss of

90tDg^ by which they are

Thii is what we intend

rill the prtfs.cn I artu le.

I Jifit ^^/MHm,-^'Vhc first and

chief argument advanced against
the possibility of ac/io in distans
without a material medium of com-
jnunicatioa is thus developed in the
Popular Science Monthly for Novem-
ber, 1873 (p. 94), by J. B. Stallo:

" How is the mutual action of
atoms existing by thenaselves in
complete insulation, and wholly
without contact, to be realized in
thought? We are here in presence
of the old difficulties respecting the
possibility of actio in distans which
preiienttd themselves to the minds
of the physicists in Newton's time,
and ronstituted one of the topics
of the famous discussion between
Leibnitz and Clarke, in the course
of which Clarke made the remark-
able admission that * if one body at-
tracted another without an inter-
vening body, that would be not a
miracle, but a contradiction ; for it
would he to suppose that a body
actts where it is not* — otherwise

pmk mmforAmg i» Aa of Cntip'««% itt the; ftfar i9?4, by Ret^, I. T. HscKBRf ia the Office of
t^ LihnrUa uf C^iogrcja, tt ^Vashinf^tou, D. C.

Matter.

cxprfssed: Inasmuch as action is
but a mode of being, the assertion
that a body can act where it is not
would be tantamount to the asser-
tion that a body can be where it is
not. This adnjission was entirely
in consonance with Newton's own
opinion; indeed, Clarke's words
are but a paraphrase of the cele-
brated passage in one of Newton's
letters to Bentley, cited by John
Stuart Mill in his System of LogiCy
which runs as follows: * It is in-
conceivable that inanimate brute
matter should, without the mediation
of something else which is not ma-
terial, operate upon and affect other
matter unthout mutual contact, . . .
That gravity should be innate, in-
herent, and essential to matter, so
that one body may act on another,
at a distance, through a vacuum,
without the mediation of anything
else by and through which their ac-
tion and force be conveyed from
one to the other, is to me so great
an absurdity that I believe no man,
who in philosophical matters has a
competent (acuity of thinking, can
ever fall into it.' "

Before^e enter into the discus-
sion of this objection we must re-
mark that it is scarcely fair to allege
Newton's view as contrary to actio in
distans. For he neither requires a
material contact of matter with mat-
ter nor a material medium of com-
munication ; he says, on the contra-
ry, that the inanimate brute matter
needs the mediation of something
else which is not material ; which
amounts to saying that his inani-
mate brute matter must have all
around a non-material sphere of
power, without which it would
never reach any distant matter.
This assertion, far from being a de-
nial of actio in distanSy seems rather
to be a remote endeavor towards
its explanation ; and it may be sur-

mised that, had Newton been as
well acquainted with the metaphy-
sical doctrine about the essential
constituents of substance as he
was with the mathematical for-
mulas of mechanics, he would have
recognized in his *' inanimate brute
matter " the potential constituent
of material substance, and in his
" something else which is not mate-
rial ** the formal constituent of the
same substance and the principle
of its operation. The only objec-
tionable phrase we find in the pas-
sage now under consideration is
that in which he describes action
and force as conveyed from matter
to matter. But, as he explicitly
maintains that this convection re-
quires no material medium, the
phrase, whatever may be its verbal
•inaccuracy, is not scientifically
wrong, and cannot be brought to
bear against the actio in distans.
We therefore dismiss this part of
the objection as preposterous, and
shall at once turn our attention to
Clarke's argument, which may be
reduced to the syllogistic form thus:

" A body cannot act where it is
not present either by itself or by
its power. But cutio in distans is
an action which would be exerted
where the body is not present by
itself, as is evident ; and where the
body is not present by its power, as
there is no medium of communica-
tion. Therefore the actio in distans
is an impossibility."

The objection, though extremely
plausible, is based on a false as-
sumption — that is, on the supposi-
tion that there can be distance
from the active power of one ele-
ment to the matter of another.
The truth is that, however far mat-
ter may be distant from matter, no
active power can ever be distant
from it. For no distance in space
is conceivable without two formal

Matter.

nbicalions. Now, a material ele-
ment has undoubtedly a formal
ubication in space by reason of its
matter, which is the centre of its
sphere of activity, but not by rea-
son of its active power. Distances,
m fact, are always measured from a
point to a point, and never from a
point to an active power, nor from
an active power to a point. The
matter of a primitive element
marks out a point in space, and
from this point we take the direc-
tion of its exertions ; but the power
of an element, as contradistin-
guished from its matter, is not a
point in space, nor does it mark a
point in space, nor is it conceivable
as a term of distance. And there-
fore to suppose that there may be a
distance from the active power of
an clement to the point where an-
other element is ubicated, is to
make a false supposition. The ac-
tive power transcends the predica-
ment ubi^ and has no place within
which we can confine it ; it is not
circumscribed like matter, and is
not transmissible, as the objection
supposes, from place to place
through any material medium ; it is
ready, on the contrary, to act di-
rectly and immediately upon any
nutter existing in its indefinite*
sphere, while its own matter is cir-
cumscriptively ubicated in that sin-
gle point f which is the centre of
the same sphere. Prof. Faraday
explicitly affirmed that " each atom
extends, so to say, throughout the
whole of the solar system, yet al-
ways retains its own centre of
force"; J which, in metaphysical

f^* "T "indefimte," because this virtua^
•pwie b its ooationoui expenioo wanes away in-
*"Wjr, aad hu no defiahc fimiting surface.

trW the ouuter of a primitive element is matbe-
■«ia»y uoexfended wiO be rigorously proved in
t^ Beat foOowinii articles.

^^'A Spectilatwn touching Electric Conduction
•d Ike Nature of BUtter.'^ PkiUs, Magaxime^
»»W, ««i van. p. 136.

language, means that while th€ inai-
ier of a primitive element occupies
a single point, the form constitutes
around it an indefinite sphere of
power. And for this reason it was
Faraday's opinion that the words
actio in distans should not be em-
ployed in science. For although
the matter of one body is distant
from the matter of another, yet the
power that acts is not distant;
and therefore, although there is no
contact of matter with matter, there
is a contactus virtutisy or a contact
of power with matter, which alone
is required for the production of
the effect.

We are far from supposing that
the adversaries of the actio in dis-
tans will be silenced by the preced-
ing answer; as it is very probable
that the answer itself will be to
many of them a source of new diffi-
culties. Still, many things are
true which are difficult to be un-
derstood ; and it would be against
reason to deny truths sufficiently
inferred from facts, only on ac-
count of the difficulty which we
experience in giving a popular
explanation of them. Those who,
to avoid such a difficulty, deny
action at a distance, expose them-
selves to other difficulties which
are much more real, as admitting
of no possible solution ; and if they
reject actions at a distance because
their explanation appears to be dif-
ficult, they are also bound to reject
even more decidedly all actions by
material contact ; for these indeed
admit of no explanation whatever,
as we have already shown. *

To understand and explain how
material elements can act at any
distance is difficult, for this one
radical reason : that our intellectual
work is never purely intellectual,

• The Catholic World, August, 1874, p. 584.

Matter.

but is always accompanied by the
working of that other very useful,
but sometimes mischievous, power
which we call imagination ; and be-
cause, when we are trying to un-
derstand something that transcends
imagination, and of which no sensi-
ble image can be formed, our intel-
lect finds itself under the necessity
of working without the assistance
of suitable sensible representations.
Our imagination, however, can-
not remain inactive, and there-
fore it strives continually to sup-
ply the intellect with new images ;
but as these, unhappily, are not
calculated to afford any exact re-
presentation of intellectual things,
the intellect, instead of receiving
help from the imagination, is rather
embarrassed and led astray by it.
On the other hand, the words
which we are generally obliged to
use in speaking of intellectual ob-
jects are more or less immediately
drawn from sensible things, and
have still a certain connection with
sensible images. With such words,
our explanations must, of course, be
metaphorical in some degree, and
represent the intelligible through
the sensible, even when the latter
is incompatible with the former.
This is one of the reasons why, in
some cases, men fail to express in-
telligibly and in an unobjection-
able manner their most intellectual
thoughts. True it is that the me-
taphysicians, by the definite form
of their terminology, have greatly
diminished this last difficulty ; but,
as their language is little known
outside of the philosophical world,
our use of it will scarcely help the
common reader to understand what
it conveys. On the contrary, the
greater the exactness of our ex-
pressions, the more strange and ab-
surd our style will appear to him
who knows of no other language

than that of his senses, his imagina-
tion, and popular prejudice.

These general remarks apply
most particularly to actio in distans.
It is objected that a cause cannot
act where it is not, aiid where its
power is not conveyed through a
material medium. Now, this pro-
position is to be ranked among
those which nothing but popular
prejudice, incompleteness of con-
ception, and imperfection of lan-
guage cause to be received as ax-
iomatic. We have pointed out
that no material medium exists
through which power can be con-
veyed ; but as the objection is pre-
sented in popular terms and ap-
peals to imagination, whilst our an-
swer has no such advantage, it is
very probable that the objection
will keep its ground as long as
men will be led by imagination
more than by intellect. To avoid
this danger, Faraday preferred to
say that " the atom [primitive ele-
ment] of matter is everywhere pre-
sent," and therefore can act
everywhere. But by this answer
the learned professor, while trying
to avoid Scylla, struck against
Charybdis. For, if the element of
matter is everywhere present, then
Westminster Abbey, for instance,
is everywhere present ; which can-
not be true in the ordinary sense
of the words. In fact, we are ac-
customed to say that a body is
present, not in that place where its
action is felt, but in that from
which the direction of the action
proceeds , and since such a direc-
tion proceeds from the centres
of power, to these centres alone
we refer when we point out the
place occupied by a body. Prof.
Faraday, on the contrary, refers to
the active powers when he says
that matter is everywhere present;
for he considers the elements as

Matter.

consisting of power alone.* But
this way of speaking is irreconcila-
ble with the notions we have of
determinate places, distances, etc.,
and creates a chaotic confusion in
all our ideas of material things.
He speaks more correctly in the
passage which we have already
mentioned, where he states that
**each atom [element] extends, so
to sajy throughout the whole of the
solar system, yet always retaining
its own centre of force." Here the
words " so to say " tell us clearly
that the author, having found no
proper terms to express himself,
makes use of a metaphor, and at-
tributes extension to the material
elements in a sense which is not
yet adopted in common use. He
clearly wishes to say that " each ele-
ment extends virtually throughout
space, though it materially occu-
pies only the central point from
which its action is directed."

This latter answer is very good.
But people are not likely to realize
its (bll meaning; for in speaking
of material substance men frequent-
ly confound that which belongs to
it by reason of its matter with that
which belongs to it by reason of
its substantial form. It is evident,
however, that if the substance had
no matter, it would not mark out
a point in space ; it is, therefore,
only on account of its matter that
a substance is formally ubicated.

*Ke tsys: "What do we know of the atom
ipcft iram its force ? You imagine a nucleus which
Btjr be called <t, aod uiirouod it by forces which
■■f be called m ; to mjr mind the a, or nucleus,
*«^ihca, and the substance consists in the powen
^ OT. And, ifkdeed, what notion can we form ol the
ndeuft iadependcot of its powers ? What thought
««iiai on which to hang the imagination of an a
arfepeadcal of the acknowledged forties?"

We sapver that there remains the intrtin^ the
/•»^/, and the lacai ^titioHy which are not
r of the m. but of the a. The i», even

■cowfing to Faraday, is the real centre of a sphere,
•d Iherefere it cannot vanish while the sphere ex-
Mi, csoepi inasmuch as it must be conceived with-
"t balk, sccordfaig to the theory of simple clemeott
Hfeh be adopts.

As to the substantial form (which
is the principle of activity), al-
though it is said to have a kind of
ubication on account of the matter
to which it is terminated, neverthe-
less, of itself, it has no capability
of formal ubication, as we have al-
ready shown. Hence the extent
to which the active power of an
element can be applied is not to
be measured by the ubication of
its matter ; and although no cause
can act where it is not virtually by
its power, yet a cause can act where
it is not present by its matter.

The direct answer to the argu-
ment proposed v/ould, therefore, be
as follows :

" A body cannot act where it is
not present either by itself or by
its power." Granted,

** But actio in distans is an action
which would be exerted where the
body is not present by itself, as is
evident." Granted. " And where
the body is not present by its pov,--
er. " False.

To the reason adduced, that
"there is no medium of communi-
cation," we simply reply that such
a medium is not required, as the
rxtive power constitutes an indefi-
nite sphere, and is already present
after its own manner (that is, vir-
tually) wherever it is to be exerted ;
and therefore it has no need of be-
ing transmitted through a medium.

This is the radical solution of
the difficulty proposed. But the
notion of an indefinite sphere of
activity, on which this solution is
grounded, is, in the eyes of our op-
ponents, only a whimsical inven-
tion, inconsistent, as they think,
with the received principles of phi-
losophy. We must therefore vindi-
cate our preceding answer against
their other objections.

A second objection. — A sphere oi
power, they say, is a mere absurd-

Matter.

ity. For how can the active pow-
er be there, where its matter is
not ? The matter is the first sub-
ject of its form ; and therefore the
form must be in the matter, and
not outside of it. But in a primi-
tive substance the active power is
cntitatively the same thing with the
substantial form; accordingly, the
active power of a primitive sub-
stance must be entirely in its mat-
ter, and not outside of it. And the
same conclusion is to be applied to
the powers of all material com-
pounds ; for in all cases the form
must be supported by the matter.
How is it, then, possible to admit a
sphere of power outside of its mat-
ter, and so distant from its matter
as is the sun from the planets ?

This objection, which we have of-
ten heard from men who should have
known better, is wholly grounded
on a false conception of the rela-
tion between the matter and the
form of a primitive being. It is
false, in fact, that the matter sup-
ports the substantial form, and it is
false that the substantial form ex-
ists in the matter as in a subject.
The accidental act requires a sub-
ject already existing ; but the sub-
stantial act requires only a poten-
tial term to which it has to give
the first existence. This is evi-
dent; because if the substantial
act ought to be supported by a
real subject, this real subject would
be an actual substance before re-
ceiving the same substantial act;
which is a contradiction in terms.
And therefore the form is not sup-
ported by the matter, but only ter-
minated to it ; and the matter is not
the subject of the form, though it is
so called by many, but is only the
substantial ierm^ to which the
substantial form gives existence.
" Properly speaking," says S. Tho-
mas, " that which is potential in re-

gard to some accidental actuality
is called subject. For the subject
gives actuality to the accident, as
the accident has no actuality ex-
cept through its subject; and for
this reason we say that accidents
are in a subject, whereas we do not
say that the substantial form is in a
subject, * Matter,* therefore, and
* subject,' difier in this : that ' sub-
ject ' means something which does
not receive its actuality by the ac-
cession of anything else, but exists
by itself and possesses a complete
actuality (as, for example, a white
man does not receive his being
from his whiteness). * Matter,* on
the contrary, means .something
which receives its actuality from
that which is given to it ; because
matter has, of itself, only an in-
complete being, or rather no being
at all, as the Commentator says.
Hence, to speak properly, the form
gives existence to the matter;
whereas the accident gives no ex-
istence to the subject, as it is the
subject that gives existence to the
accident. Yet * matter * is some-
times confounded with * subject,*
and vice versa.''*

From this doctrine it is manifest
that the flatter is not the subject
of the substantial form, and conse-
quently that the form, or the prin-
ciple of activity, is in no need of
being supported by its matter. It
is rather the matter itself that needs
to be supported — that is, kept in
existence — by its form ; as it has no
being except from it. The matter
is potency, and the form is act;
now, all act is nobler than its cor-
responding potency. It is not,
therefore, the potency that deter-
mines the conditions of existence
of its act, but the act itself deter-
mines the conditions of existence

• Opuac De Princi/iU Xatmr^t,

Matter.

of its potency. And thus it is not
the matter that determines the
range of its form, but it is the form
that determines the being of its
own matter, in the same manner as
the form of a body determines its
centre of gravity. These consider-
ations, which will hereafter receive
a greater development, suffice to
show that the range of the elemen-
tary power is not determined or
circumscribed by its material term.
And thus the objection is substan-
tially destroyed.

Those who make this objection
suppose that the activity of a mate-
rial element is entitatively enclosed,
embedded, and merged in the mat-
ter as in a physical recipient by

I which it must be circumscribed.

I This supposition is a gross philo-
sophical blunder. The matter of a

I primitive element is not a physical
recipient of the substantial form ;
for it is nothing physically before
it is actuated. The substantial
form gives to the matter its first
being; and therefore it cannot be
related to it as the enclosed to the
cncloser or the supported to the
supporter, but only as the deter-
miner to the determinable. This
ii an obvious metaphysical truth
that cannot be questioned. More-
over, the form can determine the
existence of a material point in
space without being itself confined
to that point. This is very clear-
ly inferred from the fact already
established, viz., that a material
point acts all around itself in ac-
cordance with the Newtonian law;
for this fact compels the conception
of a material clement as a virtual
sphere, of which the matter is the
central point, while its virtual
iphcricity must be traced to the
special character of the form.
N'ow, although the centre of a
•phcrc borrows all its centric real-

ity from the sphericity of which it
is the intrinsic term, yet the sphe-
ricity itself cannot be confined
within its own centre ; which shows
that, although the matter of an ele-
ment borrows all its reality from
the substantial form of which it is
the essential term, yet the substan-
tial form itself, on account of its
known spherical character, must
virtually extend all around its mat-
ter, and constitute, so to say, an
atmosphere of power expanding as
far, at least, from the central point
as is necessary for the production
of the phenomena of universal
gravitation.

Nor can this be a sufficient
ground for inferring, as the objec-
tion does, that in such a case the
form would be distant from its mat-
ter as much as the sun is from the
planets. The form, as such, can-
not be considered as a terra of the
relation of distance ; for, as we
have already remarked, there is no
distance without two formal ubica-
tions. Now, the form, as such, has
no formal ubication, but is reduced
to the predicament ubi only by the
ubication of its own matter. Hence
it is impossible rationally to con-
ceive a distance between the mat-
ter and its form, however great
may be the sphere of activity of the
material element. When the sub-
stantial form is regarded as a prin-
ciple of accidental actions, wc may
indeed consider it, if not as com-
posed of, at least as equivalent to,
a continuous series of concentric
spherical forms overlying one an-
other throughout the whole range
of activity; and we may thus con-
ceive every one of them as virtual-
ly distant from the material centre,
its virtual distance being measured'
by its radius. But, strictly speak-
ing, the radius measures the dis-
tance between the agent and the

Matter.

patient, not between the agent and
its own power; and, on the other
hand, as the imagined series of
concentric sphericities continues
uninterruptedly up to the very cen-
tre of the sphere, we can easily
perceive that the substantial form,
even as a principle of action, is im-
mediately and intrinsically termi-
nated to its own matter.

A third objection, — What concep-
tion can we form of an imiefinite
sphere? For a sphere without a
spherical surface is inconceivable.
But an indefinite sphere is a sphere
without a spherical surface ; for if
there were a surface, there would
be a limit ; and if there were a limit,
the sphere would not extend in-
definitely. It is therefore impossi-
ble to conceive an indefinite sphere
of activity.

This objection is easily answered.
A sphere without a spherical form
is indeed inconceivable; but it is
not necessary that the spherical
form should be a limiting surface,
as the objection assumes. We may
imagine an indefinite sphere of
matter; that is, a body having a
density continually decreasing in
the inverse ratio of the squared
distances from a central point.
Its sphericity would consist in the
spherical decrease of its density;
which means that the body would
be a sphere, not on account of an
•exterior spherical limit, but on ac-
•count of its interior constitution.
Now, what we say of an indefinite
.sphere of matter applies, by strict
analogy, to an indefinite sphere of
power. Only, in passing from the
former to the latter, the word den-
sity should be replaced by inten-
sity J for intensity is to power what
density is to matter. And thus an
indefinite sphere of power may
have its spherical character within
itself without borrowing it from a

limiting surface. We may, there-
fore, consider this third objection
as solved.

Let us add that in our sphere of
power not only all the conditions
are fulfilled which the law of gravi-
tation requires, but, what is still
more satisfactory, all the conditions
also which befit the metaphysical
constitution of a primitive sub-
stance. We have a centre {metier),
the existence of which essentially
depends on the existence of a prin-
ciple of activity {form) constituting
a virtual sphere. Take away the
substantial form, and the matter
will cease to have existence. Take
away the virtual sphericity, and the
centre will be no more. But let
the spherical form be created ; the
• centre will immediately be called
into existence as the essential and
intrinsic term of sphericity, it be-
ing impossible for a real spheri-
city not to give existence to a real
centre. And although this spheri-
cal form possesses an intensity of
power decreasing in proportion as
the sphere expands, still it has
everywhere the same property of
giving existence to its centre, since
it has everywhere an intrinsic sphe-
rical character essentially connect-
ed with a central point as its indis-
pensable term. Whence we see
that the substantial form, though
virtually extending into an indefi-
nite sphere, is everywhere termi-
nated to its own matter. Thus the
Newtonian law and the actio in dis-
tans, far from being opposed to the
known metaphysical law of the
constitution of things, serve rather
to make it more evident by afford-
ing us the means of representing to
ourselves in an intelligible and al-
most tangible manner the ontologic
relation of matter and form in the
primitive substance.

A fourth objection, — A power

Matter.

which virtually extends throughout
an indefinite sphere must possess
in in/ioite intensity. But no ma-
terial element possesses a power of
infinite intensity. Therefore no
element extends its power through-
out an indefinite sphere. The
major of this syllogism is proved
thus: In an indefinite sphere we
can conceive an infinite multitude
of concentric spherical surfaces, to
every one of which the active power
of the element can be applied for
the production of a finite effect.
But the finite taken an infinite
number of times gives infinity.
Therefore the total action of an
element in its sphere will be infi-
nite; which requires a power of in-
finite intensity.

The answer to this objection is
not difficult. From the fact that
the active powers virtually extend
through an indefinite sphere and
act evcrj-where in accordance with
the Newtonian law, it is impossible
to prove that material elements
possess a power of infinite intensity.
We concede, of course, that in an
indefinite sphere " an infinite mul-
titude of concentric spherical sur-
faces can be conceived, to every one
of which the active power of the
clement can be applied for the pro-
dttctioa of a finite effect." We
also concede that "the finite taken
an infinite number of times gives
infinity.** But when it is argued
lliat therefore " the total action of
an clement in iu sphere will be in-
^te," we must distinguish. The
total action will be infinite in this
>ci»e: that it would reach an infi-
nite multitude of terms, if they ex-
ited in its sphere, and produce in
each of them a determinate effect,
according to their distance— this
vc concede. The total action will
be infinite— that is, the total effort
<>f the clement will be infinitely in-

tense ; this we deny. The school-
men would briefly answer that the
action will be infinite ierminativcy
but not intensive. This distinc-
tion, which entirely upsets the ob-
jection, needs a few words of ex-
planation.

In the action of one element
upon another the power of the
agent, while exerted on the patient,
is not prevented from exerting it-
self at the very same time upon any
other element existing in its sphere
of activity. This is a well-known
physical law. Hence the same ele-
ment can emit a thousand actions
simultaneously, without possessing a
thousand powers or a thousandfold
power, by the simultaneous appli-
cation of its single power to a thou-
sand different terms. The actions
of an agent are therefore indefinite-
ly multiplied by the mere multipli-
cation of the terms, with no multi-
plication of the active power; and
accordingly an active power of
finite intensity may have an infinite
applicability. This is true of all
created powers. Our intellect, for
instance, is substantially finite, and
yet it can investigate and . under-
stand any number of intelligible ob-
jects. This amounts to saying that,
if there is no limit to possible in-
tellectual conceptions, there is no
limit to the number of intelligible
terms ; but from this fact it would
be absurd to infer that a created
intellect has a power of infinite in-
tensity. In like manner, the motive
power of a material element is sub-
stantially finite, and yet it can be
applied to the production of a num-
ber of movements which has no
limit but the number of the terms
capable of receiving the motion.
The infinity of the total action is
therefore grounded on an assumed
infinity of terms, not on an infinite
intensity of the power.

Matter.

Nor can this be a matter of sur-
prise. For, as the motive power is
not transmitted from the agent to
the patient, it remains whole and
entire in the agent, however much
it may be exerted in all directions.
It is not absorbed, or exhausted, or
weakened by its exertions, and,
while acting on any number of
terms, is yet ready to act on any
number of other terms as intensely
as it would on each of them sepa-
rately. If ten new planets were now
created, the sun would need no in-
crease of power to attract them all ;
its actual power would suffice to
govern their course without the
least interference with the gravita-
tion of the other existing planets.
And the reason of this is that the
power of all material elements is
naturally determined to act, and
therefore needs no other condition
for its exertion than the presence
of the movable terms within the
reach of its activity. The number
of such terms is therefore at every
instant the measure of the number
of the real actions.

We have said that the active pow-
er is not weakened by its exertions.
In fact, a cause is never weakened
by the mere production of its con-
natural effects, but only because,
while producing its effects, it is sub-
jecfed to the action of other agents
which tends to alter and break up
its natural constitution. Now, to
be altered and impaired may be the
lot of those causes whose causality
arises from the conspiration of many
active principles, as is the case with
all the physical compounds. But
primitive causes, such as the first
elements of matter, are altogether
unalterable and incorruptible with
respect to their substantial being,
and can never be impaired. When
we burn a piece of paper, the paper
with its composition is destroyed,

but we know that its first conn]>o-
nents remain unaltered, and preserve
still the same active powers which
they possessed when they were all
united in the piece of paper.

This incontrovertible fact may be
confirmed h priori by reflecting that
the active principle, or the substan-
tial form, of a primitive element,
is not exposed to the influence of
any natural agent capable of im-
pairing it. Everything that is im-
paired is impaired by its contrarj-.
Now, the active principle has no
contrary. The only thing which
might be imagined to be contrary
to a motive power would be a mo-
tive power of an opposite nature,
such as the repulsive against the at-
tractive. Motive powers, however,
do not act on one another, but on
their matter only, as matter alone
is passive. On the other hand, even
if one power could act on another,
its motive action would only pro-
duce an accidental determination to
local movement, which determina-
tion surely would not alter in the
least the substance of a primitive
being. Hence, although two op-
posite actions, when terminated to
the same subject, can neutralize
each other, yet two opposite motive
powers can never exercise any in-
fluence on each other by their natu-
ral actions ; and therefore, in spite
of their finite entity, they are never
impaired or weakened, and are ap-
plicable to the production of an un-
limited number of actions.

A fifth objection, — An action of
infinite intensity cannot but proceed
from a power of infinite intensity.
But, according to the Newtonian
law, two elements, when their dis-
tance has become infinitely small,
act on one another with an intensity
infinitely great. Therefore, if the
Newtonian law hold good even to
the very centre of the element, the

Matter.

elanenUry power possesses infinite
iQtensity.

To this we reply that the mathe-
matical expression of the intensity
of the action, in the case of infini-
tesimal distances, does not become
infinite, except when the action is
supposed to last for a finite unit of
time. But the action continued for
a finite unit of time is not the actual
iction of an element ; it is the in-
tegral of all the actions exerted in
ihc infinite series of infinitesimal
instants which makes up the finite
unit of time. To judge of the true
intensity of the actual exertion, it
15 necessary to exclude from the cal-
culation the whole of the past or fu-
tare actions, and to take into ac-
I'OttDt the only action which corre-
sponds to the infinitesimal present.
In other terms, the actual action is
expressed, not by an integral, but
V a differential. In fact, the ele-
ments act when they are, not when
they have been, or when they will
i<; they act in their present, not in
t^ir future or in their past; and
the present, the /f^w, is only an in-
stant, which, though connecting the
past with the future, has in itself
neither past nor future, and there-
^"^rc has a rigorously infinitesimal
'iaration. It is this instant, and
ifA the finite unit of time, that
'measures the actual efibrt of the
iemcnts. Accordingly, the action
« actually proceeding from the ele-
ments, when at infinitesimal dis-
Jncc. is infinitely less than the in-
•--^1 calculated for a finite unit of
•me; which shows that the argu-
'Qtnt proposed has no foundation.

This answer serves also to com-
|»tete our solution of the preceding
ejection. It was there objected
^ the active power of an element
'^ be applied to the production
•if an infinite multitude of Jiniie
*ct$; to which wc answered that

a finite power was competent to do
this by being applied simultaneously
to an infinite multitude of terms.
But now we add that none of those
eflfects acquire 2i finite intensity, ex-
cept by the continuation of the
action during a finite unit of time,
and therefore that the true effect
produced in every instant of time
is infinitesimal. Hence the infinite
multitude of such effects, as related
to the instant of their actual pro-
duction, is an infinite multitude of
infinitesimals, and the total effort
of a primitive element in every in-
stant of time is therefore finite, not
infinite.

A sixth objection. — If wc admit
that a material element has an inde-
finite sphere of power, we must also
admit that the element has a kind
of immensity. For the active
power must evidently be present
entitatively in all the parts of space
where it is ready to act. Accord-
ingly, as by the hypothesis it is
ready to act everywhere, its sphere
being unlimited, it must be pre-
sent everywhere and extend with-
out limit. In other words, the
elementary power would share with
God the attribute of immensity —
which is impossible.

This objection, which, in spite
of its apparent strength, contains
only an appeal to imagination in-
stead of intellect, might be answered
from S. Thomas in two different
ways. The first answer is suggested
by the following passage: "The
phrase, A thing is everywhere and in
ail times^ can be understood in two
manners: First, as meaning that
the thing possesses in its entity the
reason of its extending to every
place and to every time; and in
this manner it is proper of God to
be everywhere and for ever. Se-
condly, as meaning that the thing
has nothing in itself by which it be

Matter.

determined to a certain place or
time."* According to this doc-
trine, a thing can be conceived to
be everywhere, either by a positive
intrinsic determination to fill all
space, or by the absence of any de-
termination implying a special re-
lation to place. We might there-
fore admit that the elementary
power is everywhere in this second
manner; for although the matter
of an element marks out a point in
space, we have seen that its power,
as such, has no determination by
which it can be confined to a limited
space. And yet nothing would
oblige us to concede that the active
power of an element, by its manner
of being everywhere, "shares in
God's immensity "; for it is evident
that an absence of determination
has nothing common with a posi-
tive determination, and is not a
share of it.

The second answer is suggested
by a passage in which the holy
doctor inquires "whether to be
everywhere be an attribute of God
alone,'* and in which he proposes
to himself the objection that "uni-
versals are everywhere; so also
the first matter, as existing in all
bodies, is everywhere; and there-
fore something is everywhere be-
sides God." To which he very
briefly replies: " Universals and
the first matter are indeed every-
where, but they have not every-
where the same being." f This
answer can be applied to the active
power of primitive elements with as

^AGquid ease temper et ubique potest intelligi
dupUdtcr. Uno modo, quia habet in k unde se ex-
tenidat ad omne tempus et ad omnem locum, sicut
Deo compctit case ubique et semper. Alio mode,
quia non habet in sc quo detenninetur ad aliqucm
locum vcl tempus. Summa Theol.^ p. i, q. z6, a. 7.

t Universale est ubique et semper ; materia etiam
prima, quum dt in omnibos corporibos, est ubique.
Neutrum autem horum est Deus. Ergo ease ubi-
que non est proprium Dei. — Ad primum dicendum,
quod universale et materia prima sunt quidem ubi-
que, sed noo secundum idem cae. Summa Tkeol..^
p. i» q. 8, a. 4.

much reason, to say the least, as it
is to the first matter. The active
power may therefore be admitted
to be everywhere, not indeed like
God, who is everywhere formally,
and " has everywhere the same be-
ing," but in a quite different man-
ner — that is, by extending every-
where virtually^ and by possessing
everywhere a different degree of
virtual being. We know, in fact»
that this is the case, as the exertions
of such a power become weaker
and weaker in proportion as the
object acted on is more and more
distant from the centre of activity.
Yet a third answer, which may
prove to be the best, can be drawn
from the direct comparison of the
pretended immensity of the elemen-
tary power with the real immensity
of the divine substance. God's
immensity is an infinite attribute,
which contains in itself the formal
reason of the existence of space,
and therefore eminently contains
in itself all possible ubications.
By his immensity God is essentially
everywhere with his whole sub-
stance, and is as infinite and entire
in any one point of space as he is
in the whole of the universe and
outside of it. On the other hand,
what is the pretended immensity of
the elementary power? It is un-
necessary to remark that an indefi-
nite sphere of power does not givt*
existence to space, as it presup-
poses it ; but it is important to
notice that, however great may be
the expansion of that virtual sphere,
the essence and the substance of
the element are absolutely confined
to that single point, where its form
is terminated to its matter. Both
matter and form are included in
the essence of an element ; hence
there only can the element be with
its essence and substance where
its matter and its form are together.

Matter.

But tfaej are not together, except in
a single point. Therefore the ele-
ment, however great may be the
virtual expansion of its sphere of
power, is essentially and substan-
tially present only in a single point.

From this every one will see that
there is no danger of confounding
the virtual ubiquity of created
power with God's immensity. Di-
vine immensity has been ingenious-
ly, though somewhat strangely, de-
fined by a philosopher to be "a
sphere of which the centre is every-
where." The power of an element,
on the contrary, is "a sphere of
which the centre is ubicated in a
single point." If this does not pre-
clude the notion that the element
** shares in God's immensity," we
ftil to see why every creature
should not share also in God's
eternity, by its existence in each
«icccssive moment of time. The
objection is therefore insignificant.
As to the virtual sphere itself, we
must bear in mind that its power
loses continually in intensity as the
virtual expansion is increased, till
millions of millions of elements are
required to produce the least ap-
preciable effect. Hence the virtu-
ality of elementary powers tends
continually towards zero as its
limit, although it never reaches it.
And as a decreasing series, though
implying an infinity of terms, may
Have a finite value, as mathemati-
nans know, so the virtuality of the
elementary powers, although ex-
tending after its own manner be-
yond any finite limit, represents
only a finite property of a finite
heing.

From what we have said in these
pages the intelligent reader will
tealize, wc hope, that the much-
nuhgned actio in disians^ as explain-
ed by us according to Faraday's
conception, can bear any amount

of philosophical scrutiny. The
principles which have formed the
basis of our preceding answers are
the three following :

I St. Motive powers have no
other formal ubication than that
from which their exertions proceed;

2d. Motive powers are never
distant from any matter ;

3d. Motive powers are not merg-
ed or embedded in the matter to
which they belong, but constitute a
virtual sphere around it.

That actio in distans not only is
possible, but is the only action pos-
sible with the material agents, has
been proved in our preceding article.
The embarrassment we experience
in its explanation arises, not from our
reason, but from our habit of rely-
ing too much on our imagination.
" Imagination," says S. Thomas,
"cannot rise above space and time."
We depict to ourselves intellectual
relations as local relations. The
idea that a material point situated
on the earth can exert its power on
the polar star suggests to us the
thought that the active power of
that element must share the ubica-
tion of the polar star, and be local-
ly present to it. Yet the true rela-
tion of the power to the star is not
a local relation, and the exertion
of the power is not terminated to
the place where the star is, but to
the star itself as to its proper sub-
ject; and therefore the relation is
a relation of act to potency, not a
relation of local presence.

There is nothing local in the
principle of activity, except the
central point from which its action
is directed ; and there is nothing
local in its action, except the direc-
tion from that central point to the
subject to which the action is termi-
nated. True it is that we speak of a
sphere of power, which seems to im-
ply local relations. But such a sphere

Hope.

is not locally determined by the
power, which has no ubication, but
by the matter to which that power
is to be applied. For the neces-
sity of admitting a sphere of power
arises from the fact that all the
matter placed at equal distance
from the centre of activity is equal-
ly acted on. It is only from mat-
ter to matter that distance can be
conceived ; and thus it is only from
matter to matter, and not from
matter to power, that the radius of
a sphere can be traced. Abstract
geometry deals with imaginary
points, but physical geometry re-
quires real points of matter.

Power is above geometry, and
therefore it transcends space ; hence
the difficulty of understanding its
nature and of explaining the
mode of its operation. Nevertheless,
power and matter are made for one
another, and must have a mutual
co-ordination, since they necessa-
rily conspire into unity of essence.

Hence whatever can be predicated
potentially of the matter can be vir-
tually predicated of the power ; and,
as the matter of an element, though
actuated in a single point of space,
is everywhere potentially — ^viz., can
be moved to any distant place — so
also the principle of activity, though
formally tem^inated to a single
point, is everywhere virtually — that
is, it can impart motion to matter
at any distance. Thus actio in
distans might directly be inferred,
as a necessary result, from the on-
tological correlation of the essen-
tial principles of matter. But we
have no need of <i^riV?r/ arguments,
as, in questions of fact, the best
arguments are those which arise
from the analysis of the facts them-
selves. These arguments we have
already given ; and, so long as they
are not refuted, we maintain that
nothing but actio in distans offers a
philosophical explanation of natu-
ral facts.

TO BB CONTINUED.

HOPE.

Youthful hope around thee lingers;

Soon its transient lines will fly :
Time and Death with frosty fingers

Touch its blossoms, and they die.

Yet rejoice while hope is keeping
Watch upon her emerald throne.

Ere thy cheek is pale with weeping.
Ere thy dreams of love have flowni

TAe VeU Withdrawn.

»5

THE VEIL WITHDRAWN.

^TtASSLA-nD, BT PBRMISSION, PXOM THE FRBKCH OP MADAMS CRAVBN, AUTHOR OP *^A8ISTn*8 BTOKT,'

** PUCUKANCB," ETC.

XVI.

As soon as I rose from my place
I perceived the young lady who
had been collecting money in the
morning not far off. She was go-
ing by with her mother without
observing me, and I followed in
the crowd that was making its way
to the door. But a pouring rain
was falling from the clouds which
were so threatening two hours be-
fore, and a great many who were
going out suddenly stopped and
came back to remain under shelter
during the shower. In conse-
quence of this I all at once found
myself beside the young lady, who
was diligently seeking her mother,
from whom she had been separated
by the crowd. She observed me
this time, and with a child-like
smile and a tone of mingled terror
and confidence that were equally
touching, said :

** Excuse me, madarae, but, as you
are taller than I, please tell me if
you see my mother — a lady in
black with a gray hat."

** Yes," I replied, " I see her, and
she is looking for you also. I will
aid you in reaching her."

We had some trouble in opening
1 passage, but after some time suc-
ceeded in getting to the place
where her mother had been push-
ed by the crowd at some distance
from the door of the church. She
was looking anxiously in every di-
rection, and when she saw us her
f>tt lighted up, and she thanked
me with equal simplicity and grace

of manner for the service I had
rendered her daughter. We con-
versed together for some minutes,
during which I learned that though
I had met them twice that day in
the same church, it was not the
one they usually attended, their
home being in another quarter of
the city. The daughter had been
invited to collect money at S.
Roch*s that day, and wishing, for
some reason, to be at home by four '
o'clock, they had returned for the
afternoon service, which ends an
hour earlier there than anywhere
else. This variation from their
usual custom had probably caused
a misunderstanding about the car-
riage which should have been at
the door, and they felt embarrass-
ed about getting to the Rue St.
Dominique, where they resided, as
the violent rain prevented them
from going on foot. Glad to be
able to extricate them from their
embarrassment, I at once offered
to take them home in my carriage,
which was at the door. They ac-
cepted the offer with gratitude.
Their manners and language would
have left no doubt as to their rank,
even if I had not met them in so-
ciety. And I soon learned more
than enough to satisfy me on this
point.

As soon as we were seated in the
carriage the elder of the two ladies
said : " I know whom I have to
thank for the favor you have done
me, madame, for no one can forget

Thi Veil Withdrawn.

the Duchessa di Valenzano who
has ever seen her, even but once,
and no one can be ignorant of her
name, which is in every mouth.
But it is not the same with us. Al-
low roe, therefore, to say that I am
the Comtesse de Kergy, and this is
my daughter Diana, . . . who is
very happy, I assure you, as well
as surprised, at the accident that
has brought her in contact with
one she has talked incessantly
about ever since she had the hap-
piness of seeing you first"

Her daughter blushed at these
words, but did not turn away her
eyes, which were fastened on me
with a sympathetic expression of
charming nafveti that inspired an
irresistible attraction towards her in
return. The name of Kergy was a
well-known one. I had heard it
more than once, and was trying to
recall when and where I heard it
for the first time, when, as we were
crossing the Place du Carrousel,
the young Diana, looking at the
clock on the Tuileries, suddenly
exclaimed :

" It is just going to strike four.
We ought to feel greatly obliged to
madame, mamma for, had it not
been for her, we should have been
extremely late, and Gilbert would
have been surprised and anxious
at our not arriving punctually."

Gilbert ! . . . This name re-
freshed my memory. Gilbert de
Kergy was the name of the young
traveller whom I had once seen at
the large dinner-party. He must
be the very person in question. . . .
Before I had time to ask, Mme. de
Kergy put an end to my uncertain-
ty on the subject.

" My son," said she, " has recent-
ly made an interesting tour in the
Southern States of America, and it
is with respect to this journey there
is to be a discussion to-day which

we promised to attend. I have
given up my large salon for the pur-
pose, on condition (a condition
Dinia proposed) that the meeting
should end with a small collection
in behalf of the orphan asylum for
which she was soliciting contri-
butions this morning — a work in
which she is greatly interested."

" My husband, who has also
travelled a great deal," I replied,
"had, I believe, the pleasure of
meeting M. de Kergy on one oc-
casion, and conversing with him."

"Gilbert has not forgotten the
conversation," exclaimed the young
Diana with animation. " He often
speaks of it. He told us about
you also, madame, and described
you so accurately that I knew you
at once as soon as I saw you, be-
fore any one told me your name."

I made no reply, and we remain-
ed silent till, having crossed the
bridge, we approached the Rue St.
Dominique, when Diana, suddenly
leaning towards her mother, whis-
pered a few words in her ear. Mme.
de Kergy began to laugh.

"Really," said she, "this child
takes everything for granted ; but
you are so kind, I will allow her to
repeat aloud what she has just said
to me."

" Well," said the young girl, " I
said the discussion would certainly
be interesting, for Gilbert is to take
a part in it, as well as several
other good speakers, and those who
attend will at the close aid in a
good work. I added that I should
be very much pleased, madame, if
you would attend."

I was by no means prepared for
this invitation, and at first did not
know what reply to make, but quick-
ly bethought myself that there would
be more than an hour before Loren-
zo's return. I knew, moreover, that,
even according to his ideas, I should

The Veil Withdrawn.

be in veiy good society, and it could
not displease hira in the least if I
attended a discussion at the Hotel
de Kergy under the auspices of the
countess and her daughter. Be-
sides, on my part, I felt a good deal
of curiosity, never having attended
anything like a public discussion.
In short, I decided, without much
hesitation, to accept the invitation,
md the young Diana clapped her
hands with joy. We were just en-
tering the open porU-cochhre of a
Urge court, where we found quite
a number of equipages and footmen.
The carriage stopped before the
steps and in five minutes I was seated
between Diana and her mother near
JL platform at one end of a drawing-
room large enough to contain one
handred and fifty or two hundred
persons.

I cannot now give a particular
account of this meeting, though it
was an event in my life. The princi-
pal subject discussed was, I think,
the condition of the blacks, not
fcl emancipated, in the Southern
States of America. An American
of the Korth, who could express
himself very readily in French, first
spoke, and after him a missionary
priest, who considered the question
&om a no less elevated point of view,
though quite different from that
of the philanthropist, and the dis-
cussion had already grown quite
animated before it became Gilbert
dc Kergy *s turn to speak. When
he rose, there was a movement
ra the whole assembly, and his
6wt words excited involuntary at-
tention, which soon grew to intense
interest, and for the first time in
my life I felt the power of language
and the effect that eloquence can
produce.

It was strange, but he began with
a brief, brilliant sketch of places
tfaftt leemed familiar to me ; for Lo«

▼OU XX. 2

renzo h^d visited them, ana ne had
such an aptness for description that
I felt as if I had seen them in his
company. My first thought was
to regret his absence. Why was
he not here with me now to listen
to this discussion, to become inte-
rested in it, and perhaps take a part
in it ? ... I had a vague feeling that
this reunion was of a nature to render
him as he appeared to me during
the first days of our wedded life,
when his extensive travels and noble
traits made me admire his courage
and recognize his genius, the pres-
tige of which was only surpassed in
my eyes by that of his tenderness I
. . . But another motive intensified
this desire and regret. The bold-
ness, the intelligence, and the ad-
venturous spirit of the young travel-
ler were, of course, traits familiar
to me, and which I was happy and
proud to recognize ; but, alas ! the
resemblance ceased when, quitting
the field of observation and de-
scriptions of nature, and all that
memory and intelligence can glean,
the orator soared to loftier regions,
and linked these facts themselves
with questions of a higher nature
and wider scope than those of mere
earthly interest. He did this with
simplicity, earnestness, and con-
summate ability, and while he was
speaking I felt that my mind rose
without difficulty to the level of
his, and expanded suddenly as if 1
had wings ! It was a moment of
keen enjoyment, but likewise of
keen suffering; for I felt the differ-
ence that the greater or less eleva-
tion of the soul can produce in two
minds that are equally gifted! I
clearly saw what was wanting in
Lorenzo's. I recognized the cause
of th^ something lacking which had
so often troubled me, and I felt
more intensely and profoundly pain-
ed than I had that very mornings

The Veil WUhdrawn.

While listening to Gilbert I only
thought of Lorenzo, and, if I re-
luctantly acknowledged the superi-
ority of the former, I felt at the
same time that there was nothing
to prevent the latter from becoming
his equal ; for, I again said to my-
self, Lorenzo was not merely a man
of the world, leading a frivolous, aim-
less life, as might seem from his pres-
ent habits. Love of labor and love
of nature and art do not characterize
such a man, and he possessed these
traits in a high degree. He had
therefore to be merely detached
from other influences. This was
my task, my duty, and it should
also be my happiness ; for I had no
positive love for the world, whose
pleasures I knew so well. No, I
did not love it. I loved what was
higher and better than that. I felt
an immense void within that great
things alone could fill. And I
seemed to-day to have entered into
the sphere of these great things ;
but I was there alone, and this was
torture. All my actual impressions
were therefore centred in an ardent
desire to put an end to this solitude
by drawing into that higher region
him from whom I was at the mo-
ment doubly separated.

This was assuredly a pure and
legitimate desire, but I did not t)e-
lieve myself capable of obtaining its
realization without difficulty, and
sufficiently calculating the price I
must pay for such a victory and
the efforts by which it must often
be merited. . . .

While these thoughts were suc-
ceeding each other in my mind I
almost forgot to listen to the end
of the discourse, which terminated
the meeting in the midst of the ap-
plause of the entire audience. The
vast hall of discussion was instant-
ly changed into a salon again, where
everybody seemed to be acquaint-

ed, and where I found the ^liU of
those I had met in other places.
But assembled together for so legi-
timate an object, they at once in-
spired me with interest, respect, and
a feeling of attraction. It was Paris
under qui^e a new aspect, and it
seemed to me, if I had lived in a
world like this, I should never have i
experienced the terrible distress i
which I have spoken of, and which |
the various emotions of the day i
had alone succeeded in dissipating, i

The charming young Diana, light |
and active, had ascended the plat- !
form, and was now talking to her |
brother. Gilbert started with sur-
prise at her first words, and his
eyes turned towards the place where
I was standing. Then I almost in-
stantly saw them descend from the
platform and come towards mc.
Diana looked triumphant.

"This is my brother Gilbert,
madame," said she, her eyes spark-
ling. " And it is I who have the
honor of presenting him to you, as !
he seems to have waited for his lit-
tle sister to do it." I

He addressed me some words of
salutation, to which I responded. \
As he stood near me, I again ob-
served his calm, thoughtful, intelli-
gent face, which had struck me so
much the only time I remembered
to have seen him before. While
speaking a few moments previous
his face was animated, and his eyes
flashed with a fire that added more
than once to the efiect of his clear,
penetrating voice, which was .always
well modulated. His gestures also,
though not numerous or studied,
had a natural grace and the dignity
which strength of conviction, joined
to brilliant eloquence, gives to the I
entire form of an orator. His man-
ner was now so simple that I felt
perfectly at ease with him, and told
him without any hesitation how

The Veil Withdrawn.

bappy I was at the double good-
fortune that had brought me in
contact with his sister, and had
resulted in my coming to this meet-
ing where I had been permitted to
hear him speak.

" This day will be a memorable
one for me as well as for her, ma-
daine/* he replied, "and I shall
never forget it."

There was not the least inflection
m his voice to make me regard his
words as anything more than mere
politeness, but their evident sinceri-
ty caused me a momentary embar-
rassment. He seemed to attach
too much importance to this meet-
mg, but it passed away. He in-
fptred me with almost as much
omBdence as if he had been a
friend. I compared him with Lan-
dolfo, and wondered what effect so
different an influence would have
on Lorenzo, and I could not help
wishing he were his friend also. . . .

I continued silent, and he soon
resumed : ** The Duca di Valenzano
is not here ?"

" No ; he will be sorry, and I re-
gret it for his sake."

** The presence of such a travel-
kr would have been a great honor
to us/'

** He was very happy to have an
opportunity of conversing with you
on one occasion."

" It was a conversation I have
never forgotten. It would have
been for my advantage to renew
it, bat I never go into society — at
Paiis.-

" And elsewhere ?"

"Elsewhere it is a different
thing/' said he, smiling. '* I am as
social while travelling as I am un-
civilized at my return."

" We must not expect, then, to
aeet you again in Paris ; but if you
n er go to Italy, may we not hope
yoo will come to see us ?"

" If you will allow me to do so,"
said he eagerly.

"Yes, certainly. I think I can
promise that the well-known hospi-
tality of the Neapolitans will not be
wanting towards the Comte Gilbert
de Kergy."

After a moment's silence he re-
sumed : " You must have been ab-
sent when I was at Naples. That
was two years ago."

" I was not married then, and I
am not a Neapolitan."

"And not an Italian, perhaps."

"Do you say so on account of
the color of my hair } That would
be astonishing on the part of so
observant a traveller, for you must
have noticed that our great masters
had almost as many blondes as
brunettes for their models. How-
ever, I am neither English nor
German, as perhaps you are tempt-
ed to think. I am a Sicilian."

" I have never seen in Sicily or
anywhere else a person who re-
sembled you."

These words implied a compli-
ment, and probably such an one as I
had never received ; and, I need
not repeat, I was not fond of compli-
ments. But this was said without
the least smile or the slightest look
that indicated any desire to flat-
ter or please me. Was not this a
more subtle flattery than I had
been accustomed to receive.' . . .
And did it not awaken unawares
the vanity I had long thought root-
ed out of the bottom of my heart ?
I can affirm nothing positive as to
this, for there is always some-
thing lacking in the knowledge of
one's self, however thoroughly we
may think we have acquired it.
But I am certain it never occurred
to me at the time to analyze the
eff*ect of this meeting on me. I
was wholly absorbed in the regret
and hope it awakened.

The VeU WUhdrawn.

As I was on the point of leav-
ing, Mme. de Kergy asked per-
mission to call on me with her
daughter the next day at four
o'clock — a pennisston I jojrfully

granted — and Diana accompanied carriage.

me to the very foot of the steps,
I kissed her smiling face, as I
took leave, and gave my hand to
her brother, who had come with
us to help me in getting into the

xvn.

All the way from the Rue St.
Dominique to the Rue de Rivoli I
abandoned myself to the pleasant
thoughts excited by the events of
the day. For within a few hours I
had successively experienced the
inward sweetness of prayer, the
charm of congenial society, and the
pleasure of enthusiasm. A new life
seemed to be infused into my heart,
soul, and mind, which had grown
frivolous in the atmosphere of the
world, and I felt, as it were, en-
tranced. Those who have felt
themselves thus die and rise again
to a new life will understand the
feeling of joy I experienced. In
all the blessings hitherto vouch-
safed me, even in the love itself
that had been, so to speak, the sun
of my happiness, there had been
one element wanting, without which
everything seemed dark, unsatisfac-
tory, wearisome, and depressing —
an element which my soul had an
imperious, irresistible, undeniable
need of! Yes, I realized this, and
while thus taking a clearer view of
my state I also felt that this need
was reasonable and just, and might
be supplied without much difficul-
ty. Was not Lorenzo gifted with a
noble nature, and capable of the
highest things ? Had he not cho-
sen me, and loved me to such a de-
gree as to make me an object of
idolatry? Well, I would point out
to him the loftier heights he ought
to attain. I, in my turn, would
open to him a new world ! . . .

Such were the thoughts, aspira-

tions, and dreams my heart was fill-
ed with on my way home. As I
approached the Rue de Rivoli, how-
ever, I began to feel uneasy at be-
ing out so much later than I had an-
ticipated, lest Lorenzo should have
returned and been anxious about my
absence. I was pleased to learn,
therefore, on descending from the
carriage, that he had not yet come
home, and I joyfully ascended the
staircase, perfectly satisfied with
the way in which I had spent the
morning.

I took off my hat, smoothed my
hair, and then proceeded to arrange
the salon according to his taste and
my own. I arranged the flowers,
as well as the books and other
things, and endeavored to give the
room, though in a hotel, an appear-
ance of comfort and elegance that
would entice him to remain at
home ; for I had formed the project
of trying to induce him to spend
the evening with me. I seemed to
have so many things to say to him,
and longed to communicate all
the impressions I had received!
With this object in view I took a
bold step, but one that was author-
ized by the intimacy that existed
between us and the friends whose
guests we were to have been that
day — I sent them an excuse, not
only for myself, but my husband,
hoping to find means afterwards of
overcoming his displeasure, should
he manifest any.

Having made these arrangements,
I was beginning to wonder at his

The Veil Withdrawn.

continued absence when a letter
was brought me which served to
divert my mind for a time from
every other thought. It was a let-
ter from Livia which I had been
impatiently awaiting. We had cor-
responded regularly since our se-
paration, and I had begun to be
surprised at a silence of unusual
length on her part. It was not dat-
ed at Messina, but at Naples, and
1 read the first page, which was in
ajiswcr to the contents of my letter,
without finding any explanation of
this. Finally I came to what fol-

** I told you in my last letter that
I had obtained my father's con-
sent^ but on one condition — that
).e should have the choice of the
monastery I must enter on leaving
hume. What difference did it
:uakc? As to this I was, and am,
wholly indifferent. I should make
the same vows everywhere, and in
them all I should go to God by
the same path. In them all I
should be separated from the world
ind united to him alone. And
ibis was all I sought. The con-
sent my father chose is not in
Sicily. It is a house known and
venerated by every one in Naples.
I shall be received on the second
of September. Meanwhile, I have
come here under Ottavia's escort,
and am staying with our aunt,
Donna Clelia, who has established
herself here for the winter with
acr daughters. So everything is
arranged, Gina. The future seems
plain. I see distinctly before me
my life and death, my joys and
sorrows, my labors and my duty. I
UQ done with all that is called hap-
piness in the world, as well as with
lU misfortunes, its trials, its conflict-
ing troubles, its numberless disap-
pointments, and its poignant woes.

Therefore I cannot make use of
the word sacrifice. It wounds me
when I hear it used, for I blush at
the little I have to give up in view
of the immensity I am to receive I
Yes; I blush when I remember it
was suffering and humiliation that
first made me raise my eyes to Him
whom alone we should love, and
whom alone I now feel I can love.
If I had not been wholly sure of
this, I should never have been so
bold as to aspire to the union that
awaits me — the only one here be-
low in which the Bridegroom can
satisfy the boundless affection of
the heart that gives itself to
him ! . . .

" But to return to you, my dear
Gina. Are you as happy as I de-
sire you to be, and as you deserve
to be.^ Your last letter was sad;
and the calmer and better satisfied
I feel about my own lot, the more
I think of yours. Whatever hap-
pens, my dearest sister, do not for-
get that we both have but one
goal. Your way is longer and
more perilous than mine, but the
great aim of us both should be to
really love God above all things,
and, in him and for him, to cherish
all the objects of our affection.
Yes, even those whom we prefer to
all other creatures on earth. I am
not using the language of a reli-
gious, but simply that of truth and
common sense. If this letter
reaches you on your return from
some gay scene, at a time when'
you will not feel able to enter into
its meaning, you must lay it aside.
But if you read it when your
mind is calm, and you are at lei-
sure to listen to your inner self,
you will understand what your
Livia means by writing you in this
way. Whatever happens, whether
we are near each other or are
widely separated, we shall always

The VeU Withdrawn.

be united in heart, my dear sister.
The convent grates will not sepa-
rate me from you. Death itself
cannot divide us. One thing, and
one alone, in the visible or invisi-
ble world, can raise a barrier be-
tween us and really separate us.
And rather than behold this barrier
rise, I would, as I have already
told you, my beloved sister, rather
see you dead. Gina, I love you as
tenderly as any one ever loved an-
other. I will pray for you on the
second of September (Sunday).
Probably when you read this I
shall already have left the world.
But I shall not have left you, dear
sister. I shall be nearer you than
when distance alone separated us.
Besides, I am at Naples, to which
you will soon return, and you will
find that the grates will neither
hide my face, nor my thoughts, nor
my heart, nor my soul from you. . . .
" Gina, let me once more repeat
that there is only one way of at-
taining real happiness — there is
only one object worthy of our love.
Let me beseech you not to desire
any other passionately. But, no;
you would not understand me ; you
would not believe me now. . . .**

Everything added to the effect
of this letter — its date, and the day,
the hour, and the moment in which
it was received. The deed my sis-
ter had accomplished that very day
had brought us nearer together, as
she said. Had not a breath of the
purer air she breathed reached me
already and preserved me through
the day from the aimless frivolity
of my usual life ?

"Happiness," it has been said,
"is Christian; pleasure is not.*'
Had I not profoundly realized the
force of this saying for one day ?
Had I not experienced a happiness
as different as possible from the

pleasure I enjoyed in the woiidi
And did I not feel desirons thij
very instant of attaining the one aj
the expense of the other, and noj
only of taking a different view oi
life myself, but of imparting thi]
desire to

** Him whoneVr from me sliaU separate.** *

The day was beginning to dei
cline, and I gradually sank into i
short, profound slumber such as
is usually attended by confused
dreams. In mine most of those
who had occupied my thoughts
during the day passed successively
before me — Livia first, covered with
a long white veil, and next to hex]
was the pleasant, smiling face of
Diana. . . . Then I was once more at
the Hdtel de Kergy, listening again
to some parts of Gilbert's address.
But when I was on the point of
calling Lorenzo to hear him also, it
no longer seemed to be Gilbert, but
Lorenzo himself, on the platform,
repeating the same words with an
air of mockery, and gazing at me,
in return, with the penetrating look
so peculiar to him. . . . Then
everything changed, and I found
myself at twilight at the fork of a
road in the country, and, while I
was hesitating which path to take,
I saw Gilbert beside me. He was
familiar with the way, he said, and
offered to be my guide ; but I repuls-
ed his arm, and made a violent ef-
fort to overtake Lorenzo, whom I
suddenly perceived at a distance
on the other road. . . . Then
Livia seemed to be beside me, and
give me her hand to help me along.
Finally I saw Lorenzo just before
me again, but he did not Icck like
the same person ; he was poorly
clad, and his face was pale and al-
tered. I recognized him, however,
and sprang forward to overtake him,

* Queiti cht mml da me ncnfiu di9u§.

The Veil Withdrawn.

when I awoke breathless, and with
the painful feeling of uneasiness that
such sleep generally produces when
terminated by such an awaken-
ing- .. .

My heart throbbed. ... I found
it difficult at first to recall what
had occupied my mind before I fell
asleep. I soon came to myself,
however, and was able to account
for the utter darkness that sur-
rounded me. I hastened to ring
the bell and, when a light was
brought, I looked at the clock with
a surprise that gave way to anxiety.
At that instant I heard the bell
that announced Lorenzo's return
at last. I heard him enter the
antechamber, and I ran to open the
drawing-room door myself. But I
stopped short. It was not Lorenzo ;
it was Laiwiolfo Land in i, and he
was alone. I drew back with a
terrified look without daring to ask
a question. But he smiled, as he
closed the door behind him, and,
taking my hand, said : '* Do not
be alarmed, my dear cousin, I beg.
Nothing in particular has happened
to Lorenzo — nothing, at least, which
you arc not prepared to hear after
what occurred last night."

I breathed once more. ... I
know not what other fear crossed
my mind, but I said with tolerable
calmness :

** That means he has been play-
ing again, or at least betting at the
races, and has lost ?"

" Yes, cousin, frightfully. There
^I ought not to have told you, but
I see no reason for concealing it
from you ; and as I have this oppor-
tunity of speaking privately to you,
I will profit by it to give you
snother piece of advice more seri-
ous than any I have yet given you.
Immediately make use of all the
influence you still have over him
to persuade him to leave Paris.

There is some fatality about this
place, as far as he is concerned.
He is more prudent ever)rwhere else,
and will become so here once more.
The fever he has been seized with
again must absolutely be broken
up. The deuce!" continued he,
" two or three more relapses like
this would lead to consequences
that would test all your courage,
ma belle duchesse^ and bring you,
as well as him, to extremities you
are ill fitted to bear. That is what
I am most anxious about, you will
allow me to say ; for, without mak-
ing you the shadow of a declara-
tion, I find you so beautiful, so
good, and so adorable that the mere
thought of you some day. . . .*'

"Keep to the point, Lando, if
you please," said I with an impatient
air. " Where is Lorenzo ? Why
did he not return with you, and
why have you come to tell me what
he would probably tell me him-
self?"

" Tell you himself.? He will take
care not to do that. I have already
told you I am betraying his confi-
dence, but it is for his good as well
as yours. It is best for you to
know that the sum he has lost to-
day surpasses the resources he has
on hand, and in order to make the
necessary arrangements to pay at
once the debt he has incurred, he
is obliged to write to his agent at
Naples or Sicily. He went direct-
ly to the club for this purpose, and
commissioned me to tell you it was
for nothing of importance, and beg
you to attend the dinner-party with-
out him, and present his excuses
to your friends. He will join you
in the evening."

Everything now seemed easily
arranged according to my wishes,
and of itself, as it were.

" That is very fortunate," said I
eagerly, telling him of the excuse I

The Veil Withdrawn.

hi. ^ sent for us both. " Therefore,
Lando, go back to the club, I beg ;
or rather, I will write Lorenzo my-
self that he can arrange his affairs
at his leisure, and return when he
pleases to dine with me. I shall
wait till he comes."

I hastily seized my pen to write
him, but Lando resumed :

" Oh ! as to that, cousin, you will
only waste your trouble ; for seeing
how late it was, and that he could
not possibly be here in season to
accompany you, he accepted an in-
vitation to dine with an acquaint-
ance of his (and yours also, I sup-
pose) whom he met at the races
to-day."

" An acquaintance of his ? . . ."
I repeated, my heart filling with a
keen anguish that made me turn
pale without knowing why.

Lando perceived it. " Do not be
alarmed," said he, smiling. " It is

not Mnie. de B , though she

was at the races also, and made a
fruitless effort to divert Lorenzo's
mind from what was going on.
Really, in your place," continued
he with his usual levity, " I should
regret she did not succeed. That
would have been much better than
. . . Come, ... do not frown. I

am joking. To be serious, Lorenzo
is not going to dine with her to-day,
but with a lady from Milan who
has just arrived, and whom you
doubtless know. It is Donna Faus-
tina Reali, the Marquise de Villa-
nera! . . ."

Faustina Reali ! . . . This name
seemed to justify the strange pre-
sentiment I had just had, and I was
tempted to exclaim with Hamlet,

" O my prophetic soul !'•

thou hast not deceived me ! ... I
had at that moment a sudden in-
tuition of the past, the present, and
the future. I saw clearly before roe
a life in which I should no longer
be able to influence Lorenzo, or
even to guide myself ! . . .

I controlled my agitation, how-
ever, by a powerful effort, and Lan-
do soon left me, renewing his first
injunctions, and persuaded he had
fully reassured me on other points.
I gave him my hand with a smile
as he left the room, and as soon as
I found myself alone I covered
my face with my hands, and ex-
claimed :

" O my dreams ! my pleasant
dreams ! Where have they vanish-
ed?"

xvin.

Faustina Reali! . . . That was
the never-to-be-forgotten name I
had read on the card Lorenzo
snatched so violently from my
hands at Naples ! I had never seen
it again, never heard it pronounc-
ed, but I remembered only too well
the expression of my husband's face
when he saw it, and the way in
which he tore up the card on which
it was written ! . . .

I endeavored to lead the conver-
sation at another time back to this
circumstance, but at once desisted,

frightened at the manner in which
he imposed silence on me, and a
certain impression of both mystery
and danger remained associated
with the name.

As soon as I became calmer,
however, I acknowledged that I
really kne^v nothing, absolutely no-
thing, to cause the violent emotion
I had just experienced. It had an
imaginary cause, then, and might
simply be owing to my mind, so re-
cently lost in vague dreams, and
perhaps a little too high-flown, b^

The Veil Withdrawn.

iBg suddenly recalled to a painful
ind unpleasant, as well as very
commonplace reality. I had im-
agined I was. going to transform,
as by the stroke of a wand, my
husband's habits, tastes, occupa-
tions — nay, his entire life — but was
brought to my senses by learning
he had just lost an enormous sum
at the races, and his mind, for the
moment, was absorbed in the ne-
cessary complications for paying
the debt. I had planned spending
several hours alone with him that
evening, during which, away from
the bustle of the world, I would
give him a minute account of my
recent impressions, and tell him of
all the wishes, projects, and ardent
desires of which he was the object.
I would rouse a nobler pride in his
soul, and appeal to a thousand sen-
timents that were dormant, but not
extinct; and I believe I expected
to see them awakened at the mere
sound of my voice ! . . . Instead
of this, ... I was alone, and he
was with another. . . . And what
other? . . . Who was this Faus-
tina, whose name had so suddenly
appeared in my life, and who, at
the very hour when I was aiming
at so pure and elevated an influ-
ence over him, came thus, like an
evil genius, to thrust herself be-
tween us .^ . . . I reminded my-
self in vain that Lorenzo had no
Men of the plans I had, unbeknown
to him, formed for the evening, but
su|)i>osed me at this very moment
to be with my friends, where he
had promised to join me ; but no-
thing could calm the sudden agita-
tion of my heart, nothing could
check tlic flood of thoughts that
sprang from my anxiety, jealousy,
and misconceptions, and my ex-
cilcmcnt became more intense in
proi»<)riion to the lateness of the
hour. Would he never come .^ . . .

And what would he say when he
should arrive .' . . . I was sure
he would try to conceal his inter-
view with Donna Faustina, and
perhaps I ought to hide my know-
ledge of that as well as everything
else, and feign ignorance of all that
had occurred, in order not to betray
Lando's indiscretion. . . . But
what should I do when his eyes, so
accustomed to interpret every ex-
pression of my face, should be
fastened on me } How could I
practise any dissimulation with
him } It was not, indeed, my place to
do anything of the kind. I had no
cause to blush or be intimidated.
And should he discover, after all,
that I was not deceived, so much
the better; and should he be dis-
pleased, so much the worse for
Lando.

I had arrived at this point in my
reflections when I heard the bell
ringing loudly in the next room.
Then there was a quick step, which
this time was really his, and Loren-
zo entered the room. He was pale
and appeared excited, but said in
a sufiiciently calm tone :

" I have just come from M *s,

where I supposed I should find you ;
but I learned that, in sending my
apology, you also excused yourself,
and I did not remain an instant.
What is the matter, Ginevra.^ . . .
Are you ill .^ . . . Why did you
not go.^ Why did you remain at
home alone in this way V^

His expression was singular. It
was at once affectionate and trou-
bled. He looked earnestly at me, as
he gave me his hand, and put back
my hair in order to see my face
more distinctly.

My cheeks were burning. The
traces of the tears I had shed
were visible, and, with his scrutiniz-
ing eyes upon me, I felt ;t hardly
possible to restrain those that still

TIte Veil Withdrawn.

filled my own. . . . He took my
head between his two hands, and
held it a moment against his breast
in silence. The throbbing of his
heart perhaps equalled that of
mine. I was touched, speechless
and disarmed, and less than ever
in a condition to dissimulate any-
thing, when he suddenly said :

"Why have you been crying,
Ginevra? I must know."

Raising my still tearful eyes to-
wards him, and looking confidingly
in his face, I replied: "I have
been crying, Lorenzo, because I
heard Donna Faustina is here, and
that you had gone to see her."

He started, and, though accus-
tomed to the variations of his
mobile face, I was struck with the
effect my words had produced.
His face reddened, then turned
paler than before, and for some
moments he was incapable of mak-
ing any reply, and even seemed to
forget my proximity. He seated
himself beside the table, and re-
mained silent. I looked at him
with amazement and anxiety. At
length he said :

" Who has told you anything
about Donna Faustina, and what
do you know of her V

" No one has told me anything
about her, and all I know of her
you have told me yourself by the
very emotion you show at her
name.**

He was again silent for a mo-
ment, and then resumed in his
usual tone, as if he had triumphed
over all hesitation :

" Well, Ginevra, even if you had
not known of her being in Paris, or
had never heard of her name or
existence, I had resolved to speak
to you about her this very evening.
Listen to me. It is not, after
all, a long story.**

He had perfectly recovered his

self-control, and yet he continned
with some effort :

" It is not for you to be jealous
of her, Ginevra. It is she who has
reason to be jealous of you. She
has done you no wrong; whereas,
without suspecting it, you have
done her a great and irreparable
injury."

I opened my eyes with surprise.

*' It is not necessary to tell you
when and where I met her for the
first time, but perhaps it is right I
should acknowledge that I was in-
spired with a passion for her such
as a man willingly imagines he can
never feel but once in his life."

I could not repress a start.

"Wait, Ginevra; hear me to the
end. She was married and virtu-
ous. I left her, . . . but I had
just learned she was free, and was
about to go to see her when I was
called to Sicily by the lawsuit on
which my property depends. You
know the rest. . . . The sight of
you effaced the impressions of the
past. I was still free — free from
any promise that bound me to her,
though perhaps she was expecting
me to return to Milan. . . .*'

" You forgot her, and offered me
your hand? . . .** I exclaimed
with mingled pity and almost re-
proach.

He replied with some emotion:

" Yes, Ginevra, and without any
scruple ; for after passing a month
in your vicinity, I felt I loved her
no longer, and at that time . . .
I did not know she loved me.**

His brow grew dark. He slop-
ped an instant, and then rapidly
continued :

" At a later day I ascertained,
. , . I had reason to believe, . . .
beyond a doubt, that the feeling
she had succeeded in hiding from
me existed really, profoundly, . . .
and that she had suffered. . . .

The Veil Withdrawn.

Ginerra! in the intoxication of
nijr new happiness I could not feel
anj regret, but I acknowledge I
had a moment of remorse. Yes ; I
ocTcr wished to hear her name
again, never to see her or hear
inything that would recall her. . . .
I was almost irritated at Naples at
finding her card among those left
on your arrival there. ... I was
angry with her, poor Faustina,
when I should have been grateful
as well as you."

" What do you mean V*

"It was at Naples, which she hap-
pened to be passing through, that
the news of our marriage reached
her. And when we arrived just
after, she wished to show, by leav-
ing her card, that she should hence-
forth only consider herself my
friend and yours. But at that
time I did not regard it in this
''ay, and I was unjust as well as
ungrateful."

"And now, Lorenzo.^" I said
with many commingled feelings I
could not have defined.

" Now, Ginevra, I think she was
generous, and it would be well for
you to be so in your turn. She wishes
to know you, and I come to ask
you to receive her to-morrow. . . .
You hesitate! ... I do not sup-
pose, however," said he a little
loftily, as he frowned, "that you
think me capable of making such a
proposition to my wife, if the Mar-
quise de Villanera had not a spot-
less reputation, and I were not cer-
tain that there is no reason why
you should not grant her the favor

Lorenzo was perfectly sincere at
the moment he uttered these words.
But as I write the account of that
day by the light of events that fol-
\ovcd, I do not feel the same as-
surance I did at the time he was
siting. All he then affirmed was

true ; but he did not tell me every-
thing. He did not, for instance,
explain how he happened to learn,
at a time when he had better have
never known 'them, the sentiments
that had hitherto been concealed
from him. Still less did he tell me
the effect this revelation produced
on him. But with regatd to this
he doubtless did not deceive me
any more than he did himself.
Meanwhile, it was not possible to
give more heed to a vague, inex-
plicable presentiment it would have
been impossible to justify, than to
what he said. I therefore consent-
ed, without any further hesitation,
to the interview he proposed, and
gave him my hand. He kissed it
and held it lightly in his ; then
gave me a new proof of his confi-
dence as well as unexpected satis-
faction by the following words :

" This interview, Ginevra, will not
commit you to any great extent at
the most, as, for many reasons it
would be useless to give you, I
wish, if not too great a disappoint-
ment for you, to leave Paris —
sooner than we intended. We will
go in a week."

He saw the ray of joy that flashed
from my eyes, and looked at me
with an air of surprise. I was
afraid of compromising poor Lando
by betraying my knowledge of the
danger that rendered this depar-
ture so opportune. I was also
afraid he would regard it as a new
proof of the jealous distrust he had
just allayed, and hastened to speak
of Livia's letter and my desire to
return to Naples, where I had just
learned I should find my sister.
He accepted this explanation, and
the day full of so many different
causes of excitement ended more
tranquilly than I had anticipated
two hours before. It was difficult,
however, when I once more found

The Veil Withdrawn.

myself alone, to collect my trou-
bled thoughts. Al confused crowd
of new impressions had replaced
those of the morning. The pro-
jects inspired by the lofty elo-
quence of Gilbert de Kergy all at
once seemed chimerical. My hopes
had fled beyond recall. And yet I

could not account for my aj^pre-
hension. Anxiety, a vague anxie-
ty, persistently prevailed over every-
thing. I only succeeded in regain-
ing my calmness at last by two
considerations: we were to leave
Paris, and it was Lorenzo himself
who proposed our departure.

XIX.

The following day, for some rea-
son or other I did not explaih to
myself, I gave unusual attention to
my toilet. I generally read while
my waiting-maid was arranging my
hair according to her own fancy,
but that day I turned more than
once towards the mirror. I observ-
ed with pleasure the golden lustre
of my hair in the morning sunlight,
and suggested myself the addition
of a bow of ribbon of the same color
as my belt. After I was dressed I
gave, beXore leaving my room, a
scrutinizing look in a large glass
where I could see myself from head
to foot. It seemed to me I was be-
comingly attired, and I felt pleased.

My satisfaction was confirmed by
an exclamation that escaped Lo-
renzo as soon as he caught sight of
me. He was already seated at the
breakfast-table, which stood at one
end of the room.

" You are charming this morning,
Ginevra !" said he, smiling. He
then grew thoughtful. After re-
maining silent a few moments, he
resumed, perhaps to divert my
mind from another thought he sup-
posed it occupied with :

" I was sorry to leave you
alone so long yesterday. How did
you while away the time during the
long afternoon ?"

If he had asked this question the
evening before at the imaginary
tite-h'tiU I had planned, what a
minute, animated account should I

have given him ! * How readily the
thoughts which then occupied my
mind would have sprung to my lips !
He regarded me as a child, but I
was no longer one ; and beholding
me all at once in the new aspect of
an energetic, courageous woman,
capable of aiding him with a firm
hand in ascending to higher re-
gions, he would have been surpri-sed
and touched; the passing gleam
that sometimes manifested itself in
his eyes would perhaps have been
less transient this time, and I should
have succeeded in kindling a flame
of which this light was a mere em-
blem! . . . Lorenzo, if you had
only been willing ! If you had
only listened to me then, entered
into my feelings, and read my
heart, what a life ours might have
been ! . . . Ah ! happiness and
goodness are more closely allied in
this world than is usually supposed.
If virtue sometimes does not escape
misfortune, it is sure there is no
happiness without it ! But the im-
petus by which I hoped to attain
my aim at a single bound had been
suddenly checked, and I no longer
remembered now what I longed to
say the evening before, or the mo-
tive I then had in view. I there-
fore answered my husband's ques-
tion with the utmost coolness with-
out interrupting my breakfast :

" I went to S. Roch's. It rained
in torrents, and, finding the Com-
tesse de Kergy and her daughter at

The VeU WUhdrawn.

the door without any carriage, I
took them home."

**Iani glad you did. There is
DO family more respected, and
Kcrgy is one of the most intelligent
of travelldrs."

"Yes, so I should suppose. I
hare heard him speak of his tra-
?cb. There ?.*as a meeting at the
H6tel de Kergy yesterday at four
o'clock, which I was invited to at-
tend, and he made an address."

" And spoke very ably, I have no
doubt. I have heard him, and can
judge."

" You have heard him ?"

" Yes, a fortnight ago. . . .
Though scarcely acquainted, we
are the founders and chief support-
ers of a review devoted to art and
scientific subjects, the acting com-
mittee of which summoned a meet-
mg of its members to draw up some
resolution, and at this meeting he
ipoke."

"He is very eloquent, is he
not?"

" Very eloquent indeed, but, on
the whole, visionary."

"Visionary.^"

"Yes, visionary, and sometimes
incomprehensible even. He soars
to such vague heights that no one
can follow him. But in spite of
this, he is a fellow of great talent,
and has a noble nature, I should
think."

Lorenzo rose while speaking, and
drew a memorandum-book from his
pocket:

"I will write down the address
of the Hdtel de Kergy, that I may
not forget to leave my card."

"Mme. de Kergy and her daugh-
ter," said I, " are coming to see me
to-day about four o'clock." •

He was silent a moment, and then
uid:

"And till that time?"

"Till then," I replied, turning

red, '' I shall be at home and
alone."

" Very well," rejoined he, taking
up a newspaper, while I silently
went to a seat near the open win-
dow.

I compared the conversation
which had just taken place with the
one I imagined the evening before.
I remembered the effe9t of the very
name of her whose visit I was now
expecting, and I felt inclined to
both laugh and cry. In a word, I
was nervous and agitated, and
doubtless manifested my uneasiness
and irritation more than I wished.

Lorenzo raised his eyes, and look-
ed at me a moment.

"What are you thinking of, Gi-
nevra.?"

" Are you quite sure," said I ab-
ruptly, " that this Donna Faustina
is not ^jettatriceV

He rose and somewhat impatient-
ly threw his paper on the table.
But quickly overcoming himself,
he said calmly :

" Do you find any evidence in
what I related last evening that she
ever brought ill-luck to any one ?"

"If it is not she," I exclaimed
quickly, " I hope, at least, you do
not think . . ."

I was about to add, " that it is
I," but I stopped on seeing the
cloud that came over his face.

" Come, Ginevra," said he, " you
are really too childish ! You are
joking, doubtless, but no one knows
better than you how to point a jest.
But you shall tell me yourself what
you think of the Marquise de Vil-
lanera after seeing her. As for me,
I am going away. It is not neces-
sary to have a third party when she
comes. I will go meanwhile to see
Kergy. But," added he, as he was
leaving the room, "as you have
consented to receive her, rtmember
I depend on your doing so politely."

The Veil Withdrawn.

He went away, leaving me in a
frame of mind by no means serene.
I felt angry with him, and at the
same time dissatisfied with myself.
Everything went contrary to what
I had hoped, and I awaited my
visitor with a mixture of anguish
and ill-humor.

I felt a kind of uneasiness analo-
gous to that experienced when there
is thunder in the air. I tried to
apply myself to something, but,
finding this impossible, I ended by re-
turning to the window, where, book
in hand, I rose from time to time to
see what was going on in the street
or the garden of the Tuileries.

At length, about two o'clock, I
saw a small r^w// coming around the
corner from the Rue St. Florentin.
I had seen an endless number pass
while I stood there, but I watched
this one without a shadow of doubt
as to the direction it would take.
It was but a moment, indeed, before
I saw it stop at the door of the
hotel. We were not, to be sure,
the only occupants, but it never
occurred to me that the person in
the carriage would ask for any one
but myself. I returned to the
drawing-room, therefore, and had
taken the seat I usually occupied
when I received callers, when the
Marquise de Villanera was an-
nounced in a loud voice.

I rose to meet her. There was a
moment's silence, doubtless caused
by an equal degree of curiosity on
both sides. It was only for an in-
stant that passed like a flash, but
nevertheless each of us had scan-
ned the other from head to foot.

At the first glance she did not
seem young. I was not twenty
years old myself then, and I judged
as one is apt to at that age. In
reality, she was not thirty. She was
tall and fine-looking. Her form
was noble and graceful, her features

delicate and regular, her hair and
eyebrows black as jet, her complex-
ion absolutely devoid of color, and
her eyes of a lively blue. This
somewhat too bright a color gave a
cold, hard look to her eyes, but
their expression changed as soon
as she began to speak, and became
sweet, caressing, beseeching, irre-
sistible. She was dressed in black,
apparently with extreme simplicity,
but in reality with extreme care.

I had not time to wonder how I
should break this silence. It was
she who spoke first, and her very
first words removed the timidity
and embarrassment that rendered
this interview still more painful.
What she said I am really unable to
remember, and I cannot compre-
hend now the effect of her words ; but
I know they wrought a complete
transformation in the feelings I ex-
perienced the evening before at the
very mention of her name !

Women often wonder in vain
what the charm is by which other
women succeed in pleasing, and, as
Bossuet says, in "drawing after
them captive souls." In their eyes,
at least, this charm is inexplicable.
But this is not always the case ; for
there are some women who, while
they reserve for one the absolute
ascendency of their empire, like to
feel able to exert it over every one.
Such was Donna Faustina. How-
ever deep the strange, secret warn-
ing of my heart might be, it was
beyond my power to resist her.
While she was talking I felt my
prejudices vanish like snow before
the sun, and it could not possibly
have been otherwise, perhaps; at
least without a penetration I was
mot endowed with, a distrust I was
wholly incapable of, and an expe-
rience I did not then possess.

Did she really feel a kind of at-
traction towards me that rendered

The Veil Withdrawn.

her sincere at this first interview ?
I prefer to think so. Yes, I pre-
fer not to believe that deceit
and perfidy could disguise them-
selves to such a degree under an
appearance of cordiality, simplicity,
artlessness, and sincerity. I prefer
to hope it was not wholly by con-
summate art she won my confi-
dence while seeming to repose un-
limited confidence in me.

She very soon learned all she
wished concerning me, and in re-
turn gave me her whole history;
and however singular this sudden
frankness on the part of a stranger
onght to have appeared to me — and,
indeed, was — the grace of her man-
ner and the charm of her language
prevented any doubt or criticism
(irom crossing my mind. , Young,
without position or fortune, she
had married a man three times as
old as herself, with whom she lived
in strict retirement. Her meeting
with Lorenzo (but how this hap-
pened she did not explain) had
been the only ray of joy in her life.
She did not hide from me either
the grief his departure caused her
or the extent of her disappointment
when she vainly awaited his return
after she was left free. But all
these feelings, she said, belonged
to the past. Nothing remained
but a friendship which she could
not give up. The death of the
aged Marquis de Villanera had of
course left her free again, but it
had also taken away her only pro-
tector. She felt alone in the world
now, and begged me, in the midst
of my happiness, to consider her
kmeliness and take pity on her.

While thus speaking she fixed
upon me her large, blue eyes bath-
ed in tears. And as I listened to
her, tears also streamed down my
cheeks. I almost reproached my-
self for being happy. Lorenzo's
inconstancy weighed on my heart
like remorse, and all that was gen-
erous in my nature responded to
her appeal. Consequently, before
our interview was over I em-
braced her, calling her my dear
Faustina, and she clasped me in
her arms, calling me for the twen-
tieth time " her lovely, darling Gi-
nevra."

My naiveid may seem astonish-
ing. I was, indeed, naive at that
time, and it would have been sur-
prising had I not been. People of
more penetration than I would
have been blinded. Lorenzo him-
self was at that time. When he
found us together at his return,
and comprehended the result of
our interview from the very first
words he heard, he turned to-
wards me with eyes lit up with ten-
derness and gratitude.

His first, and probably his only,
feeling at meeting again the wo-
man to whom he thought he had
been ungrateful and almost disloy-
al, had been a kind of humiliation.
To get rid of this feeling, he had
sought some means of repairing
this wrong, and, thanks to my do-
cility to him and my generosity
towards her, he persuaded himself
he had found a way.

In the state of affairs at that mo-
ment I had the advantage. I gain-
ed that day a new, but, alas ! the
last, triumph over my rival !

x«c.

Lorenzo accompanied the mar-
chioness to her carriage, and then
returned an instant to inform me

she would dine with us that eve-
ning, and that he had invited Lando
to join us. He embraced me af-

The Veil Withdrawn.

fectionately before he went away,
looking at me with an expression
that caused me a momentary joy,
but which was followed by a feel-
ing of melancholy as profound as
if his kiss had been an adieu.

But though my apprehensions of
the evening before were allayed, I
could not get rid of a vague uneasi-
ness impossible to overcome — per-
haps the natural result of the hopes
that, on the one hand, had been
disappointed since the previous
day, and, on the other, the fears
that had been removed. But my
mind was still greatly troubled,
and though the atmosphere around
me had apparently become calm
and serene, I felt, so to speak, the
earth tremble almost insensibly be-
neath my feet, and could hear the
rumbling of thunder afar off.

My interview with Donna Faus-
tina lasted so long that I had not
been alone half an hour before
Mme. de Kergy and her daughter
were announced. This call, which,
under any circumstances, would
have given me pleasure, was par-
ticularly salutary at this moment,
for it diverted my mind and effect-
ed a complete, beneficial change
of impressions. After the some-
what feverish excitement I had
just undergone, it was of especial
benefit to see and converse with
these agreeable companions of the
evening before. I breathed more
freely, and forgot Donna Faustina
while listening to their delightful
conversation. My eyes responded
to Diana's smiling looks, and her
mother inspired me with a min-
gled attraction and confidence that
touched me and awakened in my
soul the dearest, sweetest, and
most poignant memories of the
past. Mme. de Kergy perceived
this, and likewise noticed, I think,
the traces of recent agitation in my

face. She rose, as if fearing it
would be indiscreet to prolong her
visit.

"Oh! do not go yet," I said,
taking hold of her hand to detain
her.

" But you look fatigued or ill.
I do not wish to abuse the permis-
sion you gave me."

"You do me good, on the con-
trary. I have a slight headache, it
is true, but it is soothing to talk
with you."

" Truly r

"Yes, truly."

"Well, then, let me propose, in
my turn, a drive in my carriage.
The weather is fine to-day. Come
and take the air with us. It will
do you good, and alTord us great
pleasure."

I felt quite disposed on my part
to accept the sympathy manifested
by Mme. de Kergy, and at once
accepted her invitation. I took a
seat in her caliche^ and, after an
hour's drive with her and her
daughter, I had not only recovered
from the nervous agitation of the
morning, but we had become fully
acquainted, and for the first time
in Paris I ceased to feel myself a
stranger.

" What a pity you are going
away so soon !" exclaimed Diana.

" Yes, indeed," said her mother ;
" for it seems to me you would find
some resources at my house you
have not found elsewhere, and we
might reveal Paris under a differ-
ent — perhaps I may say under a
more favorable — aspect than it gen-
erally appears to strangers, even in
the fashionable world, which is, I
imagine, nearly the same every-
. where."

I made no reply, for the regret
she expressed awoke a similar feel-
ing in my heart, and aroused all
the recollections of the evening be-

The Veil Withdraxvn.

fore. I once more felt for an in-
stant an ardent desire to take re-
fuge in a different sphere. I longed
more earnestly than ever to escape
from that in which some vague
peril seemed to threaten me. We
were, it is true, to leave Paris, but
for what a motive! . . . What a
pitiful aspect the life Lorenzo
wished to escape from took in
comparison with the one so differ-
ent which Mme. de Kergy had just
given me a glimpse of! . . . The
thought of this contrast embittered
the joy I felt in view of our de-
parture.

We agreed, however, as we sepa-
rated, to meet every day during
this last week, and Mme. de Kergy
promised to take me, before my de-
parture, through various parts of
the unknown world of charity in
Paris, whose existence she had re-
vealed to me, that I might, at least,
have a less imperfect idea of it be-
fore leaving France.

On my return I found Lando as
well as Lorenzo in the drawing-
room, and learned that, as the
weather was fine, they had decided
wc should dine at some caf^ I do
not now remember, in the Champs
Elys^s, and afterwards, instead of
returning home, we should take
seats under the trees, and quietly
listen in the open air to the music
)f one of the famous orchestras.
The hotel the Marquise de Villa-
r.cra stopped at was on the way ;
■re could call for her, and she
TTocld remain with us the rest of
the evening.

This new programme did not
lii^please ine. I rather preferred
this way of meeting the marchion-
..-NS again, instead of the one I an-
ttcipated after Lorenzo told me
Oic would dine with us. In spite
•1 the favorable impression she
Vroduccd, this prospect annoyed
\ou XX. — 3

me. The arrangement now pro-
posed suited me better. I unhesi-
tatingly assented to it, but could
not help thinking, as I did so, how
much I should have preferred
passing the evening alone with
him ! . . . I longed for solitude —
but shared with him ! My heart
was full of things I wished to give
utterance to, and it seemed as if a
kind of fatality multiplied obstacles
around us, and kept us absorbed in
matters wholly foreign to the sen-
timents I found it impossible to
awaken during the too brief mo-
ments in which we were together.
My heart was filled with these de-
sires and regrets while I was pre-
paring to accompany him, and they
cast a shade over the evening 1 am
giving an account of.

Lando took a seat in front of us,
and our carriage soon drew up at
the door of the marchioness, who
followed us in her little couJ>/. She
descended when we arrived at our
place of destination, and Lorenzo,
as was proper, gave her his arm. I
took Lando's, and we proceeded
towards the room that had been re-
served for us, traversing on our
way the principal coffee-room, which
was filled \vith people. Every eye
turned towards us.

I saw that Lando's vanity was
more gratified than mine by the
observations that reached our ears.
I looked at Lorenzo ; he too seem-
ed to be proud of the effect pro-
duced by the one leaning on his
arm, and for the first time did not
appear to notice the flattering mur-
mur of which I was the object. I
noticed this, and it did not in-
crease my good-humor. But after
we arrived at the little dining-room
that was ours for the time, Faus-
tina seemed wholly occupied with
me. We took off our bonnets, and
while I was silently admiring her

The Veil Witlidrawn.

magnificent tresses, which made
her resemble some antique statue,
she went into open ecstasy about
my "golden hair," my form, and
my features ; but while she was thus
going on, evidently supposing it
was not displeasing to me, Lorenzo
stopped her.

"Take care, marchioness," said
he, smiling, " you do not know Gi-
nevra. Do not take another step
in that direction. No one can
Venture on that ground but myself
alone. "

He uttered these last words with
an accent that made my heart beat
and rendered Faustina silent. An
expression flashed from her blue
eyes quicker than the sharpest
lightning, and seemed to give them
a terrible brilliancy. However,
slie soon resumed her playfulness
and graceful ease of manner. Like
most Italian ladies, she had that
naturalness, that total absence of
affectation, which often gives to
their conversation an originality
without parallel, and makes all wit
which is less spontaneous than
theirs seem factitious and almost
defective. It has an inexpressible
charm which fascinates, enchants,
sets every one at ease, and gives to
their very coquetry an appearance
of artlessness.

We were full of liveliness and
-gayety at the table. Never was a
dinner more agreeable. Donna
Faustina had an uncommon talent
for relating things without appear-
ing to try to win attention. She
•could mimic other women without
any appearance of malice, and
even sound their praises with an
earnestness that made her more
charming than those of whom she
was speaking. Sometimes, too, she
-would change her tone, and, after
•making the room ring with our
laughter, she would entertain us

with some serious account which
displayed a powerful, cultivated
mind, with all her exuberant gay-
ety. In short, when she was pre-
sent, nothing was thought of but
her, and even those whom she wit-
tingly or unwittingly threw into
the shade could not deny the
charm by which they were eclipsed.

It was, however, with some sur-
prise I recalled after dinner the
conversation that had affected me
so strongly some hours before, and
I asked myself if this was the me-
lancholy, forsaken woman whose
fate had moved me to tears.

She seemed to have almost read
my thoughts; for, as we were re-
turning to the open air, she left
Lorenzo's arm, and came to take
mine.

"Ginevra," said she in a low
voice, " you find me gay and happy
as a child this evening. It is be-
cause I no longer feel alone. 1
have found, not only friends, but a
sister! ... I am filled with love
and gratitude to you."

The Champs Elys^es were illu-
minated. We could see each other
as distinctly as by daylight. She
seemed much affected and sincere.
Perhaps she spoke the truth at that
moment. . . . Perhaps she had only
looked deep enough into her own
heart to feel persuaded that the
romantic friendship she wished tc
make me believe in was real.
However this may be, the illusion
did not last long either for her, or
Lorenzo, or myself.

The music was delightful, and 1
listened to it for some time in si-
lence. Faustina had taken a seat
at my right hand. Lorenzo sat
next her, and Lando beside me.

" Bravo ! Cousin Ginevra," said
the latter in a low tone as soon as
the first piece was ended. " Thank
heaven, your influence is still all

The Veil Withdrawn.

it ought to be ! . . . I am delight-
ed, but not suq)rised !"

%o many things had occupied my
mind since my last conversation
irith him that I was at a loss to
knoir what he referred to.

*^You have persuaded Lorenzo
to leave Paris ?"

"No; he proposed going of his
own accord."

" Indeed ! When was that V

"Last evening."

"And when are you to leave V^

"Next Monday."

"A whole week! It is a long
time. ... In spite of my personal
regret to lose you, I wish your de-
parture could take place sooner."

"And I also," I murmured with-
out knowing why, for at that
naoment I was not at all preoc-
cupied with the cause of Lando's
anxiety.

" Endeavor, at least, to make him
pass every evening like this. Your
friend is pleasing ; she amuses him,
and may be able to divert him from
other things."

"Lando, stop!" I exclaimed
with a vehemence I could not re-
press. He uttered a slight excla-

mation of surprise, and I hastily
continued, lest he might have com-
prehended me :

" Yes, be quiet, I beg, while they
are playing the Marche du Prophlte.
I wish to hear it undisturbed."

But I did not listen to the
Marche du Prophhe. I only listen-
ed to — I only heard — the voices
beside me. Lorenzo and his com-
panion at first continued to con-
vefse in an animated manner on
subjects apparently indifferent, biit
concerning people and places I was
entirely ignorant of. . . . Recol-
lections of the past were recalled
which I knew nothing about. A
long silence soon intervened, and
when at last they resumed the con-
versation, it was in so low a tone I
was unable to follow it.

Lorenzo and Lando returned on
foot, and I took Donna Faustina
home. Before separating we em-
braced each other once more, say-
ing ^/z revoir ; but after leaving her
I thought without any regret that
before another week I should bid
her a long farewell, and perhaps
even then I should not have been
sorry were it for ever.

XXI.

During the following week, that
looked so long to Lando, and was
indeed long enough to affect my
whole life, what transpired? . . .
Apparently nothing very different
from the evening I have just de-
«^*bed ; nothing that did not seem
the natural consequence of the in-
timacy so suddenly formed between
t>onna Faustina and myself, the re-
cent dale of which I alone seemed
3ot to have forgotten. But little
by little, I might say hour by hour,
1 felt a secret, powerful, subtle in-
inencc growing up around me, and
the deepest instincts of my heart,

for a moment repressed, were vio-
lently roused, causing me to suffer
all the pangs of doubt, anxiety, and
the most cruel suspicion. But as
nothing new seemed to justify these
feelings, I forced myself to conceal
them, for fear of rendering myself
odious in Lorenzo's eyes and losing
the charm of my generous confi-
dence. Moreover, did not my con-
tinuing to manifest this confidence
oblige him to merit it? . . . And
could Faustina be treacherous while
I was redoubling my cordiality and
affection, and confiding in her as a
friend? Was I not in a certain

The Veil Witfidrawn.

manner protecting myself by oblig-
ing both of them in honor not to
deceive me ?

But honor, we know, in such
cases — honor alone, without the
holy restraints imposed by con-
science — is a feeble barrier and a
mere mockery. Those who im-
agine they have not overstepped
this barrier sometimes make it re-
cede before them, and believe them-
selves still within its limits when
they are already far beyond the line
it first marked out. . . .

A barrier so easily changed soon
trenches on the enemy's ground,
and the honor that is purely hu-
man — insufficient guardian of vows
the most solemn — after violating
the most sacred obligations, often
becomes subject to some imaginary
duty, and, according to a barbarous
code that keeps pace with that of
the Gospel amid all our civilization,
persuades him whose sole guide it
is that he would be disloyal if he
ceased to be a traitor !

This is a sad, commonplace oc-
currence in tlie world, which does
not excite anything more than a
smile or a shrug of the shoulders
on the part even of those who
would tremble with indignation if
any one should think them capable
of betraying the confidence of a
friend — what do I say ? — even of a
stranger or an enemy !

I will not undertake to follow
Lorenzo in this obscure phase of
his life. Neither will I try to pene-
trate into the soul of Faustina. I
will only speak of the influence her
crossing my path had on my life ;
for the account I have undertaken
is one of bitter trials and formida-
ble dangers, and the extraordinary
grace I derived therefrom !

During the last week of our stay
in Paris my time was strangely di-
vided between Mmc. dc Kergy, who

came every morning to take me on
the proposed rounds, and Donna
Faustina, with whom I unfailingly
found myself every evening. I
thus daily went from one world to
another exactly opposite, and seem-
ed to undergo a periodical transfor-
mation, becoming, according to the
hour, as different as the two women
with whom I thus became simulta-
neously connected, but whom I
never beheld together.

Every day I appreciated more
fully the beneficial intimacy, that
had commenced at the same time
as the other intimacy, to which I
already hesitated to give its true
name, and I found more and more
salutary the happy influences of
the morning, which always diverted
my mind from the annoying recol-
lections of the evening before.
Mme. de Kergy's simple dignity
and sweetness of manner were al-
lied with a noble mind and a large ,
heart. Though somewhat impos-
ing, every one felt at ease with her,
because she entered into every
one's feelings, criticised nobody,
and only gave others the lesson of
her example. I considered my-
self fortunate to see her so often,
and wished I could always remain ^
under her guidance. '

I accompanied her in her chari-
table rounds through Paris, and at
the sight of the misery I thus wit-
nessed I felt I had never under-
stood before to what an extent i
both misery and charity can extend.
And yet poverty and humanity are
to be found in all countries
and in all climes. Certainly, we
also have the poor amongst us, and \
Southern Italy is called, par excel- ^
lence^ the land of beggars and
wretchedness. Nevertheless, when
my imagination transported me to
the gates of the convent where Don
Placido daily distributed alms,

Tlte Veil Withdrawn.

without any great discernment per-
haps, but accompanied with pious
words, received by those to whom
they were addressed as alms of al-
most equal value, I asked myself
if this did not somewhat counter-
balance the excessive poverty and
the lack of a more rigid and dis-
criminating way of alleviating it.
And when I witnessed the profound
misery at Paris, augmented by the
climate, and often embittered by
hatred ; when I saw this vast num-
ber greedy for the things of this
world, but without any hope of
those in a better, I asked myself
if any possible compensation in the
»orid could be given the poor who
are deprived of the precious faith
that would console, sustain, and
ennoble them. Yes, ennoble them ;
the word is not too strong to ex-
press the living exemplification of
the Gospel I had often observed in
accompanying Livia and Ottavia
to the miserable habitations where
they were welcomed so cordially.
"Ah! signora," these so-called
wretched creatures would some-
times say, looking at us with an
air of compassion, ** yes, we will
pray for you, and our Lord will
hear us ; for, after all, we poor are
his favorites. He chose to take
jpon himself our likeness, and not
twt of the rich."

A thousand expressions of the
^ime nature crossed my mind
*hile accompanying my noble, saint-
ly friend to the places where she ex-
ercised, and taught her young daugh-
ter to exercise, a double mission of
charily. One day in particular,
^ng the charming Diana kneel-
ing beside the bed of a poor old
woman whose infirmities were in-
narablc. but who was without re-
"pon, 1 recalled the words that
fell from the lips of a poor woman
•t Kaples who had implored the

cure of her malady through the in-
tercession of some saint, and had
obtained it, " Ah ! mia cara sig-
nora, doctors are for the rich ; as
for us, we have the saints."

" You must relate all this to Gil-
bert," said Mme. de Kergy, listen-
ing to me with a beaming face,
" In spite of the absorbing interest
he takes in discoveries and inven-
tions of all kinds, he is not incapa-
ble of comprehending this solu-
tion — the highest and most simple
of all — of the great problem repeat-
ed under so many different forms.
He would reUdily acknowledge that,
viewed in this light, the inequali-
ties of social life assume a wonder-
fully different aspect."

This was not the first time I had
heard her speak in this way of Gil-
bert de Kergy since we had daily
met. Among other things, she ex-
plained, on one occasion, the ob-
ject of various associations of
which he was an active member.

" He could explain all this much
better than I," she added ; " but I
have urged him in vain to accom-
pany us in our explorations through
what I call his domain. He abso-
lutely refuses, and, though I am ac-
customed to his uncivilized ways,
they afflict me, because he often
yields to them to the injury of
others as well as himself."

One day, however, I found his
card at my door when I returned
home; but I had seen him only
once since the meeting at the
Hdtel de Kergy.

Saturday arrived, the day but
one before our departure, and I
was to take my last drive with
Mme. de Kergy. I was suffering
from a thousand conflicting emo-
tions, agitated and melancholy, and
sorry to be separated from her, and
yet happy and impatient to leave
Paris, where I now seemed to be-

The Veil Withdrawn.

hold nothing but two large blue
eyes following me everywhere. On
the other hand, however, a strange,
inexplicable regret weighed on my
heart when I thought of the world
into which I had not yet pene-
trated, except in imagination, but
where I longed to be transplanted
with Lorenzo, that our lives might
*bring forth better fruit. While
conversing with Mme. de Kergy
such a life seemed less chimerical.
I felt my wishes might easily be re-
alized if ... I could not wholly
define my thought, but it was there,
alive, actual, and poignant, and the
recollection of its source added a
degree of tenderness to the affec-
tionate farewell I bade Mme. de
Kergy when her carriage stopped
to leave me at my door. My eyes
were filled with tears. I found it
difficult to tear myself away. She,
on her part, pressed my hand, and,
fastening her softest look on me,
finally said :

" My dear Ginevra '* (I had some
time before begged her to call me
so), "would it be indiscreet to
ask you to come and dine with us
to-morrow, and spend your last
evening with us?'*

'* O madame !" I exclaimed with
a joy I did not try to conceal,
"how happy I should be to come!"

" Then I shall depend on seeing
you — both of you ; for of course my
invitation extends likewise to the
Duca di Valenzano."

I felt my face turn red simply
at these words. Alas ! why '> Be-
cause I was at once terrified at the
thought of conveying an invitation
to Lorenzo which, ten days before,
he would have eagerly accepted.
Now I felt if he replied in the af-
firmative, it would be a triumph
for me ; if in the negative, a painful
defeat.

All this rapidly crossed my mind,

and made me silent for a moment.
Finally I replied :

" I do not know whether my
husband has any engagement for
to-morrow or not; but as for me,
I hope nothing will prevent my
coming. At all events, you shall
have my reply in a few hours."

This reply was despatched at a
late hour that same evening, and
was to this effect: "That impor-
tant business would oblige my hus-
band to be absent the whole day,
and I alone should be able to ac-
cept Mme. de. Kergy *s invitation."

What it cost me to write this
note Mme. de Kergy never ima-
gined. And yet, when I hastily
wrote these lines, I had no positive
reason for doubting the truth of
the excuse assigned for Lorenzo's
absence — no reason except the
promptings of my own heart, to
which I was less able than ever,
within a few hours, to impose si-
lence.

But to relate what took place
from the time I left Mme. de Kergy
till I wrote her the above note :

That evening, as usual, I was to
meet Donna Faustina, but not her
alone. Our friends were to assem-
ble to bid us farewell, and it was at
this soiree I saw her for the first
time in all the Mat of a brilliant
toilet. And, though I was far
from foreseeing it, it was there I
spoke to her for the last time ! . . .
And I was still further from fore-
seeing in what place and in what
way I should afterwards find my-
self beside her for an instant ! . . .

We both attracted much atten-
tion that evening. Which of us
was the more beautiful I cannot
tell. As to this, I was indiffer-
ent to the opinion of all but one.
What he thought I longed to know,
and I now watched him in my
turn. As I have said, he had good

The Veil Withdrawn.

leasofl to pride hiiuself on his
penetration ; but that was a faculty
bjr no means lacking on my part,
and one, it may be remarked en
fassanty that Sicilians of both sexes
arc said to be rarely devoid of. In
this respect we were well matched.
I knew every line in his forehead,
and understood every movement
of his mouth and the slightest
change in his mobile, expressive
&CC, and during the whole evening,
when for the first time I was able
to observe them together without
attracting his attention, I used as
much art in studying him as he
knew how to use in studying
oihet^. I followed them with my
eyes around the room; whereas,
separated from me by the crowd,
he forgot my presence, and, by
some phenomenDn akin to that of
second sight, every word they ut-
tered seemed to resound distinctly
m my ears ! ... It was with re-
luctance I gave her my hand when
I left her. It was she, and not
Lorenzo, who was at that moment
the object of the resentment that
homed in my heart.

1 had doubtless overcome some
of my faults at that time, but far
from all. I was not so frivolous as
is usually the case at my age. I
loved ever)rthing great and noble.
But with all this, I was impetuous,
lilful, and jealous, and, though not
occupied about my appearance, I
was with myself. The happiness I
had an indisputable right to was
menaced. All means of defending
my rights seemed allowable, but to
use address, prudence, and manage-
ment would have amounted almost
to insincerity in my eyes.

Pretexts, and even excuses, are
^dom wanting for yielding to the
iapulsc of the moment. Therefore
1 fielded to mine when I again
lound myself alone with Lorenzo,

breaking a long silence which he
did not notice, or would not ask
the reason of, with a violent out-
burst I afterwards regretted, but
which, at the moment, it seemed
impossible to repress.

" I have tried to please you, Lo-
renzo, and must still believe in your
sincerity, which it would kill me to
doubt; but I can no longer have
any faith in the false, perfidious
friendship of that woman. . . . My
heart, my whole soul, revolts
against her. . . . God forgive me,
Lorenzo, I really believe I hate her,
and feel as if I could never see her
again! ..."

Such were a few of the hasty, in-
coherent words that escaped from
my lips. Lorenzo, with folded
arms, compressed brow, and a cold,
ironical look of surprise, listened
without interrupting me.

As I gazed at him, I felt my im-
petuosity die away and give place
to intolerable anguish. My heart
swelled, and I should have burst out
into sobs had not a certain pride
hindered me from responding to
the icy coldness of his smile with
tears. He did not excuse himself,
and by no means tried to defend
her whom I thus attacked. He
made neither protestations nor re-
proaches.

" As you please, cara midy' said
he with a calmness that seemed a
thousand times more cruel than
anger. " I will not attempt to op-
pose the furious fit of jealousy I see
you are in. Indulge in it at your
leisure. . . . Nothing is easier than
to find some excuse for not spend-
ing to-morrow evening with Donna
Faustina — and the day after, ma
belle Ginevra^'' continued he with a
sarcastic look that was more mark-
ed than, his words. " You seem to
forget we are both going away, and
very probably you will never see

September — Sabbath Rest.

her again. . . . This is a reassuring
circumstance, and ought to have
sufficed, it seems to me, to prevent
you from making so absurd a scene
as this."

His manner and words complete-
ly disconcerted me. I now felt pain-
fully mortified at ray outburst, and
an earnest desire to repair it. And
yet the sensation caused by his in-
justice still raged in my heart. But I
repressed this by degrees, and when
Lorenzo was on the point of leaving
the room, I said in a low tone :

" Forgive me ; I was too hasty.
But I have suffered more than you
may have supposed."

He made no reply, and his cold-
ness restored my self-control.

** It is not necessary to seek any
pretext to avoid meeting Donna
Faustina," continued I with a sang-
froid nearly equal to his own.
*Mme. de Kergy has invited me.

and you also, to dine there to-mor-
row, and pass the evening."

"Very well, go; nothing could
be more fortunate. As for me, I
shall not go with you. I have busi-
ness I am obliged to finish before
my departure. To-morrow I shall
be absent all the morning, and shall
not return in season to accompany
you."

I knew through Lando what busi-
ness he referred to. I knew he
was to settle the next day the im-
portant accounts I had learned
about the preceding Sunday. I re-
collected likewise that he was after-
wards to dine with Lando. . . .

It was not, then, an imaginary
excuse I had to transmit to Mme.
de Kergy, and yet, when I wrote
the note before mentioned, it was
with a trembling hand and a heart
heavier than it had ever been in
my life !

TO BE CONTINUBD.

SEPTEMBER— SABBATH REST.

Most holy of the numbers, sacred Seven !

Which reverently the ancient sages held.

And by thy hidden charm the music swelled
Of rare old prophecies and songs of heaven.
We wonder, yet the secret have not riven

(So closely are the mysteries sentinelled).

If only by the calendar * compelled.
Thy sign of grace unto this month was given.
Rather, we think, a fair connection lies

Between the blessedness of Sabbath peace,

When all of labor finds divine surcease,
The while rich incense rises to the skies.

And that sweet rest from summer's burdened days,

Which makes the ripe year now yield sevenfold praise !

* Formerly September was the 7th mooth.

The Present State of Anglicanism.

THE PRESENT STATE OF ANGLICANISM.

A BILL for the regulation of pub-
lic worship, prepared by Dr. Tait,
Protestant Archbishop of Canter-
bory, and which after certain modi-
fications has passed through Parlia-
ment, is causing the state church
to undergo another of those fever-
ish crises which for about thirty
years past have marked with a new
feature its internal as well as its
eitemal disorganization.

Before that period it had been
tiie chief boast of that church, in
erery section of her members,
whether " High " or " Evangelical,"
to have repudiated the " blasphe-
moas fables and dangerous de-
ceits" of the ancient faith from
which she had apostatized, the an-
cient unity from which she had
scTcred herself, and the ancient
(ioctrines which she denounced.

Since that period, however, a
change has come over a portion of
the Establishment, by the formation
in its bosom of a new party, differ-
ing from all its predecessors, and
possessing, moreover, its own scale
of belief, graduated ad libitum.

The thoughtful and earnest wri-
ters of the Tracts for the Times,
becoming painfully conscious of
the want of consistency of belief,
and also of the need of a spiritual
head or centre of authority inHheir
own communion, sought anxiously
into the details of its origin and
history, and also into the past and
present of the ancient church, from
*hose venerable features they re-
nwved the veil of obloquy and misre-
presentation which had been thrown
OTcr them. Their search proved

that to be a merely human institu-
tion which they had regarded as
divine, and the unveiling of that
long-hidden countenance revealed
to them the divine lineaments of
the one true Mother who fpr three
weary centuries had been to Eng-
land a " Mother out of sight."*

Most of those men transferred
their allegiance whither alone it
was due ; having dug to the foun-
dations of their edifice to find them
giving way at every corner, they
took refuge in the city against
which so often the " hail descended,
and the wind blew, but it fell not ;
for it was built upon a rock.** But
they did not fail to have an abiding
impression upon the communion
they abandoned. Many who for-
bore to follow their example were
yet unable to deny the truth of the
principles which had found their
ultimate resolution in this exodus,
although they persuaded themselves
and others that it was their duty to
remain in order to solidify and
adorn that structure which they
designate the "church of their bap-
tism," slow to believe that it is a
house " built on the sand."

Thus, during the last thirty years
or so, it has been the aim of a
small but increasing number of An-
glicans to claim consideration for
their communion on higher grounds
than its founders would by any
means have approved, and, becom-
ing suddenly shy of its state pa-
rentage, to declare it to be a
*' Branch " and a " Sister " of that

• This is the title of a remarkable poem by the
RcT. John Keble, unpublished until after his death.

The Present State of Anglicanism,

church which the creators of their
own moved heaven and earth, or
rather the gates of hell, to destroy.

In order to support their claim,
they find it necessary to distort
the meaning of their formularies
in the vain endeavor to coax or to
force them into some resemblance
to the teaching of the Council of
Trent, those which are hopelessly
irreconcilable being left out of the
account as little differences which
it is inconvenient to remember.
In numerous cases they are practi-
cally set aside, or contradicted,
notwithstanding the fact that at
their " ordination " the ministers
of the Church of England solemnly
bind themselves to teach in accord-
ance with these very formularies.

Moreover, finding their own mu-
tilated communion service insuffi-
cient, and yet claiming and pro-
fessing to "say Mass,** which they
were never intended to say, and
which in their present position they
are utterly incapable of celebrating,
the ritualistic ministers are in the
habit of supplementing the defi-
ciencies of their own liturgy by
private interpolations from the Ro-
man Missal, which, in case they are
questioned on the subject, they
designate as " prayers from ancient
sources, ** a statement less honest
than true. One thing after an-
other do they imitate or claim as
their own, now a' doctrine, now a
practice, which for three hundred
years their communion has em-
phatically disowned: vestments,
lights, prayers for the dead, confes-
sion, transubstantiation, in some
" extreme ** quarters intercession of
the saints; here a gesture and
there a decoration, which only has
its fitness and meaning in the an-
cient church and her venerable
ritual, but which with them can
claim no title but that of doctrinal,

disciplinary, and decorative diso-
bedience — however great .may be
the pains they take to force the
false to simulate the true, and how-
ever pertinaciously they may dare,
as they do, to appropriate to them-
selves and to their chaotic schism
the very name of the Catholic
Church, out of whose fold they are
content to remain in hereditary
apostasy.

Among the four principal sec-
tions of '* High," " Low,'* " Broad,**
^ and " No ** church, into which the
Anglican communion is divided,
the " Low ** or (so-called) " Evan-
gelical " school is the* sternest op-
ponent of the new " Extreme " or
" Ritualistic " party, which it very
mistakenly honors with the name
of Romanizers, We say mistaken-
ly, because, however they may imi-
tate according to their various
shades of opinion the outward
ceremonial of the church, or adopt,
at choice, more or less of her doc-
trines, yet all this in their case is
but a double development of Pro-
testantism (to say nothing of the
effect it produces of making them
rest satisfied with the shadow in-
stead of seeking the substance);*
for none are so bitter as they
against the church they are so de-
sirous to resemble, and also none
are so practically disobedient to
their own ecclesiastical superiors,
in spite of reiterated professions to
the contrary. It is this persistent
disobedience which has brought
about the present crisis.

In the Evangelical party there
exists a society calling itself the

* Dr. Irons, in his bode entitled Ntw Legtslaiien
/or the Church : 1$ it luededf says: "The roost
discreditable because the most insincere of all the
pleas for new legislation is the cry that the ritualbts
are encouraging popery amongst us. To say that
we are in danger of becoming papists is about as ra-
tional as to say that we are becoming * Plymouth
Brethren/ " (one of the many new sects which nave
^rung up of bte years in En^and).

The Present State of Anglicanism.

"durch Association/' of which
one piincipai object is to watch
Kntx the principles of the reforma-
tion,* and to keep a jealous eye
upon the movements of tractarian-
ism in ail its varied develop-
ments.

Chiefly in consequence of the re-
presentations of this society, and
also of the determination of the
High-Church clergy not to obey
the decision that has been given
against various of their practices
in the "Purchas judgment," until
they should have obtained a rede-
cision from another court to which
they had appealed, Dr. Tait, Arch-
bishop of Canterbury, laid before
the Houses of Parliament a bill en-
titled the " Public Worship Regula-
tion Bill," of which the object is to
tccnre the suppression of all the
3^1 practices in which Ritualists
habitually indulge, and also to se-
cwe obedience to their legally and
ecclesiastically constituted authori-
ties. Rightly or wrongly, all the
ionorations or changes that have
been gradually rousing " the Pro-
testant feeling of the country," and
vhich are in fact, if not in intention,
imitations of Catholic ritual, were
to be put down. The bill requires
that in each diocese a local court
ihoald be established, before which
loy church- warden, or three parish-
ioBcrs, " having cause of complaint
agiinst the incumbent, as failing to
observe the directions contained in
the Book of Common Prayer, relat-
ing to the performance of the ser-
rices, rites, and ceremonies of the
said book, or as having made or
permitted unlawful addition to, al-

*At a fneeting of a High Church society, cUled
Ai Ea^ih Church Union, receatly held, a member
•A tUi Xsm Church aMociation who was present
MB and iDfi»rmed the assembly that that body fur*
hm czitfcd ** for the purpose of teaching the bi-
Aofi the Uw ** — • staterocnt which must have been
■fiwrif to the Bishop of Licbfield and his two
ai^iitar«b«hops who were present.

teration of, or omission from such
services," etc., etc., shall be em-
powered to lay their complaint
against the said incumbent, who is
to be allowed the space of fourteen
days in which to give his answer.
Should no answer be given, it will
be considered that the charges laid
against him are true, and proceed-
ings will be taken accordingly.
Should an unsatisfactory answer
be given, "the bishop may, if he
think fit, within six months after he
has received a representation in the
manner aforesaid, proceed to con-
sider the same in public, with the
assistance of the chancellor of the
diocese or his substitute, . . . and
the bishop shall, after due consid-
eration, pronounce judgment in re-
gard to such representation."

To this an amendment was sug-
gested by Lord Shaftesbury, which
was adopted, namely, that instead
of a local bishop, a secular judge,
to be selected by the two Arch-
bishops of Canterbury and York,
should be appointed, under the title
of " Judge of Public Worship," and
whose office it should be to assist
the bishop of any diocese where
his services might be required for
the hearing of cases, after which
not the bishop, but the judge,
should, in conclusion, pronounce
sentence according to law.

Upon this, the Spectator^ a lead-
ing periodical of the Broad Church
party, observes : " So far as the bill
is intended to ascertain and en-
force the existing law of the church
in relation to public worship, the
change (namely, from a bishop to
a secular judge) makes the whole
difference between a tribunal which
Englishmen will respect and trust
and one which they would hardly
have taken the trouble even to con-
sult, so deep would have been, in
general, their distrust of the oracle

The Present State of Anglicanism.

consulted. . . . Lord Shaftesbury
having provided a genuine judge,
the complainant who prefers a bi-
shop will not often get his antago-
nist to agree with him, and such
complainants will be few."

Of this general mistrust of the
Anglican bishops we have more to
say, but for the present we keep to
the consideration of the bill.

Lord Shaftesbury's suggestion
was followed by one from Dr.
Magee, Bishop of Peterborough,
which, although not adopted, is too
remarkable a specimen of Episco-
pal counsel to be unnoticed. ( The
Church Times respectfully desig-
nates it as " one of the prettiest bits
of log-rolling ever seen " !) Bishop
Magee proposed, and his proposal
was " powerfully seconded by the
Lord Chancellor," that there should
be " neutral regions of ritual laid
down by the bill, within which a
variety of usages as practised in
many churches at the present time
should all be admissible, even
though the actual directions of the
rubric against some of them be ex-
plicit." Whereupon the Spectator
goes on to suggest that a varied se-
lection of " concessions " should be
made, suitable to the divergent or
opposite tastes of Extreme, High,
Low, Broad, and No Churchmen ;
such as, for instance, the optional
reading or omission of the words
as to the regeneration of the child
by the act of baptism, as a conces-
sion acceptable to the Evangelicals,
For its own part it would like an
optional reading or omission of the
Athanasian Creed, and so on, and,
" to make the compromise a tho-
roughly sound one," the laity of
each parish, it considers, ought to
be consulted as to the usage to be
adopted. It is hard to imagine
anything better calculated to make
" confusion worse confounded "

than plans like these, at a time, too,
when all the Anglican parties alike
confess that " in no day has there
been so wide a variety of tendency,
opinion, and belief in the Church
of England as now."

One of the great features in the
checkered progress of this bill has
been the speech of the late premier,
the negative and destructive char-
acter of which it is difficult ade-
quately to estimate, and which, u|>-
on its delivery, to quote the words
^of the Westminster Gazette^ " pro-
duced an ecclesiastical conflagra-
tion." Even Mr. Gladstone's late
colleagues hold aloof from his pro-
positions, and the outcry that was
raised soon indisposed his hunabler
followers to agree with him ; yet he
laid bare many real difficulties and
told many plain truths which might
make the friends of the archbi-
shop's bill reasonably hesitate. Bur
as it is, this speech has only fired
the zealous determination of the
great majority of the House, both
liberal and conservative, to strike a
blow at the external manifestations
of ritualism, come what may, and
has set the " Protestant feeling of
the country " on horseback.

The bill is doubtless peculiarly
vulnerable, and Mr. Gladstone did
not spare its weak points, amply
demonstrating its dangerous scope
and character, and the extreme
probability of its leading to convul-
sions far more serious to the wel-
fare of the Established Church than
what he termed any panic about
Ritualism. It enforces the obser-
vation of the rubrics with a rigidity
dependent only upon episcopal
discretion in the use of a certain
dispensing power. The bishops
may protect whom they please, pro-
vided they are ready with written
reasons for vetoing the proceedings
against the accused, which is cer-

The Present State of Anghcamstn.

tainly an adroit expedient for
catching obnoxious ritualists and
letting ofTenders of another class
escape. All might work well if
only bishops will be discreet.*
Mr. Gladstone showed, however,
that he entertained profound
doubts of the discretion of twen-
ty-seven or twenty- eight bishops.
But, whether his fears are well
grounded or not, many minds
would agree with him in recoiling
from such slippery legislation, al-
though, on the other hand, he
Uuinches himself into a course of
which it would be difficult to fore-
see the results. In his six remark-
abic resolutions he not only reduces
Ike bill so that it should only effect
its real objects, but he explicitly
asserts the impolicy of uniformity
ni the matter of enforcing the ru-
brics. It is really little less than
the repeal of the Act of Uniformity,
aad the six resolutions involve the
abolition of that religious settle-
ment which has prevailed in Eng-
taid for more than two centuries.
Ftading them rejected by an over-
vhdming majority, Mr. Gladstone
witfadrew them ; " but they may yet
&niish a fruitful contribution to
the discussion of the position of
the Church of England.*'

But if, as we have seen, the
Bfoad-Church section openly pro-
claims its deep mistrust of its
ecclesiastical rulers, and one object
of the Evangelical "Church Asso-
riition " is declared to be " to teach
them the law,*' it is reserved for the

* Vpcn this the Times remarks : '* There can
hta»4c|Mrtmem of administratioo . . . without a
hvfe dcpout of dlacTctionary powers in the best
laa^ tbajt caa be fbtmd. The Church of England
Im alway* bad to submit to that law, for it sees its
yuAMa appo&nted alternately by the opposite poli-
iM wtA rdigioas sides,' and has had to see the
vorfbusbcal patronage of populous counties bestow-
iiSva whole generation on men of one school, and
iftnaaslaagoa men of the other." Could any words
I gcaphicafly depict the shuttlecock existence of
m ■ — ^^^'^1 *i than these?

organs of the extreme ritualistic
party to treat their bishops, week
after week, to an amount of super-
cilious insolence, which is occasion-
ally varied by invective and abuse,
unsurpassed in the annals of even
Puritan polemics. In the Church
Times for May 22 we find a lengthy
monition, headed in double-sized
capitals, ** What the Bishops ought
to do," and which, in a tone of
mock compassion, thus com-
mences : " It has been a hard time
^lately for our Right Reverend
Fathers-in-God . . . According to
their wont, their lordships have
seemed, with one noble exception,
to give their support to Dr. Tait's
plan for stamping out ritualism."
" The gods have evidently a spite
against the primate, or he would
scarcely have committed such
blunders, etc." "The poor arch-
bishop has, however, excuse enough
for his peevishness." " We have
been compelled repeatedly, in the in-
terests of truth,etc., to point out what
their lordships ought not to do;
unfortunately the occasions which
necessarily call forth such remarks
occur too frequently; it is there-
fore only right that we should also
give the bishops the benefit of our
own experience, and explain to
them how they might hope to gain
that respect which they certainly
do not now possess." And further
on the same modest writer requests
his ecclesiastical superiors to re-
member that they are immensely in-
ferior to many of their clergy in
natural gifts, mental culture, and pa-
rochial experience, adding : " Take,
for instance, the question of con-
fession. It is evident from their
lordships* utterances respecting it
that they are in the darkest igno-
rance both as to its principles and
practice, . . . and this though there
are plenty of clergymen who, by

The Present State of Anglicanism.

long experience in the confessional,
are well qualified to instruct their
lordships about it."

Now, this is too unreasonable!
As if an Anglican bishop ought
fairly to be expected to trouble him-
self about an obsolete custom that
had practically disappeared from
the Anglican Prayer-Book, of which
there is no mention in the Cate-
chism, and none in the communion
service but one ambiguous phrase
which may mean anything ! *

But to return to the Churchy
Timesy which with its compeers of
the " extreme " school seems to do
its best to expose the Babel of con-
fusion in which it dwells, and
which its own voice does its little
utmost to increase. From this we
learn that "it is now decided by
archiepiscopal authority, and illus-
trated by archiepiscopal example,
that truth is not one, but two."

Why only now^ we should like to
know, when no true successor of
the archapostate Cranmer could
consistently teach otherwise — Cran-
mer, of whom his biographer, Alex-
ander Knox, writes as follows :

• Sec Peace thnmfk the Truths by the Rev. F.
Harper, S.J., whose words we occasionally venture
to adopt, as expressing so much more completely the
sute oifthe case than could be done by any of our
own : ** In the authorized formularies of the Church
of England there is only one single mstance in which
coofieasioo is distinctly alluded to, namdy, in the
Service for the Visitation of the Sick," But let tis
hear what is said by the great Anglican authority.
Archbishop Whately, with regard to the rubric to
which we refer, his work being a text->book which
nearly every An^^ican bishop recommends to his
candidates for ordination. After quoting Marshall
and Potter as authorities in his (avor, he says : ** No
authority can be urged from thence for the apptying
of God's pardon to Uie consci en c e d a sinner, or for
absolving him from any otherwise than Irtnn the
censures of the church," {i^kaiely on ike Common
Prayer y ch. xi., «ec, 5, p. 430, London, 1840). And
the late Bishop of London, 15r. Bkxnfield, in one of
his charges (1842) speaks of auricolar coafeasioa as
" a practice wholly unknown to the primitive
drarch, one of the most fearful abuses of that of
Rome, and the aooroe of unspeakable aboounatioos."
From all which it oug^t to be clear to Anglicans
themselves that, if they wookl find authorised con-
fession and valid abaolntkm, they mtiit sack it else-
where than from the scU^«iithonzed confcaaon of
thcsr own communioo.

" To form a church by any sharply
defined lines was scarcely Cranmer's
object. ... He looked more to ex-
tension than to exactness of pe-
riphery." And this man, " whose
life was the incarnation of theolo-
gical and moral contradictions, and
whose creed was only consistent in
its gross Erastianism, left these as
his double legacy to the national
Establishment, of which he was the
principal contriver.*** The same
writer (Knox) demonstrates the
success of Cranmer*s idea in another
place, where he describes the con-
stitution of the Anglican commu-
nion in the following remarkable
words: "In England, as I have
already been endeavoring to show,
all is peculiar. In the Establish-
ment, the theology common to Lu-
ther and Melanchthon was adopt-
ed in the Articles, but the unmixed
piety of the primitive church was
retained in the daily liturgy and oc-
casional offices. Thus our church,
by a most singular arrangement of
Providence, has, as it were, a Catho-
lic soul united to a Lutheran body
of best and mildest temperament.
. . . May we not discover traces
of the All-wise Hand in these prin-
ciples of liberality, which are im-
planted in the very bosom of our
Establishment by the adoption of
articles that are deemed by differ-
ent men to countenance their differ-
ent opinions ? And Bishop Burnet,
in the Introduction to his Comment-
ary on the Articles^ declares that
"when an article is conceived in
such general terms that it can ad-
mit of different senses, yet even
when the senses are plainly contrary
one to another, both (/. e, persons
of opposite opinions) may sub-
scribe to the Articles with a good
conscience, and without any equi-

•F. Harper.

The Present State of Anglicanism.

wcation." Well indeed did Dr.
Newman describe these articles as
the ^ stammering lips of ambiguous
fcmwiUries." After these confes-
sions of Anglicans themselves, what
rea^n have they to be surprised if
their present archiepiscopal autho-
rity decides that truth is not one,
bnt two?

The same ritualistic organ we
have been quodng speaks of a cer-
tain proposal as one which could
only be made '^ by a madman or a
bishop." In the Church Times
for June 12, under the title of " The
Worship Bill in the Lords," we find
the following courteous, charitable,
and refined observations: "The
scheme devised by Archbishops
Tait and Thompson for harrying
^e ritualists, and nearly pulling
down the Church of England in
order to do so, like that lord chief-
justice in China who burnt down
his town-house to roast a sucking-
pig, is not going quite as its au-
thors hoped," etc. Again : " But
Dt. Tait has been contented to re-
main to the present hour in entire
ignorance of the laws, usages, and
temper of the Church of England,
aod therefore it is impossible for
the most charitable critic to give
him credit for religious motives.
The best that can be said of him is
that he has a creed of some kind,
which is Erastianism, and therefore
prefers the English Establishment
to the Scottish, as the wealthier
ind more dignified of the two.
[The bishops] have collectively be-
trayed their trust, and convinced
churchmen that the episcopal seats
in the House of Lords are a weak-
ness and not a strength to the
diTirch." " This misconduct of the
bishops will do much to destroy
the unreal glamour which their offi-
cial position has enabled them to
throw over the eyes of the moder-

ate High-Church clergy, who now
learn that no considerations of faith,
honor, and duty have the least
weight with their lordships when
any personal questions intervene,
and therefore their wings will be
clipped pretty closely when," etc.
"But there is, we are thankful to
say, £^ deep-rooted distrust of the
bishops," and " even archiepiscopal
mops and brooms cannot drive
back the waters of ritualism!"
With specimens such as these be-
fore us, we do not wonder that Dr.
Pusey, who is a gentleman as well
as a Christian, thought it advis-
able at the opening of his speech
before the recent ritualistic meet-
ing at S. James* Hall, against the
archbishop's bill, to express his
hope that the words of S. Paul
would not be forgotten, "Thou
shalt not speak evil of the ruler of
my people."

Before quitting this part of the
subject there is one thing we wish
to say. Let these men be content
to settle their own quarrel with
each other and with their bishops
as best they may, but let them, if
they will not hear S. Paul, remem-
ber a command that was given
amid the thunders of Sinai : " Thou
shalt not bear false witness against
thy neighbor"; and let them, if
they can, refrain from " evil speak-
ing, lying, and slandering " not
only against the Catholic Church
in general, but also against the
noble church in France in particu-
lar, whose close union and devoted
filial obedience to her Head, the
Vicar of Jesus Christ, they appear
to regard with a peculiar and ma-
lignant envy. Would that it were
a holy emulation instead !

These men dare to say that
the church in France has been
" brought to ruin " : that it is
"Rome and its agents who have

The Present State of Anglicanism.

procured that ruin," and by means
which they **will expose on a fu-
ture occasion." They aver that
there is not a canonical authority,
but "an absolute despotism," "a
hateful absolutism " exercised by
"the bishops over the inferior
clergy " (in which statement we
cannot but perceive a reflection of
the perpetual episcopal nightmare
which troubles the ritualistic dreams
at home) ; the said inferior clergy be-
ing described as " veritable pariahs,
who from one day to another, at the
caprice of a bishop, can be reduced
to become crossing-sweepers or
cab-drivers " — a " reduction " which
we are allowed to suppose must be
very common from the additional
declaration that " it is a prin-
ciple with the bishops to crush the
wills of their clergy," while they
themselves, "being merely the pre-
fects of the Pope, have in their
turn to submit to a tyranny no less
painful," the Pope making himself
" lord and master more and more " ;
in fact, " the only person who is
free in the Roman Church, ever
since the Council of Trent, is the
Pope."*

Elsewhere in this same exponent
of reckless ritualism we find the
following singular justification of
the tone so habitually adopted by
that party towards their spiritual
superiors : " We hear a good deal
about the reverence of the elder
tractarians for bishops and dignita-
ries, but we fail to see the merit of
their conduct when we reflect that
it cost us a disastrous exodus
Romewards." An apparently un-
conscious testimony to the inevi-
table tendency and final result of
respect for lawful authority.

• See " Our Paris Letter" in the Church Times
for June xa, 1874, which might be fitly described
•s two closely printed columns of exasperating i
dMity.

But we will no longer detain the
reader over specimens of High- An-
glican journalism, further than to
remark the admiring sympathy ex-
pressed by this party for the self-
styled " Old Catholic " movement,
and especiaHy for the apostate
Reinkens — a sympathy to be ex-
pected from men who, instead of
escaping from schism, seek to jus-
tify it, and, feeling themselves
strengthened by the rebellion of
others, applaud each fresh example
^of revolt.

Thus a long and laudatory no-
tice on the new Gemian schisma-
tics commences as follows : " The
text of the Old Catholic Declara-
tion at Bonn, on reform in general,
... is published, and is, on the
whole, extremely satisfactory. At
present the movement bears a re-
markable resemblance to the ideal
English Reformation ; and we pray
that it may keep a great deal nearer
to its theory than we have been
able to do."

As a pendant to the above we
will mention two " resolutions "
moved at a meeting of the " So-
ciety for the Reunion of Christen-
dom," recently held in S. George's
Hall, the first of which was as fol-
lows : " That the only adequate
solution for the internal distrac-
tions of the English Church, as of
Christendom generally, is to be
found in the restoration of corpo-
rate unity in the great Christianity
commonwealth."

The second stood thus : " That
the marriage of H. R. H. the Duke
of Edinburgh to the daughter of
the Czar affords hope of such mu-
tual understanding between the
English and Russian churches as
may facilitate future intercommu-
nion."

Alas, poor Church of England !
Within the breast of many of her

The Present State of Anglicanism.

nort earnest members is lovingly
cherished the delusive dream of
the "corporate reunion" of what
they are pleased to call the " three
branches of the church." Wearied
of their long isolation, they stretch
out their hands — to whom ? On the
one side, to a schism about double
the age of their own, but too free
from many of their errors and too
devoted to the Ever Blessed Mo-
ther of God to give easy welcome
to so dubious an ally as the crea-
tion of Cranmer and his king ; and,
on the other side, to a schism of a
kw months old, to which they
equally look forward to join hand
in hand, and thus, by adding schism
to schinn, fondly expect Catholic
Bttity as the result !

But what, then, is their attitude
widi regard to the ancient church ?
Opposition, strengthened by jealous
fear. There is in the Church of
England an hereditary antipathy
to the Catholic Church, which is
'^Tinced in its Articles, more fully
developed in its Homilies^ and sus-
tained m the writings not only of
the first reformers, but of all the
Miccession of Anglican divines,
»ith scarcely an exception, no mat-
ter how much they may have dif-
fifTcd among themselves in their
several schools of religious opinion.
Nor is the spirit dead within it now.
for instance, was there ever a
awrc gigantic commotion than that
vhich was raised all over England,
a every corner of the land, and
among clergy and laity alike, than
tlut which followed upon the simple
*:t of Pope Pius IX., when, within
•lie memory of the present genera-
'•'>n, he exchanged the government
^ the Catholic Church in England
t*7 xicars-apostolic for that of a
r'^gular and established hierarchy ?

"The same animus exists even
»a»oog the less Protestant and more

VOL. XX. — ^

eminent of its champions in the
present day, among whom we need
only mention the names of Dr.
Wordsworth, Mr. Palmer, and the
Dean of Canterbury among mode-
rate High Churchmen." It mani-
fests itself also quite as plainly
in the Tractarian, Ritualistic, and
" Extreme " schools of High-Church
development ; for instance, F. Har-
per quotes a letter published and
signed by an " Old Tractarian," in
which the Catholic bishops are
described as " the present managers
of the Roman schism in England,"
and a clergyman of the same school,
well known at Oxford, on one oc-
casion observed to the writer of the
present notice : ** We are the Catho-
lics; you are simply Romanists;
that is to say, Roman schismatics."
Dr. Pusey, in his^ recent speech
before the meeting at St. James'
Hall against the archbishop's bill,
expresses as emphatically as ever
his assured conviction of the Catho-
licity of his own communion, in
spite of the many difficulties to be
overcome before that view can be
accepted by ordinary minds. After
speaking of the " undivided church
of Christ," he goes on to say : ** We
are perfectly convinced . . . that
we are standing within her own re-
corded limits, and are exponents
of her own recorded principles,"
adding, " The Church of England is
Catholic " (great cheering), " and no
power on earth can make the Church
of England to-day a Protestant so-
ciety. . . . Her limits we claim
to be those of the Catholic Church."
And, wonderful as it may seem, the
venerable doctor is convinced of
the truth of these affirmations, his
nature being too noble and sincere
wilfully to exaggerate. His speech,
which is in condemnation of the
archbishop's bill as being aimed
against those charged with making.

The Present State of Anglicanism.

unlawful additions to their church's
ritual, while those who make un-
lawful omissions from it are likely
to be left unmolested, concludes
with these words : " If dark days
do come, ... I mean to stand just
where I am, within the Church of
England" (loud and prolonged
cheering). ..." I mean to resist
the voices from without and from
within that will call on me to go to
Rome; but still to endeavor, by
active toil, by patient well-doing,
and by fervent charity, to defend
and maintain the catholic nature
of the Church of England." *

There is one Voice which may
yetw/7/tobe heard ^^ within'' and
which may at the same time confer
grace, that he who has taught so
many souls the way to their true
and only home may himself also
find his own true Mother and his
Home at last.

Meanwhile, what is the condition
of this " Catholic " Church of Eng-
land ! Never was there a " house"
more notoriously " divided against
itself;" and every effort of the
Tractarian party to force sound
doctrine upon her or elicit it from
her has resulted in a more delibe-
rate annihilation of truth on her
,part, by the formal declaration that
on fundamental doctrines her min-
isters, according to their respective

•Wc arc told that ** one striking feature of the
• evening as regards the tone pervading the assem-
•.blage was the manifest repudiation of the idea . . .
. that, if the bill were pressed, the extreme men would
secede and free the church from their annoying
presence." When Mr. Hillyrard, of S. Lawrence's,
Norwich, who presented himself as one of the ** ex-
-tremest of the extreme," told how a parishioner of his
had said to him, ** Sir, if fifteen years ago there had
. been such services and spiritual privileges at S.
'Lawrence as there are now, I should never have
.turned Roman Catholic," he '* fairly brought down
the house." The idea of ** sorrowful departure,"
. . . when referred to by ooe of the q>eakers, was
received with shouts of derisive iaugkter. An-
other clergyman stated that he had " reconciled a
<great number of Rotuui Catholics to the church" (0*
which announcement was received with ** great
xhiering."

tastes, are free to teach two oppo-
site beliefs. It was thus when the
"Gorham judgment" ruled that
baptismal regeneration was "an
open question" in the church of
England. Her ministers are equal-
ly allowed to teach that it is a true
doctrine or that it is a false one.
Truth is made not only " two," but
antagonistic to itself. A subse-
quent judgments did the same thing
with regard to the doctrine of the
Real Presence in the Eucharist,
which is taught.in a variety of ways
by the clergy of the Tractarian
schools, sometimes as consubstan-
tiation, and by some as transubstan-
tiation itself, although this doctrine
is explicitly repudiated by the An-
glican formularies. By the decision
pronounced in the case of Mr. Ben-
nett of Froome Selwood, the Real
Presence in the Eucharist was,
equally with the doctrine of its op-
posite, which might be truly desig-
nated as the " real absence," author-
ized to be believed and taught.

It thus not unfrequently happen*!
that the adoration of the consecrated
elements practised and inculcated
in one parish by the Rev. Mr. AI
is in the very next parish denounced
as idolatry by his neighbor Xhi
Rev. Mr. B. ; * and in cases whed
the one gentleman happens to b^

* And Mr. B., moreover, would he able ibr hij
part to appeal to the ** Black rubric" (so nanaed bj
the Tractarians), and which is appended to thi
Cmununion Service, and Art. XXVIII. The fbnae^
apologizing for the order contained in the o6Sce fc
communicanu to receive kneeling^ dedares th^
** thereby no adoration is intended or ought to fa|
done, either unto the sacramental bread or vsin
there bodiljr received, or unto any Corporal PreJ
ence of Christ^s natural Flesh and Blood. For th
sacramental bread and wine remain still ta thd
very natural substance, and therefore may oot b
adored (for that were idolatry to be abhorred of a^
faithful Christians)." Article XXVIII. dedares thi
** Traasubstantiation cannot be proved bjr Un)
Writ ; but it is repugnant to the plain words of Scri]
ture, overthroweth the nature of a sacranlbKt, an
hath given occasion to many superstitions. . . . Til
Sacrament of the Lord's Supper was not by CfariM
ordinance reserved, carried about, lifted up, or woj
shipped."

The Present State of Anglicanism^

ippointed to succeed the other in
either parish, what must be the
confusion of ideas produced in the
minds of the hapless parishioners
viih regard to the only two sacra-
ments which their catechism teach-
es them are " generally necessary to
salvation " ?

Every judgment given by the
authorized tribunals of the Estab-
ttshment on matters of doctrine
recognizes by implication that the
real strength of the Church of Eng-
Ufld lies in the indifference of the
En^ish people to dogmatic truth.
We quote the words of Mr. WiU
beribrce: That which dishonors
the durch of England in the judg-
mait of ail other Christians, wheth-
er Catholic or Protestant, is its
great merit in the eyes of its own
nenbers. They • want to profess
Adr various religions, from Calvin-
ism to semi-popery, without imped-
incnt, and the Church of England
is the only community in the world
io vhich they can do it. Even
professed unbelievers desire to
maintain that institution for the
ttoe reason. A church which
*.«adies nothing is in their judg-
ment the next best thing to no
'Horch at all ; thus the Pall Mall
(kzeik often writes against Chris-
■iinity, but never against the
Church of England. What unbe-
lievers fear is a church which
'iaims to be divine and which
•aches only one religion. "We
^vc a regard," says the ration-
tiitic Saturday Review^ "selfish
I' may be, but very sincere, for
fe« Church of England as an emi-
tenily useful institution. If the
L:bentioa Society chuckles over
^ revelation of a 'divided
fiaich,' the only way to check-
pate it is to make all varieties of
ll^trine equally lawful, though
"^ arc mutually contradictory."

Again : when such a man as
Lord Selbome says that the opposi-
tion to the archbishop's bill is bas-
ed on the idea that " every clergy-
man is to be his own pope," and
Lord Hatherley that "every one
was determined to have his own
way," and the Bishop of Peter-
borough that " those clergymen who
were so loud in crying out against
the tyranny of the bishops arrogat-
ed to themselves a right to do ex-
actly what they pleased " ; " every
clergyman wishing that there should
be excipienda in favor of the prac-
tices in which he himself indulged,
but objected to include those of
his neighbor in the list," and that
" every one was equally anxious to
be himself exempted from prosecu-
tion, and equally jealous of the
power of prosecuting his neigh-
bor " — the real character of the so-
called "Catholic revival" in the
Protestant Church of England was
acknowledged by the most eminent
partisans of that institution. Ri-
tualism, they perceive, is simply
Protestantism and the right of pri-
vate judgment in their extremest
form. How vain it is to exorcise
such a spirit in a sect founded on
the right of revolt, and so utterly
indifferent to positive truth that, as
the Bishop of Peterborough frank-
ly confessed, the word compromise
is written all over the pages of the
Anglican Prayer-Book, was unde-
signedly admitted by Lord Salis-
bury. "There were," he said,
" three parties in the church, which
might be described as the Sacra-
mental, the Emotional, and the
Philosophical, and the great pro-
blem to be solved was how to re-
concile their views." The pro-
blem, he knows, is insoluble. The
very men who profess to revive
Catholic dogma can only sug-
gest a " considerate disagreement,"

The Present State of Anglicanism.

which in plain words is an ar-
rangement to betray God's reveal-
ed truth by an impious compro-
mise with error.

Before closing this rapid and
imperfect notice of the present
state of the Anglican Communion,
a reflection suggests itself upon
which we must say a few words.
It may reasonably be asked,
What is the authority which the ri-
tualistic party professes to obey?
They refuse the right of the state,
to which their community owes its
being, to rule them in matters ec-
clesiastical ; they refuse obedience
practically^ whether professedly or
not, to their bishops, for whom
they appear to have neither affec-
tion, confidence, nor respect ; and
they not only refuse submission to
her whom they themselves acknow-
ledge to be the " Mother and Mis-
tress of all churches," but they
openly express their sympathy and
admiration for those who rebel
against her authority, invariably
taking the part of the revolted
against the Catholic Church. " Is
there, then, any authority upon
earth to which they allow them-
selves responsible, and if so, where
is it to be found ?

We give the answer in the words
of the able writer quoted above:*

** Anglicans having destroyed, as
far as their influence extends, the
whole authority of the living church,
they affect, since they must obey
something, to reserve all their
obedience for what they call the
primitive church. The late Dean
Mansel tells us that some of the
worst enemies of revealed truth
employed the same pretext. ' The
earlier deists,' he says (naming
five notorious ones), 'carried on
their attack under cover of a

• |fr.H.Waieribrce.

reverence for primitive C
tianity ; ' and he goes on to
* Has such a supposition ever
made, except by wicked men d
ous to find an excuse for
transgression of the law?' ]
this is exactly the attitude
Anglicans towards the auth
of the church. They exalt
prerogatives, and admit that s
'infallible*; but they deny it
same breath that she has the p
to teach or to 'pass decrees,
cause that would imply the ob
tion of obedience, and they at
solved to obey nothing but ti
selves, and therefore they hav
vented the theory of the Chri
Church which may be enunciat
the following terms :

" ' The church of God. though dej
by her Founder to a divine life, hi
come by degrees a mere human I
In spite of the promises, her decay 1
with her existence, since even the
tolicsees all "erred in matters of fai
She was designed to be One, but is
divided. She was intended to be
vcrsal. but ... it is far more c
nicnt that she should be simply nat
She still has a voice, but cannot i
Her decrees would be irreformable
had not lost the power to make
She is theoretically infallible, but hi
fallibility may be corrected by any ii
gent Christian who feels qualified f<
task. She has a right to enjoin o
ence, but everybody has a right to r
it ; for though obedience was oe
Christian duty, yet, since there i
longer anything to obey, this parti
virtue has lapsed, and every one is 3
to himself. It is no doubt her offii
correct the errors of others, but un(
nately she has not yet succeeded ii
tecting her own. ** Every tongue thj
sisteth her in judgment she shall
demn," but meanwhile it is quite la
for every tongue to condemn her.
Unity is her essential mark, by w
she was always to be recognized, b

• " As the Chtirch of Jerusalem, Alexandria
Andoch hare erred, so also the Church of
hath erred, not only in their living and maac
ceremonies, but abo in matters of fiuth."-

The Present State of Anglicanism.

it kM BO centre it is now purely chimeri-
cri. Tke great teachers of Christendom
faacied the Pope was that centre, but
this was eridentJy delusion. It was in
tkc beginning a condition of salvation to
"War the chnrch," but as she has lost
her voice nobody can be expected to
har her now, and the conditions of sal-
ntkn are changed. It used to be her
toiness to impose terms of communion,
both is the peculiar privilege of modern
Chtisians to substitute others for them.
Dtt dc£ection of millions in the earlier
sge^wbo became Arians or Donatists^
tt not in the least affect her unity or
n^r her authority ; but the rebellion
«f c«tiin Englishmen—whose fathers had
oW jeil her (or a thousand years, or of
» who have invented a local reli-

and do not even aspire to an uni-
4s quite fatal to both. Of all

r aposutes it was rightly said/* They
«M9at from us because they were not
tf iiik*b«t no one would think of saying
Ab of men who live under the British
Owwilutiuii, because they have a clear
l^lo*go out " whenever they please.' "

Sadi is the Anglican theory, . . .
ii the face of which the Anglican
fiopliets go to their temples, and
iMdIy proclaim, " I believe in One,
Boly, Catholic Church." The na-
ted result of such teaching is that
i aajority of Englishmen have
hag ceased to believe in anything
cf the kind.

Not is the Anglican theory about
die Catholic Church a more impos-
•bk absurdity than what they pro-
fc«i to believe, and apparently ,do
krficve, about their own, although
4cy do not state their belief in the
^ and unambiguous manner in
tJuch we will state it for them.

That sect " existed," they tell us,
"before the so-called Reformation,
•ttch was only a trivial episode in
ia history. It left the Church of
Eagland exactly what it was be-
fct, and only made it a little more
C«holic. If its founders called
*^ Mass a * blasphemous fable,'
*5*cy must have intended that it
•« Uic most sacred rite of the

Christian religion. If, whenever
they altered their new Prayer-
Book (which they did very often),
it was always to make it less Ca-
tholic, this was probably in the
hope that its doctrine would im-
prove in quality as it lessened in
quantity. If its bishops for many
generations persecuted Catholics to
death or tortured them as * idola-
ters ' this was only a quarrel of
brothers, and they were as deeply
enamored of the Catholic faith as
those whom they murdered for
professing it. If for more than a
hundred years they gave the high-
est dignities to men who had never
received episcopal ordination, that
fact proved nothing against their
reverence for the apostolic succes-
sion, or their conviction that they
possessed it themselves. In like
manner their casting down altars
(in some cases making them into
paving-stones), and substituting a
* wooden table,* in no way afiect
our constant declaration that the
doctrine of the Christian sacrifice
was always most firmly held and
taught in the Anglican Church.
That they allowed their clergy
every variety of creed may have
been one way of testifying their
conviction that truth is one.
Their constant execration of the
Catholic faith must be interpreted
as meaning something quite oppo-
site; in the same way, if you sup-
press the Homilies and reverse the
Articles, which for some sagacious
reason were written as they are,
you will find the genuine theology
of our founders.

" Finally, if the Church of Eng-
land pretended to be fiercely Pro-
testant for three centuries, this was
only to take the world by surprise
about the year 1870, and thus se-
cure the 'Catholic revival* which
will hasten the time when Dr. Tait

The Present State of Anglicanism.

will be universally recognized as
the legitimate successor of S. An-
selm — particularly in his religious
views — ^and the Anglican reforma-
tion justly appreciated as a noble
protest against the noxious errors
of Protestantism, with which it ac-
cidentally coincided in point of
time, but had nothing in common
in point of doctrine."

But of what avail is all this?
Ritualists succeed in revealing the
disorganization of their sect, only
to show that it is incurable, and yet
are able to persuade themselves
that such a sect as this, which ex-
ists only to " neutralize " the reve-
lation of the Most High, is an in-
tegral part of that majestic and in-
flexible "Church of the living
God," upon which he has lavished
all the highest gifts which even di-
vine munificence could bestow.

Speaking of some recent conver-
sions to the Catholic Church, the
Church Herald says : " From what
we hear from quarters which are well
informed, there can be little doubt

that another large <and influential
exodus in the same direction is im-
minent." If Anglicans are not
converted now, the case does in-
deed seem hopeless. But they
need more than ever at this mo-
ment a solemn warning. They may
begin to desire reconciliation, and
to flee from the house of bondage ;
but, if they think they can criticise
the church as they have been in the
habit of criticising their own sect ;
if they propose to teach instead of
to learn ; to command instead of to
obey ; if they do not seek her par-
don and blessing in the loving
spirit of penance, humility, and
submission, let them remember
that the church of God is no home
for the lawless and self-sufficient.

But to all those who in humility
and sincerity are seeking the truth,
we would say with all possible in-
tensity of entreaty: "Let him
that is athirst come. And whosoever
will, let him take the water of
life freely," for "the Spirit and
the Bride say. Come."

Antar and Zara. 5$

ANTAR AND ZARA;

OK,

-THE ONLY TRUE LOVERS."

AN EASTERN EOMANCB NARRATED IN 80NG8.
nr AUUKBY Of VSKS.

PART vr.

THEY SANG.

The people met me at the rescued gate,

On streaming in the immeasurable joy,
Warriors with wounds, gray priests, old men sedate.

The wife, the child, the maiden, and the boy.

Then followed others — some as from a tomb,
Their foce a blank, and vacant ; blinded some ;

Some that had whitened in the dungeon's gloom ;
Some, from long years of lonely silence, dumb.

Anatomies of children with wild glare.

Like beasts new caught ; and man-like spectres pale;
And shapes like women, fair, or one time fair

(Unhappiest these), that would not lift the veil.

Then saw I what is wrought on man by men :
Then saw I woman's glory and her shame :

Then learned I that which freedom is — ^till then
The soldier, not of her, but of her name.

The meaning then of Country, Virtue, Faith,

Flashed on me, lightning-like : I pressed my brow

Down on the wayside dust, and vowed till death
My life to these. Thai was my bridal vow.

11.

A dream was mine that not for long
Our joy should have its home on earth ;

That love, by anguish winged, and wrong,
Should eariy seek its place of birth;

S6 Antar and Zara.

That all thy hand hath done and dared
Should scantlier serve our country's need

Than some strange suffering 'twixt us shared
Her last great harvest's sanguine seed.

I saw false friends their treaties snap
Like osiers in a giant's hand ;

Saw sudden flames our cities wrap ;
Saw, drowned in blood, our Christian land.

I saw from far the nations come
To avenge the lives they scorned to save,

Till, ransomed by our martyrdom
Our country carolled o'er oiu: grave !

in.

Still to protect the lowly in their place.
The power unjust to meet, defiant still,

Is ours ; and ours to subjugate the base
In our own hearts to God's triumphant will.

We, playmates once amid the flowers and rills,
Are now two hunters chasing hart and hind.

Two shepherds guarding flocks on holy hills,
Two eaglets launched along a single wind.

What next ? Two souls — a husband and a wife —
Bearing one cross o'er heights the Saviour trod ;-

What last ? Two spirits in the life of life
Singing God's love-song under eyes of God,

IV.

I dreamed a dream when six years old : —
Against my mother's knee one day,

Protected by her mantle's fold,
All weary, weak, and wan I lay.

Then seemed it that in caverns drear
I roamed forlorn. The weeks went by

From month to month, from year to year :
At last I laid me down to die.

Ant at and Zara. S7

An angel by me stood, and smiled ;

He wrapt me round ; aloft he bore ;
He wafted me o'er wood and wild ;

He laid me at my mother's door.

How oft in sleep with heart that yearned

Have I not seen that face ! Ah ! me,
How slowly, seeing, I discerned

That likeness strange it bears to thee I

If some great angel thus bespake,
" Near, and thy nearest, he shall be,

Yet thou — a dreamer though awake —
But thine own thought in him shalt see " ;

If some great angel thus bespake,
" Near, and his nearest, thou shalt be,

Yet still his fancy shall mistake
That beauty he but dreams, for thee " ;

I(f last, some pitying angel spake,
" Through life unsevered ye shall be,

And fancy's dreams suffice to slake
Your thirst for immortality " ;

Then would I cry for love's great sake,

" O Death ! since truth but dwells with thee,
Come quick, and semblance substance make-
In heaven abides Reality,"

VI.

Upon my gladness fell a gloom :
Thee saw I — on some far-off day—

My husband, by thy loved one's tomb :
I could not help thee where I lay.

Ah ! traitress I, to die the first !

Ah ! hapless thou, to mourn alone !
Sudden that truth upon me burst.

Confessed so oft; till then unknown.

58 Antar and Zara.

There lives Who loves him I — loves and loved

Better a million-fold than I !
That Love with countenance unremoved

Looked on him from eternity.

That Love, all Wisdom and all Power,
Though I were dust, would guard him still,

And, faithful at the last dread hour,
Stand near him, whispering, " Fear no illT

VII.

^ Fear not to love ; nor deem thy soul too slight
To walk in human love's heroic ways :
Great Love shall teach thee how to love aright,
Though few the elect of earth who win his praise.

** Fear not, O maid ! nor doubt lest wedded life

Thy childhood's heavenward yearnings blot or blur ;
There needs the vestal heart to make the wife ;
The best that once it hoped survives in her.

" All love is Sacrifice — a flame that still

Illumes, yet cleanses as with fire, the breast :
It frees and lifts the holier heart and will ;
A heap of ashes pale it leaves the rest."

Thus spake the hermit from his stony chair ;

Then long time watched her speeding towards her home,
As when a dove through Sunset's roseate air

Sails to her nest o'er crag and ocean's foam.

VIII.

** We knew thee from thy childhood, princely maid ;
We watched thy growing greatness hour by hour :
Palm-like thy Faith uprose : beneath its shade
Successive every virtue came to flower.

" Good-will was thine, like fount that overflows

Its marge, and clothes with green the thirsty sod :
Good thoughts, like angels, from thy bosom rose,
And winged through golden airs their way to God.

Aniar and Zara. 59

** To Goodness, Reverence, Honor, from the first
Thy soul was vowed. It was that spiritual troth
That fitted maid for wife, and in her nursed
The woman's heart — not years nor outward growth.

•* Walk with the holy women praised of old

Who served their God and sons heroic bore : — "
Thus sang the minstrels, touching harps of gold
While maidens ^Teathed with flowers the bridal door.

IX.

^ Holy was love at first, all true, all fair.

Virtue's bright crown, and Honor's m)rstic feast^
Purer than snows, more sweet than morning air,
More rich than roses in the kindling east.

"Then were the hearts of lovers blithe and glad,

And steeped in freshness like a dew-drenched fleece :
Then glittered marriage like a cloud sun-clad
Or flood that feeds the vale with boon increase

** Then in its innocence great love was strong —
Love that with innocence renews the earth :
Then Faith was sovran, Right supreme o'er wrong :
Then sacred as the altar was the hearth.

"With hope's clear anthem then the valleys rang ;

With songs celestial thrilled the household bowers : — "
Thus to the newly wed the minstrels sang
As home they paced, while children scattered flowers.

Girding in upper airs we met.

Singing God's praise, and spring-tide new :
On two glad spirits fell one net

Inwoven of sunbeams and of dew.

One song we sang ; at first I thought
Thy voice the echo of mine own ;

We looked for nought ; we met unsought :
We met, ascending toward the Throne.

6o Antar and Zara.

XI.

Life of my better life ! this day with thee

I stand on earthly life's supremest tower;
Heavenward across the far infinity
* With thee I gaze in awe, yet gaze in power.

Love first, then Fame, illumed that bygone night :
How little knew I then of God or man !

Now breaks the morn eternal, broad and bright ;
My spirit, franchised, bursts its narrow span.

Sweet, we must suffer ! Joys, thou said'st, like these
Make way for holy suffering. Let it come.

Shall that be suffering named which crowns and frees ?
The happiest death man dies is martyrdom.

Never were bridal rites more deeply dear
Than when of old to bridegroom and to bride

That Pagan Empire cried, ** False gods revere !" —
They turned ; they kissed each other ; and they died.

XII.

Fair is this land through which we ride
To that far keep, our bridal bower :

A sacred land of strength and pride,
A land of beauty and of power,

A mountain land through virtue bold,
High built, and bordering on the sun ;

A prophet-trodden land, and old ;
Our own unvanquished Lebanon !

The hermit's grot her gorges guard —
The patriarch's tomb. There snowy dome

And granite ridges sweet with nard
O'er-gaze and fence the patriot's home.

No realm of river-mouth and pelf;

No traffic realm of com and wine ;
God keeps, and lifts her, to Himself:^

His bride she is, as I am thine.

When down that Moslem deluge rolled.
The Faith, enthroned 'mid ruins, sat

Here, in her Lebanonian hold.
Firm as the ark on Ararat.

Antar and Zara. 61

War still is hers, though loving peace ;

War — ^not for empire, but her Lord ; —
A lion land of slow increase ;

For trenchant is the Moslem sword

XIII.

Alas ! that sufferer weak and wan
Whom, y ester- eve, our journey o'er,

Deserted by the caravan,
We found upon our gallery floor !

How long she gasped upon my breast !

We bathed her brows in wine and myrrh ;-
How death-like sank at last to rest

While rose the sun I I feared to stir.

All night I heard our bridal bells
That chimed so late o'er springing com :

Half changed they seemed to funeral knells-
She, too, liad had her bridal morn !

Revived she woke. The pang was past :
She woke to live, to smile, to breathe :

Oh ! what a look was that she cast,
Awaking, on my nuptial wreath

XIV.

High on the hills the nuptial feast was spread :
Descending, choir to choir the maidens sang,

" Safe to her home our beauteous bride is led,"
While, each to each, the darkening ledges rang.

From vale and plain came up the revellers* shout :
Maidens with maidens danced, and men with men ;

Till, one by one, the festal fires burned out
By lonely waters. There was silence then.

Keen flashed the stars, with breath that came and went,
Through mountain chasms : — around, beneath, above,

They whispered, glancing through the bridal tent,
" Wc too are lovers : heaven is naught but love I"

Assunta Howard.

ASSUNTA HOWARD.

III.

IN BXTBEMIS.

How slowly and drearily the time
drags on, through all the weary
length of hours and days, in a
household where one has suddenly
been stricken down from full life
and health to the unconscious deli-
rium of fever — when in hushed si-
lence and with folded hands the
watchers surround the sufferer with
a loving anxiety ; whose agony is in
their helplessness to stay for one
moment the progress of the disease,
which seems possessed of a fiend-
like consciousness of its own fatal
power to destroy; when life and
death hang in the balance, and at
any moment the scale may turn,
and in its turning may gladden lov-
ing hearts or break them ; and, oh !
above and beyond all, when
through the clouding of the intel-
lect no ray from the clear light of
faith penetrates the soul, and the
prostrate body, stretched upon its
cross, fails to discern the nearness
of that other cross upon this
Calvary of suffering, from which
flows in perennial streams the
fountain of salvation! Oh! if in
the ears, heedless of earthly sounds
and words, there could be whisper-
ed those blessed words from Divine
lips, " This day thou shalt be with
me," what heart that loves would
not rejoice even in its anguish, and
unselfishly exclaim, " Depart, O
Christian soul ! I will even crush
down my poor human love, lest its
great longing should turn thy
happy soul away froip the contem*

plation of its reward, exceeding
great — to be in Paradise, to be
with Christ"? But, alas! there
were two crucified within reach of
those precious, saving drops, and
one alone said, " Lord, remember
me.

When the family of Mr. Carlisle
first realized that the master of the
house had indeed been prostrated
by the fever which had proved so
fatal in its ravages, they were
stunned with surprise and grief.
It was just the calamity, of all
others the least expected, the
heaviest to endure.

Mrs. Grey's affection for her
brother was the deepest sentiment
of her superficial nature, and for
the time she was bowed down with
sorrow ; which, however, constantly
found vent in words amd tears.
She would rise from it soon, but
not until the emergency had pass-
ed. She lived only in the sunshine ;
she lost herself when the clouds
gathered. Assunta was the first to
recover her calmness and presence
of mind. Necessity made her
strong; not so much for the sake
of the sick man — that might come
by and by — but for his sister, who
clung to the young girl as to the
last plank from the shipwreck of
her bright, happy life. The physi-
cian was in constant attendance,
and at the first he had proposed
sending a nurse. But the faithful
Giovanni had pleaded with so
much earnestness to be allowed the

Assunta Howard.

privilege of attending his master
that he was installed in the sick-
room. And truly no better choice
cooid have been made, for he com-
bined the physical strength of the
man urith the gentleness of woman,
and every service was rendered
with the tenderness of that love
which Mr. Carlisle had the rare
power of inspiring and retaining in
dependents. But only Assunta was
able to quiet his wandering mind,
and control the wild vagaries of de-
lirium. It was a painful duty to
strive to still the ringing of those
bells, once so full of harmony, now
"jangled, out of tune, and harsh."
But, once recognizing where her
duty lay, she would have perform-
ed it at any cost to herself.

Her good and devoted friend,
F. du Pont, came to see her the
second day of the illness, and
brought sympathy and consolation
io his very presence. She had so
longed for him that his coming
seemed an echo of her earnest
wish — his words of comfort an
answer to her prayers.

** Father," she said at length," you
know all — the past and the present
circumstances. May I not, in the
present necessity, and in spite of
the past, forget all but the debt of
gratitude I owe, and devote myself
to my dear friend and guardian?
You know," she added, as if there
were pain in the remembrance, " it
was Mr. Carlisle's care for me that
exposed him to the fever. I would
nurse him as a sister, if I might."

**My dear child," replied the
priest, "I do not see how you
could do less. From my know-
ledge of Mrs. Grey, I should con-
sider her entirely unfit for the ser-
vices of a sick-room. It seems,
therefore, your plain duty to per-
form this act of charity. I think,
my child, that the possible near-

ness of death will calm all merely
human emotion. Give that obedi-
ent little heart of yours into God's
keeping, and then go to your duty
as in his sight, and I am not afraid.
The world will probably look upon
what it may consider a breach of
propriety with much less leniency
than the angels. But human re-
spect, always bad enough as a mo-
rive, is never so wholly bad as
when it destroys the purity of our
intention, and consequently the
merit of our charity, at a time
when, bending beneath the burden
of some heavy trial, we are the
more closely surrounded by God's
love and protection. Follow the
pillar of the cloud, my child. It is
leading you away from the world. "

** Father," said Assunta, and her
voice trembled, while tears filled
her eyes, " do you think he will die ?
Indeed, it is not for my own sake
that I plead for his life. He is not
prepared to go. Will you not pray
for him, father } Oh ! how gladly
would I give my life as the price
of his soul, and trust myself to the
mercy of God !"

" And it is to that mercy you
must trust him, my poor child.
Do you, then, think that his soul is
dearer to you than to Him who
died to save it? You must have
more confidence. But I have not
yet told you the condition I must
impose upon your position as
nurse. It is implicit obedience to
the physician, and a faithful use of
all the precautions he recommends.
While charity does sometimes de-
mand the risk or even the sacrifice
of life, we have no right to take the
matter into our own hands. I do
not apprehend any danger for you,
if you will follow the good doctor's
directions. I will try to see him
on my way home. Do you pro-
mise ?"

Assunta Howard.

"Yes, fkther," said Assunta,
with a faint smile ; " you leave me
no alternative."

" But I have not yet put a limit
to your obedience. You are ex-
cited and worn out this afternoon,
and I will give you a prescription.
It is a lovely day, almost spring-
like; and you are now, this very
moment, to go down into the gar-
den for half an hour — and the
time must be measured by your
watch, and not by your feelings.
Take your rosary with you, and
as you walk up and down the
orange avenue let no more serious
thoughts enter your mind than the
sweet companionship of the Bless-
ed Mother may suggest. You will
come back stronger, I promise
you.'*

"You are so kind, father," said
Assunta gratefully. ** If you knew
what a blessing you bring with you,
you would take compassion on me,
and come soon again."

" I shall come very soon, my
child ; and meanwhile I shall pray
for you, and for all, most fervently.
But, come, we will walk together
as far as the garden. And summon-
ing the priest who had accompa-
nied him, and who had been look-
ing at the books in the library dur-
ing this conversation, they were
about to descend the stairs, when
Mrs. Grey came forward to meet
them.

"O F. du Pont!" she exclaim-
ed impetuously, " will you not
come and look at my poor brother,
and tell me what you think of
him? They say priests know so
much." And then she burst into
tears.

F. Joseph tried to soothe her
with hopeful words, and, when they
reached the door of the darkened
chamber, she was again calm. The
good priest's face expressed the

sympathy he felt as they entered
softly, and stood where they would
not attract the attention of those
restless eyes. Mr. Carlisle was
wakeful and watchful, but compar-
atively quiet. It was pitiful to sec
with what rapid strides the fever was
undermining that manly strength,
and hurrying on towards the terri-
ble moment of suspense when life
and death confront each other in
momentary combat. With an earn -
est prayer to God, the priest again
raised the heavy damask curtain,
and softly retired, followed by Mrs.
Grey.

" Will he recover ?" was her ea-
ger question.

" Dear madam," replied he, ** I
think there is much room for hope,
though I cannot deny that he is a
very sick man. For your encour-
agement, I can tell you that I have
seen many patients recover in such
cases when it seemed little short of
miraculous. It will be many days
yet before you must think of giving
up good hope. And remember
that all your strength will be need-
ed."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Grey impul-
sively, " I could not live if it were
not for Assunta. She is an angel."

" Yes, she is a good child," said
the priest kindly ; " and she is now
going to obey some orders that I
have given her, that she may re-
turn to you more angelic than
ever. Dear madam, you have my
deepest sympathy. I wish that I
could serve you otherwise than by
words."

The two priests bade Assunta
good-by at the garden gate. F.
Joseph's heart was full of pity for
the young girl, whose act of sacri-
fice in surrendering human happi-
ness for conscience' sake had been
followed by so severe a trial. But,
remembering the blessed mission

Assunia Howard.

of suffering to a soul like hers, he
prayed — not that her chalice might
i^e less bitter, but that strength
might be given her to accept it as
from the hand of a loving Father.

And so Assunta, putting aside
everj- thought of self, took her place
in the sick-room. She had a double
motive in hanging her picture of
St. Catherine, from which she was
ncTcr separated, at the foot of the
i>cd. It was a favorite with Mr.
Carlisle, and often in his delirium
his eyes would rest upon it, in al-
rrtost conscious recognition; while
tc Assunta it was- a talisman — a con-
^tant reminder of her mother, and
t>f those dying words which now
seemed stamped in burning letters
*'n her heart and brain.

Mrs. Grey often visited the room ;
I'Ut she controlled her own agita-
ttf»n so little, and was so unreason-
able in the number of her sugges-
' '>tis, that she generally left the
:-itient worse than she found him.
Assunta recognized her right to

^c and go as she pleased, but she
uuld not regret her absence when
•'?r presence was almost invariably
t'^oductive of evil consequences.

The first Sunday, Assunta thought
^Hc might venture to assist at Mass
^t the nearest church ; it would be
trcngth to her body as well as her
*''til. She was not absent from the

ouic an hour, yet she was met on
• " relam by Clara, in a state of
:rtat excitement.

^Assunta, we have had a dread-
'*! time," she said. "Severn woke
•t' jtiit after you left, and literally

'camcd for help, because, he said,

i;reat black cross had fallen on
' 'J, and you would be crushed to
J nil unless some one would assist

m to raise it. In his efforts, he
'"S almost out of bed. I reasoned
"tK him, and told him it was all
''"nienkc ; that there was no cross,

VOL. XX. — 5

and that you had gone to church.
But the more I talked and explain-
ed, the worse he got; until I was
perfectly disheartened, and came
to meet you.'* And with the ready
tears streaming down her pretty
face, she did look the very picture
of discouragement.

" Poor Clara," said Assunta, gen-
tly embracing her, " it is hard for
you to bear all this, you are so little
accustomed to sickness. But you
ought not to contradict Mr. Carlisle,
for it is all real to him, and opposi-
tion only excites him. I can never
soothe him except by agreeing
with him."

"But where does he get such
strange ideas .^" asked the sobbing
Clara.

"Where do our dreams come
from.?" said Assunta. "I think,
however, that this fancy can be
traced to the night when we visited
the Colosseum, and sat for a long
time on the steps of the cross in
the centre. You know it is a black
one," she added, smiling, to reas-
sure her friend. " And now, Clara,
I really think you ought to order
the close carriage, and take a drive
this morning. It would do you
good, and you will not be needed
at all for the next two or three
bourse"

Mrs. Grey's face brightened per-
ceptibly. It was the very thing for
which she was longing, but she
would not propose it herself for
fear it would seem heartless. To.
seem^ and not to de^ was her motto.

" But would not people think it
very strange," she asked, " and
Severn so sick ?"

"I do not believe that people
will know or think anything about
it," answered Assunta patiently.
" You can take Amalie with you for
company, and drive out on the Cam-
pagna. " And having lightened oii«

Assunta Howard.

load, she turned towards her guar-
dian's room.

" Are you not coming to break-
fast?" said Mrs. Grey.

" Presently." And Assunta hasten-
ed to the bedside. Giovanni had
been entirely unable to control the
panic which seemed to have taken
possession of Mr. Carlisle, He
continued his cries for assistance,
and the suffering he evidently en-
dured showed how real the fancy
was to him.

"Dear friend," said the young
girl, pushing back the hair from his
burning forehead, "look at me.
Do you not see that I am safe.^"

Mr. Carlisle turned towards her,
and, in sudden revulsion of feeling,
burst into a wild laugh.

" I knew," he said, " that, if they
would only come and help me, I
should succeed. But it was very
Jieavy; it has made me very tired."

" Yes, you have had hard work,
and it was very kind in you to un-
dertake it for me. But now you
must rest. It would make me very
unhappy if I thought that my safety
ihad caused any injury to you."

And while she was talking, As-
sunta had motioned to Giovanni
to bring the soothing medicine the
doctor had left, and she succeeded
in administering it to her patient,
.almost without his knowledge, so
•engrossed was he in his present
vagary.

"But there was a cross .^" he
asked.

" Yes," she answered, in a mean-
ing tone, "a very heavy one; but
it did not crush me."

"Who lifted it?" he asked ea-
gerly.

" A powerful hand raised its weigh t
from my shoulders, and I have the
promise of His help always, if I
should ever be in trouble again, and
only will cry to Him."

" Well, whoever he is," said Mi.
Carlisle, "he did not hurry much
when I called — and now I am so
tired. And Clara said there was no
cross; that I was mistaken. I am
never mistaken," he answered, in
something of his old, proud voice.
"She ought to know that,"

Assunta did not answer, but she
sat patiently soothing her guardian
into quiet at least, if not sleep.
Once he looked at her, and said,
"My precious child is safe;" but,
as she smiled, he laughed aloud,
and then shut his eyes again.

An hour she remained beside the
bed, and then she crept softly from
the room, to take what little break-
fast she could find an appetite for,
and to assist Mrs. Grey in prepar-
ing for her drive.

With such constant demands
upon her sympathy and strength, it
is not strange that Assunta's cour-
age sometimes failed. But, when
the physician assured her that her
guardian's life was, humanly speak-
ing, in her hands, she determined
that no thought or care for herself
should interfere with the perform-
ance of her duty.

Mrs. Grey's drive having proved
an excellent tonic, she was tempted
to repeat it often — ^always with a
protest and with some misgiving^
of conscience, which were, how^
ever, set aside without difficulty.

It was a singular coincidence tha|
Mr. Sinclair should so often b<|
found riding on horseback in th^
same direction. A few words onlj
would be exchanged — of enquiry
for the sufferer, of sympathy for hi]
sister. But somehow, as the dayi
went by, the tone in which th^
words of sympathy were expresses
grew more tender, and conveyed
the impression of something hel^
back out of respect and by ai
effort. The manner, too — whicl

Assunta Howard.

showed so little, and yet seemed to
repress so much — began to have the
effect of heightening the color in
Mrs. Grey's pretty face, and soften-
ing a little the innocent piquancy
of her youthful ways. It was no
wonder that, loving the brightness
and sunshine of life, and regarding
with a sort of dread the hush and
solemnity which pervade the house
of sickness, and which may at any
moment become the house of
raoaming, she should have allowed
her anxiety for her brother to di-
minish a little under the influ-
ence of the new thought and feel-
ing which were gaining possession
DOW, in the absence of all other ex-
citement. And yet she loved her
brother as much as such hearts
can love — as deeply as any love
caa penetrate in which there is no
spirit of sacrifice — love's foundation
Md its crown. If the illness had
lasted but a day, or at the most two,
»he could have devoted herself with
apparent unselfishness and tender
assiduity to the duties of nursing.
But, as day after day went on with-
<wt much perceptible change in
Mr. Carlisle, her first emotion sub-
nded into a sort of graceful per-
\kx\ij at finding herself out of her
element. And by the time the
•econd week was drawing towards
tts close: — with the new influence
of Mr. Sinclair's sympathy second-
ing the demands of her own na-
tve — she began to act like any
other sunflower, when it ** turns to
the god that it loves." And yet
*bc continued to be very regular in
Ijer visits to the sick-room, and
very affectionate to Assunta; but
il may be greatly doubted whether
<l»c bst many hours' sleep. Surely
it would be most unjust to judge
Clm Grey and Assunta Howard
^ the same standard. Undine,
before and after the possession of

a human soul, could hardly have
been more dissimilar.

It was the fifteenth day of Mr.
Carlisle's illness when Assunta was
summoned from his bedside by
Mrs. Grey, who desired to See her
for a few moments in her own
room. As the young girl entered,
she found her sitting before a bright
wood-fire; on her lap was an ex-
quisite bouquet fresh from fairy-
land, or — what is almost the same
thing — an Italian garden. In her
hand she held a card, at which she
was looking with a somewhat per-
turbed expression.

" Assunta, love," she exclaimed,
*' I want you to tell me what to do.
See these lovely flowers that Mr.
Sinclair has just sent me, with this
card. Read it." And as she handed
her the dainty card, whose perfume
seemed to rival that of the flowers,
the color mounted becomingly into
her cheeks. There were only these
words written :

" I have brought a close carriage,
and hope to persuade you to drive
a little while this afternoon. I will
anxiously await your reply in the
garden. Yours, S ."

"Well.^" questioned Clara, a lit-
tle impatiently, for Assunta's face
was very grave.

"Dear Clara," she replied, *^I
have no right to advise you, and I
certainly shall not question the
propriety of anything you do. I
was only thinking whether I had
not better tell you that I see a
change in your brother this after-
noon, and I fear it is for the
worse. I am longing for the doc-
tor's visit."

"Do you really think he is
worse?" exclaimed Clara. "He
looks to me just the same. But
perhaps I had better not go out. I
had a little headache, and thought
a drive might do me good. But,

Assunta Howard.

poor Severn! of course I ought
not to leave him."

" You must not be influenced by
what I say/' said Assunta. " I may
be entirely mistaken, and so I
should not alarm you. God knows,
I hope it may be so !"

"Then you think I might go
for an hour or two, just to get
a breath of air," said Mrs. Grey.
"Mr. Sinclair will certainly think
I have found it necessary to call
a papal consistory, if I keep
him much longer on the promen-
ade." •

Poor Assunta, worn out with her
two weeks of watching and anxiety,
looked for a moment with a sort of
incredulous wonder at the incarna-
tion of unconscious selfishness be-
fore her. For one moment she
looked " upon this picture and on
that " — the noble, devoted brother,
sick unto death ; and that man, the
acquaintance of a few days, now
walking impatiently up and down
llie orange avenue. The flush of
indignation changed her pale cheeks
to scarlet, and an almost Pharisai-
cal thanksgiving to God that she
was not like some women swept
across her heart, while a most
unwonted sarcasm trembled on
her lips. She instantly checked
the unworthy feeling and its ex-
pression ; but she was so unstrung
by care and fatigue that she could
not so easily control her emotion,
and, before the object of unusual
indignation had time to wonder at
the delay of her reply, she had
thrown herself upon the sofa, and
was sobbing violently. Mrs. Grey
was really alarmed, so much so that
she dropped both card and flowers
upon the floor, and forgot entirely
her waiting cavalier, as she knelt
beside the excited girl, and put her
arms about her.

" Assunta dear, what is the mat-

ter } Are you ill } Oh ! what ha\
I done V she exclaimed.

"My poor guardian — my dea
kind friend, he is dying ! May Oo
have mercy on him and on me !
were the words that escaped As
sunta's lips between the sobs.

A shudder passed through Mrt
Grey at this unexpected puttin
into words of the one thought sh
had so carefully kept from he
mind ; and her own tears began tt
flow. Just at this moment th
physician's step sounded in thi
hall, and she went hastily to sum
mon him. He took in the wholi
scene at a glance, and, seating him
self at once upon the sofa besid<
Assunta, he put his hand gently
and soothingly upon her head, as n,
father might have done.

"Poor child!" said he kindly,
" I have been expecting this."

The action expressing sympathy
just when she needed it so much
caused her tears to flow afresh ,
but less tumultuously than before.
The remains of Mrs. Grey's lunch
were standing on a side-table, and
the good doctor poured out a glass
of wine, which Assimta took obedi-
ently. Then, making an effort at
self-control, she said :

" Please do not waste a moment
on me. Do go to Mr. Carlisle ; he
seems very ill. I have been weak
and foolish, but I will control my-
self better next time."

"I have just left Mr. Carlisle's
room," replied the doctor. " I will
not deceive you. He is, as you
say, very ill; but I hope we may
save him yet. You must call up
all your courage, for you will be
much needed to-night."

He knew by the effect that he
had touched the right chord, so he
continued : " And now, Miss How-
ard, I am going to ask of you the
favor to send one of your serx'ants

Assunta Hmvard.

lo my house, to notify my wife that
I shall not return to-night. I will
not leave you until the crisis is
fossed — successfully, I hope,** he
added with a smile.

Assunta went at once to give the
desired order, relieved and grateful
thai they would have the support
of the physician's presence and
skill; and yet the very fact of his
remaining discouraged the hope he
had tried to inspire. When she
had gone, he turned to address a
few comforting words to Mrs. Grey,
when, suddenly recollecting himself,
\\t said :

** By the way, Mrs. Grey, I for-
got to tell you that I met Mr. Sin-
<^Uir down-stairs, and he begged
me lo inquire if you had received
i message from him. Can I be of
^rvicc in taking him your reply ?"

** poor man ! I quite forgot
hira," exclaimed the easily diverted
Clara, as she stooped to pick up the
neglected flowers. " Thank you
*or your kind offer, but I had bet-
let ran down myself, and apologize
•*ir ray apparent rudeness." And,
Usiiiy wiping her eyes, she threw a
^wl over her shoulders arid a be-
coming while rigoUtU about her
Head, and with a graceful bow of
apology she left the room.

** Extraordinary woman ! ** thought
fHe doctor. " One would suppose
'*iit a dying brother would be an
fxcnsc, even to that puppy Sin-
clair. I wish he had had to wait
'oager— it wouldn't have hurt him
1 bit— he has never had half enough
'f it to do. And what the devil is
^f coming here for now, anyhow ?"
^ added to his former charitable
reflections, as he went to join As-
^ota in her faithful vigil beside
the unconscious and apparently dy-
"vgman.

Mr. Sinclair met Mrs. Grey at the
wrt of the stairs with an assump-

tion of interest and anxiety which
successfully concealed his inward
impatience. But truly it would
have been difficult to resist that
appealing face, with its traces of
recent tears and the flush caused
by excited feeling.

As a general thing, with all due
deference to poetic opinion, " love
is {not) loveliest when embalmed
in tears." But Mrs. Grey was an
exception to many rules. Her
emotion was usually of the April-
shower sort, gentle, refreshing, even
beautifying. Very little she knew
of the storm of suffering which
desolates the heart, and whose ra-
vages leave a lasting impression
upon the features. Such emotions
also sometimes, but rarely, leave a
beauty behind them ; but it is a
beauty not of this world, the beau-
ty of holiness ; not of Mrs. Grey's
kind, for it never would have
touched Mr. Sinclair as hers did
now.

" My dear Mrs. Grey," he said,
taking her hand in both his, " how
grieved I am to see you showing
so plainly the results of care and
watching! Privileged as he must
be who is the recipient of such an-
gelic ministrations, I must yet pro- ,
test — as a friend, I trust I have a
right to do so — against such over-
exertion on your part. You will
be ill yourself; and then who or
what will console me V*

Mr. Sinclair knew this was a fic-
tion. He knew well enough that
Mrs. Grey had never looked fresh-
er or prettier in her life. But the
r6U he had assigned to himself
was the dangerously tender one of
sympathy ; and where a sufficient
occasion for displaying his part
was not supplied, he must needs
invent one.

Clara was not altogether deceiv-
ed, for, as she put her lace-bor-

Assunta Howard.

dered handkerchief to her eyes,
from which the tears began again
to flow, she replied :

** You are mistaken, Mr. Sin-
clair. I am quite well, and not at
all fatigued ; while dear Assunta is
thin and pale, and thoroughly worn
out with all she has done. I can
never be grateful enough to her."

Had the lady raised her .eyes,
she might have been astonished at
the expression of contempt which
curled Mr. Sinclair's somewhat
hard mouth, as he rejoined :

** Yes ; I quite understand Miss
Howard's motive in her devotion to
her guardian, and it is not strange
that she should be pale. How do
you suppose I should look and feel
if the dearest friend I have in the
world were at this moment lying in
her brother's place V

Mrs. Grey might have received
a new light about the young girl
had she not been rendered obtuse
to the first part of this speech by
the very pointed allusion to herself
afterwards, that was accompanied
by a searching look, which she
would not see, for she still kept
her handkerchief before her eyes.
Mr. Sinclair placed her disengaged
hand upon his arm, and gently
drew her towards the garden.
Had she been able to look down
into the heart of the man who
walked so protectingly beside her,
she would doubtless have been sur-
prised to find a disappointment
lurking in the place where she had
begun to feel her image was en-
shrined. She would have seen that
Assunta's face had occupied a
niche in the inner sanctuary of the
heart of this man of the world, be-
fore which he would have been
content to bow; that pique at her
entire indifference to his preten-
sions, and the ^-eserve behind
which she always retreated in his

presence, had led him to transfer
his attentions to the older lady and
the smaller fortune; and that his
jealous observation had brought to
his notice, what was apparent to
no one else, the relations between
Assunta and her guardian.

All this would not have been
very flattering to Mrs. Grey, so ii
was perhaps as well that the gift of
clairvoyance was not hers; though
it is a sad thought for men and an-
gels how few hearts there are thai
would bear to have thrown on thera
the clear light of unveiled truth.
The day is to come when the se-
crets of all hearts are to be reveal-
ed. But Mr. Sinclair, even if he
knew this startling fact, would nol
have considered it worth while to
anticipate that dread hour by re-
vealing to the lovely lady at his
side any of those uncomfortable
circumstances which would ineviJ
tably stand in the way of the con-
summation of his present wish. Sq
he bravely undertook the noble en^
terprise of deceiving a trusting
heart into believing in a love which
did not exist, but which it wji
not so very difficult to imagine jusi
at that moment, with the little hant|
resting confidingly on his arm, and
the tearful eyes raised to meet his

In a broken voice, Mrs. Gre\
said : " Mr. Sinclair, I came dowi]
myself to thank you for the beaulii
ful flowers you sent me, and to ex-
cuse myself from driving with you
this afternoon. Poor Severn i^
worse, they think. Oh I if h<
should not recover, what will be
come of me.^" And as she six)kc
she burst into renewed weeping;
and threw herself upon a seat be
neath a group of orange-trees
whose perfume stole upon the sen
ses with a subtle yet bewildering
influence. Mr. Sinclair sat dowt
beside her, saying gently:

Assunia Howard,

"I hope, dear Mrs. Grey, it is
not so serious as that. I am confi-
dent that you have been needlessly
alanned."

The world will, no doubt, pardon
him — seeing that Mammon was his
chosen master — if the thought was
wA altogether unpleasing that,
should Mr. Carlisle die now, before
Assunta could have a claim upon
him, it would make an almost
princely addition to the dowry of his
sister. Nor on this account were his
words less tender as he added :

" But, even so, do you not know
of one heart waiting, longing to
devote itself to you, and only with
difficulty restrained from placing
itsdf at your feet by the iron fet-
ters of propriety ? Tell me, Clara,
may I break these odious chains,
and say what is in my heart ?"

**Mr. Sinclair, you must not speak
such words to me now, and my
poor brother so ill. Indeed, I can-
not stay to hear you. Thank you
very much for your kind sympathy,
but I must leave you now."

** Without one word of hope?
I>o I deserve this?" And truly
the pathos he put into his voice
was calculated to melt a heart of
stone ; and Clara's was much more
impressible. She paused beside
him, and, allowing him still to retain
in his the hand he had taken, con-
tinued:

" I think you take an unfair ad-
vantage of my lonely position.
I cannot give you a favorable an-
swer this afternoon, for I am so
bewildered. I begin to think that
1 ought not to have come down at
ail; but I wanted to tell you how
ranch I appreciated the bouquet."

** I hope you read its meaning,"
said Mr. Sinclair, rising. " And do
you not see a happy omen in your
present position^ under a bower of
orange blossoms? It needs but

little imagination to lower them
until they encircle the headr of the
most lovely of brides. Will you ac-
cept this as a pledge of that bright
future which I have dared to pic-
ture to myself? " And as he spoke
he put up his hand to break off a
cluster of the white blossoms and
dark-green leaves, when Giovanni
appeared at the gate.

"Signora," he said, "will you
please to come up- stairs? The
Signorina is very anxious to see
you."

"I am coming," she replied.
" Pardon me, Mr. Sinclair, and for-
get what has been said." And she
walked towards the house.

" Do you refuse the pledge ?"
he asked, placing the flowers in her
hand, after raising them to his lips.

" Really," answered Clara, almost
petulantly, "lam so perplexed, I
do not know what to say. Yes, I
will take the flowers, if that will
please you." Saying which, she be-
gan to ascend the stairs.

" And I take hope with me," said
Mr. Sinclair, in a tender tone.
But as he turned to go he mentally
cursed Giovanni for the interrup-
tion ; " for," thought he, " in one
minute more I would have had her
promise, and who knows but now
that brother of hers may recover
and interfere ?"

Assunta met Mrs. Grey just out-
side the door of Mr. Carlisle's room,
and drew her into the library, where
she sat down beside her on the
sofa, and, putting her arm affection-
ately about her, began to speak to
her with a calmness which, under
the circumstances, could only come
from the presence of God.

" I thought, dear Clara, that I
had better ask you to come here,
while I talk to you a little about
your brother, and what the doctor
says. We must both of us try to

Assunta Howard.

prepare." Here her voice broke,
and Mrs. Grey interrupted her
with,

"Tell me, Assunta, quickly, is he
worse?"

"I fear so, dear," replied As-
sunta ; " but we must help each
other to keep up what courage and
hope we may. It is a common sor-
row, Clara, for he has been more
than a brother to me."

"But, Assunta, I do not under-
stand. You are so calm, and yet
you say such dreadful things.
Does the doctor think he will die.^'*
And once again she shuddered at
that word, to her so fearful and so
incomprehensible.

" I dare not deceive you, dear — I
dare not deceive myself. The cri-
sis has come, and he seems to be
sinking fast. O Clara, pray for
him!"

" I cannot pray ; I do not know
how. I have never prayed in my
life. But let me go to him — my poor,
dear Severn !" And Mrs. Grey was
rushing from the room, when As-
sunta begged her to wait one mo-
ment, while she besought her to be
calm. Life hung upon a thread,
which the least agitation might snap
in a moment. She could not give
up that one last hope. Mrs. Grey
of course promised ; but the instant
she approached the bed, and saw
the change that a fe>y hours had
made, she shrieked aloud ; and As-
sunta, in answer to the doctor's
look of despair, summoned her maid,
and she was carried to her own
room in violent hysterics, the
orange blossoms still in her hand.
Truly they seemed an omen of
death rather than of a bridal.
The doctor followed to administer
an opiate, and then Assunta and
himself again took up their watch
by Mr. Carlisle. Hour after hour
passed.

Everything that skill could sug
gest was done. Once only As
sunta left the room for a niomen
to inquire for Mrs. Grey, and
finding that she was sleeping un<le
the influence of the anodyne, shi
instantly returned. She dared no
trust herself to think how differen
was this death from that other sh<
remembered. She could not hav<
borne to entertain for one monieni
the thought that this soul was go-
ing forth without prayer, withoul
sacrament, to meet its God. She
did everything the doctor wished,
quietly and calmly. The hours
did not seem long, for she had al-
most lost her sense of time, so near
the confines of eternity. She did
not tvtn feel now — she only waited.

It was nearly twelve when the
doctor said in a low voice :

" We can do nothing more now ;
we must leave the rest to nature."

" And to God," whispered As-
sunta, as she sank on her knees be-
side the bed ; and, taking in both
hers her guardian's thin, out-
stretched hand, she bowed her
head, and from the very depths of
her soul went up a prayer for his
life — if it might be — followed by a
fervent but agonized act of resig-
nation to the sweet will of God.

She was so absorbed that she
did not notice a sudden brighten-
ing of the doctor's face as he bent
over his patient. But in a mo-
ment more she felt a motion, and
the slightest possible pressure of
her hand. She raised her head,
and her eyes met those of her
guardian, while a faint smile — one
of his own peculiar, winning smiles
— told her that he was conscious
of her presence. At last, rousing
himself a little more, he said :

^^ Petite^ no matter where I am,
it is so sweet to have you here."
And, with an expression of entire

A Discussion with an Infidel.

coDtent, he closed his eyes again,
and fell into a refreshing sleep.

"Thank God!" murmured As-
sunta, and her head dropped upon
her folded hands.

The doctor came to her, and
whispered the joyful words, "He
will live !** but, receiving no answer,
he tried to lift the young girl from
her knees, and found that she had
(aiated Poor child! like Mary,

the Blessed Mother of Sorrows, she
had s/ood beneath her cross until
it was lightened of its burden.
She had nerved herself to bear her
sorrow ; she had not counted on
the strength which would be need-
ed for the reaction of joy.

" Better so,'* said the doctor, as
he placed her upon the couch.
" She would never have taken rest
in any other way."

TO BB CONTIMUBD.

A DISCUSSION WITH AN INFIDEL.

XI.
PRIMEVAL GENERATION.

Reader, I should like to hear,
doctor, how " primeval generation "
can adord you an argument against
tkc Mosaic history of creation, and
against the necessity of a Creator.

BtUkntr. "There was a time
wben the earth — a fiery globe — was
Bot merely incapable of producing
living beings, but was hostile to the
eiistence of vegetable and animal
organisms " (p. 63).

Reader, Granted.

Buckner, "As soon as the tem-
perature permitted it, organic life
developed itself" {ibid)

Reader. Not too much haste,
doctor. The assertion that **life
developed itself " presupposes that
life already existed somewhere,
though undeveloped. How do you
account for this assumption ?

Biukner. "It is certain, says
Burmeister, that the appearance of
amnul bodies upon the surface of
the earth is a function which re-
sults with mathematical certainty

from existing relations of forces "
{ibid)

Reader. It is impossible to be-
lieve Burmeister on his word. You
know that he is a short-sighted
•philosopher. A man who says
that " the earth and the world are
eternal," that " eternity belongs to
the essence of matter," and that
matter nevertheless " is not un-
changeable," forfeits all claim to
be trusted in speculative questions.
I, therefore, cannot yield to his
simple assertion ; and if what he
says- is true, as you believe, I think
that you are ready to assign some
reason for it, which will convince
me also.

Buchner, Nothing is easier, sir.
For " there is exhibited (in the ter-
restrial strata) a constant relation of
the external conditions of the sur-
face of the earth to the existence
of organic beings, and a necessary
dependence of the latter on the con-
dition of the earth " (p. 64). " It was
only with the present existing dif-
ferences of climate that the endless
variety of organic forms appeared

A Discussion with an Infidel.

which we now behold. ... Of man
the highest organic being of creation,
not a trace was found in the pri-
mary strata ; only in the upper-
most, the so-called alluvial layer,
in which human life could exist, he
appears on the stage — the climax
of gradual development " (p. 65).

Reader, How does this show that
" organic life developed itself" and
was a mere result of the develop-
ment of the earth? It seems to
me that your answer has no bear-
ing on the question, and that it is,
on your lips, even illogical. For
you say somewhere : " It is certain
that no permanent transmutation
of one species of animals into an-
other has as yet been observed;
nor any of the higher organisms
was produced by the union of in-
organic substances and forces with-
out a previously existing germ pro-
duced by homogeneous parents "
(p. di). This being certain^ as you
own, I ask : If every organism is
produced by parents, whence did-
the parents come? Could they
have arisen from the merely acci-
dental concurrence of external cir-
cumstances and conditions, or were
they created by an external power ?
In your theory, they must have
arisen from external circumstances,
and therefore they had no parents ;
whilst you affirm that without ho-
mogeneous parents they could not
naturally be produced. Moreover,
if the first parents arose from a
concurrence of external conditions,
why does not the same happen to-
day ?

Buchner. " This question has
ever occupied philosophers and
naturalists, and has given rise to
a variety of conflicting opinions.
Before entering upon this question,
we must limit the axiom Omne vi-
vum ex avo to that extent that,
though applicable to the infinite

majorhy of organisms, it does x\
appear to be universally valid *' (

69).

Header, Then you evidently coi
tradict yourself.

Buchner, " At any rate, the que
tion of spontaneous generations
not yet settled " (i^id)

Reader, Do you mean that li\rin
organisms can be produced wit Hoi
previously existing homogeneou
parents, or germs, merely by th
concurrence of inorganic element
and natural forces ?

Buchner, Yes, sir; and "although
modem investigations tend to shoi
that this kind of generation, ti
which formerly was ascribed an ex
tended sphere of action, does no
exactly possess a scientific basis, i
is still not improbable that it exists
even now in the production of ipi^
nute and imperfect organisms *' (p
70).

Reader, You are cutting yout
own throat, doctor. For you own
that your theory has no scientific
basis ; and what you say about the
non-improbability of some sponta-
neous generations has no weight
whatever with a philosophical
mind.

Buchner. Indeed " the question
of the first origin of all highly or-
ganized plants and animals ap-
pears at first sight incapable of so-
lution without the assumption of a
higher power, which has created
the first organisms, and endowed
them with the faculty of propaga-
tion " (p. 71).

Reader, "At first sight," you say.
Very well. I accept this confes-
sion, which, on your lips, has a pe-
culiarly suggestive meaning.

Buchner, " Believing naturalists
point to this fact with satisfaction.
They remind us, at the same time,
of the wonderful structure of the
organic world, and recognize in it

A Discussion with an Infidel.

the prevalence of an immediate and
personal creative power, which, full
of design, has produced this world.
* The origin of organic beings,' says
B. Cotta, ' is, like that of the earth,
an insoluble problem, leaving us
only the appeal to an unfathom-
able power of a Creator ' " (ibid.)

Reader, Cotta is more affirma-
tive than you. He recognizes that
the problem is incapable of solu-
tion without a Creator, and does
not add " at first sight," What do
you reply ?

BiUhner, ** We might answer
these believers, that the germs of
all living beings had from eternity
existed in universal space, or in the
chaotic vapors from which the
earth was formed; and these
germs, deposited upon the earth,
have there and then become de-
veloped, according to external ne-
cessary conditions. The facts of
these successive organic genera-
tions would thus be sufficiently ex-
plained; and such an explanation
is at least less odd and far-fetched
than the assumption of a creative
power, which amused itself in pro-
ducing, in every particular period,
genera of plants and animals, as
prtliminar}' studies for the creation
of man — a thought quite unworthy
of the conception of a perfect Cre-
ator " [ibid:)

Reader. I am afraid, doctor, that
all this nonsense proceeds from cold-
bearted maliciousness more than
from ignorance. For how can you
be ignorant that, if there be anything
odd and far-fetched in any theory
of cosmogony, it is not the recog-
nition of a creative power, but the
assumption of eternal germs wan-
dering about from eternity amid
chaotic vapors } Your preference
for this last assumption is an insult
to reason, which has no parallel
bat the act of passionate folly by

which the Jews preferred Barabbas
to Christ. The Creator, as you
well know, had no need of "pre-
liminary studies": yet he might
have "amused himself," if he so
wished, * in making diflferent genera
of plants and animals, just as no-
blemen and princes amuse them-
selves, without disgracing their
rank, in planting gardens, and pet-
ting dogs, horses, and birds. But
this is not the question. You pre-
tend that the germs of all living
beings had from eternity existed in
universal space. This you cannot
prove either philosophically or sci-
entifically; and we have already
established in a preceding discus-
sion that nothing changeable can
have existed from eternity.

Buchner, " But we stand in need
of no such arguments " (p. 72).

Reader, Why, then, do you bring
them forward }

Buchner. "The facts of science
prove with considerable certainty
that the organic beings which peo-
ple the earth owe their origin and
propagation solely to the conjoined
action of natural forces and* mate-
rials, and that the gradual change
and development of the surface of
the earth is the sole, or at least the
chief, cause of the gradual increase
of the living worfd " (p. 72).

Reader. This is another of your
vain assertions. For you confess
that " it is impossible at present to
demonstrate with scientific exact-
ness " the gradual development of
organic beings from mere material
forces ; and you had previously af-
firmed that " there must have ex-
isted individuals of the same spe-
cies, to produce others of the same
kind " (p. 68). Where are, then,
to be found the facts of science
which "prove with considerable

* *' Ludeiu in orbe terranim," Prov. riii. 31.

A Discussion wiih an Infidel.

certainty " the contrary of what
you acknowledge to be the fact?
Is your method of reasoning a
mere oscillation between contra-
dictories ?

Buchner. ** We may hope that
future investigations will throw
more light on the subject *' {ibid!)

Reader. Very well. But, if this
is the case, surely no ** fact of
science " proves, as yet, the spon-
taneous evolution of life from inor-
ganic matter. And you may be
certain that the future investiga-
tions of science will not give the
lie to the investigations of the
past.

Buchner, " Our present know-
ledge is, however, sufficient to ren-
der it highly probable, nay, perhaps
morally certain, that a spontaneous
generation exists, and that higher
forms have gradually and slowly
become developed from previously
existing lower forms, always deter-
mined by the state of the earth,
but without the immediate influ-
ence of a higher power '\ibid,)

Reader, All this I have already
answered; and I am rather tired,
doctor, of repeating the same re-
marks over and over again. Why
should you make these empty asser-
tions, if you had real arguments to
produce? And, if, you have no ar-
guments, what is the use of saying
and gainsaying at random, as you
do, the same things ? Why do you
assert that ** the immediate influ-
ence of a higher power " has no-
thing to do with the origin of life,
when you know that your assertion
must remain unproved and can
easily be refuted ? If ** our present
knowledge renders it highly proba-
ble, nay, perhaps, morally certain,
that a spontaneous generation ex-
ists,** why did you say the contrary
just a few lines before ? It is in-
conceivable that a thinkings man

should *be satisfied with such a
suicidal process of arguing.

Biichner, " The law of a grad-
ual development of primeval times
is impressed upon the present liv-
ing organic world " (p. 75). " All
animal forms are originally so
much alike, that it is often impos-
sible to distinguish the embryo of
a sheep from that of a man, whose
future genius may perhaps revolu-
tionize the world ** (p. 76).

Reader, What does it matter if
it is impossible for us to distinguish
the embryo of a sheep from that
of a man ? Is it necessary to see
with our eyes what distinguishes
the one from the other in order 10
know that they are different? If
we are reasonable, we must be sat-
isfied that their different develop-
ment proves very conclusively their
different constitution.

But let this pass. Your line of
argument requires you to show that
the first eggs and the first seeds
are spontaneous products of blind
inorganic forces, without any im-
mediate interference or influence
of a higher power. While this is
not proved, nothing that you may
say can help you out of your false
position. You may well allege with
Vogt " the general law prevalent
through the whole animal world,
that the resemblance of a common
plan of structure which connects
various animals is more striking the
nearer they are to their origin, and
that these resemblances become
fainter in proportion to the pro-
gress of their development and
their subjection to the elements
from which they draw their nour-
ishment " (p. 76). We know this;
but what of it? The question is
not about the development of life
from a germ, but about the devel-
opment of a germ from inorganic
forces; and this is what you try

A Discussion with an InfideL

<^o«»5taiitIy to forget. You say:
** The younger the earth was, the
more definite and powerful must
the influence of external conditions
have been ; and it is by no means
impossible to imagine that the
.MT^r^ germs might, by very different
external circumstances, have con-
fiuced to very heterogeneous de-
velopments " (p. 77). Were this
as true as it is false, it would not
a<]v2nce your cause by one step;
for you here assume the germs as
already existing.

BiUhnir, ** The comparatively
greater force of nature in former
I»enods is manifested in the singu-
lar forms of antediluvian animals
as well as in their enormous size "

<P- 78).

Reader. Were those animals the
product of merely inorganic for-
ces.'

BiUhner, So it is believed.

Reader, On what ground ?

Buehner, ** If the contemplation
of surrounding nature strikes us so
much by its grandeur that we can-
not divest ourselves of the idea of
a direct creative cause, the origin
xA this feeling is owing to the fact
that we contemplate as a whole the
united effects of natural forces
through a period of millions of
years; and, thinking only of the
present, and not of the past, cannot
imagine that nature has produced
all this out of itself. The law of
analogies ; the formation of proto-
types ; the necessary dependence
upon external circumstances which
nrgantc bodies exhibit in their ori-
gin and form; the gradual develop-
ment of higher organic forms from
lower organisms ; the circumstance
ihnt the origin of organic beings
va< not a momentary process, but
continued through all geological
fieriods ; that each period is char-
acterized by creatures peculiar to

it, of which some individuals only
are continued in the nexf period; —
all these relations rest upon incon-
trovertible facts, and are perfectly
irreconcilable with the idea of a
personal almighty creative power,
which could not have adopted such
a slow and gradual labor, and have
rendered itself dependent upon the
natural phases of the development
of the earth " (pp. 84, 85).

Reader, If this is your ground
for asserting the origin of organic
beings from the mere forces of mat-
ter, all I can say is that you should
learn a little philosophy before you
venture again to write a book for
the public. Were you a philoso-
jjher, you would know that, inde-
pendently of " the united effects of
natural forces through a period of
millions of years," every grain of
dust that floats in the air affords
us a sufficient proof of the exist-
ence of "a personal almighty crea-
tive power*'; your "la<vr of an-
alogies " would suggest to you the
thought of a primitive source of
life ; " the formation of prototypes"
would compel you to ask. Who
fornjed them ? and how could they
be formed without an archetypal
idea, which matter could not pos-
sess ? You would see that nothing
can be gaiped by asserting, as you
do, that " the gradual development
of the higher organic forms from
lower organisms rests upon incon-
trovertible facts," while you cannot
cite a single one in support of your
assertion. You would take care
not to attribute to the Creator an
imaginary waste of time in ** the
slow and gradual labor " of peo-
pling the earth with organic beings,
nor entertain the absurd notion
that he would have rendered him-
self " dependent upon the natural
phases of the development of the
earth," merely because his action

■fi

A Discussion with an Infidel,

hannonized with the order of things
he had created. Lastly, you would
have kept in view that the fact of
which you were bound to give an
explanation was not the develop-
ment of new organisms from ex-
isting organisms, but the origin of
the first organisms themselves from
inorganic matter. Why did you
leave aside this last point, than
which no other had a greater need
of demonstration ?

Buchner, I may not be a phi-
losopher; but certain it is that
'* science has never obtained a
greater victory over those who as-
sume an extramundane or super-
natural principle to explain the
problem of existence, than by
means of geology and petrifaction.
Never has the human mind more
decisively saved the rights of na-
ture. Nature knows neither a su-
pernatural beginning nor a super-
natural continuance " (p. 88).

Reader, How stupid indeed!
Your Masonic science cannot stand
on its legs, and you boast of vic-
tories! Do you not see, doctor,
the absurdity of your pretension ?
When did science attack religion,
and was not defeated ? I speak of
your infidel science, mind you ; for
true science has no need of attack-
ing religion. Your science tries
**to explain the problem of exist-
ence by means of geology and pe-
trifaction " without a supernatural
principle. But is the origin of ex-
istence a problem .> and can it be
solved by geology and petrifaction ?
Historical facts are no problems.
You may blot out history, it is true,
as you might also put out the light,
and remain in the dark to your
full satisfaction. Thus everything
might become a problem. But can
you call this a scientific process?
Why do you not appeal to geology
and petrifaction to explain, say, the

origin of Rome, and thus obtain ** a
great victory " over history ? Yet
it would be less absurd to believe
that Rome is a work of nature
than to believe that life originated
in dead inorganic matter. The
origin of life and of all other things
is a primitive fact, which lies out-
side the province of geology alto-
gether. Philosophy alone can ac-
count for it; and philosophy pro-
claims that your infidel theory of
primeval generation is a shameless
imposture.

Buchner, This is a severe re-
mark, sir.

Reader, I will take it back
when you shall have proved that
the first organic germs originated
in inorganic matter without super-
natural intervention.

XII.
DESIGN IN NATURE.

Reader, Everything in nature
speaks of God ; but you, doctor,
seem quite insensible to the elo-
quence of creation.

Buchner, I deny the eloquence
of creation. Indeed, ** design in
nature has ever been, and is still,
one of the chief arguments in favor
of the theory which ascribes the
origin and preservation of the
world to a ruling and organizing
creative power. Every flower which
unfolds its blossoms, every gust of
wind which agitates the air, ever>'
star which shines by night, evcr>'
wound which heals, every sound,
everything in nature, affords to the
believing teleologist an opportunity
for admiring the unfathomable wis-
dom of that higher power. Mod-
em science has pretty much eman-
cipated itself from such empty no-
tions, and abandons these innocent
studies to such as delight in con-
templating nature rather with the

A Discussion with an Infidel.

eyes of the feeling than with those
of tlie intellect " (p. 89).

deader. This is no reason why
yoci should blind yourself to the
cadence of the facts. Every one
knows that Masonic science hates
teleology. No wonder at that.
THis science emancipates itself, not
Iroiii empty notions, as you say,
l>«it frcwn the very laws of reason-
ing. Free thought would cease to
l>e free, if it did not emancipate
itself from logic. Yet, since free-
tli inkers ^* abandon to us the inno-
cent study " of teleology, would it
not be prudent in them to avoid
talking on what they are unwilling
to study ? How can they know
that we contemplate nature " rather
writh the eyes of the feeling than
with those of the intellect " ? Do
they suppose that order and design
we objects of the feeling rather
than of the intellect ?

BiUkner. I will tell you what our
conviction is. "The combination
oi natural materials and forces
mastY in giving rise to the variety
of existing forms, have at the same
time become mutually limited and
dccennined, and must have pro-
duced corresponding contrivances,
vrhich, superficially considered, ap-
pear to have been caused by an ex-
ternal power. Our reflecting rea-
son is the sole cause of this appar-
ent design, which is nothing but the
necessary consequence of the com-
bination of natural materials and
liorces. Thus, as Kant says, " our
intellect admires a wonder which it
has created itself" (p. 90).

Reader. Beware of blunders, doc-
tor! You have just said that our
notion of design in nature was
caused by our feeling, not by our
intellect ; but you now say that the
«o]c cause of that notion is our re-
iecting reason, and maintain, on
Kant's authority, that the same no-

tion is a creation of our intellect.
Can contradiction be more evident }

Again, if our reflecting reason is
the sole cause of our perception of
design in nature, surely we are
right in admitting that there is de-
sign in nature, and you are wrong
in denying it. For, if the design
were only apparent^ as you pretend,
imagination might be fascinated by
it, but " reflecting reason " would
never cause us to perceive it. On
the other hand, if you distrust " re-
flecting reason," what else will you
trust in its stead ?

Moreover, how did you not ob-
serve that Kant's proposition, " Our
intellect admires a wonder which
it has created itself," contains a
false supposition.^ The intellect
cannot create to itself any notion
of design ; it can only perceive it
in the things themselves : And it
would never affirm the existence of
design in nature, unless it perceived
its objective reality. Hence our
intellect admires a wonder which it
perceives, not a wonder which it
creates.

Furthermore, you wish us to be-
lieve that what we term design " is
nothing but a necessary conse-
quence of some combinations. " But
why did you omit that all such com-
binations presuppose definite con-
ditions, and that these condi-
tions originally depend on the will
of the Creator? Your book on
Force and Matter is nothing but a
necessary consequence of a com-
bination of types, ink,' and paper.
Does it follow that the book is not
the work of a designing doctor?
You see how defective your reason-
ing is. You have nearly succeeded
in proving the contrary of what you
intended.

Buchner, But " how can we speak
of design, knowing the objects only
in one form and shape, and having

A Discussion with an Infidel.

no idea how they would appear to
us in any other? What natural
contrivance is there which might
not be imagined to be rendered
more perfect in design? We ad-
mire natural objects without con-
sidering what an infinite variety of
other contrivances and forms has
shimbered, and is still dormant,
in the lap of nature. It depends
on an accident whether or not they
will enter into existence" (p. 90).

Reader, I apprehend, doctor,
that your notion of design is neither
clear nor correct. The " form and
shape ** of the objects is not what
7t>e call design. Design, in nature,
is the ordination of all things to an
end. It is therefore the natural ap-
titude of things to a definite end,
and not their form or shape, that
reveals the existence of design in
nature. It is not even the absolute
l)erfection of a thing that reveals
design : it is only its relative per-
fection, that is, its proportion to
the end for which it is created.
Hence we have the right to admire
natural objects for their adaptation
to certain ends, without considering
the infinite variety of other con-
trivances slumbering in the lap of
nature. For, if the existing contri-
vances are proportionate to their
ends, there is design, whatever we
may say of the possibility of other
contrivances, and even of other
words.

Biichner, "Numbers of arrange-
ments in nature, apparently full of
design, are nothing but the result
of the influence of external natural
conditions *' (p. 90).

Reader. Yes; but these natural
conditions are themselves the re-
sult of design, since they are all
controlled by a superior mind.

BUchner. " Animals inhabiting
the north have a thicker fur than
those of the south; and likewise

the hair and feathers of animals be-
come thicker in winter and fall out
in summer. Is it not more natural
to consider these phenomena as the
effect of changes in the temperature,
than to imagine a heavenly tailor
who takes care of the summer and
winter wardrobes of the various an-
imals ? The stag was not endowed
with long legs to enable him to run
fast, but he runs fast because his
legs are long" (p. 91).

Reader, These remarks are puer-
ile, doctor, and I might dispense
with answering them ; yet I ob-
serve that, as cold does not foster
vegetation, it is not in the north,
but in the south, that the fur of an-
imals should grow thicker. At any
rate, the "heavenly tailor," who
clothes the lilies of the field, does
not forget the wardrobe of animals,
whether in the north or in the
south, in summer or in winter;
for his is the world, and from his
hand the needs of every creature arc
supplied. As to the stag, you are
likeivise mistaken. "He runs fast
because his legs are long"; but
how does it follow from this that he
was not endowed with long legs to
enable him to run fast ? Does the
one exclude the other ? Would you
say that your works are known be-
cause they have been published,
and therefore they have not been
published to make them known?
Your blunder is evident.

Biichner, "Things are just as
they are, and we should not have
found them less full of design had
they been different " (p. 91).

Reader. This, if true, would prove
that our " reflecting reason " cannot
exclude design from creation. If
things had been different, the design
would have been different. Even
conflicting arrangements may be
full of design; even the destruction
of the best works of nature may be

A Discussion with an InfideL

fall of design : for the Author of na-
t jrc is at liberty to do with it as he
'.leases. If; for instance, all the
ifv-bom babies were hereafter to
U males, we could not escape the
onsequence that the Author of na-
•jrc designed to put an end to
human generation. Whatever may
t« the order of things, we cannot
deny design without insulting the
wisdom of our Maker and Lord.

This consideration sufl5ces to an-
swer all your queries and objec-
tions, "Nature," you say, **has
produced a number of beings and
contrivances in which no design
can be detected " (p. 94). What of
'iat ? Can you deny that men act
«iih some design, only because you
caanot detect it t There are beings,
\ou add, "which are frequently
raorc apt to disturb than to promote
ijie natural order of things " {ibid!)
This merely shows that the natural
'irder of things is changeable — a
truth which you had the courage to
i^y when speaking of miracles.

** The existence of dangerous ani-
mals has ever been a thorn in the
^i«lc of theologians, and the most
'omial arguments have been used
'^' jastify their existence " (ibid.)
fais is not true. No theologian
-as ever denied that dangerous an-
'3uk fulfil some design in nature,
^d as to "comical arguments," I
"»«ik, doctor, that it is* in your
I":^ that we can best find them.
"^^Ve know, on the other hand,
'•it very innocent, or even useful,
■^troals have become extinct, with-
'Ut nature taking any means to
treser\'c their existence" (p. 95).
^"» proves nothing at all.
1' God's design could be fulfilled
*i^h their extinction, why should
ttey have been preserved ? " For
*^at purpose are the hosts of dis-
^»a and of physical evils in gen-
^ ? Why that mass of cruelties

VOL. XX.--6

and horrors which nature daily
and hourly practises on her crea-
tures } Could a being acting from
goodness and benevolence endow
the cat, the spider, and man Avith
a nature capable of these horrors
and cruelties.^*' (p. 96). This is
the dark side of the picture ; and
yet there is design in all this. If I
wished to make a "comical argu-
ment," I might say that " the hosts
of diseases " are, after all, very pro-
fitable to the M.D., who cannot
live without them. But the true
answer is, that the present order of
things, as even the pagan philoso-
phers recognized, is designed as a
period of probation preparatory to
a better life. We now live on a
field of battle, amid trials calculat-
ed to stir up our energies and to
mend or improve our character.
We sow in tears, that we may reap
in joy. Such is the design of a
Being "acting from goodness and
benevolence." You do not under-
stand this; but such is the truth.
As to cats and spiders, you must
bear in mind that they are not
worse than the wolf, the tiger, or
other animals providing for their
own subsistence by the destruction
of other living beings. If this be
"cruelty," how can you counte-
nance it yourself by allowing the
appearance at your table of killed
animals ?

Your other remarks are scarcely
worthy of being quoted, as they
prove nothing but your imperti-
nence and presumption. You seem
to put to God the dilemma:
" Either let BQchner know all the
secrets of your providence, or he
will rebel against you, and everk
deny your existence." You ask. Why
this and why that ? And because your
weak brain fails to suggest the ans*
wer, you immediately conclude that
things happen to be what they are^

A Discussion with an Infidel.

without a superior mind controlling
their course. This is nice logic in-
deed! "Why should the vertebral
column of man terminate in an ap-
pendage perfectly useless to him ?"
** Why should certain animals pos-
sess the organs of both sexes?"
" Why are certain other animals so
prolific that in a few years they
might fill the seas and cover the
earth, and find no more space
or materials for their offspring?"
"Why does nature produce mon-
sters?" These questions may or
may not be answered ; but our
ignorance is not the measure of
things, and the existence of design
in nature remains an unquestion-
able fact. Is not the very struc-
ture of our own bodies a master-
piece of design ? A physician, like
you, cannot plead ignorance on the
subject.

Bikhner, Yet nature cannot have
a design in producing monstrosities.
"I saw in a veterinary cabinet a
goat fully developed in every part,
but born without a head. Can we
imagine anything more absurd
than the development of an animal
the existence of which is impos-
sible from the beginning? Prof.
Lotze of Gottingen surpasses him-
self in the following remarks on
monstrosities: * If the foetus is
•without a brain, it would be but
judicious, in a force having a free
•choice, to suspend its action, as
this deficiency cannot be compen-
sated. But, inasmuch as the form-
ative forces continue their action,
that such a miserable and purpose-
Jess creature may exist for a time,
4ippears to us strikingly to prove
that the final result always depends
upon the disposition of purely
mechanical definite forces, which,
once set in motion, proceed
straight on, according to the law of
inertia, until they meet with an

obstruction.' This is plain lan-
guage" (p. 99). Again, monstrosi-
ties "may be produced artificially
by injuries done to the foetus or to
the ovum. Nature has no means of
remedying such an injury. The
impulse once given is, on the con-
trary, followed in a false direction,
and in due time a monstrosity is
produced. The purely mechanical
process, in such cases, can be easily
recognized. Can the idea of a
conscious power acting with design
be reconciled with such a result ?
And is it possible that the hand of
the Creator should thus be bound
by the arbitrary act of man ?*' (pp.
loi, 102).

Reader, That nature "cannot
have a design in producing mon-
strosities " is a groundless assertion,
as nature tends always to produce
perfect beings, though sometimes
its work is marred by obstacles
which it has no power to remove.
You saw ** a goat fully developed in
every part, but born without a
head." Here the design is evident.
Nature wished to produce a perfect
goat as usual, but failed. " If the
foetus is without a brain, it would
be judicious, in a force having a
free choice, to suspend its action."
This is another groundless asser-
tion; for, xihy force yoM mean the
forces of matter, they have no free
choice, and. cannot suspend their
action ; and if by force you mean
God, you presume too much, as you
do not know his design. A foetus
without a brain, like a goat without
a head, proclaims the imperfection
of natural causes; and this very im-
perfection proclaims their contin-
gency and the existence of a Cre-
ator. Thus, a foetus without a
brain may be the work of design ;
for God's design is not to raise na-
ture above all deficiencies, but to
show his infinite perfection in the

A Discussion with aft Infidel.

works of an imperfect nature. That
**ihc hand of the Creator should be
bound by the arbitrary act of men "
!s a third groundless assertion.
Man may injure the foetus, and God
cm restore it to a healthy condition ;
but nothing obliges him to do so. If
he did it, it would be a miracle ;
and miracles are not in the order
of nature. It follows that, when
monstrosities are produced, they
are not merely the result of me-
chanical forces, but also of God's
jction, without which no causation
is possible.

But you ask, ** Can the idea of a
conscious power acting with design
. be reconciled with such a. result V*
\ answer that it can be reconciled
very well. In fact, those effects
▼hich proceed directly from God
tione, must indeed be perfect ac-
cording to their own kind, inasmuch
as God's working is never exposed
to failure; but those effects which
do not proceed directly from God
^lone, but are produced by crea-
tures with God's assistance, may be
imperfect, ugly, and monstrous.
You may have a beautiful hand;
bet, if you write with a bad pen,
>onr writing will not be beautiful.
Vou may be a great pianist ; but, if
your instrument is out of tune,
your music will be detestable,
^^'hcncier two causes, of which the
one is instrumental to the other,
concur tD the production of the
uroe effect, the imperfection of the
instrumental cause naturally entails
the imperfection of the effect,
(iod's action is perfect; but the
action of his instruments may be
imperfect ; and it is owing to such
an imperfection that the result may
be a monstrosity.

But, to complete this explanation,
it is necessary to add that, in the
production of their natural effects,
'ticatures are more than instru-

mental. The primary cause, God,
and the secondary causes, creatures,
are both principal causes of natu-
ral effects ; though the latter are sub-
ordinate to the influence of the
former. Both God and the creature
are total causes ; that is, the effect
entirely depends on the secondary,
as it entirely depends on the primary
cause, though in a different manner ;
for the influx of the primary cause
is general, while that of the second-
ary cause is particular. Hence
these two causes bear to the effect
j)roduced by them the same relation
as two premises bear to their con-
elusion. God's influence is to the
effect produced what a general
principle or a major proposition is
to the conclusion ; whilst the cre«i-
ture*s influence is to the same effect
what a minor proposition or the ap-
plication of the general principle
is to the conclusion. Take, for in-
stance, the general truth, " Virtue is
a rational good," as a major pro-
position. This general truth may
be applied in different manners,
and lead to different conclusions,
good or bad, according as the ap-
plication is right or wrong. If you
subsume, " Temperance is a vir-
tue," you will immediately obtain
the good conclusion that " Tempe-
rance is a rational good." But, if
you subsume, " Pride is a virtue,"
you will reach the monstrous con-
clusion that " Pride is a rational
good." Now, this conclusion, how-
ever monstrous, could not be drawn
without the general principle ; and
yet its monstrosity does not arise
from the general principle, but only
from its wrong application. Thus
the general principle remains good
and true in spite of the bad and
false conclusion. And in the same
manner the influence of .the first
cause on natural effects remains
good and perfect, though the effects

«4

A Discussion with an Infidel.

themselves^ owing to the influence
of the secondary causes, are imper-
fect and monstrous.

You now understand, I hope,
how the exceptional production of
monstrosities can be reconciled
with the idea of a conscious power
acting with design.

XIII.
BRAIN AND SOUL.

Reader, And now, doctor, please
tell me what is your doctrine on
the human soul.

Buchner, The human soul is " a
product of matter" (p. 132) — "a
product of the development of the
brain " (p. 197).

Reader, Indeed ? •

Buchner, " The brain is the
seat and organ of thought ; its size,
shape, and structure are in exact
proportion to the magnitude and
power of its intellectual functions "
(p. 107).

Reader, What do you mean by
thought 1

Buchner, Need I explain a term
so universally known }

Reader, The term is known, but
it is used more or less properly by
different persons. Our minds may
deal with either sensible or intel-
lectual objects. When we have
seen a mountain, we may think of
it, because we have received from
it an impression in our senses
which leaves a vestige of itself in
our organism, and enables us to re-
present to ourselves the object we
have perceived. In this case our
thought is an exercise of our im-
agination. When, on the contrary,
we think of some abstract notion or
relition which does not strike our
senses, and of which no image has
been pictured in our organic poten-
cies, then our thought is an exercise
of intellectual power. In both

cases our brain has something to d<
with the thought. For in the firs
case our thought is an act of tin
sensitive faculty, which reaches it
object as it is pictured, or other
wise impressed, in our organic po
tencies, of which the headquarter:
are in the brain. In the seconc
case our thought is an act of th<
intellectual faculty, which' detect!
the intelligible relations existing be-
tween the objects already perceived
or between notions deduced fron;
previous perceptions; and this act,
inasmuch as it implies the consider-
ation of objects furnished to the
mind by sensible apprehension,
cannot but be ^iccorapanied by
some act of the imaginative power
making use of the images pictured
in the organic potencies. Now,
doctor, when you say that ** the
brain is the seat and organ of
thought," do you mean that both
the intellectual and the imagina-
tive thought reside in the brain
and are worked out by the brain ?

BiUhner, Of course. For "com-
parative anatomy shows that
through all classes of animals, up
to man, the intellectual energy is in
proportion to the size and material
quality of the brain " (p. 107).

Reader, You are quite mistaken.
The brain is an organ of the imag-
ination, not of the intellect. And
even as an organ of imagination it
is incompetent to think or imagine,
as it is only the instrument of a
higher power — that is, of a soul.
To say that the brain is the organ
of intellectual thought is to assume
that intellectual relations are pic-
tured on the brain ; which is evi-
dently absurd, since intellectual re-
lations cannot be pictured on ma-
terial organs. Every impression
made on our brain is a definite
impression, corresponding to the
definite objects from which it pro-

A Discussion wit A an Infidel,

cccds. If our intellectual thought
•cre a function of the brain, we
could not think, except of those
same definite objects from which
ne have received our definite im-
pressions. How do you, then, rec-
uncik this evident inference with
the fact that we conceive intellect-
oaily innumerable things from
which we have never received a
ffhysical impression ? We think
of justice, of humanity, of truth, of
'^ausality, etc., though none of these
ibstractions has the power to pic-
ture itself on our brain. It is the*re-
forc impossible to admit that the
ratcUectual thought is a function
of the brain. With regard to the
lorking of the imagination, I con-
cede that the brain plays the part
of in instrument ; but how can
Toil explain such a working with-
out a higher principle? If our
soul is nothing but " a product of
matter," since matter is inert, our
^ul must be inert, and since mat-
'crhas only mechanical powers, our
v)al must be limited to mechanical
action, that is, to the production of
I'xal movement. Now, can you
conceive imagination as a merely
nj<chanical power, or thought as
^ production of local movement ?

Buchfur, Yes. " Thought," says
Molcschott, " is a motion of mat-
'«"(p.i3s).

Rtuder. It is perfectly useless,
<^tor, to make assertions which
cannot be proved. Moleschott is
DO authority ; he is a juggler like
yourself, and works for the further-
ance of the same Masonic aims.
^ him say what he likes. We
cant)ol but laugh at a thinker who
«n mistake his thought for local
lotion,

Buchner. You, however, cannot
^"»y that, while we are thinking,
our brain is doing work. But how
fin it do work without motion ?

Reader. I do not deny that, whila
we are thinking, our brain is do-
ing work. I merely deny that the
movements of the brain are thoughts.
As long as we live, soul and body
work together, and we cannot think
without some organic movements
accompanying the operation. This
every one admits. But you sup-
press the thinking principle, and
retain only the organic movements.
How is this possible } If thought
consists merely of organic move-
ments of the brain, how does the
motion begin } The brain cannot
give to itself a new mode of being.
To account for its movements you
must point out a distinct moving
power, either intrinsic or extrinsic,
either a sensible object or the
thinking principle itself. When
the motion is received from a sensi-
ble object, the movements of the
brain determine the immediate per-
ception of the object ; and when
the motion results from the opera-
tion of the thinking principle, the
movements of the brain determine
the phantasm corresponding to the
object of the actual thought. Thus
immediate perception, and thought,
or recollection, are both rationally
explained ; whilst, if the thinking
subject were the brain itself, how
could we recollect our past ideas >
When the movement caused by an
object has been superseded by the
movement caused by a different
object, how can it spontaneously
revive? Matter is inert; and
nothing but a power distinct from
it can account for the spontane-
ous awakening of long-forgotten,
thoughts.

Buchner, Matter is inert, but is
endowed with forces, and wherever
there are many particles of matter
they can communicate movement
to one another. Hence, "in the
same manner as the steam-engine

«6

A Discussion with an Infidel,

produces motion, so does the or-
ganic complication of force-endow-
ed materials produce in the animal
body a sum of effects so interwoven
as to become a unit; and is then
by us called spirit, soul, thought '*

(p. 136).

Riader, Pshaw ! Are spirit^ soul,
and thought synonymous ? Do
thoughts think? When you per-
ceive that two and two make four,
is this thought the thinking princi-
ple ? And if the soul is " a sum of
mechanical effects so interwoven as
to become a unit,*' how can you
avoid the consequence that the
soul consists of nothing but local
movement ? But if the soul is local
movement, it has no causality, and
cannot be the principle of life ; for
local movement is only a change of
place, and has nothing to do with
perception, judgment, reasoning, or
any other operation of the think-
ing principle. Can local movement
say, / am f J will 7 J doubt f Can
local movement recollect the past,
take in the present, foresee the pos-
sible and the future ? Can local
movement deliberate, love, hate,
say yes or no ? To these and such
like questions science, reason, and
experience give an unequivocal an-
swer, which the president of a med-
ical association should have care-
fully meditated before venturing to
write on the subject.

Buchner, Yet " the mental capa-
city of man is enlarged in propor-
tion to the material growth of his
brain, and is diminished according
to the diminution of its substance
in old age" (p. 110). "It is a
fact known to everybody, that the
intelligence diminishes with increas-
ing age, and that old people become
childish. . . . The soul of the
child becomes developed in the
same degree as the material organ-
ization of its brain becomes more

perfect" (p. iii). " Pathol og
furnishes us with an abundance OJ
striking facts, and teaches us tha
no part of the brain exercising th
function of thought can be mate
rially injured without producing ;
corresponding mental disturbance '
(p. 119). "The law that bra.ii
and soul are necessarily connected
and that the material expansion
shape, and quality of the forroei
stands in exact proportion to the
intensity of the mental functioas, ij
strict and irrefutable, and the mind,
again, exercises an essential influ-
ence on the growth and develop-
ment of its organ, so that it in-
creases in size and power just in
the same manner as any muscle is
strengthened by exercise " (p. 122).
" The whole science of man is a
continuous proof in favor of the
connection of brain and mind ; and
all the verbiage of philosophical
psychologists in regard to the sepa-
rate existence of the soul, and its
independence of its material organ,
is without the least value in op|>osi-
tion to the power of facts. We can
find no exaggeration in what Frie-
dreich, a well-known writer on psy-
chology, says on this point : ' The
exhibition of power cannot be im-
agined without a material substra-
tum. The vital power of man can
only manifest its activity by means
of its material organs. In propor-
tion as the organs are manifold, so
will be the phenomena of vital
power, and they will vary accord-
ing to the varied construction of
the material substratum. Hence,
mental function is a peculiar mani-
festation of vital power, determined
by the peculiar construction of
cerebral matter. The same power
which digests by means of the sto-
mach, thinks by means of the
brain'" (pp. 124, 125).
Reader, Your manner of reason-

A Discnssion with an Infidel.

ingr doctor, is not calculated to
bring conviction, as every one of
your arguments contains a fallacy.
Your first argument is : The brain
\% the measure of the thinking
power; and therefore the thinking
power, or the soul, is a result of or-
ganic development The second is :
Brain and mind are necessarily
connected; and therefore the soul
cannot have a separate existence.
The third is : The vital power of
man can only manifest its activity
by means of its material organs;
and therefore the soul needs to be
supported by a material substra-
tam. Such substantially is the
drift of your argumentation. Now,
I maintain that the three arguments
are merely three sophisms.

First, the brain is not the meas-
irc of the thinking power. The
mental capacity of man, and the
thinking power of the soul, are not
exactly the same thing. The first
implies both soul and body, the
second regards the soul alone ; the
fint presents to us the musician
with his instrument, the second
exhibits only the musician himself.
The brain is the organ, the soul is
the organist. You cannot reasona-
bly pretend that the musical talent,
genius, and skill of an organist
increase and decrease with the
notnber and quality of the pipes
vhich happen to be in the organ.
All you can say is that the musical
talent of the organist will have a
better chance of a favorable show
with a rich rather than with a poor
instrument. The organ, therefore,
is not the measure of the ability of
the organist, and the brain is not
the measure of the thinking power.
Hence from the fact that the men-
tal capacity of man is enlarged, as
joa say, in proportion to the mate-
lial growth of his brain, we have
w right to conclude that the think-

ing principle, the soul, grows with
the brain; the right conclusion is
that the soul, being in possession
of a better instrument, finds itself
in better conditions for the exer-
cise of its intrinsic power. The
organ is improved and the music is
better; but the organist is the
same.

Secondly, brain and mind are
at present necessarily connected.
Does it follow that therefore the
soul cannot have a separate exist-
ence ? By no means. If this con-
clusion were logical, you might on
the same ground affirm also that
the body cannot have a separate
existence ; for the body is as nec-
essarily connected with the soul as
the soul is with the body. The
reason why your conclusion cannot
hold is that the connection of
body and soul is necessary only in-
asmuch as both are indispensable
for the constitution of the human
nature. But the human nature is
not immortal; thfe soul must quit
the body when the organism be-
comes unfit for the operations of
animal life ; and therefore the con-
nection of the soul with the body
is not absolutely, but only hypo-
thetically, necessary. The soul
has its own existence distinct from
the existence of the body, for the
soul is a substance no less than the
body ; and therefore it is no less
competent to have a separate exist-
ence. You deny, I know, that the
soul is a substance distinct from
the body ; but what is the weight
of such a denial ? What you spec-
ulatively deny in your book, you
practically admit in the secret of
your conscience whenever you say
/ am. It is not the body that says
// it is the soul : and it is not an
accident that perceives self; it is a
substance.

Thirdly, the vital power of man,

A Discussion with an Infidel.

zs you say, can manifest its activity
only by means of its material or-
gans. This is true ; for, so long as
the soul is in the body, it must
work together with it, according
to the axiom, " Every agent acts
according as it is in act." But
does the work of the vital power in
the material organs warrant your
conclusion that the soul needs to
be supported by a material substra-
tum .> Quite the contrary. For,
what needs a material substratum
is an accident, and no accident is
active; and therefore the vital
power, whose activity is manifested
in the material organs, is no acci-
dent, and therefore needs no mate-
rial substratum, and, while existing
in the material organs, exists no
less in itself. Had you considered
that the soul, which manifests its
activity by means of its material or-
gans, exercises the same activity
within itself also, you would have
easily discovered that the soul has
a being independent of its material
organs, and that these organs are
the organs of sensibility, not of in-
telligence.

But I am not going to make a dis-
sertation on the soul, as my object is
only to show the inconclusiveness of
your reasoning. Your chapter on
"Brain and Soul,*' with its twenty-
eight pages of medical and physi-
ological erudition, offers no proof of
your assumption beyond the three
sophisms I have refuted. All the rest
consists of facts which have not the
least bearing on the question. " The
whole science of man,** as you say,
** is a continuous proof in favor of
the connection of brain and mind."
This is what your facts demon-
strate ; but your object was to show
that " the soul is a product of the
development of the brain" ; and this
your facts do not demonstrate, as
is evident from your need of resort-

ing to fallacies to make them lie to
truth. It is on the strength of such
fallacies that you make bold to
despise your opponents, forgetting
all your shortcomings, and com-
mitting a new blunder in the very
act of assailing the spiritualistic
philosophers. According to you,
"the whole science of man is a
continuous proof in favor of the
connection of brain and mind ; and
all the verbiage of philosophical
psychologists in regard to the sep-
arate existence of the soul and its
independence of its material organ
is without the least value in oppo-
sition to the power of facts." You
should be ashamed, doctor, of this
style of reasoning.

Biichner, Why, if you please ?

Reader. Because, first, the con-
nection of brain and mind, as prov-
ed by "the whole science of man,"
does not authorize you to deny the
separate existence of the soul and
its substantial independence of the
material organs. Secondly, because
to call " verbiage" those reasonings
which all the great men of all times
have, after careful scrutiny, consid-
ered as unanswerable, to which they
gave their fullest assent, and against
which you are incapable of advanc-
ing a single argument which has
not already been answered by phi-
losophers, is on your part an im-
plicit confession of philosophical
ignorance. Thirdly, because it is
extremely mean to proclaim your
own victory, while you have care-
fully avoided the combat. You
have, in fact, prudently dissembled
all the reasons by which the sub-
stantiality and spirituality of the
human soul are usually proved in
psychology; and, to give yourself
the appearance of a champion, you
have set up a few ridiculous soph-
isms — as, "the material simplicity of
the orgms of thought" (p. 125) — to

A Discussion with an InfidfL

fignre as philosophical objections,
which they have never been, and
DCTcr will be; thus reminding us
of the great Don Quixote fighting
agjinst the wind-mill. Fourthly,
because, while boasting of the sup-
port which some physiological facts
seem to lend to your materialistic
theory, you have entirely ignored
lil those other facts of the intel-
lectual life which were calculated
to expose your sophistry and over-
throw your conclusions. This is
dishonest, doctor; for you cannot
plead ignorance in excuse.

Bikkner, We proceed from op-
posite principles, sir; hence we
must disagree in our conclusions.
It is a law " that mind and brain
necessarily determine each other,
ind that they stand to each other
m inseparable causal relations *'

(P- »39).

Rcadir, This goes against you ;
for, if the mind determines the
brain, the mind must be a special
nbstance.

Biukfur. **As there is no bile
•idioat liver, no urine without
ludneys, so is there no thought with
cot a brain. Mental activity is a
function of the cerebral substance.
This troth is simple, clear, easily
npported by facts, and indisputa-
blc- {ibid)

Reader. Oh ! oh ! have you for-
gotten my previous answer? So
^^ng as matter remains inert, it is
•ain to pretend that matter is the
ihinlting principle.

Bi£kncr, "Matter is not dead,
quickened, and lifeless, but, on
the contrary, full of the most stir-
ring life" (p. xcix.)

Reader, A great discovery! — if
tmc.

Bichner. ** Not an atom of it is
^ihout motion, but in constant un-
istermptcd movement and activity.
Xor is matter ^r^xx, as simple phi-

losophers often call it, but, on the
contrary, so infinitely fine and com-
plicated in its composition as to
surpass all our conceptions. Nor
is it worthless or vile, but rather the
most precious thing we know of; it
is not without feelings but is full of
the most acute sensibility in the
creatures it brings forth ; nor, lastly,
is it detmd of spirit or thought^ but,
on the contrary, develops in the or-
gans destined thereto by the pe-
culiar kind and delicacy of their
composition the highest mental po-
tencies known to us. What we call
life, sensibility, organization, and
thought, are only the peculiar and
higher tendencies and activities of
matter, acquired in the course of
many millions of years by well-
known natural processes, and which
in certain organisms or combina-
tions result in the self-consciousness
of matter. Wherefore matter is not
unconscious, as is often proclaimed"
(pp. xcix.,c.)

Reader, Enough ! enough of
such nonsense. Do not ruin what
little reputation you still enjoy as a
scientific man. What will the world
say when it discovers that you know
nothing about the inertia of matter,
which is the basis of physics and
mechanics.^ or when it hears that
you confound movement with activ-
ity, and activity with life ? Every
one knows that life implies move-
ment, because the more perfect im-
plies the less perfect; but who
ever heard that mechanical move-
ment implies life ? Is a stone liv-
ing because it falls to the ground ?
Again, how would any one who is
not an idiot consider the matter on
which we tread " the most precious
thing we know of"? Would you
sell your honor for a cup of coffee
and a pound of sugar ? That mat-
ter is not without feelings not icith-
out spirit, and not without thought, is

A Discussion with an Infidel.

a demonstrated blunder, of which
I need not repeat the refuta-
tion. But whD can hear without
merriment that sensibility, organi-
zation, and thought are "tenden-
cies" of matter? and that they
have been acquired by matter ** in
the course of many millions of
years"? and that this acquisition
was brought about " by well-known
natural processes " ? I repeat, doc-
tor, that such trash will ruin your
reputation. BuflToons and charla-
tans may be allowed to indulge in
any amount of absurdities ; but a
doctor has not the same privilege.
Hence it is not safe for you to
speak of well-known processes, by
which matter becomes " conscious "
of itself, when the whole scientific
world knows nothing of such pro-
cesses, and may challenge you to
substantiate your foolish assertion.

I will tell you what is really well
known. It is what a celebrated
writer teaches about the immate-
I iality of the soul. " There is no-
thing," he says, "in this lower
world that can account for the
origin of our souls ; for there is no-
thing in our souls which admits of
uiixture or composition, nothing

which arises from the earth or \*
made of it, nothing which partakos
of the nature of air, or water, oi
fire. For nothing is to be founc
in these natural things which h.a^
the power of remembering, of uri-
derstanding, or of thinking — no-
thing which can hold the past,
forecast the future, or embrace tl»c
present. The power of doing this
is divine, and its possession by msin
can never be accounted for, unless
we admit that it is derived froxn
God himself. Accordingly^ tlie
soul is a distinct nature, and ha.9
nothing common with the material
things with which we are acquaint-
ed." * What do you think of this
passage ?

Buchner, It smacks of ultramon-
tanism.

Reader, Just so ! Bravo ! Mar-
cus TulUus Cicero an ultramon-
tane ! !

* Animorum nulla, in terns origo inTcniri potest,
nihil enim est in animis roixtum atque coocretum,
aut quod ex terra natum atque fictum esse videaror
nihil ne aut humidum quidem, aut fiabile, aut ig-
neum. His eptjn in naturis nihil inest, quod rua
memoriae, mentis, cogitationts habeat, qttod et
preterita teneat, et futura provideat, ct oootplecd
possit praesentia : qus sola divina sunt ; nee inve*
nietur unquam unde ad hominem Tenire poesint, nisi
a Deo. Singularis est ig^tur quaedam natorm atqoe
vis animi, sejuncta ab his usitatb notisque natixxis.
— TtMf. Quast^ lib. I, c «7,

TO BS CONTIMUBX).

A Legend of Alsace.

A LEGEND OF ALSACE.

raOM TBB P8ENCK OF M. LB V1C0HTB DB BUSSIBRRB.

** I do lore these andent ruins.
We never tread upon them but we set
Our foot upon some reverend history.*'

"Webster's Dttckess e/Mal/y,

Six leagues from Strasbourg a
high mountain, pyramidal in form,
rises abruptly over the chain of the
Vosges. On its summit are some
antique churches and chapels and
an old convent. The fertile coun-
try at its foot is peopled by a great
number of smiling villages and
several small towns. Its sides are
covered with fine forests, in the
midst of wliich may be seen the
ruined walls of old monasteries, the
crenellated and picturesque towers
of several mediaeval castle^^ and
\\^ debris o^ M\ ancient wall of pa-
gan limes. Tiiis moitrUain, called
in ancient times Altitona or Hohen-
bourg, was once the principal bul-
wark of Alsace. In the Vllth cen-
tur)' it received the name of Mount
St. Odile, and became a celebrated
resort for pilgrims.

A shady pathway, and not of
difficult ascent, leads to the'top of
Mount St. Odile, which commands
a view as remarkable for extent as
for interest and variety. The whole
of .Alsace, and a large part of the
(irand Duchy of Baden, are spread
^ut at the feet of the spectator;
l)ounded on one side by the jagged
chain of the Black Forest, whose
Muc outlines are seen on the hori-
zon, and on the other by the Vosges,
which are rounder and more pleas-
ing to the eye. A dense forest of
pines covers the Vosges, and on all

sides, even on the highest ciests,
may be seen the ruins of old feudal
castles which hundreds of years
ago played their rdie in the history
of the province. The Rhine passes
through the middle of this magni-
ficent valley. On each shore are
forests, vineyards, meadows, and ad-
mirably cultivated fields. A line
of dazzling brightness marks the
sinuous course of the river, which,
sometimes dividing, forms a great
number of verdant isles.

The dense population of the coun-
try around gives an idea of its rich-
ness and fertility. Orchards sur-
round the villages ; rustic churches,
covered withdeep-hued tiles, rise up
from the smiling groves ; more im-
posing belfries mark the towns, and
the magnificent spire oif Strasbourg
points out, through the transparent
vapor, the old capital of the prov-
ince. The whole plain is furrowed
by fine roads in every direction,
which, bordered by walnut-trees,
form an immense net-work of ver-
dure. Towards the north the val-
ley of the Rhine is lost in the vapo-
ry distance; on the south tlie
Vosges blend with the Jura moun-
tains ; and in perfectly clear weath-
er the glaciers of Switzerland may
be seen at sunset, like gilded clouds
on the horizon.

This landscape is superb at all
times, but is particularly beautiful
on a Sunday morning in spring-time.

A Legend of Alsace.

A fresh verdure then covers the
earth, and the fruit-trees, all in
bloom, give the whole of Alsace a
parure de fete. The far-off sound
of the bells ringing in every direc-
tion to call the people to prayer,
and the varied sounds of the plain
brought up by the wind, mingle
with the mysterious voices of nature,
penetrating the soul with a subdu-
ing and profound sentiment, and
filling it with ineffable peace.

Such is the aspect of the region
where took place most of the facts
I am about to relate. But, before
speaking of the development of the
monastic orders in Alsace, and of
the convent of Hohenbourg and
its illustrious foundress in particu-
lar, I will briefly relate the details
that have been preserved respecting
the introduction of Christianity in-
to the province of which we are
speaking.

Tradition attributes the origin of*
the Alsacian churches to the im-
mediate successors of the apostles ;
but others date the Mission of S.
Materne (and his companions Eu-
chaire and Val^re) among the Tri-
boci and the Nemetes, and that of S.
Qement among the Mediomatrici,
only from the end of the Hid cen-
tury or the beginning of the IVth.
They were the real apostles of the
valley of the Rhine. Some think
they were called the disciples of S.-
Peter merely to show that they
were sent by his successors, and
that their teachings were in con-
formity with those of the head of
the church.*

However this may be, there is no
doubt that S. Materne founded the
first Christian churches of Alsace
upon the ruins of old pagm temples

^ L«guile, ia his History of Alsace ^ regards these
iqxMtles as the real disciples of S. Peter. He finds
a proof of it in the writings of S. Ireueus (who lircd
m the Illd century), which allude to th» churches
of Germany.

in the forests of Novient and in the
towns of Helvetia and Argentorat.

Shortly after the conversion o^
Constantine, the Holy See sent
Amandus and Jesse, the first as bi-
shop of Argentoratum (Strasbourg)
and the other of Augusta Nemetum
(Speyer), of which city Constantius
Chlorus is considered the restorer
or founder.

Among the eighty- four bishops
assembled at the Council of Co-
logne in the year 346, the names of
Jesse of the Nemetes and Aman-
dus of Argentoratum are found. S.
Amandus, the first known pastor
of Strasbourg, is at the head of a
long line of bishops who have given
an example of true holiness, and
who have a claim on the admiration
and gratitude of posterity. But al-
most immediately after the death
of Constantine the Great the
spread of the Christian religion in
Alsace was arrested, partly owing
to the rulers, and partly to the
bloody wars of which the Rhine
valley was the theatre, especially
the invasion of Atilla, who either
massacred the bishops or carried
them off with their flocks. This
caused a vacancy in the See of
Strasbourg for many years. It pass-
ed under the spiritual jurisdiction
of Metz till 510, when the see was
re-estat)lished.

The great victory of Clovis over
the Germans, and his baptism, gave
rise to a new epoch in the history
of Alsace and in the spread of
Christianity. Argentoratum, which
had been devastated by the barba-
rians, was restored by Clovis and re-
sumed its importance. The kings
of the Franks built a palace there
which they often occupied.

Clovis re-established the episco-
pal see at the beginning of the Vlth
century, and laid the foundations of
the cathedral in 510. From his time

A Legend p/ Alsace.

the Christian religion spread more
rapidly in the province, and was soon
professed by the whole country.

II.

Alsace shared in the develop-
ment of monastic orders through-
out Western Europe. In the Vllth
and Vlllth centuries a great num-
ber of convents and pious retreats
were erected in that province. The
epoch of the early martyrs was past,
but other martyrs succeeded them,
separating themselves joyfully from
the world and imposing on them-
sclres the greatest privations. That
vas the time of wonderful legends
and acts of personal renunciation.
The life of S. Odile is a complete
picture of that epoch. In relating
it I shall endeavor to preserve the
Mfr^ and pious simplicity of the
chronicles from which it is derived,
and which are the faithful expres-
sion of the spirit of the times, and
of the character and manners of
the people.

Erchinald, son of Ega, and ma-
jor-domo of the king, was, say the
old historians, one of the noblest
« well as most powerful lords of
the time of Dagobert I. Leudet,
or Leutrich, son of Erchinald, mar-
ried Hultrude, a princess of the
royal race of Burgundy. Their
son, Adalric, was the father of S.
^>dile and the progenitor of some
of the most illustrious houses of
Hurope. Adalric married Ber-
'^^inde, the niece, through her mo-
'l«f, of S. L^ger, Bishop of Au-
lun, who suffered martyrdom in
^85. Bilibilde, Berswinde's sister,
«r» as some say, her aunt, ascended
ihc throne of Ostrasia by her mar-
riage with Childeric II. The king,
"nited to Adalric by the tie of
friendship as well as of relation-
'^'p* invested him with the duchy
of Alsace at the death of Duke

Boniface. Adalric established his
residence at Oberehnheirn, a town
at the foot of Mount Altitona.

Few men have been depicted in
such various colors as Adalric.
Many ancient writers represent
him as a ferocious, cruel, and over-
bearing lord. Other chroniclers, on
the contrary, proclaim him as gen-
erous as he was just and humane.
The opinion of F. Hugo Peltre ap-
pears to be the most correct, and
it is confirmed by the different
traits of the prince which have
come to our knowledge. He says
Adalric was a man upright and sin-
cere, but tenacious in his designs.
He showed himself to be a sincere
Christian, and in spite of his rank
sought no pretext for dispensation
from the duties which his religion
imposed upon him, but he had not
entirely laid aside the barbarous
manners of his time.

Berswinde, whose rank equalled
that of her husband, is represented
by all the authors of the life of S.
Odile as one of the most accom-
plished women of her day. They
say her heart was filled with charity
and the fear of God. The defer-
ence accorded to her rank did not
affect her piety or fill her with
pride. She was a perfect model
of Christian humility. She made
use of her wealth to do good.
Prosperity inspired her with tender
gratitude towards Him who is the
source of every blessing. Every
day she was in the habit of retiring
for several hours to the most se-
cluded part of the palace, for the
purpose of prayer and meditation.

Adalric and Berswinde both
longed for a more retired residence,
where they could pass a part of the
year away from the bustle of the
town and the fatigue of business.
The duke ordered his followers to
explore the neighboring forests to

A Legend of Alsace.

find a suitable spot for a castle and
a church. They soon informed
him that the summit of Mt. Altitoha,
which rose above Oberehnheim,
was covered with the dSbris of an-
cient buildings which could be
made use of in the construction of
a vast and magnificent residence.
Adalric wished to ascertain by per-
sonal observation the correctness of
this report, and, after an hour and a
half s march, he reached the place
mentioned. It was a great espla-
nade, in a wild but imposing situa-
tion, surrounded by very high walls
of enormous stones rudely put to-
gether, evidently by the most an-
cient inhabitants of the province.
Gigantic pines and old oaks had
grown up with wonderful luxuri-
ance among these old ruins. But
the buildings that covered the es-
planade had by no means fallen
entirely to ruin, as his followers
had reported. They were partly
ruined, to be sure, but a chiteau
and an elegant rotunda, both of the
Roman style, still remained en-
tire.*

The duke, charmed with the
beauty of the place, immediately
knelt down and thanked God aloud
for having directed him to this spot.
Then returning at once to Ober-
ehnheim he despatched that very
same day a large number of work-
men to the mountain of Hohen-
bourg to commence the work

Adalric, changing his original in-
tention of building a large church,
had the antique rotunda magnifi-
cently repaired. It was then con-
secrated by S. L6ger, Bishop of
Autun, and dedicated to the
holy Patrons of Alsace. A new
chapel erected in honor of the

* An old tradition attributen the foundation of this
chftteau to the Emperor Msuriminf and declares that
the rotunda was formerly consecrated to the wor-
ship of the pagan divinities. This rotunda was de-
•itroyed in 1734. An inn now stands on the spoC

Apostles Peter and Paul, the holy
protectors of Oberehnheim, was like
wise consecrated by the holy bish-
op and endowed by Adalric. The
walls of enclosure were likewise re-
paired, as well as the old chdteau,
in which the duke and duchess ha-
bitually passed the summer months.

III.

Though the wealth and power
of Adalric had increased from year
to year till he was invested -writh
the hereditary fief of the vast
duchy of Alsace, yet one blessing
was denied him. He had no heir
to whom he could transmit his
wealth and title, and this profound-
ly afflicted him. Berswinde, too,
sympathized in his disappointment,
for it is especially natural for the
great and powerful to wish to per-
petuate their name and race. They
both did all that devotion and con-
fidence in God inspire holy souls
to do. They had recourse to fasts,
pilgrimages, and generous alms.
Often prostrate together at the foot
of the altar they shed floods of tears,
and besought the Lord to hear
their ardent prayer. At length,
after some years of married life (in
the year 657, or, as some say, 661),
Berswinde gave birth — not to the
prince so ardently longed for and
whose advent was anticipated with
the joy and prayers of the whole
province — but to a little blind
girl. ...

Adalric's happiness gave place
to a profound despair, and the pa-
ternal love he had felt in advance
for his child was changed into vio-
lent hatred. He broke forth into
bitter plaints. " God is angry with
us," said he, " and wishes to pun-
ish us for some grave transgression ;
for he has overwhelmed us with
an opprobrium without precedent
among those of my race, and which

A Legend of Alsace.

woold forever tarnish the glory of
mj bouse, should the birth of this
cliild be known."

Berswinde replied : " Beware, ray
lordf of abandoning yourself to
anger and despair. Remember
that when the disciples of our Sav-
ioor questioned him respecting the
man who was blind from his birth,
he said to them : * Neither hath
this man sinned, nor his parents;
but that the works of God should
be made manifest in him.' Let us
not murmur, then, against the de-
crees of the Almighty. Until now he
hath loaded us with benefits. Let
OS bless his holy name in afflic-
tion as well as in joy."

This mild and wise reply gave
Adalric no consolation. The un-
fortunate duchess only succeeded
in calming his excitement by con-
senting to keep the birth of her
daughter a secret, to have her rear-
ed away from home, and never to
mention her before her husband.

The duke thought he was satis-
fying the law of nature by permit-
ting the child to live, and, acting ac-
cording to the requirements of his
rank and his honor, in condemn-
ing her to vegetate in obscurity
and poverty. He had it proclaim-
ed, at the sound of the trumpet, in
the town of Oberehnhcim that the
duchess had given birth to a still-
born child.

But Berswinde, remembering that
one of her former attendants, upon
whose attachment she could rely,
was married and now living in the
borough of Scherwiller, sent for her
secretly. She came at once, and,
finding her mistress profoundly af-
flicted and shedding bitter tears,
pledged herself to bring up the
child. Bcrswinde's courage reviv-
ed at this, and, kissing the babe, she
placed it herself in the arms of her
faithful follower, commending it to

her " dear Saviour the Lord Jesus,
and to the Blessed Virgin Mary."

The nurse carried the child
away, but in spite of Adalric's care
to conceal from his subjects the
birth of the princess — in spite of the
oblivion in which its second mother
sought to bury its existence, it was
almost impossible to prevent such
a secret from transpiring in time.
Five or six months had hardly
elapsed when it was reported
throughout the country that there
was a blind child of unknown ori-
gin at Scherwiller, which evidently
belonged to people of high rank,
judging from the care it received.
Some one recalled that the woman
who took care of this mysterious
child was formerly in Berswinde's
service, and noticed that its age
coincided with the time of the
duchess' illness. The nurse lent an
attentive ear to this gossip, and did
not fail to report it to Berswinde.
The latter, fearing the report might
reach Adalric's ears, ordered her
old attendant to leave her home at
once, and repair to the Convent of
Baume in Franche Comt^, a few
leagues from Besangon, where the
child would be readily received and
brought up. Berswinde had two
motives for preferring this monas-
tery to all other places of safety : she
hoped its distance would ensure the
child's safety, and the abbess was
the sister of the duchess' mother.

The Abbey of Baume was not
then under any particular rule;*
but prayer, reading, the chanting
of the Psalms, the observance of
the evangelical counsels, the morti-
fication of the senses, and manual
labor, continually occupied the
humble recluses who lived there.

• This abbey, at a later day, adopted the rule of
S. Benedict, and in the Vlllth century became of
great importance, being rebuilt and endowed by
Duke Gamier.

SX5

A Legend of Alsau.

The young exile arrived safely at
this peaceful asylum. She lived
there tranquilly, far from the tu-
mult of the world, and received an
education fitted for developing the
treasures of grace with which her
soul was enriched. Her destiny
was evident almost from her cradle.
The names consecrated by religion
were the first to strike her ears and
for her tongue to utter, and her
first language was that of prayer.
Her pious aunt, and all who sur-
rounded her, only spoke to her of
holy things, to which she lent a
surprising attention, as if interior-
ly enlightened respecting divine
truths. Her mind was precocious
and clear, and her memory extraor-
dinary. She understood the duties
of a Christian better at the age of
four or five than many grown-up
persons.

It was thus, away from the world,
that the daughter of Adalric be-
came from childhood the model of
piety, drawing pure instructions, as
from an inexhaustible source, from
the noble superior of Baume.

IV.

While these things were taking
place in Franche Comt6, Deodatus,
Bishop of Nevers, and son of S.
Hunna, arrived in Alsace to preach
the Gospel and join the hermits
who officiated at Novient (Ebers-
heim-MUnster), the most ancient
church of the province, and found-
ed by S. Materne. The preaching
of Deodatus drew an immense au-
dience, among whom Adalric and
Berswinde were the most assidu-
ous. The duke, desirous of giving
a public testimony of the benefit
he had derived from the holy bish-
op *s sermons, resolved to build at
Novient a convent and church in
honor of SS. Peter and Paul, and
endow them with ample revenues.

He begged Deodatus to superior
tend the construction of the nei»
buildings. The work was com-
menced at once. Adalric refusedj
nothing necessary for its comple-
tion, and Deodatus, wishing the
church to be very solid, used in itd
construction the ddbris of an o\^
pagan temple in a neighboring for-
est, which he razed to the ground.
S. Materne had long before over-
thrown the idols.*

When the church was finished,
Deodatus and Adalric convoked,
not only the Alsacian clergy, but
a great number beyond the Vosges,
that the pomp of the ceremony oi
consecration might equal the grand-
eur of the solemnity. The duke
and duchess came from Hohen-
bourg with a great retinue. The
duchess brought rich ornaments for
the altar, and sacerdotal vestments
which she had partly wrought with
her own hands. After the conse-
cration the duke gave S. Deodatus
a sealed document conferring a
great number of farms on the new
cloister, for the support of the
Benedictine monks who were to
inhabit it and vow themselves to
the worship of the Almighty.f

These events happened about
the year (i(^(^. The franchises of
Ebersheim - Mtinster were after-
wards confirmed by Charlemagne.!

*The remains of S. Deodatus hare been pre-
served in this church. Formerly they were borne
in procession with great pomp around Ebersbeim-
MUnster on the Z9th of May, the fcstiral of this
saint.

t S. Odilc was particularly attached to Eben-
heim-MUnstcr. After the foundaticm of the Coo-
Tent of Hohenbourg she appcanted the abbot direc- ^
tor of her community, and made to it some dooa^
tions en condition that some of the monks of Ebcn-
heim-MQnster should celebrate divine service at
Hohenbourg on certain festivals, and the abbot
himself on the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Marj*.
D^bald, Abbot of Ebersheim-MQnster, had the
particular confidence of Charlemagne. He trav-
elled with him to Saxe in 8ia.

X The remains of Adalric were, long after bb
death, removed from Hohenbourg to EbersbetA-
MUnster, and were for a long period venerated by
the pilgrims.

A Legend of Alsace.

Bat let us return to the blind
girl of the Convent of fiaume, who
was destined by heaven to be the
(treatcst glory of her race. Cut off
from the world by her infirmity and
by her position, her life was one
long prayer — one long act of adora-
lion. Nevertheless she was twelve
or tiiirtcen years old before she was
.baptized, as all the most reliable
t hroniclers declare.

It was then, as now, the custom
l» baptize children shortly after
iheir birth, and it is not to be sup-
posed that Berswinde would neg-
Ictt the precepts of the church, or
t>c more solicitous for the temporal
welfare of her child than for her
fternal salvation. It is probable
tfcat the ceremony, being private
m consequence of Adalric's anger,
insisted only in the application of
wa:cr,or that there was some grave
tratssion rendering the baptism
c ill. However this may be, it was
n the designs of Providence, as one
^t the old chroniclers says, that
things should happen thus in order
tliit a miracle might mark the sol-
AM admission of the young prin-
•CS5 into the Christian fold.

In those days, adds our historian,
tlicrc lived in Bavaria a holy bishop
aimed Erhard, on whom rested the
»i.vine blessing. This prelate had
3 tision in which he was command-
«i to go at once to the Convent
^i Baome. A voice said to him :
' Thou wilt find a young servant of
'"c Lord, whom thou shalt baptize
^ give the name of Odile. At
*>« tooment of baptism her eyes,
«*iK:h hitherto have been closed,
^lallopcn to the light."

5^ Erhard did not delay obeying
tii'A order, but, instead of taking the
"I'J^t direct route to Franche Comt^,
'^pancd over the steep mountains
^ Alsace and Lorraine, that he
»ghi sec his brother Hidulphe, of
VOL. XX. — 7

high repute in the Christian world,
who had voluntarily resigned the
dignity of Archbishop of Treves
to retire into the wilderness and
found the Abbey of Moyenmou-
tier, where he might end his days in
solitude and prayer. Erhard wish-
ed his brother to accompany him
in his mission. An ancient tradition
relates that, when the two brothers
met, they » flew into each other's
arms, and during their long embrace
their souls held an intimate and
mysterious communion which made
words unnecessary. Hidulphe im-
mediately prepared to follow Er-
hard, that he might witness the
miracle about to be wrought by his
means.

When the two holy pilgrims ar-
rived at Baume, they asked to see
the blind girl, and, on beholding
her, they both exclaimed, as if ani-
mated by one spirit : " O Lord
Jesus ! who art the true light that
enlightenest every man who cometh
into the world, let thy mercy be
diffused, like a beneficent dew, upon
this thy young handmaiden, and
grant sight to the eyes of her body,
as well as light to her soul !"

Proceeding then to examine the
catechumen, they found her thor-
oughly instructed in all the dog-
mas of the Christian religion, and
were edified by the intelligence
and piety' manifested in her re-
plies.

The ceremony of baptism took
place a few days after. All the in-
mates of the abbey assembled in
the church, and S. Hidulphe pre-
sented the young girl at the font.
Erhard, having said the prescribed
prayers, proceeded to anoint her
eyes with the holy chrism, saying :
" Henceforth let the eyes of thy
body, as well as those of thy soul,,
be enlightened, in the name of
Jesus Christ our Lord." The nuns^

A Legend of Alsace,

kneeling around the church, awaited
in profound silence and prayer the
operation of the miracle, and their
expectation was not vain ; for, the
moment Erhard ceased speaking,
the child's eyelids unclosed, her
large blue eyes opened to the light,
and her first look, which displayed
the purity of her soul, was directed
heavenward, as if to thank the Al-
mighty for the favor he had accord-
ed her.

All the witnesses praised God
aloud. Erhard gave the princess
the name of Odile, as he had been
commanded. Then, turning to-
wards the assembly, he recalled to
their minds that there is no instance
recorded until the time of Christ
of the opening of the eyes of one
born blind. " The miracle you
have just witnessed," added he, " is
likewise the work of our beneficent
Saviour. Beware of imitating the
Jews, whose hearts closed more and
more, though they saw the won-
derful deeds Christ wrought before
them, that they might be converted.
God has permitted you to behold
the wonderful event that has just
happened, in order that your spirit-
ual eyes may also be opened, and
you may be the better disposed to
serve the Divine Master, who pro-
tects his servants in so extraordin-
ary a manner, and permits hardened
-sinners to be cast forth into eternal
darkness ! " Then, having blessed
a veil, the prelate placed it on
•Odile*s head, giving her at the same
•time a golden cassette containing
precious relics, and predicting that
Heaven reserved still greater favors
for her if she carefully preserved the
treasures of grace she had already
received.

Hidulphe and Erhard left Baume
4is soon as their mission was ac-
complished; but before their de-
parture they recommended the ab-

bess and her companions to inrsil
the unfolding of the rare flom
which grew in their peaceful clo
ter. Then, giving a last bene<l
tion to Odile, Erhard said to he
" O my dear daughter ! may we he
after, through the mercy of Almi^
ty God, be reunited in the kir
dom of heaven, and taste the jc
to which we are all called !"

The two brothers, having learn
the secret of Odile *s birth, decid
to inform Adalric of her mirac
lous cure, hoping to awaken in \
heart the feeling of paternal lev
The retreat in which Hidulpl
lived being only a few hours* di
tance from Hohenbourg, he w
entrusted with the commission
the Duke of Alsace, and Srhai
returned directly to his dioces
where the miraculous cure of Odi
soon became known, and contribii
cd greatly to the propagation of th
faith.

Meanwhile, Hidulphe repaired t
Oberehnheim, and, as he possesse
in the highest degree the power o
influencing men's hearts, and h
words generally made a profoun
impression on high and low, h
flattered himself that, in informin
the duke of what had just happen
ed at Baume, his feelings toward
the young exile would be imme
diately changed.

But the affection of Adalric vti
fastened on other objects. Naj
withstanding the gravity of n
fault, the blessing of Heaven ccS
tinued to rest on his house. A
ter sending away the poor blifl
child in anger and disdain, til
duchess had borne him in succ«i
sion four sons and a daughl^
named Roswinde, who by th«
sanctity became the ornaments
the church and of their countrj

A Legend of Alsace.

From them sprang most of the roy-
al families of Europe.

The duke refused to send for
Odile. Perhaps, without owning it
to himself, he experienced a certain
fear of one so miraculously healed,
and whom he had so unjustly ban-
ished. Nevertheless, he was not en-
tirely insensible to the news, and,
wishing to testify his gratitude to
Hidulphe, he gave hiin the lands
of Fcldkirch for his abbey of Moy-
cnmoutier.

Odile, then, continued after her
baptism to live in the Convent of
Ba^me. Her devotion, her indiffer-
C1VCC to the things of this world, and
bcr profound recollection inspired
a sentiment of respect among the
TiTgins with whom she lived. With
a grave and elevated mind, fervent
pwty, and an active charity, she pos-
sessed uncommon beauty,* and a
child-like simplicity marked with all
the grace of her age. Not one of
the recluses of the monastery sub-
jected herself to greater austerities
than Odile. Her fervor was parti-
cnlarly manifest during the solemn
days in which the church cele-
brates the great mystery of the
Redemption.

Her countenance and her tears
testified to the love with which her
Heart was filled. It was evident
that, at her first essay, her pure
T<mng soul had soared heavenward
with the swiftness of a dove on the
wiog.

But she was to experience the
trials of life. The nurse, for whom
she had an affection truly filial, and
who had sundered her family ties to
be near Odile, fell dangerously ill
at Baume. Her sufferings lasted
several months. Doubtless God or-
<ltined it to be so, say the ancient
chronicles, that she might satisfy in

*Ckro(kklen ipealc particuUriy of the wonderful
W«tjrcfCMik*B Mr locks.

this world the eternal justice, and
that Odile's gratitude, generosity,
and charity might be displayed.
With the sanction of the superior,
she only left the bedside of the
guardian of her infancy to attend
service at the chapel. She was at
once servant, nurse, and, above all,
comforter. She inspired her pa-
tient with courage, so that she hum-
bly offered up her sufferings to our
Lord, and awaited with joy and
hope the hour of her departure.
When the hour of deliverance ap-
pointed by Providence came, hav-
ing received the last sacraments,
she died peacefully in the arms of
Odile, who closed her eyes and
buried her.

VI.

In spite of her cruel exile, Odile
had for a long time felt an ardent
desire to behold her parents, at
least once, and this feeling became
stronger after the death of her
nurse, the only tie that recalled her
native land. She did not dream of
being restored to her rank, or of
exchanging her peaceful life for the
bustle of her father's court. She
only wished to testify her love for
her parents, and to be loved by
them.

She had been told that Count
Hugo was the most noble of Adal-
ric's four sons. He was universal-
ly considered the handsomest and
most accomplished prince of his
time. His illustrious birth was his
least recommendation : he was pru-
dent and generous, and animated
by that lofty courage and goodness
of heart so becoming to youth.
Odile wrote to him, entrusting the
letter, carefully wrapped in a piece
of scarlet stuff, to a pilgrim. Hugo,
charmed with the letter and, unlike
most of the nobility of that time,
knowing how to write, henceforth

100

A Legend of Alsace.

kept up a frequent correspondence
with her. Odile often gave him
serious advice, which he received
with tender gratitude. Finding
him well disposed, she decided to
open her heart to him. Hugo joy-
fully hastened to intercede for his
sister, begging his father to banish
no longer a daughter whose virtues
would reflect so much honor on his
house. But the duke, with his in-
flexible pride, assumed a severe
expression, and, in spite of his par-
tiality for Hugo, told him he had
particular motives, for which he
was accountable to no one, for re-
quiring Odile to remain at Baume.
He ako forbade his son ever mak-
ing a like request. The young man
was profoundly afflicted. Impelled
by his ardent love for his sister,
and believing her sweet presence
would justify him in his father's
eyes, he immediately despatched
horses and everything necessary for
such a journey, telling his sister to
set off" immediately. Full of confi-
dence in Hugo, and sure that her
father had consented to her return,
she left Baume. It was a sad and
painful leave-taking, but she con-
soled her aunt and the nuns by
promising to return and end her
days among them. But Heaven
otherwise decreed.

Odile had hardly left the monas-
tery when she began to reproach
herself for too strong a desire to
return to her family, and for the
eagerness with which she looked
forward to a taste of earthly happi-
ness. She remembered that he to
whom she wished to consecrate
her life is a jealous God, who wishes
his servants, instead of clinging to
human creatures, to consider them
as instruments of perfection. She
shed many and bitter tears, but, ac-
cording to her custom, she had re-
course to prayer, which assuaged

the trouble of her conscience and
restored a sweet serenity and trust
to her soul.

Protected by holy angels, she
arrived safely at the foot of the
mountain on which rose the new
castle of Hohenbourg. Adalric
was conversing with his sons when
he perceived a company of armed
men accompanying a vehicle that
was slowly ascending the acclivity.
He inquired who the strangers
were. " It is my sister Odile,"
replied Hugo joyfully. " And who
dared bring her here without my
orders Y' cried the duke in an an-
gry tone. The youth saw the
truth must be acknowledged, and,
bending his knee before his father,
he said : " It was I, my lord. Im-
pelled by my ardent love for her, I
wrote her she could come. I am
guilty through excessive affection.
Punish me alone, if you will not
forgive, for she is innocent."

Hugo, relying too much on his
father's partiality, thought he should
escape with only a few sharp words ;
but Adalric, inflamed with rage,
raised the staff he held in his hand,
and inflicted such a blow on his
son that he fell senseless at his
feet. Ashamed and sorry for his
rashness, the duke raised him, artd
ordered that his bruises should be
cared for.

Adalric's anger had passed away
when Odile arrived at the top of
the mountain. Kneeling, she lifted
towards him the eyes once closed
to the light. The duke, recalling
the miracle wrought in her behalf,
felt, for the first time, an impulse
of affection, and, raising her in a
kind manner, he bade his sons to
welcome her affectionately. At
that instant Berswinde and her
daughter Roswinde came running
out. The duchess kissed, with
many tears, Odile's eyes, acknow-

A Legend of Alsace.

lOI

ledging that God had suffered her
child to be bom blind that he
might at a later day manifest his
power by repeating the miracle of
the gospel. Our saint was then
conducted to the chapel. There,
humbly prostrate, she thanked God
for protecting her in her journey
and reuniting her to her family.

VII.

Althongh Adalric's aversion to
Odile was lessened, and he showed
her some kindness at her arrival, he
was far from feeling the same love
for her as for the jest of his chil-
dren. He assignedsher a retired
port of the castle, and gave her as
1 companion a holy maiden from
Great Britain who was vowed to the
scrrice of God. He never admit-
ted her to his presence, and only
aAowed her the portion of a ser-
vant for her subsistence. Our
taint, overlooking this unjust treat-
ment, led at Hohenbourg a life as
simple and retired as at the Con-
Tcnt of Baume, often finding means,
by really depriving herself of the
necessaries of life, of aiding the
needy. It was not long before her
father awoke to better feelings.
Crossing a court of the castle, one
day, be met Odile carrying a cov-
ered dish. Laying aside his usual
coldness, he said mildly : ** Where
are you going, my child V* ** My
lord," replied she, " I am going to
cook a little oat-meal for some
poor sick people." These words,
timidly uttered, touched the duke.
He looked tenderly at his daughter,
whose love and sweetness were un-
changed by his treatment, and ex-
rlaimed, with tears in his eyes :
** Be not afflicted, my dearest child,
U having hitherto led a life of pri-
vation. It shall not be so hereaf-
ter."
In fact, from that moment the re-

lations of Odile and her father were
changed. He began to treat her
with marked favor, as if to pay the
long arrear of paternal love* ; but
she, who was not cast down by
misfortune, showed herself undat-
ed by prosperity. Disdaining the
pleasures now at her command, she
continued to devote her whole life
to God. Her days and nights were
passed in prayer and good works.
Her example produced such an ef-
fect that it was imitated by the rest
of the family. Her sister Roswinde
renounced the pleasures of the
world to bear the cross of our Lord.
The manners of her father and
brothers were softened, and they
endeavored to practise the Chris-
tian virtues. Even the servants of
the castle began to live devoutly.
She gained all hearts. She was
such a friend to the poor and un-
fortunate that Hohenbourg soon
became their refuge. "Our dear
saint," for such is the name the old
historians of Alsace give her, was
not satisfied with bestowing on
them kind words. She gave them
all the money and clothing she
possessed. She often endured hun-
ger and refused food that she
might aid the sick still more.
Every day she descended the steep
mountain-path to seek those who
were unable to reach the castle,
and encourage them with her pious
counsels. Her zeal in their behalf
was unbounded. She performed
the most revolting offices with her
own hands. The unhappy regard- •
ed her not only as a benefactress,
but as a friend to whom they could
open their hearts and consciences.
The duke and duchess soon became
so fond of her that if any one wish-
ed a special favor they begged it
through her. Adalric's repentance
for his past injustice exceeded the
anger he felt at her birth. He

10*

■r frrrdk Vaticmal Manuscripts.

^,Ki^ know what I rea>iy * > even

. ^ -^,^ .-andmrt -^-^ ^ here a«y onger. 1 may

.- ,' — --^er ture, tem«S virtues at coiart sHe
'. ^.^^ded the Chmnan vutues^^^^ ^^ ^^

'•" "■-*^ -^--•' ""::^S »^%?;'t'^,e"goorthan by !«--

■ . ^ xid could do «»o^%g°° austerities of

---l-"^..« »S the world for th^^ ^^^^ ^ere

"----a»e Baume. "'*yv°,^,ric's resolution

of no =*^''"' -rr^ten. Odile, de-
,ras not to be shaken _,_ote a

^'""« ? "^Yu i: te?'to her oW
touching f-^«*^" J^sorro^ was
compamons J^^^^^^rf^g that she
tempered oy remc .-ction of

^ under the special protect lo^^^^

God, who <i«'^^iS fg dsewhere
«se of ^«V,\ts hofr-ame. Full

the 8^°'^ .°^„f*'Jer memory, they
of veneration for her m

p«t .caref««y a^'^y ^^^^^ ^^urcA
precious objects » ^^broidered
a violet-colored veU e ^^^^^„,

ber father.

^xxvxTIONM- MANUSCRIPTS.
XV. .-->l" - ^ Of our Lord

'■^ T.v^^\v'^,-,~««t, ioS5- "fVe relations existing
\ • :\-;. \-:^4 S». V-ti nmo^y^ °^^[^^ between the lan^"
,., ...^ .«. TordT^rtheir tenant^; -d;;^
r^vx-^ ot scnbes the sUte ^^^^^ ^,

-\~«/s- e"***^ v;n« uo to the con-

..-Vxrv^ -^-S^^beSomby the Duke

- ^rf; St^«ndy^,rs2-?

Facsimiles of Irish National Manuscripts.

103

*ad so acceptable to historical stu-
dents of every degree was its pub-
lication, that, iu the spring of 1864,
the Lords of H. M. Treasury una-
nimously endorsed the proposal by
the late Master of the Rolls (Lord
Romilly) that the same process of
photo-zincography should be appli-
ed to the reproduction and perpe-
tuation of some of the " National
Records." Three volumes of Eng-
lish manuscripts and three volumes
of Scottish manuscripts have been
followed by the preparation for
three volumes of Irish national
MSS., which will rank (says Mr.
William Basevi Sanders, the Assist-
ant Keeper of Her Majesty's Re-
cords, in his Annual Report^ print-
ed in the year 1873, on the fac-
smiles photo-zincographed at the
Ordnance Survey Office, Southamp-
ton) among the first of the many
valuable publications which Sir
Henry James (the military engineer
officer in charge) has been the means
of laying before the public.

Let us look over Mr. Sanders's
description of the Irish MSS. He
has gathered his information from
the best sources, having consulted
and freely used 0*Donovan*s edi-
tion of the Annals of the Four Mas-
ters^ the accessible works of Dr.
Pctric. Dr. Todd, Dr. Reeves, and
Prof. Westwood, and more particu-
larly from the elaborate investiga-
tions of Prof. O'Curry, published
in his Lictures on the MS* Materials
of Ancient Irish History.

The first of these MSS., both in
point of age and on account of the
remarkable history that attaches to
it, is the volume known as Domh-
na^k Airgidy or Silver Shrine, Th is
it a volume of the Gospels — per-
haps the oldest in the world — of
the Vih century, and traditionally
believed to have been the private
book of devotion of S. Patrick him-

self, and to have been given by
him to S. Mac Carthainn when
he placed him over the See of
Clogher. The legend in which
this curious story is narrated ap-
pears in the Tripartite Life of S.
Patrick^ and O'Curry in his lectures
gives the following literal transla-
tion of it :

" S. Patrick, having gone into
the territory of Ui Cremthainn,
founded many churches there. As
he was on his way from the North,
and coming to the place now call-
ed Clochar, he was carried over a
stream by his strong man, Bishop
Mac Carthainn, who, while bearing
the saint, groaned aloud, exclaiming
*Uch! uch!'

" * Upon my good word,' said the
saint, * it was not usual with you to
speak that word.*

" * I am now old and infirm,* said
Bishop Mac Carthainn, *and all
my early companions on the mis-
sion you have set down in their
respective churches, while I am
still on my travels.*

" * Found you a church, then,* said
the saint, * that shall not be too
near for us for familiarity, nor too
far from us for intercourse.'

"And the saint then left Bishop
Mac Carthainn at Clochar, and be-
stowed on him the Domhnach Air-
gid, which had been given to him
from heaven when he was on the
sea coming from Erinn.**

The shrine which held this relic is
composed of three distinct covers, of
different dates — of wood, of copper
plated with silver, and the most
modern of silver plated with gold,
richly ornamented with figures of
the Saviour, the Blessed Virgin,
and saints, and with representa-
tions of animals, and traceries,
among which is a mounted figure,
sword in hand, and displaying with
minute accuracy all the dress and

104

FaC'SimiUs of Irish National Manuscripts.

tccoutrements of an Irish noble of
the XlVrh century.

The MS. itself is in such a state
from age and damp as to make in-
spection of its contents impossible,
the leaves being all stuck together,
and the whole of about the consist-
ency and appearance of a piece of
brick. The portions of which fac-
similes will be given present a good
example of the better parts of it.
It was originally the property of
the monastery of Clones, and was
procured in the county Monaghan
by Mr. George Smith, from whom
it was purchased for ;^3oo (say
$1,500) by Lord Rossniore, who
presented it to the Royal Irish
Academy, where it remains at pre-
sent.

The next MS. is as curious — the
Cathach^ or Book of Battles — a copy
of the Psalms, supposed to have
been written by S. Columba. It
consists of fifty-eight leaves of vel-
lum, and appears to be perfect from
the xxxist to the cvith Psalm,
all prior to which are gone, and is
enclosed in a handsome shrine.
Why it was called the Book of Bat-
tles is told by O'Curry, from the Life
of S. Columba^ by Magnus 0*Dohm-
naill. S. Columba, when on a visit
to S. Finnen of Drom Finn, being
very anxious to have a copy of S.
Finnen *s Book of the Psalms, made
one surreptitiously by borrowing
the book, and copying it in the
church after every one else had
left. S. Finnen had notice of this
underhand proceeding of his bro-
ther saint from one of his pupils,
and accordingly, as soon as the
copy was finished, demanded pos-
session of it. S. Columba refusing
to comply with this demand, the
matter was referred to Diarmaid
Mac Fcrghusa Cerrbheaill, King of
Erinn, who pronounced against
him in a judgment which to this

day remains a proverb in Ireland —
Le gach Min a boinin ("To every
cow its calf"), and so, by analogy,
"to every book its copy." This
adverse judgment, closely followed
by the accidental death of the son
of Diarmaid's chief steward while
engaged in a game of hurling with
the son of the King of Connaughl —
at that time a hostage at Tara —
who was torn from S. Columba *s
arms, into which he had thrown
himself for sanctuary, and put to
death, so enraged the saint that he
stirred up his relatives in Tirconnel
and Tyrone to revenge the insult,
and a bloody battle was fought in
Connaught, which ended in the rout
of the king's army: and this was
how the book obtained its name.

For thirteen hundred years the
book was preserved as an heirloom
by the O'Donnells, having been
handed down by S. Columba him-
self, who belonged to that clan.
It is now preserved in the Royal
Irish Academy. Four pages have
been selected for copying, contain-
ing severally the first twelve verses
of Psalm Ixxx., the last three of
Ixxxix., and the first seven of xc,
the whole of xciv., and the first
eleven of xcv. The condition in
which these pages remain is won-
derful, and reflects great honor
upon the family who have for sc
many ages and through so many
national troubles and disturbances
preserved this relic with sacred
care.

The next is the Book of Durrow^
or Gospels of S. Columba^ a volume
containing 248 leaves of velluni,
written in columns by the hand of
S. Columba himself, as asserted in
the following inscription on the fly-
leaf: " Liber autem hie scriptus est
a manu ipsius B. Columbkilie per
spatium 12 dierumanno 500'*; and
a^ain. '* Rogo beatitudinem tuam.

FaC'Similes of Irish National Manuscripts.

105

nocfe presbiter Patrici, ut quicun-
que, bunc libelium manu tenuerit,
nKminerit Columbae scriptoris, qui
hoc scripsi ipsemet cvangeliura per
xii. dterum spatium gratii Domini
nostri." This last inscription is
quoted by Dr. Petrie as conclusive
evidence of the date of the volume,
which is considered by Dr. Reeves
to be either as old as S. Columba's
dsy, or nearly so (a somewhat curi-
ous hypothesis if the volume were
written by S. Columba).

Until its presentation to Trinity
College by Dr. Jones, Bishop of
Meath, this book was kept at Dur-
row, in King*s County, the monas-
tery and church of which were
founded by S. Columba about the
year 550, where the tradition of its
having belonged to their patron
ttint was preserved and believed in
by the monks. It was originally
enclosed in a silver-mounted cuhm^
ittcky or shrine, made for it by or-
der of Flann, King of Ireland, who
feigned from 879 to 916, which was
km, as Mr. Westwood conjectures,
in 1007, when the volume was sto-
len.

The portions selected for copying
■fc p^ges I2^ i4», ii8», and 173*.
The first contains the prayer of the
writer above quoted, under which is
ibo written, ** Ora pro me, frater
mi; Doroinus tecum sit " ; the sec-
ond is the first page of S. Matthew's
Gospel, the third the first page of
S. Luke's Gospel, and the fourth
the concluding page of the same
Gospel, at the bottom of which
b written, '* + Miserere Domine
Nacraani + filii Neth -f- " names
which O'Curry states had not been
identified at the time of his lectures,
though the surname seems to be
vcrf hke that of the scribe after
whom another of the MSS. contain-
ed in this volume is called — M<u
NM,

The next MS. in order is the fa-
mous Book of KeliSy a copy of the
Gospels, also traditionally ascribed
to S. Columba — a tradition doubted
by some, but which Dr. Todd saw
no reason to mistrust, as the book
is undoubtedly a MS. of that age.
About the same time as that when
the Book of Durrow was sacrile-
giously deprived of its shrine, the
Book of Kelts was also stolen out
of the church from which it takes
its name. The circumstance is
thus narrated in the Four Masters :
"The age of Christ 1006. . . .
The great Gospel of Colum Cille
was stolen at night from the Wes-
tern Mrdomh [sacristy] of the great
church of Ceandrrus. This was
the principal relic of the Western
World on account of its singular
cover, and it was found after twen-
ty nights and two months, its gold
having been stolen off it, and a sod
over it."

It continued in the possession of
the Church of Kells till the time
of Archbishop Usher, after whose
death it was granted with the rest
of that prelate's library, in which
it was then found, by King Charles
II., to the university of Dublin,
and has been preserved in the li-
brary of Trinity College ever since.

Of the pages chosen for copying,
6**, 7*, and 27* are entries concern-
ing lands, believed to be the only
existing specimens, of pre-Anglo
and Noripan date, of deeds written
in the Irish language. They are
written in a rude, rough hand, that
looks unsightly in contrast with the
character of the contents of the
volume proper. 34* is the begin-
ning of S. Matthew's Gospel, and
is entirely filled with the initial
of " Liber generationis." i23«,
124*, and 126^ contain S. Matthew's
story of the crucifixion, 124^ being
all taken up by the words, " Tunc

106

FaC'SifmUs of Irish National Manuscripts.

crucifixerant Christum et duos la-
trones," written in a very singular
fashion, and enclosed in a frame-
work profusely decorated. 2oo'>
contains a portion of the genealogy
in the third chapter of S. John, and
19^ displays a collection of fantas-
tic symbols, with a very handsome
capital Z, and the first two sylla-
bles of Zacharias embellished with
spirited figures of a dog pursuing a
wolf.

It is impossible to exaggerate the
elaborate ornamentation of this re-
markable volume, or the quaint-
ness of the grotesque subjects in-
troduced into it. The gigantic ini-
tial letter, which is given as an ex-
ample in this volume, is filled in
with . an almost incredible inter-
lacing of extravagant impossibili-
ties : Serpentine figures with hu-
man heads ; intertwined sketches
of men spotted like leopards in at-
titude of earnest conversation ; rats
sitting on the backs of cats, who
are holding other rats by the tails,
the rats being engaged in eating a
cake; human figures with impossible
combinations of their own and other
creature's limbs ; strange shapes of
birds and fishes, geometrical de-
signs and intricate arabesque tra-
ceries, all woven together in the
wildest dreamlike way, and having
an effect that charms the eye, and
fills the mind with amazement at
the fancy that designed and the
hand that executed them. ^

The next is another copy of the
Gospels, known as the Book of
Dimma Mac Nathi, made, it is
said, at the express desire of S.
Cronan of Roscrea, who died in the
beginning of the Vllth century.
The drawings in this book are very
rude, and the writing of some parts
of it difficult to read, though the
scribe Dimma is supposed to have
belonged to a family of saints, one

of whom, at any rate, was greatly
distinguished as a penman. It was
purchased from Sir William Be-
tham, its original place of deposit
having been the Abbey of Roscrea,
and is now in the library of Trinity
College, Dublin.

Four pages have been chosen for
copying. The first contains por-
tions of chapters 27 and 28 of S.
Matthew's Gospel, and has this
note at the foot : " Finit. Omit do
Dimma rodscrib pro Deo et bene-
dictione ** (" A prayer for Dimma^
who has written for God, and a
benediction *'). Between the 49th
and 50th verses of the 27 th chapter
there is this other verse, the sub-
stance of which only appears in
the Gospel of S. John : " Alius
vero, accepti lancei pupugit latus
ejus et exivit aqua et sanguis.'*
Here, however, the piercing is
made to take place before the
death. The second is the illumi-
nated page preceding S. John. In
it is depicted a bird, probably in-
tended for that saint's symbol, an
eagle, carrying a book in its talons,
surrounded by a border of ara-
besque design. The last two pages
contain the first thirty-eight verses
of the ist chapter of S. John, the
first written along the full breadth
of the page and with a handsome
initial " In," the second written in
columns.

The next MS. is another copy
of the Gospels, known as the Book
of Moling^ and supposed to have
been written about the year 690
by S. Moling, Bishop of Ferns. It
was presented to Trinity College,
Dublin, by a member of the family
of Kavanagh, by whom it had been
preserved for many generations in
its metal cumhdach^ or covering.

Four pages have been selected.
The first is a figure of one of the
Evangelists, with a book in his

Facsimiles of Irish National Manuscripts.

107

left hand, and a pen, which he is
dipping into an ink-hom, in his
right. The second contains the
1 8th chapter of S. Matthew, from
the Sth verse to the 27th ; the third,
from the 27th verse to the i6th
Tcrsc of the 19th chapter of S.
Matthew ; and the fourth, the con-
cluding verses of the last chapter
ofS. John.

The Book' of Armagh has also
been selected. This volume, a
transcript of one still older, sup-
posed to have been the holograph
of S. Patrick, was ascribed by Sir
W. Betham to Bishop Aedh of Stet-
ty, whose death is recorded in the
Four Masters in 698 ; and 0*Cur-
ry conceived it to be as old as
724, but Mr. Graves seems to have
proved that it was written by the
scribe Ferdomnach in 807. It is a
small quarto volume, consisting of
321 leaves of vellum, and contain-
ing an extract. Arom the Tripartite
Life of S. Patrick^ annotations on
that saint's life by Tirechan and
others, his confession or epistle to
the Irish, the Epistle of S. Jerome
to Pope Damasus, the ten Euse-
biin canons, an explanation of He-
brew names used in the Gospels,
with various prefaces and argu-
ments, the four Gospels and re-
maining books of the New Testa-
ment, the life of S. Martin of Tours
by Sulpicius, with two epistles by
Sulpicius and Severus, and con-
cludes with a prayer. It belonged
to the Church of Armagh, being,
as Prof. Westwood relates, held
in such veneration that the fami-
ly of Mac Mayre held lands
from the See of Armagh by the
tenure of its safe keeping; and in
1846 it was presented to Trinity
College, Dublin, by the Rev. Fran-
cis Brownlow, into whose family it
lud passed in the XVIIth century.

Six pages have been selected, the

first three of which contain the ex-
tract from the Tripartite Life of S.
Patrick. On the first column of
page 18^ is the following account
of a miracle performed by S. Pa-
trick : " Sechnall went afterwards
to rebuke Patrick on account of a
chariot he had. Then Patrick sent
the chariot to Sechnall without a
charioteer in it, but it was an an-
gel that directed it. Sechnall sent
it, when it had stopped three nights
there with him, to Manchan, and it
remained three nights with him.
He sent it to Fiacc. Fiacc reject-
ed it. After that where they went
to was round the church three
times, when the angel said, * It is
to you they have been given from
Patrick when he came to know
your disease.*" The miracle as
here related is, as O'Curry very
truly observes, not quite intelligi-
ble, but the key to it is to be found
in the Tripartite Life^ from which it
had probably been taken. The
story there is that once, when
Sechnall was at Armagh, he re-
marked that two chariot horses
which he saw there would be a fit-
ting gift to Bishop Fiacc. Patrick
was not at home at the time, but as
soon as he returned and heard this he
had the horses harnessed to a chariot,
and sent them off, without a coach-
man, to Fiacc at Stetty, where they
arrived safely. The reason of S.
Patrick making him this present
was to enable him to go to his cave
on the liill of Drom Coblai, where
he used to repair on Shrove Satur-
day with five loaves, and remain
till Easter Saturday ; and because
" chafers had gnawed his legs so
that death was near him.'*

Then come The Gospels of Mael^
bride Mac Durnan^ Archbishop of
Armagh from 885 to 927, a small
and beautifully-written copy of the
Gospels, made apparently by the

lo8

FaC'Similes of Irish National Manuscripts.

same scribe, Ferdomnach, who
wrote the Book of Armagh^ and at
about the same period. The ini-
tial page of each Gospel is very
gracefully illuminated, and to each
is prefixed a page bearing the fig-
ure of its writer, surrounded by a
border of delicate tracery. The
pages selected are the first four,
comprising the " Liber generatio-
nis '* and the inscription in capitals,
the face of folio 5 being the be-
ginning of S. Matthew's narra-
tive ; the dorse of folio 65, which
contains his account of the scourg-
ing and mocking, and at the foot
tliis note by the scribe: M6r as-
sdrsa for Coimdid nime agus talman
(** Great this violence upon the God
of heaven and earth **) ; the dorse of
folio 69, containing the following
letter, written in Saxon, is probably
the earliest known contemporary
copy of a petition for restitution of
temporalities to an English bishop :
" VVulfstan, Archbishop, greets
Cnut his Lord and Aelfgyfe the
Queen humbly, and I make
known to you two, liege, that
we have done as the certificate
came to us from you with regard
to the Bishop Aethelnoth, that we
have now consecrated him. Now
pray I for God's love, and in the
name of all God's saints, that ye
will have respect to God and to
the holy order. That he naay be
admitted to the possessions that
others before him were: namely,
Dunstan the good and many an-
other : that he may be likewise ad-
mitted to rights^ and honors. In

which case it shall be for both of
you meritorious before God, and
eke honorable before the world."

At the end of S. Matthew's Gos-
pel there is, in addition to Archbi-
shop Wulfstan's (of York) letter, this
memorandum in Latin : " Cnud,
King of the Angles, has given to
Christ's Church an arm of S, Bar-
tholomew the Apostle, with the
great pall and the golden crown of
his head; and the port of Sand-
wich and all issues of the water of
the same from either side of the
river; so that a ship floating in the
stream when the water shall be
high, at the distance of the cast
of a very small hatchet from the
shore, the droits of the ship are
to be received by the servants
of Christ's Church. And no man
whatsoever has custom in the same
port except the monks of Christ's
Church. Theirs also is the ferry
over the port, and the boats and
toll of boats and of all ships which
come to Sandwich from Pepemess
as far as Northmouth. If, how-
ever, anything be found on the
high sea, being brought to Sand-
wich, Christ's Church shall take
half, and the remaining part shall
rest with the finders."

The volume is preserved in the
library of Lambeth Palace, but it is
a singular fact that it finds no
place either in the catalogue of
that library published in 181 2, or
in the catalogue of the library of
Corpus Christi College, Cambridge,
where Archbishop Parker's collec-
tion of MSS. is preserved.

TO BB CONCLUDBD NBXT MONTH.

Congress of the Cathalic Germans at Mayence.

109

CONGRESS OF THE CATHOLIC GERMANS AT MAYENCE.

On the i6th and 17th days of
June the Second Congress of the
Catholic Germans assembled at
Mayence. This congress must be
dtstinguished from the regular an-
naal congress of all the Catholic
societies of Germany. The con-
!ititation of the latter was formed
during the stormy times of 1848.
it treats only upon religious ques-
tions, and excludes on principle
the discussion of politics during its
deliberations ; whereas the Congress
of Catholic Germans, which held
its first session two years ago, has
for its object, according to its
statutes, the defence of the liberty
and the rights of the Catholic
Church, and the maintenance of
Christian principles in all the
spheres of public life by all moral
«d lawful means, especially by the
ose of constitutionally-recognized
»d guaranteed civil rights ; and it
therefore desires to be considered a
political organization. It is already
m operation throughout Germany,
m Prussia particularly. Its sessions
are held in Mayence — in that city
»hich, owing to its advantageous
position in Middle Germany, oppo-
Mlc the confluence of the river May-
ence with the Rhine, was chosen by
the Romans as a boundary, and by
S. Boniface as the central point
for the Christianization of the Teu-
tons. It is true that "Golden
Mayence," the special and true
daughter of the Roman Church
{Aurea Moguntia sancta Romanm
Eiclaia spedaifs vera filia)^ as the
inscription reads upon the old city
leal, has, since the beginning of this

century, fallen greatly from its for-
mer splendor. In it once resided
an archbishop, who was the legate
of the apostolic chair for Germany,
and metropolitan over twenty-four
bishoprics, which extended from
Brandenburg to Chur in Switzer-
land, and from Metz to Prague and
OlmUtz, and which comprised the
largest part of the old German em-
pire; so that next to the Pope he
was called the greatest prince of
the church {Post Papain secundus^
says Marianus Scotus (+ 1086) in
his Chron. Aet. FI., ad a. 750), and
in his temporal position as elector
and hereditary chancellor of the
empire ranked next to the emperor,
and was called the Prince of prin-
ces (Moguntius post imperatorem
princeps est principum — Vita Ar-
noldt), Mayence is now only a
provincial city belonging to little
Hessia, and the boundaries of its
bishopric are inconsiderable. Nev-
ertheless, in the present combat for
the liberty of the church, it oc-
cupies, and has for years occupied,
an important place by reason of a
succession of great men. Bishop
Von Ketteler at the head, and it
cannot be doubted that the city
will in future be of great impor-
tance to the Catholic interests of
Germany. ^

The centrum of the Catholic par-
ty in Mayence is the Casino zum
Frankfurter-hof (Casino of the
court of Frankfort), whose spacious
and imposing hall has not its equal
in the city. In former times this
hall was used when a blow was to
be struck at the interest of the

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

Catholic Church ; but things are
changed, and the Frankfurter-hof is
now the stronghold in which the
defenders of the Catholic Church
meet together. Not until the use
of this hall was acquired, owing to
the determined efforts of Falk III.,
the people's champion, so well known
throughout all Germany, did the
Catholic party in Mayence be-
gra to feel its own importance.
For the past twenty years its mem-
bers have appeared regularly at every
election upon the battle-field, to be
as regularly defeated ; but they were
finally successful in securing Canon
Dr. Moufang as their deputy at the
last election for the Reichstag,

In the above-named hall the Con-
gress of Catholic Germans held its
late sessions. It was appropriately
decorated for the occasion. In a
prominent place, surrounded by
beautiful fiowers, was seen the bust
of our Holy Father, Pius IX.
Above, in golden letters, were writ-
ten the words, " For God and Fa-
therland,** and over this the sign of
redemption with the inscription^ " In
this sign thou shalt conquer." Upon
the pillars of the hall were placed
the coats-of-arms of the different
bishoprics of Germany. The crape
hanging over those of the Archbish-
ops of Cologne and Posen and Gne-
sen, and that of the Bishop of
Treves, was emblematic of the grief
which fills the heart of every Cath-
olic when he remembers the three
venerable prelates who, forcibly re-
moved from their episcopal sees,
now testify in ^ison to the divini-
ty of Christianity and the inalienable
right of the church to that liberty
in matters of faith and religion left
her by her Founder. The evening
before the opening of the Congress
many members of the society met
from all parts of Germany to greet
one another. Even the United

States was represented in the person
of the learned F. Hecker. A superfi-
cial glance was enough to convince
any one that the nobility in par-
ticular desired by their presence to
show their love and affection for
our persecuted mother, the church.
For years the majority of the Catho-
lic nobles of Westphalia and the
Rhine have been animated with a
deep religious feeling. The best
names among the aristocracy are
generally found at the head of the
numerous appeals in behalf of reli-
gion; and in their own homes (a
fact which is of great importance)
these nobles do not strive to emu-
late by outward splendor those
" capitalists " whose lives are spent
in acquiring riches, but they rather
seek to uphold the honor of their
names by the simplicity of their
mode of life, in their daily actions,
by educating their children as Ca-
tholics should, and instilling into
them principles of honesty, moral-
ity, and every Christian virtue. It
makes a lasting impression upon
whomsoever is admitted to familiar
intercourse with any of these noble
families to see all the members of
the household devoutly assembled
in the private chapel of the man-
sion, for the adornment of whose
altars no expense has been spared,
there to attend the Holy Sacrifice of
the Mass ; and in the evening to be-
hold the father of the family, by ring-
ing a bell, again summons them into
the chapel for evening prayer and
examen of conscience, at which the
chaplain, but oftener the head of
the house, be he old or young,
performs the duty of reading the
prayers. Fathers and mothers
should imitate the example of these
noblemen, and when priests, on ac-
count of their faith, are imprisoned
or exiled, they themselves should
take the place of the priests in their

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

Ill

homes. Then will the zeal of
priests grow stronger and Catholic
faith take deeper root. Would to
God that we could see the same
state of things in many castles in
Middle Germany, in Silesia, Bava-
ria, and in Brisgau (Baden), as is
now seen in Westphalia and on the
Rhine !

But let us return, after this di-
gression, to our Congress in the
Frankfurter-hof. Its president,
Baron von Lo€, representative in
the Reichstags who last year with
manly courage defended the organi-
zation against intrigues of all kinds,
was received with universal ap-
plause when he ascended the ros-
trum and opened Congress with the
salutation, ^^ Praise be to Jesus
Christ !" In a few but convincing
words he explained why, despite
the serious aspect of the times, they
bad met in "Golden Mayence,"
where liberty of speech is yet per-
mitted. (A short time ago a meet-
ing at Treves was dissolved because
Herr Majunke, a representative in
the Reiehstag^ had said in the
course of his remarks that Bis-
marck was only mortal, and while
lying upon his sick-bed suffered as
much as any beggar who lies ill in
his hut. Another meeting was
broken up by the Prussian police
becauje the speaker had announced
his intention of discoursing upon
one particular theme. Who knows
what terrible things the police un-
derstood by the word " theme *' })
Then followed a long succession of
congratulations which the guests,
coming from all parts of Germany,
had p>ersonally to offer. As space
docs not permit us to give a length-
ened sketch of all these speeches,
we must content ourselves with
limply giving the title of the ad-
dress and the name of the speaker.
Dr. Evcls of Bonn spoke con-

cerning the latest cultivated plant,
which grows only in Germany, and
there sporadically, notwithstanding
the most careful attention from
high quarters — that is, Old Catho-
licism. With this exception, no
dangers threaten the Catholic
Church in Germany. Count Bas-
senheim was the bearer of greet-
ings from the Bishop of Basel, who
asked the prayers of the members
for the persecuted friends of reli-
gion in Switzerland. Baron Still-
fried of Vienna assured the Con-
gress that the Catholics of Austria
were united, and expected the sal-
vation of Austria only from inti-
mate union with the church. Dr.
Lingens of Aix-la-Chapelle invited
all present to attend the exposition
of relics in the venerable electoral
city of the old German emperors,
which exposition takes place this
year, and not again until 1881.
Baron von Frankenstein of Bava-
ria spoke on the state of affairs in
his country, declaring his belief
that they would soon change for
the better. Count Kageneck of
Freiburg in Baden looked confi-
dently forward to a happy future,
relying upon the just rights of the
Catholics and upon the powerful
protection of God. Count Bissin-
gen of Wtlrtemberg (Swabia) as-
serted that the fable of the Catho-
lics hating the empire finds no be-
lievers among the honest people of
Swabia. Herr Baudri of Cologne,
the brother of the coadjutor-bi-
sliop, an old, faithful warrior, pro-
claimed in words of burning elo-
quence the earnestness with which
the enemies of the Catholic Church
publicly declare that the destruc-
tion of the church is the order of
the day, and he denounced the
corruption of public opinion by the
state, and the manner in which it
subsidized the press by means of

113

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence. ''

the funds stolen from the church.
He thanked divine Providence for
giving Germany such a united
episcopate, and the present afflic-
tion of the church only demonstrat-
ed the fact that not only in Ger-
many, but through the whole world,
Catholics form only one family.
While our enemies, he continued,
raise on high the torch of discord,
which has so frequently brought
our fatherland to the verge of ruin,
our Congress should use every ef-
fort to build. a new great and united
Germany upon the foundations of
a Christianity similar to that upon
which old Germany became great
and powerful. Herr Stroebel of
Charlottenburg made the next
speech, and he was followed by
the Rev. F. Altheimer, Curate of
Amorbach in Odenwald, Hellwich
of Deidesheim in Palatine, Herr
Wiese, merchant of Werden, Baron
von Schorlemer of Overhagen,
Herr Busch, contractor of Neuss,
and finally by the junior editor of
the Germaniay Herr Cremer of Ber-
lin.

While the hall reverberated to
the hearty cheers of the members,
letters and telegrams were con-
stantly arriving from the interior
and from foreign countries, thus
making perfect the picture of Cath-
olic unity presented by this assem-
bly. Despatches from Austria were
especially numerous, showing there-
by that in that country also the
Catholics are keeping watch in
the struggle that has begun. The
old imperial city of Vienna glad-
dened our hearts with two tele-
grams. In' the one the Prince von
Ftlrstenberg salutes us in the name
of the Catholic societies of Vienna;
in the other the president of the
Catholic people's associations of
Lower Austria sends his best wish-
es that ** the heroic battle which

Germany's bishops, priests, and lay-
men wage witU such sublime cour-
age may find its end in a si>cedy
victory for the holy cause of the
church," and adds the assurance :
" We Catholics of Austria are firmly
determined, confiding in God's pro-
tection, to offer the same resistance
if the same attacks are made upon
the church." Six telegrams frona
** green Siyria " reached us, four
of which were sent by the Catholics
of Griltz, and two by the Catholic
societies of Marburg and Wildon.
" They desire to oppress you and
us," telegraphed Senator Karlon of
Gratz, " but we will yet be the vic-
tors ; for Christ lives, Christ reigns,
Christ commands, and Christ will
triumph." To these were added a
telegram from the Catholic Society
of Klagenfurth in Carinthia, and
two others from ever-faithful Tyrol,
from the society in Botzen, which
numbers more than 3,000 members,
and from the society of Innsbrtick.
The president of the last society,
Julius von Riccabona, sent us the
following characteristic Tyrolese
wish : " As the snow melts on the
high mountain beneath the rays of
the sun, so also may the intrigues
against our holy church disap-
pear before the power of truth."
Charles Count of Schoenbrunn
and George Prince of Lobkowitz
expressed in telegrams their re-
spect, sympathy, and good wishes,
while from far-distant Hungary the
Catholic Political Society of Pres-
burg sent assurances of their love
and affection. From Munich, Ba-
varia, came telegrams, from the
diocesan clergy of Eichstaedt, from
the Centrum member Lang of Kel-
heim, and from the society of Catho-
lic men in Wasserburg on the Inn.
From Noerdlingen the society of
Catholic men in Riesa, numbering
over 1,400 members, writes among

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence. 113

other things: "We feel in our
hearts the afflictions which the
Catholics of Prussia endure; we
pray (or the bishops, priests, and
laity who are imprisoned on ac-
count of their religious convic-
tions; we approve of the conduct
tiki praise the fidelity of our Catho-
lic brethren; yes, we are edified by
iheir unity in faith and by their
firmness, and we congratulate them
on their perseverance and courage,
which, because it comes from God,
will conquer the world. . . . We
«hall never consent to give to Caesar
the things that belong to God; if
It should be demanded of us, we
shall obey God rather than man,
and imitate the example of the
Prassian Catholics." From the
south came greetings from the so-
ciety of men in Constance and
from the president of the Helve-
uan Pius Society, Count M. Sche-
rer-Bouard of Lucerne, and finally
from Hanfeld, Viersen, MUnchen-
Giadbach, Bochum, Luedinghaus-
cii, Kluesedoerpen, Prussia, two
from the city of Hanover, one from
the northern missionaries of New
M&nster in Holstein, and the last
from remote Dantzic. Among
other despatches, there is worthy of
special mention the telegram of
Prince Salvati, in the name of the
Congress of the Catholic Societies
of Italy, which met at Venice, and
the following from London : " The
* 'acholic Union of Great Britain
rittads to you a brother's hand to
nKoarage you in the struggle with
(he evil spirit, and at the same time
't deplores the death of your cham-
(lon, Malinckrodt. (Signed) Duke
^ Norfolk, President of the Catho-
:ir Union of Great Britain."

The greatest interest was shown
»Hcn the mammoth address from
the United States was exhibited.
It contained upon a roll of paper

VOL. XX. — 8

one thousand feet long 30,000 signa-
tures of Catholic men whose own
or whose fathers* cradle had rested
upon German soil. (A few days
after this address was again expos-
ed in the great hall, and the endless
roll of paper was drawn from the
table of the president up to the
glass cupola, and from there letting
it fall down again upon the presi-
dent's table, it was taken up for the
second time to the chandelier, and
from thence to the roof.) The fear-
less expressions contained in this
document, which, thanks to "our
freedom of speech," could not be
dwelt upon at length, and the gran-
deur of this manifestation, showed
the imprint of the youthful and vig-
orous mind of men who glory in
being citizens of the greatest re-
public in the world — the United
States. Not long ago we finished
a great war in a great manner. It
was then the pride of Germans to
be German. . Since then, however,
the little banners of religious nar-
row-mindedness have been every-
where unfurled, and the so-called
liberal party has sacrificed not only
its principles, but the most impor-
tant articles of the Prussian consti-
tution — the idea of .a great Germany
and peace and liberty. With the
exception of a huge military power,
everything has dwindled away.
The men who won renown in 1870
and 1 87 1 are no longer heard of.
The men of the Centrum are our
real consolation, for by their pru-
dent and fearless defence of truth,
liberty, and justice they have obtain-
ed great merit and are entitled to
enduring praise.

To place their labors under the
protection of God, the Catholic
Congress of Germany assemble^
early on the morning of June 16
in the venerable Cathedral of May-
ence, where they assisted at the

114

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

Huly Sacrifice of the Mass, and re-
ceived holy communion from the
hands of the Rt. Rev. Bishop Herr
von Ketteler.

The devotion of these men, gath-
ered from all parts of Germany,
was greatly increased by the music,
which was executed in a most mas-
terly manner by the cathedral choir,
who gave selections from the follow-
ing composers : Vechi, Aichinger,
Orlando Lasso, Palestrina, Croce,
Vittoria, and Piadana.

In the session which was held
with closed doors the president first
spoke of the sadness which filled the
hearts of all the Catholics of Ger-
many on account of the untimely
death of Herman von Malinck-
rodt, deputy to the Reichstag, The
memory of this wonderful man, like
a mourning accord, seemed to per-
meate all the transactions, whether
in writing or in words, and made
itself felt even in the banquet-hall.
We shall not, however, dwell any
longer upon this theme, as we intend
to give a short sketch of the life of
this faithful champion of the church.

Of the business transacted in the
private session we shall make brief
mention. That which, as a general
rule, is last thought of in all great
Catholic undertakings, was in this
instance the first to receive atten-
tion — we mean the finances. In
this regard, however, the Congress is
deserving of no reproach, as it at-
tached too little instead of too much
importance to money — a prince
seemingly so insignificant, but yet
one who rules the world. The
Catholic Congress, organized as it is
throughout Germany, stands in need
of certain pecuniary means, which
want will be felt in future even more
than now. For this reason every
member is obliged to give six ^/7-
bergroschen (about fifteen cents). It
must, however, be understood that

the collection of this money is nol
made without some difficulty, sinc<
the organization is only in its in
fancy, and the number of memberi
constantly increasing.

We learn from the report of Hen
Racke, High Treasurer of Darm
stadt, owing to whose self-sacnfic-
ing labors the finances of our Un
ion are in a very prosperous condi
tion, that the collections of last yea)
amounted to 17,883 thalers, i4,o<x
of which were put out on interest,
including 7,000 loaned to differ-
ent Catholic newspapers. Anothei
question came up regarding the
existence of the Union. According
to the law of Prussia in reference tcj
societies, a political society cannoi
act as a union or central societ)-,
nor form branches dependin^j upon
the union ; on the other hand, how^
ever, it is lawful for one society to
exist over all Germany, and it can
have its affairs conducted by author-
ized agents. Our union was from
the very beginning most anxious
to correspond with this law. Not-
withstanding this, however, the Prus-
sian authorities have pretended to
discover the existence of local bran-
ches, in consequence of which many
of them have been suppressed. The
reason for this proceeding, which
called into question the existenre
of the Union itself, was Section 10 of
the statutes, which has reference to
meetings held in different parts of
the empire. To avoid further vexa-
tions, this paragraph was stricken
out, and at the same time it was ex-
pressly said that Mayence was to
be the headquarters of the Union,
and that there the annual general
meetings were to take place-

Herr Racke, merchant of May-
ence, and secretary of the Union,
who had taken upon his youthful
and strong shoulders the principal
burden of the pecuniary affairs of

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

the Uniofi^ then introduced a series
of propositions^ for the exam in a-
6011 of irhich three committees
^«re appointed, viz., one upon Ihe
fociai qucTition of the day, another
if|iOQ acietice, and a third on the in-
fluence of the press; and finally he
vibtDittcd certain rales of proceed-

Tlie ihoit address lo- the bishops
a^ttrtnbled m Fulda, which was re-
CCfTiKl wilb enthusiasm, and which
^^s noir read, descn-es a jilace in
this |:«enodicdL It is as follows :

•JUcirr Re.%\ Bishops.

*|ii a siooaeneous lime like the pre-
mmn tlic C J tbot »cs o X G^rm 1 ny a s se m bl e J
«K lf^;rfic« tespectfMllj desire to shoiv
ikKT fnra lit tide ind a^Jniiration for the
Dfjbt tvv^vTimil bishops gt the Lithcrbnd,
vkA bd¥« (iv^ffiidud I he righiii and liber-
CM qif Ofir Holy Catholic Cliiirch with
ladi ctltn snd fcaikfs dignity ; but. at. is ■
mm vofdi c>f Eympathy cunn^t reacli sev*
vni dl ilie preUiev. except through pri-
•»*4o9rx In pioportiaT) a^ the distirf^^^
^ Ibc chufch Increases, tbc lUQre do we
fc*r * , -» bound in conscience to

dt ic Germany and itje whole

m^riw t.'r;»T ni> power ypon earth shall sep-
•oit B4 fjvi^ai oar dear bishops, appoint-
•dtff Almtthiy God«an\i that no power
ii mat^ can (tjcce 11& to recpgriUe other
fMtOff than those who are in comrniu
KM WMh the Holy Sec, and virho are rc-
la^^bcte^ a« tme pa^tots by the succcs^nr
«llheff<cf; U(te ehlct i>a*tor of the churcli,

"•Oitf do rly- beloved bbhops have
bsoaoK iJiJuiog ex;impk5 of aposiolic
coimifc iUiiiur leaders in the5e d^y^ of
cmBbai; «Ad as true children of the
dMMfIt we will follow thera, and Leave the
ram^Mi li C g* to Altnightj God,

**TM}iAlld of God rcau heavily upon
MCX2l<t tbc end of oar sufferings i^ con-
ociM ffom |h« eyi-s of man. Hut wc
ilt9 ktt<f«r tl»4t Ihlii trial wtit be of benc^t
l^e^' ire Ttiniik Gad ih.if he deigns to
aiiow as 10 combat and to sutler for his
holy cause and for the liberty of his
diarch.

" ' Through the cross to the light* were
the vords spoken in the last Rrichstag
br that heroic warrior for whom all Cath-
olic Germans pray, and who died in the
4cfeace of truth and right. It shall be

our device also : ' Through the cross to
the light ! •

"With these sentiments we ask your
episcopal blessing, and with the most
profound veneration we subscribe our-
selves

" The most obedient servants and sons
of our revered German bishops."

At one o'clock a banquet was
held in the same great hall, at which
300 members of the Union were
present, among whom was the Rt.
Rev. Bishop Ketteler of Mayence.
It was he who proposed the first
toast to the Holy Father, which was
received with enthusiasm, as it was
the twenty-eighth anniversary of
his appointment to the chair of
Peter. The speaker reviewed the
long series of years of combat be-
tween light and darkness, and in the
increasing enthusiasm and affection
of the Catholic people for Pius IX.,
the representative of unity, appoint-
ed by Almighty God, he saw an
increase of the unity which the
church, like an impregnable fortress
in the midst of combats, exhibits,
while the world threatens to split
asunder. Baron von Frankenstein
proposed, as the second toast, the
Grand Duke of Hessia and all the
German princes belonging to the
Union, and made a few remarks
appropriate to the occasion.

The president. Baron von Loe,
proposed the health of the leaders
given us by Almighty God, the Rt.
Rev. Bishops of Germany, under
whose guidance we some years ago
saved the thrones from the whirl
of revolution, and under whose
direction we now hope to conquer
the revolution which is preached
by the government. Among the
other toasts given, we will only
mention that of the Rt. Rev. Bi-
shop of Mayence, who paid a high
tribute of praise to the men of the
Centrum who had in Berlin defend-
ed with such courage and skill the

ii6

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

caustf of truth, justice, and liberty.
After the banquet the diflferent
committees of the Union entered
upon the discussion of the proposed
resolutions, while the presiding of-
ficers of the Congress consulted
upon the drawing up of these reso-
lutions.

The same resolutions formed also
the theme for the speakers in the
public evening sessions, to which
such a great number of persons
were attracted that the hall of the
Frankfurter-hof, large as it is, was
not sufficient to contain all.

The first speaker, Baron von
Wendt of Westphalia, passed in re-
view the public events that had
transpired in Europe for the last
year, and he demonstrated in a con-
vincing manner that hostility to
the church had everywhere appear-
ed simultaneously, and was therefore
the result of preconcerted action.
The explanation of this fact the
speaker found in the activity of
modern liberalism, which had de-
termined upon the complete denial
of Christianity, and which boldly
avows that by adhering to the prin-
ciples of what its advocates are
pleased to call humanity all those
inestimable blessings would be ob-
tained which the Saviour has left
us in his sublime teachings upon
the obligations and morality of a
Christian life. Like the work of
redemption, so also would the
church become superfluous, and the
state, to which liberalism gives
the preference over everything else,
would then enter upon its inheri-
tance, and, as in the days of the
pagan Qesars, assert its ascendency
even over the spirit.

Herr Cremer, the editor of a
Berlin journal, next proceeded to
point out the imperfections to be
found in the constitution of the
German Empire, which gave secu-

rity only to material interests aad
military power, while there was not
an article which had reference to
the moral problem of state life and
the fundamental rights of civil libn
erty. In the course of his speech
he with much humor and sarcasm
drew attention to the fatal avowal
of Bismarck in regard to his own
policy. When the question was
proposed in the Reichstag as ti>
whether Catholics had forfeited
their rights to citizenship and were
dangerous to the state, the prince!
answered in the affirmative. This
"yes," remarked the speaker,
" was the most absolute condemna-
tion of his own policy which could
have ever been pronounced by any
one ; for no state was ever so pow-
erful that it could dispense even
for a time with the co-operation of
one-third of its inhabitants. This
policy must be changed, for nine
millions of Catholics could not be
forced to emigrate or be declared
outlaws like helots. This policy
was in every respect to be rejected
as rotten and false, even if it did
rest upon the shoulders of this mo-
dem Atlas.** The vigor and readi-
ness of expression displayed by
the youthful speaker caused him
to be warmly applauded.

The V. Rev. Dr. Monfang, deputy
to the Reichstag, delivered an admir-
able speech upon the present state
of society. The great change, he
argued, took place in the begin-
ning of our century, and he attri-
buted it to the following causes:
First, the French Revolution, which
overturned the laws of commerce
and labor without regulating them
anew; second, the wonderful use
to which machinery can be put,
particularly by the application of
steam-power, which, in union with
the development of capital^ direct-
ed industry into entirely new chan-

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

ty6M\ tliird, the exemption from
tuution brought about by the in*
creise and facility of the means of
commerce, which keeps a certain
class of labor in constant demand,
MsA io a measure takes it from the
bosioess men and the farmers ; and,
fourth, most especially to that
pseudo-liberalism whose national
economy regulates the relations be-
tveeo employers and employed, be-
tween rich and poor, not in accord-
aflcc with true Christian principles,
but according to the dictates of
egotism. The social question, the
orator declared, resolves itself into
Ibis : that a man, to be really happy,
needs but three things — that is, a
competency, a respectable position
io society, and inward peace of soul.
After applying this true remark to
the condition of the working-men,
the speaker finally passed to the so-
lution of the social question, and
said that as this problem affects all
lae relations of human life, a gen-
eral co-operation was necessary for
Its explication. The laborer him-
5ci must co-operate as well as the
fiffliiy, the parish, the state, the
church. Without religion, without
pfjdcnt legislation for the protec-
tion of labor, without Christian
nurriages among the laborers, with-
out public spirit and united effort.
It is not possible to avert the evils
which every day threaten the labor-
ing class more and more.

Hcrr Racke, the indefatigable
secretary of the Union, spoke upon
the difficult subject of passive re-
sistance to laws which are in direct
opposition to conscience. He ad-
duced particularly from the best
lathers upon state rights the evi-
<inK:e that the state has no right
to demand from its citizens abso-
lute obedience to all its laws and
ttgnUtions. Laws which are in
opposition to conscience, morality,

and religion, be they ever so formal-
ly enacted, are not laws in the
sight of God, but are in defiance
of those of all law-givers, of the
only absolute Lord who is above all
states, all rulers, and all men, and
from whose authority alone even
the state laws derive their power
and obligation. The animated
speech of Herr Racke was also
loudly applauded.

At the request of the president
the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Mayence
gave the -episcopal blessing, where-
upon the public session was ad-
journed. The second day also
began with prayer, a High Mass
of Requiem being sung for all the
members of the Union who had
died during the last year. Then in
a private session followed the dis-
cussion and approval of resolutions.
The resolutions proposed by the
officers of the Congress, and re-
ceived by all with acclamation, sur-
passed in importance all others
which had yet passed. We give
them, therefore, a prominent place;
they are a sign that the Catholics
of Germany have not lost their
courage as yet, and they deserve to
be published verbatim. They are
as follows :

The Second Congress of the Catholic
Germans declares :

I. Regarding the Slate of Christian Society.

1. The violent persecution which the
Catholic Church in some parts of Europe
and South America now suffers, verifies
the expression of the Holy Father thai
anti-Christianity — that is, modern civiliza-
tion — is incompatible with Catholicity.

2. The certain result of a systematical-
ly-arranged combat pgainst the church
of Christ, as well as against Christianity
itself and the essential foundations of
society, will be the dissolution of social
and political order, endless war, and the
destruction of the nation's rights.

3. The re-establishment of permanent
and national order is only to be looked

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

for when political independence is again
restored to the Holy See, and when all
those rights are recognized which belong
to the head of the Catholic Church by
virtue of divine dispensation and histori-
cal development.

II. Regarding the State of Germany,

1. The constitution of the German Em-
pire, for the reason that it guarantees
neither protection to personal liberty, nor
to the independence of states, nor to the
different ranks of "society and incorpora-
tions, cannot establish the true welfare
of the German people.

2. .The influence of the so-called na-
tional party, which abjures the essential
rights of the German people and of the
representation of the people, will be the
ruin of the German Empire.

3. The exception laws, by which the
German Empire, founded as it is by a
common sacrifice, has deprived one-
third of the citizens of their essential
rights, thereby destroying the peace and
the power of Germany.

4. The unlimited development of mili-
tary power is incompatible with natural
rights, civil liberty, and the spiritual as
well as the material welfare of the Ger-
man people.

5. The unchrislianizing of public in-
struction now in progress, the control by
the state of the entire school system,
founded as it is upon compulsion, and at
the same time the suppression of the edu-
cational rights of the church and of the
family, is a source of spiritual and moral
ruin.

6. The venal press, working in the in-
terests of political servility and of pro-
perty-holders, continually misrepresents
public opinion, and is the principal
cause of the social evils that threaten
Germany.

7. The foreign policy of the German
Empire, especially in its relations to the
Holy See, is not in harmony with the
principles and interests of the Catholic
population of Germany, and is not capa-
ble of securing the preservation of the
peace of Europe.

HI. Regarding the State of the Working-
Classes,

1. Like all other states of Europe,
Germany is threatened by the discontent
existing among the working-classes.

2. The principal reasons for this dis-
contentment are: Decrease of the retail

business; overtaxing the agricultural
classes ; miserable condition of the opcraj
tives in manufactories; and the endles^
development of money speculation.

3. The real origin of these misfortunei
is the enervation of Christian faith and
morality in the higher as well as In tb^
lower ranks of society, caused by modert
rationalism and liberalism, whereby i
Ivis happened also that a great portion
of the working-classes have allowed
themselves to be deceived by the illu*
sions of irreligious and reyolutionanl
leaders.

4. The means of healing these socia]
evils and reconciling all classes of society
consist in the passing of laws prohibiting
the exhausting of the bodily and financial
strength of the people; in claiming that
protection from the state to which aJ(
classes are entitled ; in the continued d.^
fort to remove the particular defects of
the present commercial laws by mean^
of legislation; in establishing the rights
of the working-classes in accordance
with Christian principles and the de-
mands of general equity ; in founding
different industrial auxiliary houses,
either through the union of the working-
classes and others, or through the friends
of the working-classes ; in restricting the
amount of labor to be performed by fe-
males and children ; in the careful culit
vation of the moral and religious life in
the families of the working-classes, es-
pecially by having Sunday kept holy, and
by applying Christian principles to the
sphere of business life; in the free de
velopment of Christian charity to alleri
ate inevitable want.

IV. Regarding the Rights of the Church.

1. The Catholic Church is, according
to divine ordination, an independent so-
ciety, which has the right to exist pub-
licly in all lands as the one and univer-
sal church of Jesus Christ, and to pro-
tect which every Christian government
should feel itself bound.

2. The ecclesiastico- political system
which the parties opposed to the church
arc endeavoring to carry out stands in
irreconcilable and open contradiction fo
the constitution of the Catholic Church,
founded by Almighty God. sanciilie<i
through all centuries, recognized by the
state, and guaranteed by the law of na
tions.

3. The power of the office of teacher,
priest, and pastor, gi-^n by the Pope t^

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

the bishops, cannot be suspended or
limited by any law of the slate.

4. Church and state are ordained by
Aimichtj God to harmonious co-opera*
ttoo. Their separation is to be lamented.
U the hostility with which the modern
stite treats the church should make
Mch a separation necessary, it will be
more to the disadvantage of the state
than to the church. \

V. Regarding Liberty of Conscience,

I. No state power has the right to im-
pose obligations upon its subjects which
are in opposition to the commandments
oC God, the decrees of Jesus Christ, and
the precepts of the church.

3. The apostolic courage with which
the Catholic bishops not fearing tem-
poral loss, not even imprisonment and
exDep defend the rights of God and of
his holy church, as also the inalienable
rights of Catholic conscience, and the
priestly Sdclityand firmness with which
the Catholic clergy, not led astray by il-
lusions and threats, remain true to the
episcopate and the church, deserve the ad-
nintion and respect of all Catholics and
of every right thinking man.

3. The measures used against the
bishops and priests of the Catholic
Churrh do not succeed in their object;
they grieve most deeply the Catholic
people, but they cannot be persuaded to
exchange a church founded by Almighty
God for one founded by the state. In
vaio are all the cx,periments used to
separate Catholics from their rightful su-
perior.

4- The Catholics of Germany recog-
niae always the legitimately-elected Bi-
shop of Rome, the Pope, as the head of
ihc;r religion and church. In him they
trrtrc the infallible teacher of faith, the
Ugh-priest and the supreme watchman
of Christianity. No power can separate
(he Catholics of Germany from the chair
<rf S. Peter.

5. The only prelates of the German
bishoprics are those bishops who are le-
giumatcly appointed by the Pope accord-
imc to canon law. Catholics obey and
reverence these bishops, be they in prison
or in exile.

6. Ihc Catholics of Germany recognize
M pastors only those who are appoint-
ed by the Pope and legitimate bishops.
Wuh unshaken determination they repel
trery attempt to induce them to revolt
against Catholic authority.

VI. Regarding the Mission of the Catholic
Union in Germany.

1. The Catholic Union of Germany
complains of the severity with which the
state officers of the German Empire, par-
ticularly in Prussia, oppose their rightful
endeavors to labor for the true welfare of
the fatherland.

2. The Catholic Union of Germany
shall with undaunted courage defend
their natural rights, the rights of the
church and of the German nation, against
revolutionary and bureaucratic force.

3. The Union invites all Catholics to
join the authorized organization, and in
the confidence of assistance from God,
which the Union implores for itself
through the most Sacred Hearts of Jesus
and Mary, they surely expect the speedy
triumph of a just cause. ^

The other resolutions had refer-
ence to the adoption of a short pray-
er to the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and
Mary, under whose protection the
Union is placed ; then the appoint-
ing of a committee charged with the
erection of a monument to the me-
mory of Herman von Malinckrodt ;
with the foundation of a fund for
exiled clergymen; to send an ad-
dress to the oppressed Catholics of
Switzerland; with the making out
of a list of the priests who have
been punished in defending the
rights of the church; with the es-^
tablishment of an intelligence office
for young Catholic merchants ; with
the recommendation of the Christian
Blaettery published in Aix-la-Cha-
pelle ; and finally with the rccom-
mending of various institutions for
the removal of social evils. All of
these motions werp not adopted,
others were laid upon the table, in
order to concentrate the strength of
the young Union upon the momen-
tous question to the Catholic Ger-
mans as to the best means of ending
the conflict now in progress against
the church. No one will deny the
wisdom and prudence of this pro-
ceeding.

120

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

In the afternoon a pilgrimage to
Mount Roch was determined upon ;
it is four German, or about twenty-
four American, miles from Mayence,
and is one of the most charming
places on the Rhine. The con-
gress could not have closed its
labors in a more appropriate man-
ner. Soon after twelve o'clock the
steamer Lorcley^ which was hardly
large enough to accommodate the
vast crowd of pilgrims, commenced
to move its engines. Inspired by
the pious sentiments which filled
their hearts, the pilgrims made the
air resound with songs which charm-
ed the ear, while the beautiful views,
as seen from the deck of the steam-
er, of the country lying between
the Taunus Mountains and the
Rhine, captivated the eye. This
little spot has justly been called the
garden of Germany. The whole
shore is lined with villages, rich in
monumental reminiscences of past
ages, handsome residences and an-
cient abbeys, modern and mediaeval
castles. But the greatest pride of
the Rhineland are the luscious
grapes which ripen upon these
sunny hills. Who has not heard of
the Marcobrunner, the Steinberger,
the Johannisberger, the Ruedeshei-
mer, and many other species of
Rhine wine.? The vine-dresser of
the Rhineland is firmly convinced
that in the whole world there is no
wine which in delicacy is equal to
his. But let us proceed. The
good Catholic inhabitants of these
vine-clad shores saluted our stea-
mer by discharging cannons. The
Prussian authorities had prohibited
in some places such signs of joy
and sympathy to be shown "the
enemies of the state'* who were
passengers on the Loreley. The
banner of the Chapel of S. Roch,
which is built upon a high moun-
tain, had from a long distance been

seen waving, and we could also
descry the great crowd which had
already taken possession of the top
of the mountain. When we ap-
proached the city of Bingen, situ-
ated at the foot of the mountain,
nearly the whole population await-
ed us on the banks of the river. A
special deputation saluted the Rt.
Rev. Bishop of Mayence, who had
come to address the pilgrims. The
immense crowd, praying and sing-
ing, then marched through the city,
which was ornamented with flags,
and soon all the streets and paths
leading to the mountain were filled
with men, so that it was very diffi-
cult for the marshals to form a
regular line of procession in order
to reach the top of the mountain.
From this eminence only was it
possible to obtain a good view of
the multitude, which was greater,
perhaps, than Mount Roch had
ever before carried on its back. It
was a splendid spectacle, and the
effect was greatly enhanced by the
beauty of the surroundings — the
majestic river, whose course the
eye could follow for miles, the
green islands that now and then
appeared in the channel of the
river, the blooming vineyards, and
the ever-fertile valleys.

As the chapel could contain only
a small portion of the assemblage,
the Rt. Rev. Bishop made his ad-
dress while standing under the
blue canopy of heaven. We will
only give a few extracts from his
admirable discourse. In his in-
troduction he said : " We are here
to-day assembled upon this moun-
tain from all parts of Germany.
Without knowing each other, we
yet feel that we are all united by
the common bond of faith, a minia-
ture picture of the Catholic Church.
We stand upon a venerable spot.
Here lived S. Hildegardis, that

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence.

121

great prophetess of the middle ages,
whom S. Bernard visited to exa-
mine her prophecies. Long before
her advent S. Rupert and his
saintly mother Bertha, whose relics
are exposed for veneration in this
chapel, dwelt here. At our feet
fk)ws the river Rhine, in whose
waters the most beautiful cathe-
drals of Germany are reflected, and
open whose shores, from the ear-
liest ages, faithful and honest Cath-
olics have lived. There (pointing
to Niederlingen, with its palace of
Carlovingian date) stood the cra-
dle of Charles the Great, the foun-
der of the old German power and
glory ; there that great emperor
spent his youth, who never un-
sheathed his sword except for the
protection of truth, and never lent
it to an unrighteous cause."

In the course of his speech he
made mention of a fact which he
had observed when provost of
Berlin and delegate for the few
Catholic congregations in Bran-
denburg and Pomerania. " In the
U$t century King Frederick II. had
determined to drain the marshes
along the river Oder, and had for
this end summoned laborers from
the Rnine and from the Palatinate.
Those from the last-named place
began their long journey after they
had received assurances that ample
provision had been made for their
religious wants, and that lands
would be given them for cultivation.
These promises, however, were not
fulfilled. When the work was fin-
ished, the poor people were distri-
buted among the different Protes-
tant cities in Pomerania, in order
to force the inhabitants, as it were,
to cede to them some territory.
Some of them received as their por-
tion the sandy plains near Pase-
walk. Here wooden sheds were
creeled, the best of which was re-

served for a chapel. Without a
priest, these good people met to-
gether every Sunday for divine
service, sang their hymns as if for
High Mass, and an altar-boy rang
the bell at certain parts, just as it
was done in their former homes.
Fifty years passed in this way with-
out their ever having seen a priest,
and in the course of these fifty years
not one Catholic became an apostate.
This congregation was afterwards
visited once a year by a priest, and
this state of things continued for
another fifty years ; but during this
whole time not a Catholic left his
faith — a proof that our Lord and
Saviour, when the priests are expel-
led, has other means to keep his
own in the true fold. When in our
own times institutions are destroy-
ed, priests are exiled, and bishops
are cast into prison, we have more
reason than ever before to impress
deeply upon our hearts the words
of Christ: Confidite in me ; ego
vinci mundura — * Have confidence;
I have overcome the world ' (S.
John xvi. 33). U all else perishes,
at least one divine institution re-
mains which the state cannot de-
stroy — we mean the Christianfamily.
In proportion as the other repre-
sentatives of God are prevented
from fulfilling their duty. Christian
fathers and mothers must, following
the example of S. Bertha, fill their
vacancies. What obstacles did
not this saintly woman overcome !
Her husband, who ruled over all
this part of Germany, was a heathen,
and was killed in a battle with the
Christians ; but notwithstanding
this, she has given in her son a
saint to the church."

Turning then to the subject of
the schools, the Rt. Rev. Bishop
reminded them of a resolution pass-
ed about ten years ago by the
Grand Lodge of Belgium, which

122

Congress of the Catholic Germans at May end.

commanded the sister lodges to
give their written opinions as to
the question in what manner they
could best exercise a decided
influence over the public schools.
They all agreed on this point : that
the schools should be separated
from the church, and that it was
not sufficient to keep the children
in school until they were fourteen
years of age, but that compulsory
education should be continued up
to their eighteenth year, in order to
thoroughly uproot from the minds
of the children the prejudices which
they had received from their fa-
milies and from the church. To
this the objection was raised that
such a law would be in direct oppo-
sition to the rights of parents ; but
in the reply, which was afterwards
published, it was expressly main-
tained that, if the state had the
right to cut off the heads of men, it
could also set thein right again. In
view of the present aspect of affairs
in respect to the school question, it
is very easy to draw parallels.

At the conclusion of his address
the Rt. Rev. speaker again returned
to the text of his discourse : " * Have
confidence in Jesus.' Place not
your hope in princes, who cannot
help you. The Holy Ghost has said
it ; they also must die. Make no
calculations, therefore, as from what
earthly source or from what earthly
prince the salvation of the church
may be expected. Confide in me,
says Christ. Fear not the power of
falsehood, for I have overcome the
world. Be watchful and firm. While
the world is worshipping Mammon it
is our duty to imitate the example
of those Catholics who have never
bowed their knees before Baal, and
who were found worthy to make
any sacrifice for their convictions.
Be courageous and of good cheer !
At this time the church needs men
of determination. Let every one.

then, do his duty, and God will
strengthen us and lead us to vic-
tory."

These significant words, the truly
apostolic appearance of the Bishop
of Mayence, the place, and the feel-
ing exhibited by the vast audience,
all contributed to leave a deep im-
pression upon their hearts. After
some short devotions in the chapel
of grace, the pilgrims returned in a
seemingly endless procession, with
song and prayer, through the beau-
tiful vineyards to Bingen. We were
told that those in the rear of the
procession were yet upon, the top
of the mountain when the first
had entered already the parochial
church of Bingen, where the Bene-
diction of the Blessed Sacrament
was given by the Rt. Rev. Bishop,
which ended the festive celebration
of the Second Congress of the
Catholic German Union.

The Congress has given testimony
that the Catholic people of Ger»
many in these our days will not
be misled or permit violence to be
offered to them ; it gave testimony
also to the truth which Malinck-
rodt had expressed one month be-
fore in the Reichstags and eight
days before his death, when he
said : " If they imagine that we
will bow ourselves before their
Protestant ideas, which they clothe
in the garment of the state, they are
greatly mistaken. They can tram-
ple us under foot, but we reserve to
ourselves the liberty not to become
unfaithful to our convictions."

The Union has many and power-
ful enemies; but an old German
proverb says : " Many enemies,
many honors." May Almighty
God continue to protect it as be-
fore ! Then it will show by its suc-
cess that, true to its motto, it has
worked for truth, justice, and lib-
erty, and that it has excelled all
other organizations in patriotism.

Switzerland in l%7$*

«3

SWITZERLAND IN 1873.

LUCERNE.

It sounds like a platitude when
any one nowadays ventures to la-
ment returning to the prose from
the poetry of travel, so universal is
this feeling, and so constantly is it
cpcpressed ; yet it is impossible to
avoid noticing it when recalling
1 railway journey that followed
ibruptly on weeks of Alpine ram-
bles. My friend and I had been
gradually gathering discontent, it is

j true, from the causes I have al-
ready stated, and yesterday, at

I Berne, had felt that a complete
change was necessary ; but further
than this we had not stopped to re-
flect. No sooner, however, had
we started in the train than the
scream of the engine-whistle, the
jerking of the carriages at the
stations, the rush of passengers
and hoarse cries of the fruit-sellers,
grated discordantly on our nerves,
and a sudden pining for the grand
mountains, with their quiet, simple
life and its elevating tone, took
possession of us.-* Had we car-
ried out our intention of going
to Lyons, it would speedily have
grown into a real Swiss mal dit pays*
Heartily, therefore, did we thank

Mrs. C for having appeared so

opportunely, and acted the part of
a good angel in saving us from a
species of suicide; for we felt that
our spirits would have completely
ctaporated long before we could
hvc reached Notre Dame de Four-
vicres or any other such congenial
haven.
"Well, yes," she answered;

"the flat plains of France would
assuredly have proved too harsh a
contrast. Now you will still have
mountains, besides so many other
matters that must deeply interest
you."

These reflections having restored
us to good-humor, we fully enjoy- •
ed the approach to Lucerne, as the
train wound round the wooded hills
alongside the green Reuss, rush-
ing on in full-grown vigor from the
lake, and past the mediaeval walls
and towers that still guard the
sturdy old town. The sun was
setting as we entered the station,
just as happened a few nights pre-
viously when we drove into Inter-
lachen ; but in other respects every-
thing was different. Here, the
train was rapidly emptied of its
hundreds of Northerners, still brim-
ful of their city ways, or ill at ease
in some faultless Alpine costume
fresh from a London shop; while
there, though one could detect
many season-loungers, effort at dis-
play was not thought of, especially
amongst tourists, for dress and
such externals had long since lost
their importance in the wear and
tear of real mountaineering. And
what a noise and bustle and clat-
ter steam, and everything belong-
ing to it, entails ! Enough to drive
one wild, after many weeks of lei-
surely excursion habits — the tink-
ling bells of the steamboats waiting
at the pier to carry off impatient
tourists to fifty different destina-
tions, the crowd of omnibuses, the

124

Smitzitland in 1873,

jostling of porters, and, to com-
plete the trouble, the announcement
that no rooms could be had at the
Schweizerhof or Lucemerhof, or
various other hofs; although we
had telegraphed from Berne, and
expected to find all ready. If we
would try, it was said, at the .Beau
Rivage — the hotel furthest off —
there was just a chance. Worn out
by the noise and fuss, we two
begged to walk, the remainder of
our party offering to drive on in a
carriage without delay, in order to
secure any vacant places there
might be before the omnibus and
. its load of new-comers should reach
the hotel.

No arrangement could have been
happier ; for as we crossed the
handsome new bridge, on issuing
from the station, the scene at once
restored our shattered nerves.
The sun had just sunk behind the
wood-clad hills, dotted all over with
pretty villas and pensions^ that rise
to the northwest above the town,
and whose sharp, dark outline every
instant became blacker against the
clear sky above, which, on its part,
was rapidly changing from one tint
to another, each more delicate than
the preceding one. Below, the
river moved like a mass of molten
gold, whilst the covered bridge
close by and the old tower at the
corner wore a dark, warm brown
hue, all the richer from the reflec-
tion of the waters beneath. Turn-
ing round towards the lake, on
whose margin we stood, the mag-
nificent panorama of snow-tipped
mountains which encircle its upper
end transfixed us with admiration.
Every peak, every line, was visi-
ble in the clear atmosphere, from
Mount Pilatus, bathed in a flood of
purple, right in front, to the most
distant of the long line rising be-
yond. In a few minutes the colors

in the west grew faint and faintert
but a fresh after-glow lit up the
mountain - crests opposite, fading
gradually into the tenderest pink,
until one by one they sank into the
approaching night. How wonderful-
ly beautiful it was ! Impossible to
be surpassed ! And for an instant
we felt half tempted to become un-
faithful to the glorious Jungfrau
and lovely Interlachen, But the
abiding impression of all such
scenes in this favored land is, with-
out doubt, one of marvel at the va-
rieties of God's creation, and no-
where does one more cordially
echo that inspired voice which of
old cried : " Let every spirit praise
the Lord!"

Lost in admiration at this effect
of color on water, wood, and moun-
tain, we grew deaf to the clatter
of the passing crowd across the
bridge, when suddenly the sound
of bells aroused our attention. It
seemed as if every church-bell in
the place had been set a-ringing;
and so it really was ! We listened ;
but, unaccustomed as we had now
so long been to the beautiful prac-
tice, some minutes elapsed before
we recognized the true mark of a
Catholic country — the Ave Maria
or Angelus bell ! A learned divine
has written lately that it would
simplify matters very much if the
world were classed in two divisions
only — namely, those who say the
Angelus, and those who do not ; or,
in other words, those who, believ-
ing in the Incarnation and Re-
demption, boldly and lovingly pro-
fess it before God and men, and
those Christians whose faith in the
mystery is so feeble or their piety
so lukewarm that it gives them no
happiness to acknowledge it, and
who are therefore worse than the
heathens, who know not of it. No
happier welcome could have been

Switzerland in 1873.

laS

giTcn to us, who had been suffering
€roiD a spiritual famine for the
last few weeks. Calmed by the
sweet sounds, which were even sof-
tened by the gurgling waters at our
fieet, we followed our guide along
the quay, unmindful of its white
dnst, fussy tourists, and the general
onxsthetic aspect of its many mon-
ster hotels, our eyes fixed, as we
proceeded, on the Hofkirche^ or
principal church, which towers
above it at one end.

It was late when we emerged
after dinner from the glare of lights
and hot, crowded table-iThdte rooms
of the Beau Rivage on to the bal-
cony of the hotel, and the same moon
which had entranced us so recently
when shining on the Tungfrau was
beginning to climb up the heavens,
right behind Mount Pilatus. The
stem mountain stood opposite to
us on the other shore, his rugged
form showing dark and unfriend-
ly against the silvered background,
but a tremulous path of light came
dancing towards us straight across
the placid waters. Tiny boats,
that were hitherto indistinguishable
in the surrounding gloom, shot in
numbers, freighted with mysterious
^res, across the luminous, quiv-
ering pathway; the green and red
lights of steamers were seen ad-
raacing gradually from out the
distant darkness of the lake, like
wicked monsters rising from the
deep to devour the elves and
nymphs gambolling peacefully in
our midst, while close to us, round
the near curve of the bay, the town,
siill busy with life and movement,
shone in a perfect blaze of illumina-
tion, the lamps along its quay glit-
tering like stars reflected in the
itiil waters underneath. Poet or
F'ainter never imagined in their
Inghest flights of fancy a more fairj--
likc, suggestive scene, and again we

felt and acknowledged the truth
that no art or science of man can
approach God's own handiwork in
its exquisite variety and beauty.

It was impossible to sit indoors
on such an evening, so we wander-
ed down to the walk beside the
water's edge, an impulse evidently
shared by all the inhabitants ; for,
as we passed on, it seemed as though
every one, including tradesmen with
their wives and families, had come
forth to refresh mind and body
after their busy day's work. The
promenade was alive with people,
either sitting or quietly sauntering
up and down in apparently happy
groups, but without noise or bois-
terous sound, in perfect harmony
with the beautiful surroundings.

" This scenery surely must have
a powerful eflfect on the inhabi-
tants," I remarked to Mrs. C ^ as

we too at length sat down on a
bench in front of the hotel. ** I
can't conceive living constantly
within view of all this beauty with-
out having one's mind raised to a
higher tone by its influence."

"No doubt," she replied; "and
now you can understand the full
meaning of Swiss Heintweh^ or
mal du pays s how, when these peo-
ple once begin to pine for their
mountains, it becomes a true mal-
ady. It does not follow, however,
that scenery, as a matter of course,
produces admiration or apprecia-
tion of its charms. You know the
world-old observation of this lack
in ancient Greek poetry. Nor
have the modem Greeks any more
feeling for natural beauty than their
ancestors; in fact, they positively
dislike the country. The Turks
are different ; but, generally speak-
ing, southerners never give it a
thought. It seems to be more a
matter of race than of locality, and
the Swiss, especially in these can-

126

Switjserland in 1873.

tons, being Teutonic, have the true
German love of nature, which
makes them so worthy of living in
this favored land ! That accounts,
too, for their love of the supernatu-
ral, to which their lively faith has
always given a religious form. The
very name of this Mt. Pilatus and
its story show this tendency at
once."

" What is the story?" I inquired.
" I remember reading about it, but
have quite forgotten. At this mo-
ment one might fancy anything —
dragons, concealed in caverns,
swooping down on forlorn maidens,
knights rescuing Hildegardes and
Kunigundes, or any other thing you
like, on an evening of this sort."

*' Oh ! no," she answered : " the
homely, burgher lives of the Swiss
rarely led them to the romantic, but
their simple piety, as I have said,
clothed their tales with a reli-
gious coloring. This, for instance,
is where they believe that Pilate
committed suicide ; that, having
been banished to Gaul by the Empe-
ror Tiberius for failure in the ad-
ministration of his province when
governor, he could no longer bear
living in public, and his uneasy
conscience drove him from one
wild district to another until he
stopped here; but even then he
continued miserable, and finally
threw himself into the small lake
near the summit yonder, over which
his spirit still hovers. He is the
author of all the storms hereabouts.
He cannot bear strangers, but,
especially if they disturb him mali-
ciously by, throwing stones into this
lake, he avenges himself by thunder
and lightning and a general confu-
sion of the elements. They were
so persuaded of this in the middle
ages that the Lucerners actually
made a statute forbidding any one
to explore the mountains,«nd there

are records of several persons being
severely punished for venturing op
in defiance of the order. He regu-
lates the weather even now ; for you
can always tell by Pilatus what
kind of day it is likely to be. Have
you never heard the lines ?

^ * Wenn Pflatw trSgt win Hut
Danim wird das Wetter guL
TriCgt er aber seinen Degen
Daram wird't wehl acher r^;nen.* ^

" The Hut, or Hood, is a little
cloud which settles on the summit
only, but the sword is a long streak
across the centre of the mountain,
which bodes rain and all manner
of bad weather. There are omi-
ous stories, besides, of dragons and
winged serpents, which were for-
merly seen to fly from Pilatus to
the Rigi at night, leaving fiery
tracks behind them, and torment-
ing the shepherds and their flocks/*

" Well ! if ever there were an ex-
cuse for pantheism and belief in a
spirit-world animating nature, it
certainly would be in Switzerland !
Everywhere I go the mountains,
cloudy sunsets, the whole moving
face of nature, speak a language
ever varying in one sense, but uni-
form in leading one's thoughts u|>-
wards."

"Yes; and even in bad weather
you would not tire of it ! Pilatus
is never so grand as when the storm-
clouds gather round his brow and
roll down pitilessly on this very
spot."

" I should very much like to know
whether the people keep up their
piety now, and how they are like-
ly to act in the coming religious
storm," I remarked.

"I have just had an interesting
conversation on that very point
with an old Lucemer," said Mr.

• '' If POatns wean his hood

The weather surely will be good ;
But if Pilatus dons his sword,
Theo rain will soon be the airari.*

Switzerland in 1873.

C— — , who now rejoined us, and
who, we noticed, had stopped to
^)eak to some acquaintance on the
promenade when we first started.

**That was old H , whom we

met at Kissingen three years ago/'
he continued, addressing his wife.
"* He has retired from his appoint-
ment, and returned to this his na-
tive town. He was rejoiced to see
mc, and offered his services ; and,
thinking he might be useful as a
guide, I have begged him to call at
oor hotel in the morning. He gave
mc a most interesting account of
matters here. They are all staunch
Catholics, he says, except a few,
vho are lukewarm and seduced
by the rationalism and liberalism
of Olten and Berne. From these
ilone do they fear dissension. But
they are not numerous. However,
ihcy tried last winter to get one of
the churches given up to them. For-
tunately, the town council is ortho-
dox and firm, and Herr H is

certain that Lucerne will be true to
her name, and continue a light to
h«r neighbors."

'*What a happy play on the
word ! " I remarked — " a genuine
jeu de mot. She certainly merits
the title in a material sense already,
vith that girdle of brilliant lamps
shining like jewels along the quay."
** It is not a jeu de mot of my

invention," answered Mr. C .

**The name is said to take its origin
from the fact itself. Some of the
Swiss towns, such as Chur and
Geneva, date from the Roman
times of Switzerland ; but there are
tto traces of Roman buildings or
»«tllements here. It is said, how-
ever, that even then there was a
^tem or kind of light-house at
this spot for the boats on the lake,
vhich was dignified by the Latin
Mae of Lucerna^ or light ; and
this, amidst the vicissitudes of cen-

turies, has clung to it, and, as you
say, is as suitable as ever. The
town itself, like so many others, is
the offspring of a monastery some-
where about the same time as St.
Gall and Einsiedeln. But those
old walls, with the quaint towers
which still encircle it, are only from
the Xlllth or XI Vth century. The
barbarians, you may remember, over-
ran the continent several times in
the IXth, Xth, and XI th centuries,
pillaging and burning on all sides ;
but it was noticed that the walled
towns escaped, for they did not un-
derstand the art of besieging them.
One of the German emperors, there-
fore, issued orders that all the towns
should erect fortifications, and that,
in times of war, the rural population
should take refuge within them.
Basel was one of the first that was
enclosed in Switzerland, being on
the frontier. Then St. Gall, which
had sprung up round the great
monastery, and was also near the
frontier; Zurich and Lucerne fol-
lowed later. Lucerne has kept up
the old Swiss character better than
almost any other town, from its
position near these forest cantons,
which have more or less imbued it
with their spirit. The forest can-
tons," he continued, as if in answer
to my inquiring look, "are those
which border this lake, and give it
the name of the * Lake of the Four
Cantons !' They are Schwytz, Uri,
Unterwalden ; and now Lucerne
makes the fourth — the cradle of
Switzerland and the noblest portion
of its people. Lucerne has hither-
to been a sort of outpost for them
— their point of connection with
the political world beyond ; and so
far it has always held stoutly by its
old friends. I remember the reli-
gious civil war and the Sonderbundy
between 1842 and 1848, and Lu-
cerne w«s the head and front of all

ia8

Switzerland in 1873.

that movement. Those old towns,
amongst their various tales, could
tell many even of that period ; for
within their walls, as well as in some
of the churches, 1,800 prisoners were
confined after the first victorious
resistance Lucerne offered the Pro-
testant Volunteers. Amongst the
number was a certain Dr. Steiger,
said to be the leader of the Protes-
tants. He lay in one of the towers,
condemned to banishment and im-
prisonment by the tribunals of
Lucerne, when one night he escap-
ed, aided by three countrymen who
were devoted to him, and finally
fled to America. I well recollect
what a sensation it made, espe-
cially when, a few days afterwards
the groat champion of the Catho-
lics — a peasant — was found mur-
dered in his cottage ! Then these
Catholics made a defensive league
amongst themselves to resist the
interference of the Protestant can-
tons in their religious affairs, and
which they therefore called the
Sondcrbund. On this the opposite
faction took their stand, asserting
that its principle was contrary to
the spirit of the Confederacy. It
was a good watchword in any case
wherewith to rouse their partisans,
and they succeeded in this so com-
pletely that the Diet soon voted that
the league ought to be put down by
force. A large army was at once
collected, and, surrounding these
Catholic cantons as with a cordon,
they very soon crushed them. How
well I remember it all! Whether
the experience is recollected here

it is hard to say; but Herr H

muttered something about their all
being determined to stand up man-
fully for their faith, even if it should
ultimately be necessary to fight for
it/'

"Fighting for one's faith is sub-
limei and stirs one's deq>est feel-

ings," I replied, " and that the spi-
rit which induces it still exists,
despite our prosaic, material age,
we have seen by the P.apal Zouaves*
and also, united with love of coun-
try, in the Breton?*, Vendeans, and
others during the French and Prus-
sian war. But it is impossible
to combine the idea of fighting of
any kind with this poetic scene, and
I would rather go to sleep to-night
dreaming of nymphs and sprites
than of war and prisons, or even of
Pilate himself or any other gloomy
visions in this fairyland. I fear I
am ungrateful for all your informa-
tion, in feeling almost sorry that we
touched on these topics," I said,
laughing, as we reluctantly turned
homewards late that evening.

I had spoken wisely. Most difia-
cult it is to pacify one's mind after
such a conversation, and, between
reflections on the past and specula-
tions on the future of these Swiss
Catholics,. the night was far advanc-
ed before my eyes closed in sleep.
Suddenly I was awakened by a fuU-
toned church-bell booming across
the waters. It might again be the
Angelus ; but looking at my watch,
it was only a quarter before five
o'clock, and moreover it was stiJl
dark. Then it must be some con-
vent-bell summoning the communi-
ty to Matins and Prime. It was an
uncharitable proceeding on their
part, thought I, to waken up a whole
town ; and the peal kept on for the
entire quarter of an hour. At half-
past five came another similar bell ;
and then, soon after, a chorus of
full tones, like that which had greet-
ed our arrival on the previous eve-
ning, rang out the Angelus from
every church-tower in the place,
followed at six and half-past six by
others in our immediate vicinity.
It was quite impossible to sleep;
yet, tired though we were, the joyfal

Switzerland in 1873.

129

Knsatioa of awakening in a Catholic
land reconciled us to the penalty it
thus imposed* Up and out we
sboold at once go in search of the
Masses which these bells indicated.
Bat there be no such hurry, said
the hotel servants ; for there would
be eight o'clock Mass in the Hof-
kirckc close by. Then we discov-
ered that, so far from the quarter to
five bell belonging to any convent,
it was in truth rung in order to
rouse the towns-people to Mass at
the S. Peterskirche — the first each
day of the series which ended at
eight o'clock at the Hofkirche.
And then we recollected how the
fame custom prevails in Germany,
according to the early habits of all
Gennan races; how hopeless it
seems ever to be up and out before
the inhabitants of a small German
town ; and how, in the Rhenish pro-
vinces for instance, the five o'clock
Mass in summer, and the six o'clock
in winter, are the most fully attend-
edy even in the severe seasons of
frost and snow.

We felt, therefore, like sluggards
AS we ascended the paved hill and
Bkoonted the steps leading up to the
Uofldrche. It was a bright mom-
mg, and pleasant, good-humored
bees met us, as we paused to no-
tice the exterior, so plain and un-
adorned compared to the beau-
tiful Cathedral of Berne. But this
seemed all the more suitable to the
umpk life of Lucerne, with which
tbe fact of the church standing, as
It does, in the midst of its cemetery,
u in perfect harmony. A curious
piece of mediaeval sculpture, re-
presenting the Garden of Olives,
^ kt into the wall of one of the
towers, and we were examining it
vhtn to our surprise sounds of
tousic from the inside reached us.
But a grrcater surprise awaited us
vhen, on entering the church, we
vo;.. XX. — 9

found it perfectly full. A most
devout^congregation occupied every
seat in the nave. On one side knelt
the men, on the opposite the wo-
men. Whilst High Mass for the
dead was being sung at an altar
outside the choir-screen, in front of
which was placed the bier. Low
Masses were going on at side altars
near, and another at the high altar
behind. Everywhere earnestness
and devotion were perceptible ; and
a more striking contrast to our pre-
vious day's experience in the Cathe-
dral of Berne, where daily services
were unknown, it would be utterly
impossible to imagine. Yet what
must such a morning have been
there in the olden days ; for even
now external advantages are in its
favor. The Lucerne church has
far fewer claims to architectural
beauty, and its general omanjenta-
tion is in the bad taste of the last
century. But these faults were at
the moment imperceptible to us,
who had eyes only for the life and
spirit pervading the crowd of
worshippers that filled it. It is a
fine church, however, in its own
way, and quite in keeping with
the character of the inhabitants.
The choir is imposing, and the me-
tal-work of its screen excellent.
There are old stained-glass windows
too ; and a wood carving of the
Death of Our Lady over a side altar
would be perfect, were it not for
the amount of gilding and gaudy
coloring with which it has been*
loaded.

But the benches are the most
characteristic point in the building.
At one period they must all have
been appropriated, though they are
now free; for each division still re-
tains a shield, on which is painted a
coat-of-arms and the name of a citi-
zen, or of his wife or widow', witb
the date of the year, going back in»

Switzerland in 1873.

some cases to the beginning of the
last century. When High Mass was
over, the women in going out passed
round by the bier, on which they
sprinkled holy-water, followed by
the men, who seriously and piously
performed the same act of fraternal
charity. Thence we followed them to
the small mortuary chapel outside,
but so filled was it by a weeping
group that we turned back and saun-
tered round the covered gallery, or
cloister, which borders this beauti-
ful GotUsackcr^ or "God's acre," as
the Germans so truly call their ceme-
teries. Sauntering it certainly was ;
for it was difficult to move quickly,
so many were the inscriptions, so
well tended the hundreds of pretty
graves. Marks of affection and re-
membrance were visible at every
step in fresh wreaths and baskets
of beautiful flowers, arranged with
a taste and art that told what loving
hearts must have guided the skilful
hands that made them. Some good
oil-paintings and handsome monu-
ments also adorn this gallery; but the
most attractive part of the whole
burial-ground is its eastern end.
This is appropriated to diminutive
graves and crosses, hung with white
bows of ribbon and white flowers.
We knew that in the Catholic Church
there is a special service for infants-
one of pure joy without. a word of
-grief; but never before had we seen
any particular spot set apart for
*these baptized little angels. Later,
^e found that it is a custom uni-
-versal in the burial-grounds of these
'Catholic cantons ; but none that we
-afterwards saw ever struck us so
>much as this one of Lucerne.

The whole place, too, was full of
stone stoups, provided with water
and branches of blessed box, where-
with to sprinkle the graves. Foot-
passengers have a right of way
I from an upper road through this

churchyard, and we saw many stop
as they passed, to perform this wori
of charity over a tomb, with a piou<
aspiration for the repose of the souls
" Have pity on me, my friends," is a
prayer well responded to in thi!
touching Gottesacker^ where the dead
still dwell in the hearts of the living,
truly under the shadow and protect-
ing influence of the church and of
the cross. The doctrines of the
Catholic faith in the communion of
saints and intercession for the holy
souls in purgatory are here so prac-
tically carried out, that they must
get intertwined with the tenderest
feelings of each Lucemer, and deve-
loped in their best sense from child-
hood upwards, becoming their com-
fort and mainstay from the cradle to
the grave.

And then in what a beautiful
position this old church stands — at
the head of the town, guarding its
flock, and a beacon to the weary-
minded! From our guide-book
we learned that originally it had
formed part of a Benedictine con-
vent, and is dedicated to S. Leode-
garius, or S. Leger. The very name
of this saint takes us back to the
furthest antiquity, to the earliest
days of Christianity in these parts ;
for he was the great Bishop of
Autun in the Vllth century whose
sanctity and courage shone con-
spicuously during sixty years in the
stormy times of the Clovis and
Clotairc kings and of their moires
du paiaisy until he was at last cruel-
ly put to death by order of Ebroin,
one of the most wicked of that
tribe, and who governed in the
name of the Frankish king, Thco-
doric. It tells, too, of those days
when the present Switzerland,
having been included in Charle-
magne's empire, was still fluttering
between his successors in Burgundy
and those in Germany; and how

Switzerland in 1873.

131

fir the fame of saints and martyrs
spread and made their mark on
countries which, in those days of
slow communication, were distant
from their own. The convent it-
self must have been an old foun-
dation, for the church was formed
into a collegiate chapter in 1456,
and the two existing towers belong
to that period. The remainder,
destroyed by fire in 1633, was re-
lailt soon after in the unarchitec-
tural style of that century. Proba-
bly we owe the cloisters round the
cemetery and the massive parochial
house near, also to the monastic
period. Quite worthy, in any case,
of Benedictine refinement was the
Ticw obtained from the open arches
on one side of the cloisters. But
tias for modern innovations ! My
friends remembered this as one of
the most lovely points of view in
Switzerland some fifteen years ago ;
but now the roof of that huge
caravansary, the International Ho-
tel, rises just high enough close in
front to shut out, from all but two
openings, everything save the sight
of its own ucgainliness. From
these two, however, it is possible to
judge what the world has lost,
looking out over the lake and sur-
rounding mountains ; and we linger-
ed long, drinking in the charms
of this matchless landscape, which
again presented itself under an
aspect quite different from that of
the preceding evening.
On returning to the hotel we

found Mr. and Mrs. C deep in

conversation with Herr H , who

had come according to appoint-
ment. He was a shrivelled-up,
active, little old man of about
seventy, formerly professor in a
gymnasium in the north of Ger-
many, but the aim of whose life
had been to save a certain sum, in
order to return and end his days in

his own beloved Switzerland. This
he had accomplished within the

last two years. The C-* s had

taken a great fancy to the old man
when they made his acquaintance
at Kissingen, and he was now
burning to be of some use to
them. And a great help he proved
in planning the next week's excur-
sions, so as to make them finish off
at Einsiedeln on the 14th, the chief
feast of that monastery. The day
was perfectly lovely, and the atmo-
sphere so clear that he pleaded
hard to take us up to the Linden
Avenue, a terrace walk, twenty-five
minutes off, and commanding a
magnificent panorama. But we
should see the mountains during
the rest of our travels, we argued
in reply, and our minds were so
full of Wordsworth and Longfellow,
and, through them, of the cfovered
bridges of Lucerne, that we could
hear of nothing else. Our party

consisted of Mr. and Mrs. C ,

their two daughters, and a good-
humored, boyish son of eighteen,
besides my friend and myself; so at
last a compromise was effected by
dividing our forces. One daughter

went with Mr. and Mrs. C to

the Linden walk, while our new
Swiss acquaintance politely offered
to conduct our division over his
native place.

Our first visit, as a matter of
course, was to " the Lion," the pride
and glory of modern Lucerne !
Turning off from the fussy, bustling
quay, leaving excitement and noise
behind, we wandered through quiet,
winding streets that led to the
former Zurich road, until, in a
leafy recess containing a large basin
filled by trickling water, on which
the sun played through the foliage
of the overhanging beech-trees, this
grand king of animals lay right
before us, hewn out of the perpen-

132

Switzerland in 1873.

dicular face of the living rock.
Overhead is carved the inscription,
Helveiioruvi fidei ac virtuti* This
monument, erected in memory of
the Swiss guards who fell whilst
defending Louis XVI. and Marie
Antoinette at Versailles, and on the
2d and 3d of September, 1792, was
designed by the great Thorwaldsen,
and executed by a Zurich sculptor,
the expenses being defrayed by sub-
scriptions from all parts of Switzer-
land. The lion is dying, the spear
still in his side, a bundle of spears
under him, but one paw still firmly
clasping the Bourbon shield. It is
colossal ; the whole attitude full of
strength, firmness, and sorrow — a
sorrow inspiring such sympathy
that the longer one looks the more
human it appears. Yet it is not
that hopelessly sad expression of
his grand Chaeronean prototype,
which once having had the good-
fortune to see on the spot, I never
can forget. But then what dif-
ferent events they commemorate !
The Greek, the defeat of an over-
glorious nation, crushed to despair ;
this of Lucerne, the loss, but also
the noble heroism, of a few of
Switzerland's sons only, who, if
they could be so faithful in the cause
of strangers, what might not be
expected from them and their breth-
ren in defence of their own hearths
and homes ! And as we stood trans-
fixed to the spot, unwilling to stir,
it was pleasant to hear from Herr

H that foreign service of this

sort has now ceased. At least no
body of Swiss serve abroad to-
gether, except as the Pope's guards,
whose picturesque Michael-Angel-
esque costumes must be remem-
bered by every one that visited
Rome in its palmy days. Formerly,
not only did they serve as mercena-

ries in various countries, but there
were regular treaties in force be-
tween the Swiss government and
foreign sovereigns, authorizing the
latter to recruit throughout the
cantons. These, however, have
been swept away, and this ** Lion "
is now the only link with those
times. Close by is a chapel where,
according to pious custom, Mass is
now and then said for the departed
heroes, and the altar-cloth of which
has been worked by the Duchesse
d'Angouleme, one of Marie Antoi-
nette's two children, protected and
saved by those very soldiers.

We had not prepared ourselves
for this beautiful, poetic work of
art, and hence it was perhaps
doubly difficult to leave it ; but

time pressed, and Herr H led

the way back to the brilliant quay.
He was eloquent on its palatial
hotels, and proud that in this par-
ticular Lucerne is so far ahead of
all other Swiss towns, except per-
haps Geneva. But still, he said,
this did not compensate him for
olden days. How different it had
been in his boyhood, in the years
prior to 1820, when the present
Schweizerhof Quay did not exist !
A long, covered wooden bridge,
1,300 feet in length, ran, in its stead,
from the middle of the town, near
the Swan Hotel, right across here
to the foot of the Hofkirche. And
then, to our intense regret, we dis-
covered that this was the chief
bridge mentioned by Wordsworth
in his continental tour. He first
speaks of the Hafellbriicke, still
existing, and then goes on to say :

** Like portraiture, from loftier toorce, endears
That work of kindred frame, which ^>ans die

lake
Just at the point of issue, when it fears
The form and motion of a stream to take ;
When it begins to stir, yti voiceless as a snake.**

* ** To the fidelity and courage of the Swiss.

* Volumes of sound, from the cathedral roQed,
Thb bng-roofed vista penetrate ; but see.

Switserland in 1873.

133

Ok .Aer o^e, itt tablets, that unfold
TW whsfe dcsicn of Scripture history ;
Fran the fxnx tasdn^ of the fatad tree,
Ta the Wicht itar appeared io eastern ihies,
Aanooncim One w8» bora manldnd to free ;
Mb acta, hs wrttc^s, his final sacrifice ;
LcMona for erery heart, » Bihk for all eyes.

** Ovr pride midcadt, oar timid likings kiQ.
Loac nay these hoinely works devised of old,
ThcK siapfe efforts of Helvetian skill,
Aid, vith ooQcenial influence, to uplurfd
The «atc, the coontry*s destiny to mouk! ;
Tank^ for them who pass, the common dost
CKaenrttec^pcrcumtytogold ;
FQhoK the aoul with nntiments angust —
Thebcaatlfnl, the hrare, the holy, and the just.*'

Then in a note he goes on to re-
late that the pictures on the "ca-
thedral bridge amounted to 240,
all from Scripture history ; subjects
from the Old Testament faced the
passenger going to the cathedra],
ind those from the New as he re-
turns." What would he have said
could he have foreseen such a speedy
sanihilation of his aspirations for
their long maintenance, and espe-
cially when replaced by all that
drives away remembrance of that
** history " and tends to keep men's
thoughts fastened to earth instead
of raised to heaven !

When our first disappointment
was over, we learned from Herr
H that this quay, now so ven-
erable-looking from its shady chest-
nuts, has been won from the lake,
like the Thames embankment,
within the last forty years. It has
one advantage, namely : that t^e
whole tourist-life which brings such
giin to Lucerne has been added on
to it, without in any way interfer-
ing with the ordinary life of its in-
habitants. Happily, it would be
impossible to change the old part
without sweeping it entirely away —
a summary proceeding that no one
would think of. The original town
lies on a strip of land between the
like and encircling hills, and is
composed of solidly-built old houses
*m narrow streets, that are thorough-
ly sheltered, but without any view,

and consequently unfit for tourist
requirements. Air and landscape —
the two essentials for the wealth-
bringing strangers — were fortunately
found available in the large space
gained from the lake, while the
neighboring hills seemed as if es-
pecially created for the countless
pensions that now cover them in
every direction. " Travellers," said

Herr H , ** — travellers are the

great desire of Lucerne. They spp-
ply the place of trade and manufac-
tures, which we do not possess, ex-
cept in a small way in the Krienz
valley yonder. Both here and
throughout all these forest cantons,,
the whole energies of the population
are of late years directed to this ob-
ject. You will find them building
hotels in all directions as you travel
through that district," pointing to
the upper end of the lake, which
we were lingering to admire from the
promenade. " It sometimes seems
like over-building, but the larger
the houses, the more quickly they
Seem to fill. The crowds that
swarm here from June to October,
from every quarter of the globe, are
quite marvellous. Since the French
war, especially, the Germans come
in shoals. It is becoming like an-
other invasion of the northerners ! I
suppose we dare not call them Huns
and Vandals," he continued, laugh-
ing. " But I confess I fear their
influence in the long run, for they
are chiefly the population of the
manufacturing and commercial
towns of Prussia and the North, and
even when they are not decidedly
infidel, they are not overburdened
with religion, and are perfectly in-
diff^erent to its observances. I was
stopping up at the Kaltbad for a
month this summer, and only a few
out of 420 guests ever thought
about Sundays. * Who does, when
at a watering-place ? ' said some.

134

Switzerland in 1 873.

There was no Protestant service, it
is true, except the English, but still
there might have been some differ-
ence made between it and other
days ; but, except amongst the Ca-
tholics, one could notice none, unless
that the dinner was sometimes
rather better than on week-days.
And even the foreign Catholics were
often very lukewarm. It is a very
bad example, to say the least, for
the natives. Fortunately, however,
the strangers mix with them very
little, and they fall back into their
customary life when these crowds
go home about the end of Septem-
• ber. Then all is changed. The
country hotels shut up, and even
here they dismiss their large staff
of servants, and only keep a small
portion of each house open. But
they are looking forward to a great
increase of winter business in Lu-
cerne later, when the St. Gothard
tunnel, which is now begun, shall
be finished; though, of course, it
will be nothing compared to the
summer influx."

" And what becomes of the poor
servants?" I asked. "Are they
turned adrift on the world V*

"Oh! dear, no. They are en-
gaged for the hotels at Nice and
Mentone, and all along the Riviera,
in bodies of a hundred at a time.
If you happen to go south in No-
vember, you will doubtless fall in
with many a Kellner or a house-
maid you met up here in the sum-
mer. That is the form the Swiss
foreign service has taken in our
days of steam and easy communi-
cation. And very much they distin-
guish themselves. Both men and
women are considered more honest
and active than those of any other
nation, and consequently are at a
premium. That wonderful race
of "Kellners" — a race apart —
which goes by the generic name of

German waiter, is largely composed
of the Swiss element. Strangely
enough, however, every waitress
you meet, even in these districts, is
certain to come from the canton
of Berne. The women there have
a spicialtti in that line. The
peasants of the Catholic cantons
keep to the housemaid department,
as a rule, and our Lucerne maidens
become ladies' maids or governesses
in English families. And very well
they turn out, too. Both in this
town and in the rural cantons they
are a solidly good, pious popula-
tion. Very conservative also; in
fact, most conservative, in spite of
our staunch republicanism, and
most united at the same time."

It suddenly occurred to us to
ask whose funeral we had seen that
morning. " No doubt of some
distinguished citizen V*

" No," replied Herr H , "not

particularly distinguished ; only an
old and highly-respected trades-
man. Oh ! no ; that is an every-
day occurrence. All the neighbors
consider it a duty to attend the
High Mass and to pray for each
other. I was there, amongst others,
just before I went to the Beau
Rivage Hotel; for, although I
have spent so many years away
from Lucerne, I knew this man
from my earliest childhood, and he
has been working all his life for
every one you saw there this morn-
ing, so that the least we might do
was to go and pray for the repose
of his soul, poor fellow ! They will
do the same for each one of us in
turn. Here is a column of adver-
tisements, composed of nothing but
* Thanks ' from relatives," he said,
drawing a Lucerne daily paper
from out of his pocket, and amongst
the number we read the following
touching one :

" The widow and children of

Roger the Rich. 135

— retarn their heartfelt thanks to 500 inhabitants — simple folk, work-

lU the kind friends who spontane- ing our way on through life without

OQsly attended the High Mass for, any rich manufacturers or over-

a&d the funeral of, their lamented grown proprietors, as at Zurich,

husband and father on . They Berne, and Geneva, so there cannot

trc not only grateful for this mark be much rivalry or pretension. You
of respect, but they wish to assure will not find private villas or large
tiicsc good neighbors that the lov- chiteaus round this lake — nothing,
ing sympathy and the kind manner for instance, even like those hand-
in which it was offered by each, have some ones on the Lake of Thun;
done more to soften their grief than but we all hold together, and I only
they can now express." hope the young generation will
**>¥€ are a small community," continue to walk in the footsteps
continaed Herr H ^,"only 14,- of their fathers."

TO BB CONCLUDBD MBXT MOBTB.

ROGER THE RICH .♦

A BALLAD.
DCDiCATBD, wmioirr PBBicntioN, to victor BMAifuau

God prospereth King Stephen !

His sway is o'er the land.
The Empress Maud hath bowed her head;
Her knights are slain, her armies fled,

Herself beneath his hand !
God prospereth King Stephen !

The land is all his own.
From north to south, from east to west,
The whole wide kingdom is at rest —

Firm sits he on his throne.
God prospereth King Stephen !

Yet he hath cast his eye
On the rich lands of Sherbourn, spread
O'er many a hill and kie-cropt mead,

And many a bosky lea.
King Stephen sware a grimly oath-
God wis he kept it true :
" Since Roger Niger (bishop then)
Hath led against us arm^d men,

Roger shall dearly rue !"

• See Spdman's HiHfy mnd Fsi€ ^f SdtriUgt,

136 Rofftr the Rick.

Roger hath lands and riches too,

Marks forty thoysand told ;
And well I wot the monarch's vow
Hath less to do with justice now

Than with the bishop's gold.
Roger hath to Devizes ta'en

His wealth with all his speed ;
Stout men-at-arms, and billmen true,
And bowmen armed with sturdy yew,

Attend him in his need.
Now he hath stored his fortelace well

With beeves and sheep and grain.
He standeth on his topmost tower;
And sayeth in the pride of power,

The king shall knock in vain I
What, O my knights ! the monarch cries.

Shall he thus brave our wrath ?
Shake forth our banner to the blast.
And gather round us, liegemen fast ;

We'll sweep him from our path !
The king, with mighty following,

Hath sat before the tower ;
But massy walls and valiant hearts
Have nobly played their several parts—'

The bishop mocks his power !
And loudly sware King Stephen then

A fearful oath to hear :
" Build me a gallows-tree before
The haughty prelate's guarded door ;

This yet shall cost him dear."
Now they have built the gallows-tree,

And raised it in the air —
Its height is forty feet and three,
A laidly thing it is to see —

And led his nephew there.
Roger the bishop stands and sees

Young Roger led to die —
The nephew he had reared with care,
His only sister's son and heir :

A tear steals from his eye.
Now he hath turned him to his knights ;

His words are sad and low :
" God wot I am an old man now ;
He layeth sorrow on my brow.

He willeth I should go.
My nephew hath his course to run,

And mine is near its close.
I straight will render up my lands,
My gold shall pass from out mine hands—

I'll yield me to my foe !

Roger the Rich. 137

But as God lives he prospereth not

King Stephen's arms again ;
His latest triumph he hath won.
Henceforth his is a setting sun ;

His efforts shall be vain !
God prospereth not King Stephen now—

The Empress Maud hath fled ;
Fitz-Empress Henry snatcheth now
The golden circlet from the brow,

The glory from his head.
God prospereth not King Stephen's arms—,

Anjou is in the field,
And Winchester and Gloucester band
To wrest the sceptre from his hand,

And vanquished he must yield.
God prospereth not King -Stephen's cause-
Henry is named his heir ;
Still may he sit upon the throne
Weakness forbids him call his own,

In sorrow and despair.
God prospereth not his family —

Eustace, his only son.
Pines from that moment, droops his head,
And, withering like a flower, is dead,

And his last prop is gone.
God prospereth not King Stephen's health—

His heart is stricken sore ;
Sleep shunneth now his eyes by night ;
His days are stricken with a blight ;

He smileth now no more.
And still 'tis said God prospereth not

The holder of those lands.
And Sarum's heirs ne'er live to claim
The heritage of land and name —

It slippeth from their hands ;
For one, 'tis said, hath fallen by chance ;

Another falls in strife;
A father's hand unwitting smote
Another scion through the throat ;

Law claims another's life.
God prospereth not that family —

Two hundred years have sped.
And still the bishop's curse clings fast,
As fell and fatal to the last

As when those words were said.
Then the Third Edward rendered back

Unto the church its own.
And the broad lands to Robert gave
(Thou'lt see it figured on his grave) ;

And now the curse is gone !

13^

The Poem of Izdubar

THE POEM OF IZDUBAR.

M. Francois Lenormant, ir
continuing the publication of his
Essay on the Propagation of the
Phoenician Alphabet in the Ancient
Worlds and in editing a Selection
of Cuneiform Texts ^ has just issued
two volumes of important and in-
teresting studies on Primitive Civ-
itizations*

The steps of this learned writer
in the almost unknown regions
which he explores so fearlessly, and
usually with so much success, are
not always perfectly sure ; but, whh
a good faith so natural to him that
it does not seem to cost him even
an effort, he knows how to retrace
his path and correct whatever may
require rectification.

Les Premieres Civilisations^ sev-
eral portions of which have been
published in various collections, re-
appears developed and raised to the
present level attained by scientific
discovery. The work opens by a
notice of prehistoric archaeology
and fossil man, the monuments of
the neolithic period, and the inven-
tion of the use of metals and its in-
troduction into the West. Studies
on Egypt follow, including the Poem
of Pentaour and the Romance of
t/ie Two Brothers, The second vol-
ume, with the exception of the " Le-
gend of Cadmus, and the Phoeni-
cian Establishments in Greece,*' is
entirely devoted to Chaldaea, pre-
senting us with a Chaldaean Veda,
or collection of liturgical and devo-
tional hymns in honor of the prin-
cipal gods worshipped on the banks
of the Tigris and Euphrates; the
biography of a Babylonian prince

• Lts Prtmikrgs Civilisatifis : Etudes d*Htt»
ioirt et ^Archdohlii, Par F. Lenormant. Paris.

of the Vlllth century before oui
era, Merodach Baladan, with whose
name the Bible has already made us
acquainted ;* and, lastly, the Baby-
lonian epic poem of Izdubar. It '\%
this last work of which the range is
the most general and the value the
greatest in connection with the
comparative history of the Semitic
races, their national genius, and
their religious ideas. It touches,
amongst other things, upon three
points which it is important to put
particularly in relief, on account oi
the manner in which the inferen-
ces resulting from them strengthen
the ground of Christian apologists —
namely, the myths of one of the
most important branches of the race
of Sem (or, to speak accurately,
the race that was equally descend-
ed from Sem and Cham), the Assy-
rio-Chaldaean belief in the im-
mortality of the soul, and the origin
of the signs of the Zodiac. There
is also a fourth point — that of the
tradition of the Deluge.

It has been repeatedly maintain-
ed by the sceptic, M. Renan, and is
in fact one of his favorite ideas, that
the Semites were radically inca-
pable of producing an epic poem.
He refuses everything to this race —
imagination, the power of invention,
the knowledge of the experimental
method, philosophy, and science.
One thing alone he accords to them
— the monotheistic instinct. Now,
the cuneiform tablets demonstrate
that the sciences, especially those
of astronomy and mathematics, held
a very considerable place in the in-
tellectual pursuits of the Babyloni-

* Of. laaias zxxix. i.

The Poem of Izdubar.

139

ins and Assyrians. The poem of
Erech, published by Mr. G. Smith,
\% sufficient of itself alone, by means
of the fragments which are known
to as, to reduce to nothing all the
assertions in his history of the Semi-
tic languages, in which M. Renan
aflbms that " the imagination of the
Semitic races has never gone beyond
tltf narrow circle traced around it
by the exclusive idea of the divine
greatness. God and man, in pre-
sence of each other, in the bosom
oC the desert — ^behold the summary,
or, as it is termed in the present day,
tfic formula, of all their poetry."*
Assuredly one never found one's
self less in the desert in presence of
God alone and of man alone than
itt the Semitic poems of Chaldsea.

The veritable name of the hero
00 the banks of the Euphrates, sung
by Homer, has remained unknown
to this day. It is constantly found
vritten in ideographic characters,
which, pronounced phonetically,
give the three syllables Iz-du-bar;
hot we know that they were pro-
aoimced in quite a different man-
ner by the Assyrio-Chaldaeans. We
are equally certain, from the testi-
mony of other cuneiform inscrip-
tions, that this Izdubar was one of
the gods of Chaldaea. Neverthe-
less, he figures here as a simple hero,
and, according to M. Lenormant,
is probably Nemrod, "the mighty
hnnter," as he is called in the Book
of Genesis, alluding to a popular
saying, of which the remembrance
is still preserved in Assyria, as well
u in Palestine, and also in the Egyp*
tian tradition. The historical in-
scriptions of Assurbanipal name Re-
sell, one of the cities of Assyria,
"the town of the hunter." \
The Izdubar of the Babylonian

* Icua, Livrt d4 Jsi^ Introd., p. lyiij., 1860.
t LaoniBK, Premiirtt Cimlitatwns^ torn. ii.

inscription, like the Nemrod of the
Bible, reigns over four cities,* three
of which, named in Genesis, are
certainly identical with those men-
tioned on the tablet, and which
therefore furnish an argument in
favor of the supposition. But how-
ever that may be, Izdubar, whose
name signifies " God of fire,"
" God of the body or mass of fire,''
is without doubt the ancient Arca-
dian God of fire whose worship
had so great an importance in the
primitive epochs; and this idea
throws much light on the Babylonian
poem, to which it, in some sort,
furnishes the key. This poem is
divided into twelve cantos^ if we
may so call them, each forming a
dfstinct episode and inscribed in a
separate tablet. Sir Henry Rawlin-
son has proved that each canto
relates to one of the twelve signs
of the zodiac, and to one of the
twelve months of the year. The
goa of fire is thus represented as
being one with the sun, and the
entire epic consists of a poetical
history of the annual revolution of
that luminary, and its accomplish-
ment in the course of twelve
months, around which revolution
various incidental episodes have
been grouped, amongst others the
narrative of the Deluge. The de-
nouement of the poem is the cure of
Izdubar, who, at the instigation of
the man saved from the Deluge,
plunges into the sea, from whence
he issues delivered from a sort of
leprosy which had threatened his
life. M. Gubernatis remarks that
this is identical with the Vedic
myth of Indra, and also the Hel-
lenic one of Tithonus. Leprosy is
invariably the malady of kingly
heroes, and signifies old age, which,
according to popular belief, could

* See Genesat. z. xo.

140

The Poem of Izdubar,

only be cured either by the waters
of youth or by the blood of a child.
The old solar hero, the dying sun,
sprang forth with renewed youth in
the morning, after traversing the
sea of night — a symbol which
would naturally possess an addi-
tional force to the nations who
be}>6ld the departing sun-god sink
beneath the Western sea. The
Chaldaean epic presents us, there-
fore, with the same mythological
groundwork as the other polythe-
istic religions with regard to the
worship of fire and of the sun —
a groundwork presenting a point
of contact among the Semitic,
Aryan, and Egyptian races which
it is necessary to bear in mind in
tracing the comparative histories
of the descendants of the sons of
Noe.

The details of the Babylonian
poem exhibit a mythology as multi-
tudinous as that of India or of
Greece; the adventures also of
Izdubar for the most part closely
resemble those of the classic heroes.
He is a great conqueror, who wins
immortality by his splendid ex-
ploits and his mighty labors, some
of which remind one of those of
Hercules. We see him successive-
ly capture the winged ox, and put
an end to the ravages of a sea
monster to which is given the
name of Boul — two exploits almost
identical with those of Perseus.
As in Egypt the sun, under the
name of Osiris, is the husband of
Isis, the personification of the pro-
ductive power, and sometimes the
moon, so in Chaldssa the sun,
Irdubar, espouses Istar, the moon,
who is also the Assyrian Venus,
and daughter of the god Sin. Istar
is, however, at this period, already a
widow, having lost her first spouse,
whose name signifies " Son of
Life."

In the poem of Erech a great
number of other deities appear, to-
gether with Istar. Besides her fa-
ther. Sin, who is god of the months,
we have firstly Anou, the Oannes of
the Greeks, and the first personage
of the supreme triad ; then the sec-
ond member of this triad, Bel, the
demiurge ; and lastly the third, Ao,
Nesroch, * or Nouah. Around these
great divinities are grouped Adar,
the god of the planet Saturn; Sa-
mas, god of the sun ; Nabo, f god
of the planet Mercury, and his
companion, Sarou ; Bin, god of the
atmosphere and tempest; Nergal,
of the planet Mars ; besides a vast
army of Annunaki, or secondary
genii; of Guzalu, or destroying
spirits, and others of inferior race
and power. These deities did not
agree among themselves any better
than did the gods of the Greek
Olympus. Their heaven appears to
have been anything but an abode
of peace or love ; and in h^Jiven or
hell they quarrelled aliko. Istar
seems especially to have distin-
guished herself by her unaccommo-
dating disposition.

It is believed that the accouut
of the journey of Istar into hell
(for the itory of such a journey
in the Odyssey and the j£neid had
also its precursor in Chaldaea)
formed one of the episodes of the
poem of Izdubar, although the tab-
let containing it has not yet been
discovered; but we possess it on
another fragment, and one which is
of great value, as it furnishes an
incontestable proof of the belief oi
the Assyrio-Chaldaeans in the im-
mortality of the soul. The abode
of the dead is called the "immu-
table land," J and corresponds to

• Cf. laaias xxxvii. 38. t Is. xW. i.

% This u the valae of the ideographic sign by wbicb
the abode of the dead is designated. It abo bears
two other names, which are of great importaace, ai

The Poem of Isdubar.

141

tlK Hades of the ancient Greek
fioets. It is divided into seven
circles, after the model of the ce-
lestial spheres, and is depicted as
faOows by the Chaldsean poet:
•Towards the unchangeable land;
the legion [from whence none re-
toni}; Istar, the daughter of Sin, her
ear— has turned: the daughter of
Sta [has turned] her ear, — towards
the dwelling of the dead, the throne
of the god Ir . . . , — towards the
abode into which he has entered,
tad whence he has not come forth,
—towards the way of his own de-
went, by which none return : — to-
vards the dwelling whereinto he
las entered, the prison, — the place
itee [the dead] have naught but
Art wherewith [to appease] their
fettager; and mud for nourishment :
— fa)m whence the light is not seen,
••d in darkness they dwell where
ihades (ghosts), like birds, fill the
Ttalted space, — where, ^-ove the
ttpfights and lintel of the portal the
e«th is upheaped." *^ Allusion is
ibo made several times to this
"ttocbangeable land " in other
poems in the collection of Assur-
Iwiipal, as well as to spirits who
vttder back to earth, and dead
vlw) return to torment the living.
In I note on the religious belief
oC the Assyrians Mr. Fox Talbot
publishes two prayers composed to
»*k for eternal life to be granted to

^*iBC tkat the Seinieet« for from borrowing from
^ Gfieb ibetr beSef in another life, have, on the
**»«;, funabed the latter with the names which
*W bme bcatowed on the regions of the departed.
^ <W pocs of the descent of Istar into hell this
**V^ ^ b bet, denominated Eribua^ probably
^emisf ^^the bouse of darkness,'* from Ereb^
'enasf," ftoa whence the Erebns of the Greeks ;
^ Ht tiit^ " the house of the eternities,'* from /</,
*<ttnity,'^ from whence comes doubdess the Greek
^^*^ The etymobgy a'«^>}f i* not historical, and
■>F cady be an arbitrary invention. Acheron,
i^tietM very probaUy derived from Acharon^
^ Wot, the place of darkness, the land of the
*^ (See Talboc, Trmmtutiont 0/ the Society

*^>vi. Civ. The original tcrt of this poem is
Pna ia Chcix d* Textet Cundi/ormet^ pp. xoo.

the king. The meanmg of the
first is not perfectly clear, but of
the second, which is very explicit,
we give the most important T>as-
sage : " After the gift of the pre-
sent days, in the festivals of the
land of the silver sky, in the shin-
ing courts, in the abode of bene-
dictions, in the light of the fields of
felicity, may he live an^eternal life,
sacred in the presence of the gods
of Assyria."* Also, in a hymn to
the god Marduk, are traces of a
belief in the resurrection of the
dead. This deity is repeatedly
called " the merciful, who restores
the dead to life."

Thus, then, the Semites believ-
ed .in the immortality of the soul ;
but monotheism was far from being
a privilege of their race, by which
it would be possible to explain the
origin of the Judaic religion with-
out providential intervention and
regulation; and thus we see the
Chaldaean poets combat along the
whole line the assertions of M. Re-
nan respecting their belief and
genius alike. Never did facts with
more pitiless emphasis give the lie
to the learned ; and it seems as if
the historian of the Semetic lan-
guages had had a secret presen-
timent of humiliations which would
result to him from a more generally
extended study of Assyriology, when
at its outset, about fifteen years ago,
he attacked it with a determination
which has not been forgotten.f

Another historical fact which may
be gathered from the Babylonian
epic is the mythological signification
of the signs of the zodiac. The
cuneiform inscriptions have already
shown us that not only was Asia the

• Trantmcti0nM 0/ tkf Soe. 0/ Bibl. Arckttdl ^
vol. i., p. X07, and partially translated by Lenor-
mant, Prem. Civ.

t See the two artieles by M. Renan upon, or
rather against^ the " Expedition en Mesopotame **
of M. Oppert, in the Jpurnatdts Savant t^ 1859.

142

New Publications.

cradle of the human race, but that it
was also the primitive nursery of civ-
ilization. It can no longer be doubt-
ed that it was from thence, instead
of, as has been supposed, from
Egypt, that Greece herself received
indirectly her first lessons in the
arts, as it was also from thence that
she received her metals. It is
equally in .Chaldsea that we find
the origin of astronomy and of the
zodiacal signs; the nomenclature
of the latter, as it remains at the
present day, differing in no essen-
tial point from that established
by the Babylonian astronomers, al-
though its value and signification
have hitherto been very obscure.
This obscurity has been dissipsited
by The Poem of Izdubar^ which
shows that the ancient Assyrian
mythology bestowed on the signs
their figures and their names. The
myths relating to each of the months
formed the subjects of the twelve
episodes of the poem. Thus, for
instance, the second narrated the
capture of the winged bull ; and the
second month is designated as " the
month of the propitious bull,** and
has Taurus for its sign. Again, the
sixth song related the marriage of
Istar with Izdubar, and began with
the goddess* message to the hero :
the sixth month is called " the
month of the message of Istar," and
has for its sign the archeress, of
which we have made Virgo, the

virgin, who, according to the attesta-
tion of the prism of Assurbanipal,
was the goddess Istar herself. The
eleventh tablet is consecrated to
the god Bin, "the inundator — he
who pours abroad the rain," and
the sign of that month is the shed-
der of water, or the vase pouring
it forth. Thus crumbles away the
whole chronological scaffolding rais-
ed by the school of Dupuis, ac-
cording to whom the zodiacal signs
were only to be explained as having
direct relation to agricultural labon.
and the phases of the seasons to be
regarded in reference to the pro-
ductions of the earth — an interpre-
tation which made it necessary to
withdraw the origin of man to an
enormously distant period of the
past, in order to reach a time in
which, owing to the precession of
the equinoxes, the presence of the
sun in the sign Taurus should coin-
cide with the season of ploughing.
All these calculations were equally
fanciful with those founded on the
famous zodiac of Denderah, and it
is now ascertained beyond all rea-
sonable doubt that the zodiacal
signs have a religious or rather
mythological, and not an agricultu-
ral, origin.

— The above is in great part
translated from an article by M.
Gregoire in the Revue des Questions
HistoriqueSy for April, 1874.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Life op Anne Catharine Emmerich.
By Helen Ram. London: Burns &
Gates. 1874. (New York: Sold by
The Catholic Publication Society.)
Many of our readers must have read

that part cf th^ record of Catharine Em-

merich's visions by Clement Brentano
which has been translated into English.
Those who have been pleased and edi-
fied by them will be delighted with this
life of the holy and highly favored ecsu-
tic virgin. It is a charming and wonder*

New Publications.

143

f«l lUc, especially that portion which re-
lites the history of Anne Catharine's mi-
ncolous infancy and childhood. The
Tolome o^kes one of F. Coleridge's se-
ries, wfaidi we have frequently had occa-
sion to pndse. We have been surprised
to tee in the pages of a book issued
aader the supervision of so accurate and
cirefol an editor a number of inaccura-
cies In style and typographical errors.

Biic-aBrac Series — Na 3: Anecdote
Biographies of Thackeray and Dick-
IKS. New York: Scribner, Armstrong
A Co. 1874.

Tbese recollections and anecdotes of
ibetwo favorite English writers of fiction
are very readable, and those which relate
to Thackeray especially interesting.

The Youn^ Catholic's Illustrated
School Series, comprising: The
Young Catholic's Illustrated Primer,
Spdler, First Reader, Second Reader,
Third Reader, and Fourth Reader.
New York: The Catholic Publication
Society. 9 Warren St. 1874.
Every effort which is likely, in any
waj, to help on the great work of Catho-
lic education, has of course our endre
sjapatby. Humanly speaking, the des-
tiny of the church in the United States is
to be determined by the education which
we (ive to our children, and the almost
sniTersil recognition of this truth by the
Catholics of America is, we are per-
ttided, the most certain evidence that
we hare really made progress. It is
wly within a comparatively recent time
tltiu we have come to fully realize the in-
eriiable and fatal results of allowing our
duldren to frequent the public schools,
and to thoroughly understand that the
common-school system of education, bas-
^. IS it is, upon the implied assump-
tion of the untruth of positive religion,
Io|icaIIy and io fact leads to infidelity or
to what is scarcely less an evil — religious
iodifference. The church without the
Khool-house is incomplete, and can at
best do but half work ; and we conse-
qoeQtljr find that almost all of our bishops
are sow beginning to demand that every
ptrish fhail have its parochial school.

We have been at some pains to cxa-
■ioe the returns made by the different dio-
cetu authorities to the publishers of the
Cci^Mr Almanac^ and we find that last
year there were in the whole country
about three hundred and eighty thousand

children attending our Catholic schools.
This is probably less than half the num-
ber of Catholic children of school age
in the United States ; still, we are already
doing enough to show that Catholic pri-
mary education must be recognized as
one of the institutions of the country,
and that those who have control of it
should set to work without delay to give
it a thorough organization. It is well to
teach our people that the public schools
are dangerous to the faith and morals of
their children ; it is far better to render
them unless by bringing our own up to
the standard of excellence which the
more abundant means and opportunities
of the state have enabled it to give to its
educational establishments. There are,
we know, many parochial schools which
are in every respect equal to those of
the state ; but under the present system
everything is left to the zeal and energy
of the pastor. What we want is a system
which will cause every parochial school
to come up to the requftements of a pre-
scribed standard of excellence. In a
word, the necessity of the times demands
the organization of Catholic education.

Each diocese should have its school
boards and its official examiners and visi.
tors. Annual diocesan school reports
should be published, accompanied by
remarks on the defects observed in the
practical management of the schools and
in the methods of teaching.

Out of these diocesan school boards
and school reports in due time a na- *
tional Catholic school system would
grow into vigorous life. More of this
another time ; at present we are glad to
take note of the greater desire for excel-
lence in our elementary schools, shown
by the demand for improved class-books.

As our system of education is distinc-
tively Catholic, it of course requires Ca-
tholic text-books — books composed with
a special view to the principles which
underlie the Catholic theory of peda-
gogy-

This truth has been recognized by the
bishops of the United States, who, both
in the First and Second Plenary Coun-
cils of Baltimore, made this one of the
subjects of their thought.

That The Catholic Publication Society,
which has done so much to elevate the
tone of our literature, has felt authorized
to begin the issue of a complete series of
such works, is undoubtedly an indication
of the general feeling among Catholics of

144

New Publications.

the want of improved class-books, especi-
ally for our elementary schools, which are
by far the most important, since they more
directly concern the welfare of the masses
of Qur people.

Whilst we are grateful for what has
been done in this matter, we cannot
shut our eyes to the many defects of most
of the text-books now in use. We have
before us the Young Catholic's Illus-
trated Primer, Speller, First, Second,
Third, and Fourth Readers ; and we
have read and examined them with
conscientious care, and we have at
the same time compared them with simi-
lar publications of other houses, and
we therefore feel competent to speak of
their merits, if not with authority, at least
with knowledge. That they should be
superior to any other books of the kind
is only what we had the right both to ex-
pect and to demand, and that they are
has already been generally recognized by
the Catholic press of the country.

In the choice and arrangement of the
matter we discern admirable good sense
and tact ; in the illustrations, which are
very numerous and nearly all original,
being explanatory of the text, excellent
taste ; whilst in the mechanical execution
we perceive the skilful workmanship that
usually characterizes the books of The
Catholic Publication Society.

The series is graded in strict atcord-
ance with scientific principles of educa>
tion, and combines all that is important
in the word and phonic methods of teach-
ing, without, however, excluding the a, b,
c drill. Books must always remain the
indispensable instruments for imparting
instruction in school, and hence it is of
the greatest moment that the pupil should
from the very start be attracted to them.
Most children enter school eager to
learn ; the craving for knowledge is a
divine instinct implanted in their hearts
by the Author of their being, which they
have already in a thousand ways sought
to satisfy by their fruitless efforts to pene-
trate the mystery of beauty with which
Nature surrounds them. When they en-
ter school this intellectual activity should
be stimulated, not repressed. The books
first placed in their hands should be sim-
ple, offering many attractions and few dif-
ficulties, presenting to their minds under
new forms the objects with which obser-
vation has already rendered them familiar.

and which they now first learn to associ
ate with printed words. These tmtbs
have been felt and acted upon by the coai-
pilers of the " Young Catholic's Seri«%T
which, in simplicity, in correct gradad^ |
in beauty and attractiveness, far surpaijK' '
anything of the kind that has yet bJI :
offered to the Catholic English-speakSat
public.

Another truth which can never be lost
sight of in Catholic education is that re-
ligion should be the vital element of tLe
whole process of instruction.

" Give me a lesson in geography," said
Mr. Arnold, " and I will make 'wreHgiout**
This is what Catholics desire : that the
light of religion should burnish as with
fine gold all human knowledge. Indeed,
in primary education religion is almost
the only subject of real thought, the only
power able to touch the heart, to raise
the mind, and to evoke from brutish
apathy the elements of humanity, and
more especially the reason. As religion
is the widest and deepest of all the ele-
ments of civilization, it ought to be the
substratum and groundwork of all popu-
lar education.

*' Popular education,*' says Guizot, ** IP
be truly good and socially useful, must
be fundamentally religious."

In the compilation of text-books this is
precisely the point which demands the
greatest amount of good sense and the
most consummate tact. Religion roust
run through the whole fabric like a
thread of gold. It must form the atmo-
sphere in which the pupil breathes ; it must
give coloring to everything, and every-
thing must in one way or another t>e
made to prove and explain its dogmas .
and yet there must be no cant, no attempt
at preaching, no dull moralizing, and
above all no stupidity.

To accomplish all this, our readers will
readily believe, is not an easy task, and
yet we have no hesitation in saying that
if they will take the trouble to examine
thoroughly the *• Young Catholic's Se-
ries," they will agree with us in the opin-
ion that it can stand the test of even this
standard of excellence.

Wb learn that the Holy Father has
sent a letter of commendation to the
writer of ** Italian Confiscation Laws'* in
The Catholic World for Oct., 1873, and
ordered a translation of the article.

ITERARY

ULLETIN

PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENT.
SPECIAL NOTICE.

department was specially opened to keep the readers of The Catholic
acquainted from month to month with all the new Catholic books published

fetecoontry and in England, i list of which is given at the end of this Bulletin.

CQOsaliing this list every month, much time and trouble will be saved by our
and the publisher ; for it will save the former the trouble of writing about the

aftof certain books, and the latter the time lost, in answering such letters. It is

pM^isbcr's intention to make the list as correct a» possible.

■ CMlKklic PablicatJon Society has Jost
ft ''Tbe Tomiff Oatholio's XUustratad
itt Bfiader,^ beiog the sixth book of the
k TkcfdUowiogieaUBtof thesdiool-books

r«n( OuhoUc^s Blastrated Primer, $0 90

" •* Speller. S5

*' First Reader, S5

" *' Second Header, 45

** Third Header, 80

•• Fourth Reader, 75

•Vttk and Sixth Readers are now in prepa-
^ Mia also a Tonog Ladies' Reader. This
r ^ria be got np especially for the higher
M ia oar female academies* and select

a aav Readers so far have met with nni-
il vpfoval. The Catholic press has spoken
Ui^eQaimaDdatton of tliem, and some of the
sad best schools in the country have
isd them, and in every case they are glv*
greatest satisfaction. Here is a notice
U CathoOe Adeocaie, of Lonisville:
v« Ant saw it annoanced that The Cath-
Society was about to commit its
lepatation to the hazardous attempt of
oat a perfect set of school-books, wo
ma, 'This will be the first ftdlnreof that
■ftlMtltBtlaB.' The foreboding was caused
a»lKk Ql confidence in the Society's ability
e^t with even extraordinary difiUcnlties, but a
Ht||h aeqaaiataaoe with the intrinsic magnl-
Ift «f the task undertaken. Few unprofes-
■iHcaa be made to comprehend the extreme
■ei)^ of picking the bowlders off the ' royal

road to learning * for children, and, so far as we
have seen, there are fewer able to claim success
in this field than there are in the highest literary
labors.

** For over twenty years the Internal construc-
tion of elementary school-books has been our
most enticing study. This we have pursued as
a specialty, and feeling competent thereby to
pronounce an opinion, we deem it not only our
pleasure but our duty to do our readers an omI<
nent service in speaking what we know with the
absolute certainty of truth regarding the present
series.

**To say it is well done seems like deprecia-
tion, and in the light of its true merits almost
amounts to calumny ; that it is a startling suc-
cess is only tepid praise ; that it is the prize
achievement in elementary education is but
the simple truth and the least we can say of it
iuta eofudeniia. It is impossible that we can
display all the merits of this series, as it would
involve us too deeply in a general analysis of
philosophy, metaphysics, and the construction of
the juvenile mind— subjects that need to bei well
understood by whoever would edit the best
school-book. But the less abstruse recommen-
dations of the series are to be found on the sur-
fiice by even the casual observer, and are apparent
enough to commend it to the unprofessional eye
as the crowning glory of The Catholic Publication
Society^e labors in the cause of education and
Catholicity. In fact, we would prefer going into
eternity holding In our hands the merit of having
edited this series alone, rather than appear en-
dowed with all the other great merits of the So-
ciety's publications.

Literary Bulletin.

"From a merely secalar and intellectnal stand-
point the books are eqaal to the best ever pro-
duced. The grading of matter and etymology
and classic composition is fkoltless and of easy
ascent like a royal staircase. From an artistic
stand, the illustrations are masterly and fasci-
nating. The delight with which oar children
criticised them in yet lisping eloquence speaks
volumes in their praise. But their most exalted
merits consist in the ubiquitous Catholicity with
which they are saturated. The skilfhlnesB of
this blending of doctrine, devotion, and secular
information is a marvel. There is no strained
elFort at obtrusive sermonizingv yet the little stu-
dent is never able to forget that he is and must
be a Catholic first, last, and always, over and
above everything else.

'\To say that the paper, type, and binding are
all that we can desire Is only another way for
telling that the series is edited by The Catholic
Publication Society.

" That the issuing of this series will bring down
on the Society the emphasized dislike of other
publishers is certain. The wonder of the whole
undertaking is only increased by the prices at
which they are placed on the market. So ridicu-
lously low are they for the profnsenoss of their
adornment that were we stockholders in thtf
concern that issues them we should be tempted
to sell out cheaply.

** Sincerely we say in conclusion that we cannot
see it except in the light of an urgent matter of
conscience that every parent, priest, and teacher
should at once commit himself to these * ladders
to learning.' "

The Catholic Union, Buffalo, says : '
'* While speaking of Thb Cathouo World we
would also call attention, to the series of Catho-
lic school-books lately published by The Catholic
Publication Society, which have been kindly
sent us by the energetic agent, Mr. Kehoe.
These books are beautifully printed on a supe-
rior quality of paper, well adapted to the mental
wants of the young, while the neatly- executed
engravings which adorn the pages are well cal-
culated to awaken in the youthful heart feelings
of tendcrest devotion. These books have been
careftilly revised by Rev. J. L. Spalding, and we
cordially recommend them to the consideration
of our Catholic teachers."

The New York atiz^n holds' that '' a great ad-
vance has been made of late years in the school-
books for Catholic schools ; but progressive im-
provement only indicated what remained to be
accomplished. No series of school-books that
we are acquainted with can lay claim to be per-
fect; but in view of the constantly-extending ob-
servations of able and devoted teachers and the
profit their hints are to publishers, it Is safe to
say that the lost series of books are always the
/ best. They arc, so to speak, the reifnlt of a col-
. ation of the best of the good, aided and improved

by the personal wants of teachers, as w^ as by
a carefhl comprehension of the wants of the
children.

''In this aspect we give welcome to the series
of Tonng Catholic's Illustrated School-Books
issued by The Catholic Publication Society, of
which the Primer and First and Second Readers
are before us. They are admirably adapted to
interest and instruct the yonthfbl mind. The
first part of the ' First Reader' is a gradoal eon-
tinnation of the latter part of the *' Primer,* aad
as the pupil advances there will be fossd to
interest his expanding capacity simple etosles,
yerees, and fables Judiciously constructed. The
* Second Reader ' is a book of ia6 pages, and coo-
tains moral stories, incidents, miracles from the
New Testament. The type is excellent, the illus-
trations better than usual in such works, the
paper good, and the blading neat The young
Catholics will have reason to be gratefnl to the
publishers for issuing works of such easy pro-
gression; and old Catholics who havediarseof
the young not less thankfkil for the aid given
their vocation."

The London Tablet notices *^ Madame Aff-
nea" as follows : *' If a religious novel Is to be
at all endured, it can only be because it Is a veri-
table picture of the religious, that is, Cbrislian,
life. Controversial novels require exquisite tact,
because an adversary may be so easily ontvit-
ted by high coloring and professed partiality,
but a novel which proposes a picture of piety,
and does not touch upon controversy, mns Ism
risk from the intellectual point of view, while it
runs perhaps more from the sentimontaL Reli-
gious novels, provided they be real, may do an
immense amount of good ; and Madame Affnet is
one of this class. It Invites piety by an aocnratr
representation of the Joys of a practlcaUj pious
life ; and makes religion attractive by pointing
to its fruits as contrasted with those of Irreli-
gion. The good characters Interest because they
are good, and not because they are fhncilhlly
drawn. Victor and Louis, Agnes and AUee, are
persons of whom we do not weary; becanse,
while they are skilfully portrayed by the author,
they always strike us as real. In short, Madamf
Agnet Is Intended to do good ; and there cannot
be a doubt that it will do It. Appended to this
story is another, The Farm of Mviceron^ timns-
iated from the French of Harle Rheil by 3!rf.
Annie Blount Storrs. This is also a religious
story, and Is said to be true; owing merely it?
telling to the writer. If not equal to the first, it
ip full of merit, and cannot fail to interest the
reader."

The Catholic Publication Society has in prea.
and will soon publish, a new edition of " 2>e-
liarbe*8 Catechism," translated by F. Landet.
S.J. ; F. Hewit's new book, "The Kin^
Highway " ; a new, revised and enlarged edi-
tion of ** Holy Week ; " <<The Manual of

Literary Bulletin.

I Sacrament," with the special tp-
f Archbfchop McCloekey.

lof the AblMt Ooncalvee."—

r of the Ltobon Academy of Sciencee.

rb^ooged to the enppreesed Con-

ia preaerred one of the most

I Utnnlnated miaaala in the world. It ia

t of Eetevao Oon^alTcs Neto, some time

Screm, in Portogal, aad afterwards

Dom Joao If annel. Bishop of Visea,
\ aa a token of gratitude, he presented
tor art. The execution occupied from

IS, and the Bishop of Yizen, who
B Jesuit Omrent, placed the JfiMo/ in
, where it remains. The book la a
\ afssa], such aa is used at a bishop's
\ critica hare always regarded it as a
twurkmanabip, and quite equal to the
lone ezecated by Juvenal des Ursines,
» the Bishop of Poitiers drea 1455, and

1 library of Paris. The Polish Count
wcfl known aa an art-critic, speaks

praise of this Mlmal; and when the
Boone, the Nestor of booksellers,
, he offered 1,000 guineas for it;
; a Paris house raised the bid to £S,500 ;
rlUea will not allow it to be sold.
t Is ft>llo size, and is ornamented with
I drawn with the pen and beauti-
they are models of composition
I of design and perspective. Be-
lluge platea, there are numerous vig-
1 o^ittal letters, which show a most
r and the hand of a miniature painter.
I pistes are the Adoration of the Shep-
I Wise Men of the East, the Last Supper,
" I Besurrection, Descent of the Holy
uptlon. Scourging at the Pillar,
Eting with the Doctors, Our Lady ro-
I Child Jesus, all admirable pictures.
» years sgo the Government allowed
^ Co., of Paris, to copy the
^ the chromo-Iithographic process, and
• know for advanced. A subscription-
I opened, which includes nearly all
I heads and art academies in Europe.

>Ie book was sold the other day,
I at Sotheby's, London, of the librae
I late Sir R. Frederick, Bart. It was a
I Seaia PnfeceUmU of Walter Hylton,
■If Wyakyn de Worde in 14M, with Cax-
1 devtcoy and quite perfect This copy
■crtptlon at the end of the ' Capitula
■ * in the Ibllo wing words : * This Boke
i to Dame Jhone Sewell Syster in Syon,
'^ i ycre off onre Salnatlon a thousand
*\ff^9 1] hnndreth ' ; also her autograph
' prayers in her handwriting. It ap-
Mhavt belonged subsequently to Shene
"" With so much to recommend it,

{BPt surprised that it fetched as much as

New editions of this book have been published
several times in London ; the last one, rendered
into modem Bnglleh, was issued about four
years ago.

"A Treatise on the Particular Examen
of Conscience/' is the title of a new book
Just published in London. The London Tablet
notices it as follows: ** There is one feature
common to the development of all the great
religious orders— they have had their second-
class men as well as their first, who, though not
giants themselves (at least when compared with
those of the first rank), were nevertheless the
sons of giants. This is true both in the matter
of saintliness and in less supernatural gifts.
There are the saints and the doctors, and there
are also ' the venerable servants of God * and
the commentators on those doctors. 8. Thomas
was followed by ' his school,* and *tbe seraphic
doctor* preceded the * subtle doctor,' Scotus.
In the Society of Jesus, likewise, there have
been even more varied developments, because
its scope was, fh)m the nature of the case, more
universal. . Its * Apostle of the Indies * found
imitators in the De Nobllis.and De Brittos,
and on the very ground the saint had trodden.
Its theologians, as the (ifilthf^l servants of the
Holy See, are commentators on S. Thomas,
because their own founder wrote no theology ;
while they write expositions of well-nigh the ^
whole of Holy Scripture, and illustrate the con-
demned propositions. It could hardly be that
the one book which— to apply P. Lacordaire's
expression to another subject— 'founded' the
Society should be left without any note or com-
ment There is the standard Roman edition
with its collection of foot-notes, which are, how-
ever, only something like a key to a book which
more than any other, next to Holy Scripture,
needs a living tradition to make it a reality.
The present treatise has the double advantage
of being by one of ' the sons of the giants,' and
is also limited to a definite point in the exer-
cises. We are really thankful that the preface
corrects a great blunder, namely, that the Far-
ticuiar Examen is not for those in the worid.
We may wonder, indeed, at the need for such a
correction. Socrates knew better. It was in the
throng of an Athenian market-place that he re-
produced the precept, * Know thyself.' Rather,
we ask, how can any practical result be obtained
without this? Practice must depend on know-
ledge ; and how can we know our souls, or cor-
rect their vices, without particular examen r And
more generally even than this ; here is another
blow dealt at the pestilent notion that spiritual-
ity is only for the cloister, and not in its proper
kind and degree for all souls indiscriminately.
We wish well to this seventh of the series, call-
ed 5. JottphU Ateetkal library^ edited by the
fathers of the Society of Jesus."

The price of this volume is $1 S5, and it is for
sale by '' The Catholic Publication Society."

Literary Bulletin.

BOOKS OF THE MONTH.

Undbx this head we intend to give a list of all
the new Catholic Books published in this country
each month, as well as all those published in Eng-
land and for sale here. Publishers will please

send a special copy to the publisher for the j
pose of having Its title inserted her^ AH
books mentioned below can be ordered of '
Cathouc Pubucatiom SoasTv.

FOREIGN BOOKS.

/.iff nndLttt9rtofik€ Couniett AdeMan.

ily the author of " Roaalie/* ** Paul Seigneret/'

SioHetofike Satniifor Children, By the
author of •'Tom's Crucifix," '•Catherine
Hamilton," etc. Kcap. 8to ^f 75

Life ofS, Cioy, Coiombini, By Feo Belcari.
Translated from the editions of 1541 and 1833.
Crown 8vo, with a Photograph ^/ 75

Archdati't Monaiiicon Jlibemieon*
Edited by Dr. Moran. Vol. I ^fO 50

Uret ofiike Irish Sainii.X iBy Rev. J. O' Han-
Ion. Nos. I, 2,3, 4,5 now ready. Price per No.

eo et$.

Zeoturet on Caikotie Failh and fh'aetice.
By Rev. J. N. Sweeney, O.S.B. 3 vols. ^4 50

Dtreetory for JiToricea of every Hetipiout
Order, partieutartj^hote Devoted to the
JBdueation of Youth ^f 25

Summer Tatks about Zourdet* By Miss
Caddell ^f 00

Marguerite Hibbert, A Memoir. Bv Very
Rev. R. Cooke, O.M.I 50cti.

On Some t^putnr Errors Coneerninff
Tolitiet and ^ef iff ion. By Lord Robert
Montagu, M. P. x vol. xamo SS 00

A Comparison between the History of the
Church and the T^ophecies of the Apoea^
iypse. Translated from the German by
Edwin De Lisle. Paper ^/ 00

Helpers of the Ho^y Saints. Who and what
they are. With some account of the Life of
their Foundress. By Rev. Charles Garside.

75 cts.

2 he Zetter-HooJbs of Sir Amias Poutet,

Keeper of Mary, Queen of Scots. Edited by

John Morris, S.J. x vol. 8vo S5 25

Mciy fapere I or. Thoughts on the Litanies
ot Loretto. By Edwara Ignatius Purbrick,

O.J.

Dame Dolores / or, The Wise Nun of Easton-
shire, and Other Stories S2 OO

Yersietes and Hates / or. Leisure Hours of a
Youth. By S. MacHale Daly ^/ 75

Ihe Dialogues of S. Gregory the Great.
Edited by Henry James Coleridge, S.J..^J 00

J^llerton (Za^ Georgiana). Seven Sto-
ries Sf 50

A Spiritual Compendium, in which the
Principal Difficulties in the Way of Perfection
are explained. By Father Caspar de la Fi>
guera. of the Society of Jesus. Translated
trom the Spanish by Mrs. R. Bennett Ed. by
Rev. George Porter, S.J. Forming Vol. VIII.
of " St. Joseph*s Ascetlcal Library?'... ^^ 00

The Zife of Zuisa De Carve^fat, By Lady
Fullerton 4^2 50

Leeture* on Certain f*ortions of the Har^
tier Old Testament Histoty, By Rev.
Philip G. Munro. i vol. xamo ^f 7S

The Trophet of Carmel* A Series of Pf«c*
tical Considerations upon the History of Cnias
in the Old Testament. By Rev. C. B. Gar^id^
X vol. xamo ^jf ^fO

The Question of Anglican OrdinaH^ms
Discussed. By E. E. Estcourt, M^^
F.A.S., Canon of S. Chad*s CathedraL Bir-
mingham. With an appendix of origixutl doc^
uments and photograpnic £fto-similes. r ToiL
Svo ^7 00

lerne of Armoriea ; A Tale of the Tijne. aC
Chlovis. By J. C. Bateman. x vol. ts»W
cloth ^S 00

A Hundred Meditations on ihe Zore 9f
God, By Robert Southwell, of the Sociely
of Jesus, Priest and Martyr. With Hortmk.
An entirely original work, now first publ iihw
Edited, with a preface,* by K. Johi* Monta.
S.J. X vol. xamo ^S W

Meditations of St. Anselm. A nerfr- Traw-
latlon. ByM.R. With Preface by His Grtcc
the Archbishop of Westminster ^2 60

The Zife of the Slessed John Serchsmam.
By Francis Golde. x vol. xamo S2 SO

True to Trust; or, The Story of a Portrait.

^2 00

Dr, ^ef^man^s Zectures on Jusli/ioation,

I vol. lamo ^2 25

Dr, JiTewman's JScelesiastieal and TheO"
logical Tracts, A new volume of the reissue
otDr. Newman's works ^^ OO

The f\)pe and the Emperor, Nine Lec-
tures delivered In the Church of S. John the
Evangelist. Bath. By the Very Rev. J. N.

Sweeney, O.S.B., D.D ^/OO

Who is Jesus Christ ? Five Lectures deliv-
ered at the Catholic Church, Swansea. Bv the
Right Rev. Dr. Hedley, O.S.B., Bishop Auxil-
iary of Newport and Menevia.
Contents.-!. The Word made Flesh. II. An-
tichrists. III. Redemption. IV. Sanctifi cation.
V. The Abiding Presence. OS cts,

Zancieius (F, , S,J,\ MedHations for Every
Day in the Year and the Principal Feasts. By
the Very Rev. F. Nicholas Laocicius, of the
Society of Jesus. With Preface by the Kct.
George Porter, S.J. Forming Vol. IX. of ** St.
Joseph's Ascetical Library.'* 9^ 25

She Spiritual Conflict and Conquest, By
Dom J. Casunixa, O.S B. Edited with Pre&ce
and Notes by Canon Vaugban, Bngli^ih Monk
of the order of St Benedict Reprinted from
the old English Translation of 16^. With fine
original frontispiece, reproduced in autotype.

Zife of St, Iter, Dishop Grant, SS 00

The Church and the Hmpirts, Historical

Periods by Henry W. Wuberforce. With a

Memoir, by Dr. Newman, x vol. Svo. SS 25

Zife of Anne Catherine Hmmerich, Br

Helen Ram. x vol. xamo ^2 50

SBPT. 15, 1874.
This supersedes aU previous Catalogues. ,M^

BOOKS PUBLISHED

The Catholic Publication Society,

9 WARREN STREET, NEW YORK.

■ Attention iscaJIed to the following Catalogue of our Books. The
prices given are the retail ones. A large discount is allowed
to Clergymen, Booksellers, Religious Institutions, and Library

Societies.

■ All the books in this list sent by mail, postage paid, on receipt
of price.

•All the publications of the several Catholic Publishers, both in
this country and in England, kept in stock.

••A wooderful bookr—Batfon Pilot.

1^ Ckrical Friendi, and their Rela-
«■■ to Modern Tbought. Contents : Chap.
%m Vocation of the Clergy.— II. The
Chny at Home —III. The Clergy Abroad.
-JVTThe Clergy and Modem Thought.
t ML tsmo, 1 oO

By the same author.
I ^mich Ho^saCOE Report of ft Conference
Pru^^eiit Dapger-?i of Uie Clmrc!!.
aiutbor of *VMr Cicrital Knendfi/'
lof ibe Coofcrences Canon LJein-
Arctid^con Tcflnyson, Rev. ( j'^tjI
" ltJiuali5U. The Kcgius ProfcKor
' , the Uiihop (if Rf>chtstcf» Reir.
Sffli i t«— 1 1 in h C Jiui c hmen. T h e
if Is to w» Af< h^eatoEt SofLl>'. Fie v.
|*mjgifln— Low Churchmen, Dean
, Rev. l*fet»eni[J4irir Crccdle^^—
Chsif ct^mrn. Rev, Mai k Weasel— A n -
Ui(atiJLi.h<d. t vul.rimo,doth,^0 ttn.

oT CoiiviocsitioB in th/B

^^-,, — Church. In Two Scenes. Edited
Wf Anchdeacoo Chasuble, D.D.. and dedi-
JM to the Pan-Anglican Synod. 8vo,
••• 1 00

^Hagmbia Catiiolicm Americana.

A UM of American Catholic Books published

, i^lDtkc year itos. By Rev. J. M. Finotli.

vf^lTo, 5 00

^-— ^ Wetterville ; oti One of the

"■■Manted- A Tale of the Times of Crom-
^«B In Ireland. By Miss CaddeU. x rol.

gg. cioU^ extia.

.Ctlt«

. ISO
. 2 00

A Tale of the Days of Queen

%. By CeciUa Mary CaddeU. First

MMrtota edition, i toL tamo, . 1 50
C55,giit, .... \ . 200

Wt I V f feni oniiti and Angela.

VVMithcGerma.n of Bolanden. x voLSvo,

Ott.fflt, ....

— . 1 1 or, A Mother's Last Request,

IM Otter Talcs, i vot. xamo, . . 1 2o

and Other Tales

its Consequences, xvol.

nMi Jomnkoff

ffA Wilfulness and

0>lh,gili,^ \

Little Pierre, tlie Pedlar of Alsace

Translated from the French, and illustrated
by 87 first-class woodcuts. (This makes one
of the handsomest premium books ever
issued in this country.) Cloth, extra, 1 50
Cloth, full gilt, 2 00

Mag'gie's Bosary, and Other Tales.

(Contents : By the author of " Marion How-
ard." Maggie^s Rosary— The White Angel
—Mabel— Old Morgtn's Rose-Tree. From
the French of Sou vestre. translated by Emilv
Bowles : The Sa\vycr of the Vosges— A Meei
ing on the Alps— The Godson.) x vol. i2rao

1 00

The Threshold of fho Catholic

Church. A course of plain instructions tor
those enterinir her communion. Bv Fr.
Bagshaw. With preface by Mgr. Ctpcl.
I vol. xamo, 1 50

Sermons on Ecclesiastical Snlyects.

Vol. I. By Archbishop Manning. Clolh,

extra, 2 00

The same, Vol. II 2 00

A Winded Word, and Other Stories.

By the author of *'The House of Yorke,"

etc., 1 50

Cloth gilt, . . ... 2 00

The Life of Saint John of the Cross, of

the Order of ^ur Lady of Mount Caruiel. i
vol. i6mo, 1 25

Lifi) and Doctrine of Saint Catherine

of Genoa. Translated from the ItHliao.
I vol. xamo, 2 00

Catherine Hamilton. A Tale;; for Little

Girls. x8mo, 60 cts

The Parm of Miiiceron, and Madame

Agnes. Translated from the French, x vol.
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The Prench Prisoner in^Bnssia.

Translated from the French by P. b. One
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Glory and Sorrow, and Selim the

Pasha of Salonique. Translated from the
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No. 9 Warren Street^ New York.

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The Boiiia of Torkes A Stoiy ^
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Mvrrha Lakej or, Into tlio Xaiffht of

Catholicity. By Minnie Mary Lee. i vol.
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French bv a Graduate of St. Joseph^s Aca-
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Constance Sharwood: An AntoUo-
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Tho Botrothed. From the Italian of Man.
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French Bsrgs in an Bngrliih Baiket.
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Two Tlumsand IMUes onHoneback.

A Summer Tour to the Plains, the Rocky
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The Lift and Tiihes of Siztns tiie

Fifth. Translated from the French by James
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All-Hallow Bvei or Tlie Test of

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«00
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Impreipioni of Spain. By Lady Herbert
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200

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Jerusalem, etc. By

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Lilb of J. Theophane Venard^ Martyr in
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Three Phases of Christian Love.

The Mother, the Maiden, and the Religious.
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The Lift of Henry Derie^ Martyr. Trans-
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A Sister's Story. By Madame Augustus
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538, cloth, extra, 2 50

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Visits to the Blessed I

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Way of Salvationf in

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Boars of the Passion; or.

Reflections on the Sufl'erings and I
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the Life of St. Alphonsus Liguori.
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Love of Onr Lord Jesns Cli

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Short Treatise on Prayer. A

all Classes of Christians. By St. AlpH
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from the Italian of St. Alphonsus \
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chine. Translated from the French <
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The Writings of Madame I

Edited by Count de Failoux. x voL i

Oakeley on Catholic Worship : Al

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Ceremonial of the most Holy and Ados
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Bianresas or, The Spiritual Bs

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Dr. Newman's Answer to 'Ox. Psi^^y
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Ap^^ogia Pro Vita Saa : Beinir * ^^ •

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„ originally in Italian by Father Ro-
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VOL. XX., No, ii6.-^N0VEMBER, 1874.

CHURCH CHANT FEJ^SUS CHURCH MUSIC.

iQtcrestini; colloquy look

|). I ont mind as wc finislicd

i)>r r ri - 1 of the paper ciUitled

Music'* whirh nfjpcared

.^t yiid Kt^ptrmber noin-

Catiiouc World, Wc

. -.. - .,,. it as raithfully as our

llMnr.ory s^es m.

^ r>r — TAf fUuUf ^/ a Beni'Mttmt

f ' • -> jr&m \tn ^(>€H Gmdmai. ** Lis-
rny brothrrs ulL To-morrow
1^ ihj fe-Tival of S* ?ol)'carp the
in.ri%f And the name-day of our
i: .. .1 rither* the abbot. On siich
a »..\ <ii$ fc*lival wc must not
%i\\ rci make ht^ hcan right ghid
irit!i our diAUiing. Let us* begin
fh»- lntT<4l. {*^i'>''^"^ ) * Gaudcamus
I in Douiino, diem festum cck'

rMr mpnks rtptating m dwrui)
leaniui otfincs in Dumiuo,

art mitrrupi€d h}' a hud

knocking ai the door leading from
ihc iknikr. Brother Gregorius, on
opening it^ is confronted by an aged
stranger toith a iong, white ^ flowing
Scanty bearing in hCs hand a roll of
printed music, on which the words
''Boston;* '' JDitson" and the date
" 1S74 " CMH be discerned.)

Grecorius. " Salve, frater."
AtiED STRANGER. " Prof. Hub^a-
nus, at your service ; and having
come from a great distance, and
happily being born at a much later
date, I gxiess you will find my ser-
vices on this eve of your joyous fes-
tival of jiome value, for I am well
acquainted with all the best Masses
pulilishctl. By the way, is one of
the brethren lately departed this
life?"

Grkciorius {with astonishment),
*' No, God be praised ! Brother
Augustine yonder did leave the in-
firmary vacant this morning, thanks
to Our Blessed Lady, that no voice
might be wanting in the choir on
tha morrow; but wherefore the
qucstioni good domne Hubanus?"

•fcordi^f i^ A«l ^t Conirrei^ In ih# )reaTii7<j. bj* Rur. I. T. HscicBRja the Office of
Ui« Ubnmao of Coogr^pa, tx V^'isblfigloa, D. C.

146

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

HuBANUS. "Because I heard you
but just now rehearsing such a sor-
rowful, in fact, so lugubrious, a mor-
ceau — an Offertory piece, I presume,
for a Requiem Mass — that •! sup-
posed you were getting up the mu-
sic for some such occasion."

( T^u monks regard the aged stran-
ger with no little surprise^ mingled
with curiosity!)

Gregorius. " We must have
made indeed sad work of it in our
rehearsing. Worthy Hubanus, it
was the Gaudeamus you heard."

Hubanus. " The Gaudeamus^ eh }
{jiside, I don't remember seeing
that in Ditson's catalogue. I won-
der what it is. Ta Gregorius.)
Would you mind repeating it once
more V

Gregorius. " With pleasure.
Sing, my brothers." {They sing
the whole Introit,)

Hubanus. "Ah! fine; quite so-
lemn ! A Gregorian chant, I per-
cek'e. A very plaintive move-
ment. The finale has an exceed-
ingly mournful effect. Ii^D minor,
is it not? Still, for a Requiem
Offertory I think Rossini's Pro
Ptccatis^ or Gounod's Ave Maria^ or

* Angels ever Bright and Fair,* for
a change, would please the congre-
gation better."

All the monks. " Plaintive !
Our Gaudeamus mournful ! Calls
an Introit an Offertory piece ! Like

* Requiem Offertory indeed ! An
Ave Maria for that too ! What
does he mean by D minor ? {Bless-
ing themselves.) Ab omni malo,
libera nos, Domine!"

Hubanus. "Oh! beg pardon.
That is an Introit, is it ? Indeed !
But, as I said, I have the honor to
be born at a much later date than
yourselves, and we don't bother
ourselves with singing those things
in my day and country. We bring
out the finest music, however, in

our cHbir of the Church of S. 3o-
tolph/ in the United States, that
you can hear. I'm the organist
and director."

Gregorius. ** Not sing the In-
troit ! Why, good domne Huba-
nus, our grand and joyous festival
on the morrow would be robbed of
one of its chief features if we failed
to sing the Gaudeamus — I mean /hi
Gaudeamus that you have jost
heard."

Hubanus. " * De gustibus nonest
disputandum.* Hem! excuse my
indulging in the classics ; those old
Latin fellows say a good deal in a
few words, you know. But yoil
don't seriously mean to say that
such monotonous stuff — excuse my
plain speaking on your plain sing-
ing—is fit for a joyous festival } As

my friend. Dr. , says in his late

paper on * Church Music,' * to hear
Gregorian chant for a long time,
and nothing else, becomes extreme-
ly monotonous, and burdens the
ear with a dull weight of sound not
always tolerable.' He lays, more-
over, that * this is admitted by all
who in seminaries and monasteries
have been most accustomed to
hear it.' "

Gregorius. " Your learned
friend did not seek our judgment,
I assure you, and I am at a loss io
know who could have made so silly
an admission to him."

Hubanus. " But do you not *rc-
sort to every device,' as he says
again, * to escape its monotony on
festival days, by harmonies on the
chant which are out of all keeping
with it,' and so forth?"

Gregorius. " We do not, I trust.
What little harmony we sing is in
strict keeping with the mode of the
chant ; and as to escaping anything,
we know the rubrics, domne Hu-
banus, and resrpect them, and, what
is more, we observe them."

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

147

IfloBAKUS. "On that score I

the advantage of you; 'for it

a't require much knowledge of

: you call rubrics to bring out

and grand Vespers with us.

ever, this question of plain

nt is settled long ago. It ought

been settled long before

Tc bora. For, as Dr.

lilies in his paper, *No one

the appropriateness and

siTeness of plain chant on

t solemn occasions, especially

\ of sorrow ; but it is confess-

^unequal to the task of evok-

expressing the feelings of

joy and triumph.* Ah !

ther Gregorius, you should have

I bom later."

" Then we monks,

e generations of the faithful

bout the world, have for the

thousand years been shut out

the feelings of Christian joy

triumph, have we ? Verily,

we or you can have known

Kttle of one or of the other,

obflrrvation of your learned

M may happen to be true or

Did the church put a lie into

mouths of her cantors when

\ bade them sing, ' Repleatur os

I laude tua, alleluia ; ut possim

are, alleluia; gaudebunt labia

dam cantavero tibi, alleluia,

tluia'?"*

HuBANUS. " You are a trifle sar-
Brother Gregorius; but I
IWflliDgly pardon it, for J'm a plain-
ken man myself, and call a
f a spade. Besides, you know,
^fon can always fall back on the
*Dc gastibus * — a quotation I often
Clttdtery convenient; but I war-
jtint me your prima donna doesn't
Ifadmach satisfaction in exhibiting
kiribe soprano on your dull chant,

'"^Utay month be filled with thy praise, Alio-
J ^ Am I may aae, alleluia ; my Itps shall greatlv
\ liaei wbai I ihaa ua^ to thee, aDeluia. alleluia.'*

which you must confess, with Dr,

, * is of limited, very limjted,

range,* and in my opinion as poor in
expression as a kettle-drum."

Gregorius. " I crave your par-
don, worthy sir. You are a stranger
and quite aged — "

HuBANUS (//f/^rry///«j^). "Eigh-
teen hundred and seventy-four."

Gregorius (continuing) — " as
the length and whiteness of your
beard proclaim, while we have
only the experience of one thousand
years, the lessons of the church, and
the taste as well as the examples of
the saints to profit by ; but we must
confess that of dL prima donna ."wt
have never yet heard."

All the monks, i^ery decidedly),
"Never!"*

HuBANUS. "Never heard* of a
prima donna / Why, when were yoil
bom } I mean, of course, the chief
lady soprano who sings in the
choir."

{Here all the monks burst out iaitgh-

if^')

Gregorius {having got his breath) .
" Come, come, my ancient stranger,
that explains ?ill. We knew you
must be * chaffing ' us, from tfce
very first, with your * mournful
Gaudeamus * and your never sing-
ing Introits or obeying the rubrics
and the rest. Ha! ha I Truly,
a * chief lady in the choir '—prima
donnay I think you named such a
mythical personage — was only need-
ed to cap the climax of your ex-
cellent joke."

HuBANUS. " Joke ! Tm not jok-
ing at all. We have ladies in our
choir — {aside) and it's no joke to
manage them either — {to Gregorius)
and pay them good salaries, as you
must ; for without that, you know,
you never can have good music."

{Here the laughing of the monks
suddenly subsided, followed by loud
and angry whispers^ of which the

148

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

word ** heretic** was unmistakably
heard. Brother Gregorius interpos-
ed.) " Judge not too hastily, good
brothers. True, no church which
oweth obedience to our Holy Father,
the Pope, and which hath a right
therefore to call itself Catholic, did
ever yet permit women to sing in
church choirs ; but what she might
have done in this matter in the
country from which this aged
stranger comes — be it ever so con-
trary to all the rubrics and tradi-
tions known unto us — ^we will the
better learn from his own lips.
Women, then, good domne Huba-
nus, do sing in the choir in the Cath-
olic churches of your strange land,
standing, perchance, beside the men-
singers.^**

Hire ANUS. "Where else would
they stand ? You see we put the
sopranos and tenors on one side,
and the altos and basses on the
other."

Gregorius {scratching his shaven
crown in great perplexity). " We
have yet to learn many wonder-
ful things ! Canst tell me, worthy
Hubanus, how comes it } Does your

learned friend. Dr. , speak of

this matter in his celebrated * paper 7
Doubtless he mentions some decree
of the Sacred Congregation of Rites
which hath allowed this — this {an-
other scratch) unheard-of novelty ?"

Hubanus. " I canaot remember
that he made any allusion to it.
In fact, I fancy that he would
rather not, and I am glad he didn't.
But Where's the use of making a fuss
over it } Haven't women got voices
as well as men, and what did the
Lord give them voices for, if he did
not intend them for use ?"

Gregorius. " In the choir V*

Hubanus. "In the choir, or out of
the choir, what's the difference.^"

Gregorius. " Do the rubrics
allow it?"

Hubanus. ^^ Ma foil I do not
know. {Aside.) I hope they do, if
old fogies like you are going to »tir
up that question. {To Gregorius^
No lady-singers ! If that were to
happen, my occupation, as well as
theirs, would be like Othello's —
gone. For hark you, Brother Gre-
gorius, although I know but little
of your old-fashioned, barbarous
chant — can't read a note of it, to
tell the truth — if women-singers are
banished from the choir, music goes
with them. The music I like re-
quires the female voice. I wouldn't
waste my time with a parcel of boys
and on such music as they can
sing."

Gregorius. " What music is this
of which you speak so often '> Hath
the church adopted a new style oi
melody which is not chant ?"

Hubanus. " No, not adopted pre-
cisely, but there is a new music—
everybody knows it — written by
Mozart, Haydn, Mercadante, Peters,
and several others, which organists
and choirs make use of in our day.
Some prefer one, some another, ac-
cording to taste. *De gustibus,'
you know."

Gregorius. "Yet tell me-r-for
here the strangeness of your news
almost surpasses belief — how dare
the organists and choirs make use
of any melody in accompanying the
Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and ab-
solving the Divine Office which has
not been adopted, or at least dis-
tinctly sanctioned, by holy church,
to whom it appertains to dispose the
ordering even of the most minute
rubric in these important matters
concerning the due praise of God
and the sure edification of the peo-
ple?"

Hubanus. "All I can say is, we
do it. It is tolerated in some places,
and my friend in his paper quotes
some * Instructions * which the

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

149

cardiaal vicar in Rome issued to
his omth clergy to prove the tolera-
tion; but» to my thinking, they
sound very much like the care-
ful mother's permission to her boy
who asked leave to learn to swim —
* Certainly, my child, but don*t you
never go near the water, least-
ways any water that is over your
ankles/ "

Grecorius. ** I think I under-,
standi for I have heard our good fa-
ther, the abbot, say that * he who
would be well carried must not drive
with toostiffa rein '; and my holy no-
vice-master, Father Ambrose — to
whose soul may God grant rest ! —
did oft chide my hasty judgment
upon my fellow-novices, saying in
iiis sweet way, and after the manner
of bis wise speech, * Thou wouldst
rrform monks, good Brother Gregor-
ias, before they are formed. All they
nc«d is a little instruction, * At pre-
sent every one is well pleased with
yottr music ?"
HuBANUS, " Oh ! that is quite

another question. Dr. himself

docs not seem to think so, for he
iip in his paper : * In consequence
of the failure of modem composers
to meet the requirements of Cath-
Mic devotion, though their music
has been introduced into our
churches and given every chance
of trial, complaints against it are
heard on every side. We grumble
about it in our conversations; we
write against its excesses in the
public journals ; bishops complain
of it in pastoral letters ; provin-
cial councils are forced to issue
decrees about it; the Sovereign
Pontiffs themselves not unfre-
qucnily raise their voices, some-
times in warning, sometimes in
threats — in a word, the einl seems
to have attracted a good deal of
attention.' "

All the monks. " Ab omni malo,
libera nos, Domine !"

Grecorius. "His account of
your music — ^which you seem, never-
theless, to prize so much more high-
ly than our dear holy chanty which
hath the undoubted sanction of the
church — gives pretty plain evidence
that the church hath not adopted
it in any wise. It rather suggests
the thought that she would gladly
be rid of it altogether, abstaining,
however, like Father Ambrose, from
reforming musicians before they are
formed, and resolving, as he did of-
ten pleasantly say, to my comfort,
* Thou shalt see. Brother Gregorius,
that I shall make no change in our
holy Rule: "

HuBANUS, " One would think
you were born later, after all*; for it
would appear that our Holy Father,
Pius the Ninth — pity you haven't
lived to know him. Brother Gre-
gorius, for he is the dearest pope
that has ruled the church since
the days of S. Peter — is in the van
among the leaders of the * Grego-
rian movement,' since a little while
ago he made a decree that the Gre-
gorian chant should be taught in
all the ecclesiastical schools of the
states of the church, to the exclusion
of every other kind of music — * Can-
tus Gregorianus, omni alio rejecto,
tradetur.* You see he wishes to
get the Roman priests educated up
to it — Rome rules the world — and
the thing is done. * Othello's
occupation is gone I' But how in
the world we shall ever get up a
Christmas or an Easter Mass that
is fit to listen to when that day
comes is more than I can tell."

Grecorius. " Despair not, good
Hubanus. Remain with us past the
morrow, and thou shalt hear a holy
Mass and solemn Vespers which
will warm the cockles of thy heart.

J 50

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

chanted in strains of melody that
belie neither the sentences of joyful
]>raise which are uttered nor the
exultation which doth lift the hearts
of the brethren to heaven, and fill
the festival hours with a divine
gladness. {To ihcpwnks,) Brothers,
let us rehearse the Gloria in Ex-
cel sis"

As the curtains of our memory
dropped upon the scene we have
just been present at, our eyes
caught sight again of the sentence
quoted by Prof. Hubanus: '*In
consequence of the failure of mod-
ern composers to meet the require-
ments of Catholic devotion " — which
failure is so utter that, in the judg-
ment of the same writer, he " thinks
it no exaggeration to say that, if all
their compositions, except a very
few, were burned, or should other-
wise perish, the church would suffer
no loss.**

But what of the figured musical
compositions of. those musicians
who may in our time be honored
with the title of " ancient,*' such as
Palestrina and his imitators ? The
music of this style forms, we are
told, the staple of what is common-
ly heard in S. Peter's. The writer
of the article we allude to evidently
believes any attempt to make such
music popular would be no less a
failure. The intricacy of the style,
the exceeding difficulties attendant
upon its artistic execution, and its
restricted vocal character, are *' fa-
tal " objections.

We fully agree with him. In
our former articles on this subject
(The Catholic World, December,
1869, and February and March,
1870) we not only pronounced
modem figured music to be ia
practic« a failure as church music,

but intended also to be understood
as asserting that the cause of this
failure lay chiefly in the melodi-
ous form of such music — the ne-
cessary result of a tonality essen-
tially sensuous, which renders it,
despite every effort of the artist, in-
trinsically unsuitable for the ex-
pression of the "prayer of the
church.** That there is prayerfui
music we do not deny, but it will
never obtain any more positive
sanction from the church than she
gives to the hundred and one senti-
mental " prayers " and turgid " lita-
nies ** which fill the pages of our
"largest books of devotion " ad
nauseam^ and are equally supposed
by the uneducated Catholic and the
ignorant Protestant to be the mas-
terpieces of Catholic musical and
liturgical art.

We did not think it necessary,
writing as we did for a special class
of readers, to explain the dis-
tinguishing characteristics of the
church's "prayer,** being, as our
learned friend says, fourfold — ^la-
treutic, impetratory, propitiatory,
and eucharistic. To us the
church was not wanting in wis-
dom in the adoption alone of plain
chant to express her divine prayer,
whether it happen to be latreutic,
impetratory, propitiatory, or eudia-
ristic. She never made any dis-
tinction that we know of. But our
learned friend, while he cannot help
but admit that for the purposes of
adoration, propitiation, and suppli-
cation it is not only all that could
be desired, but is also better than
any other melody, denies, with an
ipse dixiiy its capability of express-
ing praise and thanksgiving. Ar-
gument does not seem to be worth
seeking. "Plain chant,*' he says,
"is confessedly unequal to the task
of evoking and expressing the feel-

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

iSi

iags of Christian joy and triumph."
And again : ** It certainly must bor-
row from figured music the trium-
ptiant strains of praise and thanks-
giving."

Neither one nor the other. We
Lonfess to nothing of the kind.
And although, by the rule of argu-
mentation, we are not called upon
to prove a negative, we refer to the
response good Brother Gregorius
has already made, and would fur-
thermore ask if the Tc Deum^ the
ExuiUi^ the Preface for Easter
Sunday, the Alleluia of Holy
Saturday, or the Lauda Sion, are
confessedly unequal to the task as-
signed them }

As far as the question has any
practical importance, we feel that
not another word need be said.
Plain chant is in lawful possession,
and cannot be ousted by personal
ca}>ricc or taste, nor by gratuitous
assumptions of its inability to
answer the end proposed by the
wise authority of the church ; still
lea by a proposed substitution of a
S)'stem which, after three centuries
of rain efforts to supplant the right-
ful possessor, is declared, even by its
own friends, to be " a failure," and
ibc majority of its painfully-produc-
ed works fit only to be consigned
lo the flames.

We have, however, a question of
more merit to discuss. If modern
music has failed to meet the require-
ments of Catholic devotion, it will
be not a little interesting to examine
into the true cause of this failure.
It will be found to lie in its melodic
Conn (not in the use of harmony),
which came into being with the
introduction of the chord of the
diminished seventh and the substi-
tatioQof the instrumental, factitious
^cs called major and minor for
the four natural vocal, authentic
Kales and their four correlative

plagal scales.* Like seeks like,
and as this chord of the seventh
was an inspiration of sentimental,
languishing, passional feeling, the
new music sought its language in
poetry, and chiefly in lyric poetry,
in which every sort of human pas-
sion finds smooth expression ; and
as this latter is divided into regular
feet, with recurring emphasis and
cadence, music soon found itself set
to time. Its melody became mea-
sured. Pegasus found himself in
harness. To express the sublime,

• The chord of the diminished seventh and its
ioTereions, thus:

:£ai

The Gregorian vocal scales ire as foJows:

«i *■

ist authentic, known as the ist mode.

- 1^-^

xst plagal, or sd mode.

■^J?=3Z-

ZESL

=^— #-

ad authentic, or 3d mode*

Z2SZ

-4—^-

ad plagal, or 4th mode.

3d authentic or 5ih mode.

=g-^v~ ]

3d plagal, or 6th mode.

-ISf.

4th authentic, or 7th mode.

-^-

:5i=?=

4th plagal, or 8th mode*

The dominant notes <tf each scale are written in
the above staff as crotchets. The finals^ or notes on
which any chant must end, are four: R* for the
first pair—f .#., the first authentic and iu i^agal, the
seoocMl mode ; Afi for the secDDd pair, /a for the

152

Church Chant w. Church Music.

the heroic, was only possible now
by knocking down the bars, putting
it all ad libitum^ and calling the
phrase recitative ; and as the pas-
sage from the sublime to the ridicu-
lous is proverbially short, the com-
position of many of these recita-
tives, in their leaping intervals and
startling contrasts, vividly remind
one of Pegasus let loose to scam-
per and roll unbridled in the open
fields.

The invention and -perfection of
musical instruments are coincident
with the rise and progress of the
system of melody known as ** mo-
dern music," the organ and piano
holding the mastery. To these are
due, in great measure, the uni-
versal cultivation of the modem
tonality, and the consequent loss
of appreciation of the tonality of
the ecclesiastical modes. It is
heard in the lullaby at the cra-
dle's side, whistled by boys in the
streets, sung by children in popu-
lar melodies and hymns at school,
confirmed by all the concerts given
by orchestras in halls, theatres,
and public meetings; ^\txy young
lady strums it forth from her piano,
every organist modulates it in
church, while all bells, from thou-
sands upon thousands of churches,

third pair, and Sol for the fourth pair ; from which
it will be seen th.it melodies of an entirely different
character are obtained from the modes which may
happen to be of the same scale or have a like domi-
nant. The melody, as a rule, is confined to the
limit of its own scale. Accidental flats or sharps are
not allowed, save only the use of Si 6 to avoid the
Triton. The character of these melodies is, as a rule,
utterly confounded and hashed up together by our
modem musicians, both in their blundering attempts
to accompany the chant on the organ, and in their
compilation of harmonies found in our ri^ertoires of
** .Music for the Catholic Church." Knowing little
c^ the tonality of the chant, and nothing of its wo-
dality^ they have suppcsed the only harmony pos^
ble to be that based upon the principles and tonali-
ty of modem music. Hence their chant as delivered
to us is hardly recognizable, and deserves only
the name of **very poor muac." We advise our
orgranists to study plain chant, and they will itnd it
susceptible of a most beautiful harmony sui g^ntris^
producing sublime effects of which music, with its
effemioatc distonances, is not capable.

jungle it forth from one end ot
Christendom to the other. Tha
the church has been able to with
stand the pressure of all this, ant
still dares to command her priest
to chant " per omnia saecula sasca<
lorum " to her own ancient mode
is, even in that simple and signili
cant sentence, a proof of her divim
strength to resist the most allurinj
seductions and powerful onslaught
of the world, and a note of caln
defiance to its " fashion which passi
eth away."

We are now prepared to entci
into a critical examination of thi
essential character of music as dis
tinguished from plain chant. Ii
the first place, we find, as we havi
already noted, that it is measurec
in its melody — that is, it is written
as it is said, in time ; and, as a con
sequence of its lyrical movement, i
became equally subjected to cer*
tain laws of versification and of
phraseology corresponding to the
stanza. When musicians began to
write for the language of the
church, and to set the sublime"
prose of her Gloria in ExcelsiSy
Credo, etc., to its form of melody,
this supposed necessity of making
musical stanzas compelled the ap-
plication of what is known in music
as the theme, on which certain fan-
ciful variations were built, shorter
or longer, as the musician deemed
necessary to complete his " work,"
altogether forming a sort of Pro-
crustean bed, on which the sacred
words of the Liturgy were either
dismembered or stretched by repe-
tition in order to make them fit the
melody. To make the " work " fit
the words was not to be thought
of; whence we judge it well for
the peace of Mr. Richardson that
Mozart and Haydn have departed
this life. We remember, when a
boy, long before we had made more

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

153

dun a child's acquaintance with
the modem " Masses," squeezing
the Kyri€ BUison after this fashion
on the framework of one of De
Bcriot s celebrated airs for violin
and piano, and gave ourselves as
much credit for the originality of the
** adaptation " as we are willing to
^vc to the roan who first of all (to
the misfortune of true church
chant) tried to compose a musical
theme for the same words of pray-
er. We refer our readers to the
late paper on" Church Music " in the
August and September numbers of
this magazine, and to the transla-
tion of the Gloria in Excel sis of
Mozart's Twelfth Mass, as given in
one of our former articles, as proofs
of the perfectly outrageous extent
to which this " adaptation " has al-
ready been carried.

Now, we affirm, as a principle,
that the expression of the " Prayer
of sacrifice and of praise," as we
may tenn the Holy Mass and the
recitation of the Divine Office,
^ould be consonant with, and con-
fonncd to, the manner in which
the church directs the celebration
of the acts of the same. The cele-
brant and his ministers, the acolytes
and the chorus, do not march, halt,
turn about, or otherwise conduct
themselves like soldiers or like
puppets on wires, neither do they
hop and glide and go through set
figiircs like dancers. Melody in
measure is therefore wholly unsuit-
cd to the character and spirit of
the acts of the performers.

In connection with the acts of
Catholic worship, melody in mea-
stirc is therefore incongruous, un-
njcaning, and absurd. For, to put
the question plainly, if neither cele-
brant, ministers, chorus, nor peo-
ple are to march — to do which,
even in her sacred processions,
would be shocking and profane —

why sing a march ? If they are not
to waltz, why sing one? If the
church does not want to

** Make the soul dance a jig to hearen,**

then, in the name of common
sense, why shall Master Haydn
be permitted to offer the church
singers a musical jig? The truth
of the matter is that such measured
movements, added to the gymnastic
feats of melody which characterize
the phrasing of the greater number
of modern " Masses," are ignorant-
ly supposed to faithfully express that
Christian joy and triumph which
plain chant is quite as ignorantly
supposed to be unable to inspire.

Let any one examine the church's
chant, and especially its movement,
and he will not fail to be struck
with its remarkable consonance
with, and the sense of exact pro-
priety of, its accompaniment to the
movements and demeanor of the
sacred ministers and of all who are
appointed to assist them in carrying
out the sacred functions of divine
worship. How majestic and digni-
fied, how modest and devout, are its
measures ! A sort of continuous
procession of sound, resembling
now the deep murmurings of the
waves of the ocean, now the gentle
breathings of the wind, now the pro-
longed echoes of distant thunder,
now the soft whispering of the
woods in summer! Always grave
and decorous in its phrasing.
Never indulging in trivial antics
or in meretricious languishing and
voluptuous undulations. Time
and arithmetical measures do not
straiten and confine its heavenly
inspirations, for the thoughts of the
soul, and chiefly the thoughts of
prayer, do not move like clock-
work. One does not adore five
minutes, propitiate two minutes,
supplicate half a minute, and give

154

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

thanks ten seconds ; and to do either
in I J or I time would be the height
of the ridiculous. A friend tells us
that ihe only time he ever had to do
either at High Mass was during the
performance of that part of the score
called ^^ point (Torgtie" Is it any
wonder that music for the church is
a failure, and that plain chant still
holds its own ?

Secondly, The melody of mod-
em music is essentially mechanical.
Formed as it has been upon improv-
ed instrumentation, it is neither
more nor less than a musical per-
formance. The melody is therefore
the chief thing ; the words and their
expression are only secondary.
From which, as a necessary result —
if the music be worth listening to —
,the most accomplished vocalists
that the pecuniary resources of the
church can procure are called in
to render the selections. Hence,
also, the introduction of women
into the choir, contrary to the laws
and traditions of the church, the
banishment of the chorus from the
sanctuary, and the erection of the
detestable Protestant singing-gal-
lery over the doorway of the church.
This latter flagrant innovation on
the proper rubrical disposition of
the cl)oir has been lately specially
condemned in the " Instructions "
of the cardinal vicar at Rome.
No one surely will have the har-
dihood to call modern music an
" ecclesiastical song," as it should
be called or it has no place in the
church. It is the song of profes-
sional singers, distinctly a mechani-
cal performance, and . open, without
the possibility of reform, to the
most shocking abuses. What or-
ganist cannot recall instances
in which the male and female
singers carried on and perfected
their courtship in the choir, and
where in the same holy (?) place

eating and drinking were indulged
in during the sermon, and the daily
newspapers read 1 The drinking
of water or the chewing of tfr
bacco — well, we would like to sec
the priest who has been able to
banish either from his singing*
gallery. These and other nume*
rous irregularities we think ourselves
fully justified in adducing as ar»
gument in this connection, simpljr
because they exists are common^ notori-
ous^ and are a tolerated incumbrance
with the mechanism ; and, if effec-
tually banished, would leave the
said mechanism subject to no little
friction and the production of tones
of complaint which, whether they '
proceed from unoiled hinges or
choirs, are not agreeable, consider-
ed as music.

Compare, again, the character and
movement of those upon whom the
ceremonies devolve. They are not
at all mechanical, but strictly per-
sonal. In the first place, the actds
are of a restricted class. They
must be either men or boys. Wo-
men and girls are not permitted to
celebrate or serve in any capacity
at the sacred functions. The ser-
vices of a graceful and intelligent
acolyte are exceedingly pleasant
and edifying to behold, but the
stupidest and most awkward, blun-
dering and unkempt boy would be
preferable, and must be preferred,
before any number of the bright-
est, most beautiful and quick-wit-
ted girls, because he alone possesses
the one personal qualification re-
quisite for that office — he is of
the male sex. Intelligence, beauty,
and graceful manners are not em-
ployed by the church for their own
sake.

Again, the celebrant must be a
priest, the deacon must have re-
ceived deacon's orders, and all
others who, although laymen, may,

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

155

as acolytes and choristers, aid the
caasec rated personages in their
duties, are invested with a quasi-
ecclesiastical character while in of-
fice. No one should ever dream of
engaging the ser\'ices of Jews, Pro
testants, or infidels, or even of Ca-
tholics whose lives were notoriously
bad, or who scandalously neglected
receiving the sacraments, as our*
" gallery-choirs " are constituted in
many a church in this country.

In the event of the priest not
been able to sing, through any in-
firmity, no layman of the congrega-
tion could take his place, although
he were the finest singer in the
world, the very prince of cceremo-
Kt'jn'i, and a greater saint than S.
Peter himself.

From which considerations it
will readily be seen how unsuited
lausic is for the use of such per-
sons acting in such a capacity.

Practically, music is the song of
women. We shall show further
on that it is essentially effeminate.
There is music which men and
boys can perform, it is true, but it
IS not the genuine article. The
waat of the female voice for the so-
prino is always felt; and in some
I ountries where women are not yet
admitted as church singers, and
"church music" is highly prized,
lUis want is supplied by casiraii.
It is not the song of ecclesiastics.
That the use of it is tolerated^ we
Lnow; that the singing of w^omen
ind casiraii in church is also tol-
erated, we know ; but the " Instruc-
tions " (we guarantee that nineteen
jut of twenty would agree with
as in saying that " Restrictions "
would be their better title) of the
cardinal vicar on "church music,"
referred to by the writer of the late
irticles on that subject in The
Catholic World, remind us of
the probable " instructions " that

would be given if the abuse of
female acolytes were to creep in to
any great extent. We would find,
without doubt, prohibitions against
the wearing of the hair in curls, or
frisie^ or i la Pompadour, short
sleeves, low necks, and crinoline.
They would be instructed also,
without doubt, to wear a plain
black cassock and linen surplice,
be shod like men, and let not their
courtesies savor of the dib(ii of ac-
tresses upon the stage of a theatre.
If these instructions would be faith-
fully observed ex animoy and boys
were not extinct as a sex in the
congregation, we do not think they
would very long have any practi-
cal application.

Contrast now the character of
plain chant with music as a suit-
able song for the duly - qualified
church singers, from the priesf
down to the humblest cantor. That
it is the only song fit for the conse-
crated priest needs no argument.
Thonk God, there is no "tolera-
tion *' of " priests* music," " sa-
cerdotal solos," " Prefaces," and
"Pater Nosters," <i la Mozart,
Haydn, Cherubini, or Peters ! It
is distinguished especially by that
gravity of movement, that modes-
tie ecclesiasiiquey in its intonation,
which becomes the sacerdotal char-
acter. Any other melody from the
mouth of a priest at the altar would
scandalize not only the least ones
of the brethren of Christ, but the
greatest also ; and however terrible
the " woe " our Lord would pro-
nounce upon those who might scan-
dalize the latter, we are not left in
ignorance of what is reserved for
those who fall under his judgment
for scandalizing the former. Any
one who has had the good fortune
of assisting at a Mass chanted by
a properly vested chorus, in strict
Gregorian melody, with organ ac-

x$6

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

companiment, if you will — that is,
nothing more than an accompani-
ment, as the cardinal vicar de-
sires — will assuredly bear testi-
mony that it was not a musical per-
formance — that is, a melodious con-
cert performed for its own sake in
any degree — but a religious perfor-
mance, a chant of priests and the
" likes of them," suggesting nothing
of this world's vanities or luxury,
and as unlike modern music and
its mechanism as the melodious
whisperings of an aeolian harp are
unlike a hand-organ with monkey
obbligato.

What is, to say the least, astonish-
ing, if not lamentable, is to see so
many priests devoted with ardor to
the study of music, and so many
more sanctioning and furthering its
inroads upon the domain which it
behooves them to cultivate, whilst
remaining wholly ignorant of the
chant, and unable to intone the
Gloria tn Excelsis or to sing a Col-
lect or Gospel without blundering
at every inflection. We see no im-
propriety in pressing these facts
home upon those who are bound by
the laws of their profession to inte-
rest themselves in the claims which
Gregorian chant makes upon them,
in order that they may decently
perform the sacred functions com-
mitted to their care — how sacred
one single reflection will show. For
what is the song of the priest ? It
is not a private performance of his
own, but rather an inspired ex-
pression of the mind of the church,
herself the divine voice of God.
When she prays and sings, she
prays a divine ^>rayer, and sings a
divine song. God prays and sings
within the walls of the church, the
New Jerusalem, which has come
down like a bride out of heaven
upon the earth. True, it is the
priest who prays and sings ; but let

him not forget that there is a Voice
of supplication which ascends to
the throne of the Almighty and
Eternal Majesty that is not his, and
a song which sounds sweetly in the
ears of the Divine Mercy, and celc*
brates the praises of the Most High,
whose melody is not the inspiration
of his soul.

The Divine, Incarnate Victim of
Calvary is the Suppliant, and the
Son of David and of Mary is the
Singer. And we are told—^o our
senses not deceive us } — that his
song is become extremely monoto-
nous, and burdens the ear with a
weight of sound not always toler-
able ! No, we will not allow in
excuse that this sneer of disdain
and expression of contempt is only
for the chorus, and is not meant
for the consecrated priest. There
is a divine unity and faultless har-
mony in the " prayer " of Jesus
Christ as the church utters it. It
is the seamless garment which
clothes his mystic body ; who shall
dare to rend it ?

What master - mind conceived
and executed the magnificent and
inimitable spectacle which that
prayer presents in a sDlemn Mass
and Vespers to the minds and
hearts of devout worshippers?
What cunning artificer devised the
harmony of a composition so com-
plete.^ Who breathed into all
those prayers and anthems, hymns
and psalms. Epistles and Gospels
from Holy ^<^it, that spirit of devo-
tion and piety, and informed them
with those lessons of the purest
morality and professions of the
universal faith of Christendom?
What more than angelic Artist knevr
how to dye the martyr's chasuble
in blood, and transfer the spotless
purity of the lily to the stole of the
confessor and the virgin ; to weave
the robes of penance with the vio-

A Vision.

157

lets mournful hue, and paint the
\*crdure of the grass upon the ferial
v-esture? Who is that heavenly
Musician whose soul gave birth to
that sweet, intellectual, majestic me-
lody espoused so happily to those
chosen words of devout contem-
plation, of lofty praise, of innocent
joy, of dolorous compassion, and
of sanctified sorrow? We must
look to other sources than mere
human science or artistic skill for a
solution of these questions. The
mind and hand of a divine Artist
must be in that work whose unity
and harmony the hand of man will
not sooner or later disfigure, muti-
late, reject, or destroy. That artist
t* the Holy Ghost, who is the Lord
and Life-giver of the church, in
whom the mystic life of Jesus
Christ is perpetuated by the like
ineffable overshadowing which

wrought his conception in the
womb of the Immaculate Virgin —
that Spirit of wisdom, from whom
come all those inspirations of
genius whose matchless produc-
tions and marvellous power are
the wonder of the world, the envy
of the flesh, and the hate of the
devil.

But, no; we must believe that
the divine Artist has failed, " con-
fessedly " failed, in this one of his
masterpieces. Its noblest, highest
purpose found no adequate expres-
sion. Jesus Christ has been un-
able to manifest the joy and tri-
umph of his Sacred Heart, the sub-
limest purpose of his cucharistic
life, and his song is fit only to be
chanted as a-r.-.-il over the dead or
as groans of penance in sackcloth
and ashes !

Do you believe it.^ We don't.

TO BB CONCLUDED NEXT MONTR.

A VISION.

A VISION of our Mary, heavenly Queen,

Appeared to me in silence of the night.

Around her flowed a stream of golden light
In which she stood with sweet, celestial mien
And beauty but before by angels seen.

With raptuie I beheld the blessed sight.

That beamed upon pie ravishingly bright ;
And while entranced, methought her eyes serene

Did rest upon me, and a holy spell
My being thrilled with ecstasy unknown ;

But darkness soon upon my senses fell,
Though not before the bliss and joy were shown

That those enjoy who with her ever dwell
In life eternal round the holy throne.

158

On the Wing.

ON THE WING.

A SOUTHERN FLIGHT.

CONCLUDBD.

VII.

"I WISH you and Mary would
go down to the Veraons, Jane,*'
jaid Frank, coming into our room
one morning about three weeks af-
ter my engagement with Don Emi-
dio. " I did not see Ida; but Eli-
zabeth tells me she is not well, and
I believe it all arises from the an-
noyances to which they have been
exposed through the conduct of the
Casinelli. It has grown into a
complete persecution, for people
never forgive those they have in-
jured."

"What are they doing now to
vex Ida?'* asked Mary.

" I do not understand all the
pros and cons of the matter; but
I found Elizabeth rather anxious
about Ida, and she could not leave
her to walk with me, as she had
promised last night."

That, of course, was a very seri-
ous affair, and one which demand-
ed immediate rectification, at least
in Frank's opinion^— as any similar
event would have done in the esti-
mation of the other gentleman who
so often formed one of our small
circle ; for I had long since found
out that I was not to be allowed
the privilege of a headache, or any
other excuse for solitude, without a
rigorous investigation of the merits
of the case being set on foot by
Don Emidio.

Of course Mary and I lost no
time in going to Villa Casinelli. We
took the path that had been cleared

through the vineyard, on purpose
to save Mary the fatigue of the
longer way by the road. The
vigneroli had taken great pains ta
make this little approach for the
"padre's friends," as we were al-
ways called ; and they had thrown
a plank with a fragile hand-rail
across the little, rocky stream
where they washed the clothes, and
which stream formed the boundary
between the property of the Casi-
nelli and that of their neighbors.
For a short walk it was nevertheless
rather a fatiguing one; for it was
up and down all the way, and in-
cluded one or two short flights of
stone steps.

In the early spring the yellow
oxalis had covered the ground like
a carpet embroidered in gold and
green. Now the beans had taken
the place of the gayer blossoms, and
filled the air with their sweet per-
fume.

The donkey that took the cart
full of clean linen twice a week to
Naples had his cU fresco stable be-
neath the shade of a venerable fig-
tree close by — a blessing promised
to his betters in Biblical times, and
one which I am sure he too merited
in his degree, and I have no doubt
considered the fig-tree as his own.
Being noisy and loquacious, like all
other two or four legged creatures
in Naples, he always greeted us
with a loud bray when we passed by.

I do not believe any donkey was

On the Wing.

159

CTcr so fond of expressing his opin-
ions as that particular animal. I
had for some time tried to discover
whether his utterances predicted
rain, according to the general be-
lief that asses bray when it is going
to be wet. But not a cloud could
be seen, and no rain fell for weeks ;
and certainly this particular ass
was by no means barometrical in
hi* utterances.

I sometimes had my fears that, as
formerly it had been Paolino's duty
to feed the poor beast, and that
now the lad was in our service, per-
haps the fodder was sometimes for-
gotten by his young master's young-
er sisters, and that the loud, inhar-
monious greeting he gave us was
meant as a perpetual protest against
the injustice of which we were in-
directly the cause.

We found Ida suffering from ner-
vous reaction occasioned by the ef-
fort to appear cheerful andcom-
{tosed under the various annoy-
ances, and by the feeling that a
good work had been put an end to
t>y the malice of designing people.
In addition to which, her mother
was exposed to a variety of irritat-
ing insults which it was hard for
her daughters to bear in patience.
Mn. Vernon was exceedingly fond
of 6owers, and thoroughly under-
stood the cultivation of a garden.
She had taken great pains with the
very small enclosure which was
allotted to their apartment, and
from it the altar and their own
rooms had been supplied in abun-
dance. But now, no matter how
early in the morning she visited
her garden, the Casinelli's gardener
had always the advantage of her,
and had picked not only the best
flowers, but even the strawberries,
which she had been watching with
the kind intention of giving them
to us. He plainly told her one

day, when he met her as he came
out of her garden with a basketful
of her flowers on his arm, that he
had gathered them by his mistress*
special desire. These things were
trifles in themselves ; but they were
a severe trial when they came to be
repeated day by day, in one form .
or another of petty insult and dar-
ing impertinence, and generally di-
rected either against Padre Cataldo,
who could not revenge his own cause,
or against an aged lady in the en-
joyment of her few pleasures, or,
lastly, in attacking the moral char-
acter of the servants, and trying to
spread about unfounded accusa-
tions. Ida's strong sense of justice,
which amounted to a passion, and
which made it intolerable to her
to see the weak "put upon," had
worked her up into a state of nerves
injurious to her health. Mary and
I spent the day with the Vernons,
trying to divert their thoughts, and
preaching that patience which we
were far from feeling ourseWes.

About the time that these trou-
blesome events were occurring we
made an excursion to the Carthu-
sian church and monastery of San
Martino, which stands on the same
summit as the Castle of St. Elmo, a
little in front of it, and facing the
bay. It commands a glorious view
of the city and all the surrounding
country ; and the delight of visit-
ing so beautiful a place tempered
my indignation at the robbery of
the government in depriving the
monks of their home. Few things
of the kind can be more beautiful
than the church, where formerly no
woman entered. The walls, floor,
and roof are entirely composed of
marbles of many colors. The altar-
rails, or rather the low screen which
cuts off the sanctuary — for rails
there are none — is sculptured a
jour in white marble, and looks

i6g

On the Wing.

like some exquisite lace-work. The
choir behind the altar has also a
marble screen of the same wonder-
ful open work. There are pictures
by Spagnoletto of Moses and Elias
and the prophets. Nothing could
be more appropriate to the austere
life of a Carthusian monk than that
the chapel of his monastery should
be decorated by such an artist as
Spagnoletto. Nor is the choice of
subjects less appropriate. Strength
and depth of coloring; the expres-
sion of masculine force in all the
forms; bold outlines, deep sha-
dows, and strong lights, seem all
in harmony with the condition of
mind likely to be eliminated by
a life of silence and real, though
not apparent, solitude; for the
monks, though many, dwelt alone in
separate cells. It was a life which
called to mind the stern grandeur
of Old Testament prophecies and
the ascetic life of the Old Testa-
ment prophets; while the rich-
ness of the decoration ; the elabo-
rate carving — not in a friable mate-
rial, such as wood, but in enduring
marble; the extraordinarily lavish
use of precious stones ; the minute-
ness of detail, combined with the
unity of plan, are just the charac-
teristics that we should expect to
grow out of the leisure of perpetual
silence, and the digging deep down
into the mines of thought conse-
quent on all biit unbroken solitude.
It was impossible not to be struck
with the whole as the outward
growth of the peculiar inner life of
the remarkable order to which it
had once belonged ; and one mar-
vels to find that the extraordi-
nary degree and nature of the beau-
ty it possesses had not addressed
itself to the common sense of even
a godless government as a plea for
its continued existence in the
hands of those for whom it had

been reared. It should also be re-
membered that connected with this
life of leisurely meditation there
were great opportunities for deep
and continued study; for the Car-
thusians are a learned order.

I may perhaps be fanciful in thus
tracing the character of the edifice
to the tendencies of the order, for
it must be owned that the present
building dates no further back than
the middle of the XVlIth century,
and that S. Bruno, the founder of
the order, probably never foresaw
so magnificent an abode for his
silent disciples. But those who
have observed how, unless thwarted
by unfavorable circumstances, every
religious order in the church stamp*
its character upon all that pertaias
to it, will feel that there must haire
existed a synthesis between the in*
habitants of San Martino and the
place itself, and that the white-robed
Carthusians were in the very home
which was specially appropriate to
them, and in all ways suited their
devotional and intellectual tenden-
cies. And in proof of the above
reflections it is well to remark that
the beautiful pavement of the
church was designed by a Carthu-
sian. We had of course been ac-
quainted with many of the valuable
paintings in the monastery, so far ■
as engravings could make us so,
and thus we hailed the Deposition
from the Cross, by Spagnoletto,
which is in the sacristy, as an old
friend, also the Baptism of our
Lord, by Carlo Maratta, and many
of Vaccaro's and Cesari*s paintings.
The sacristy and the chapter-
house are equally full of valuable
pictures. It is impossible to exag-
gerate what must ever be the refin-
ing and elevating influence of such
treasures of art, and such harmony
and beauty, combined with a reli-
gious vocation of the highest order,

On the Wing.

i6i

he^tened by the practice of sU
l«nce and fostered by solitude.

The cloister breathes the very
jpirit of peace. The white-marble
Doric columns gleam in the sun-
shine, and cut the tessellated pave-
ment with the black shadows of their
shafts, carrying them up the white
vail with the arches of intense
light between. I can imagine the
monks learning to know the exact
hour of the day by the fall of those
shadows without needing to consult
the old clock, also with a glaring
white face, which is just below the
little belfry with its two bells, one
large, one small, that the deep-ton-
ed toll of one or the sharp, quick
tinkle of the other might denote the
vinous offices and duties to which
they sununoned the inmates. The
cloister court is laid out with for-
ntal box-hedges enclosing little
plots of garden ground, and one
garden more precious than the
oihers, Gottesacker^ where are sown
the mortal remains of the de-
puted brethren, awaiting in the
Daidst of their survivors and suc-
cessors the day-dawn of immortali-
tj. There is an iron cross in the
centre on a twisted white-marble
pilaster. And the oblong square
of this interesting cemetery is sur-
rounded by a white-marble balus-
trade, with skulls carved at inter-
1^^. In the centre of the court is
i marble well of singularly grace-
ful proportions. Around it is a
pavement of bricks symmetrically
arranged, but now with the blades
^^ p^s& and tiny weeds intruding
incir innocent familiarity where
»Hcy have no right. Statues • of
•^ts, vases and balls alteruating,
mn along the entablature of the
•■loister. We longed for a vision
^^ the old, white-robed inhabitants

* The GtranM caB a (nTejrard G<kI*» acre.
VOL, XX. — 1 1

of this white marble dwelling;
and for once I felt not the lack
of color, but, on the contrary, per-
ceived a harmony in the white and
subdued gray tints, relieved only
by the blue sky and green grass.
But when we looked out from the
loggia on the wide view beneath us,
it was not color that was wanting.
There lay Naples, with its motley
buildings, backed by purple Vesu-
vius, and the rose-colored cliffs of
Sorrento beyond. Nature had used
all the pigments of her pallet when
she painted that lovely scene.

We paid another visit to a sup-
pressed monastery — that of the
Camaldoli — ^before leaving Naples.
There is nothing very remarkable
in the building itself or in the
chapel. But the view is at once
one of the most beautiful and the
most singular I have ever beheld.
We had above an hour's ride on don-
key-back to get there ; the carriage
taking us no further than the pic-
turesque village of Antignano. The
lane up which we wound amid
young chestnut-trees, the remains
of what was once a magnificent fo-
rest, was at that tim^ in all the ver-
dant beauty of early spring. It
was a glorious day, and I ought
to have enjoyed the ride. But,
in the first place, I have a feel-
ing amounting to animosity against
a donkey the moment I have the
misfortune to find myself on his
back. I rather like him than oth-
erwise when cropping thistles by
the roadside or in a huckster's cart.
I appreciate his patient nature and
long-enduring powers when they
are unconnected with myself. But
from the moment I find myself
condemned to be carried by him —
that I feel his horrid little jogging
pace under me, and his utterly in-
sensible mouth within the influ-
ence, or I should rather say twi

l62

On the Wing.

within the influence, of my reins — a
feeling of antipathy to the beast
seizes me, and is rendered all the
more painful to me that his resig-
nation and the long history of his
habitual ill-usage fill me with an
emotion of compassion painfully at
variance with my intense dislike of
him in the character of a steed.

I do not think I ever suffered
more in this way than during our
ride to the Camaldoli. I was es-
corted by a half-drunken donkey-
boy, of the most brutal disposi-
tion towards the unfortunate ani-
mal, whom I at once hated and pit-
ied. I was furious at the way he
behaved to my donkey; while he,
not supposing I knew enough Ital-
ian to understand his abominable
paioisj kept turning all my com-
plaints and reproaches into ridicule
to the other donkey men or boys
accompanying him. I would glad-
ly have taken the stick out of his
hands with which he belabor-
ed my poor donkey. Indeed, at
last I succeeded in doing so; but
nothing short of having Emidio
with me to apply the stick to the
boy instead of the other animal
would have sufficed to soothe my
irritation. Unfortunately, my fu-
ture protector, who I felt certain
woiild punch any head I might
wish submitted to that process, had
been called away to Rome on busi-
ness.

The lane was very narrow, and,
even had it been as wide as Picca-
dilly or Broad Street, no doubt our
donkeys would equally have con-
sidered themselves bound to go in
single file. Consequently we were
not always within reach of each
other for any mutual assistance ;
and Frank, whom I longed to call
to my aid, was . altogether absorbed
in taking care of Mrs. Vernon, t«
whom this donkey-climbing of a

steep mountain-path amounted to a
perilous adventure.

Not many days after, we heard
that two or three foreign gentle-
men, making the same ascent a:^
ourselves, had been attacked and
robbed by these most obnoxious
donkey-men. I am afraid the ob-
servance of law and the moral
condition generally of little, out-
of-the-way villages like Antignano,
in the vicinity of Naples, is as bad
as it well can be at the present
time.

When we reached the summit,
on which stands the monastery, we
went at once to the ridge of the hill
to see the view ; and I have seldom
been more struck by anything of
the kind. Naples lay before us,
about fifteen hundred feet below;
but what was so unexpected was the
aspect of Mount Vesuvius, right in
front of us, and that of the Monte
Somma and a series of other moun-
tainous heights of volcanic origin ;
and far away to the Apennines, with
the wide plains and cities lying in
the bright sunshine, Caserta, Ca-
pua, and all the Campania Felix,
On the spot where we stood a line
straight from the eye would have
hit about one-third of the height of
Mount Vesuvius. To the right we
could see all the range of mountains
to Salerno and Amalfi. On the other
side were Pozzuoli, Nisita, Ischia,
and Baice. I will not multiply names,
nor will I heap up epithets in the
attempt to describe what words can-
not tell. In short, I forgot all I had
said in favor of the position former-
ly occupied by the Carthusians at
San ^artino in my enthusiasm for
the superior view once enjoyed by
the Camaldoli; and had the ques-
tion been open to me, I believe my
vocation to the latter order would
have been decided on the spot.

My donkey-boy had sobered down

On the Wing.

163

by the time I had again to trust
myself and my steed to his tender
mocics, and nothing occurred to
mar the enjoyment of our long
but interesting excursion. It must,
however, have been a far more
jeaudful place before the present
goTcmment of Italy, by permit-
ting the wholesale destruction of
the magnificent trees which for-
merly clothed the mountain's sides,
hid done so much to impair the cli-
mate as well as to destroy the beauty
cf the country. It is a fact in nat-
aril history that trees emit warmth
in winter as they produce coolness
msoramer; and consequently that
in a latitude like that of Italy they
are specially beneficial, as tending to
equalize the temperature. It is no-
torious that the climate of Italy has
become hotter in the summer, while
it is colder in the winter than was
the case formerly. The country has
ilso been subject to terrible ravages
from mountain torrents, the down-
»iid course of which was formerly
intercepted by the grand old trees
of immense forests. Their impetu-
oKty was broken and their waters
[urtially absorbed. Now they tear
duwn the barren sides of the moun-
uins unchecked, and devastate the
rliins below, to the ruin of the crops
lad consequent impoverishment of
Oic country. It is the short-sighted
tjsiom of the government to let
«liolc tracts of mountainous forest-
! ^nds. leaving the lessee the liberty
of cutting down as it may seem good
•obim; and generally he is a gree-
dy man, in a hurry to make a for-
^nc before the present r/gime shall
^tt come to an end, as it mu^ ^o
wme day.

I must not leave my readers to
appose that all our excursions and
<^«^y drives were on the grandly
*5tiiciic plan of those I have dc-
scribed. We were not always my-

thological, classical, or even early-
Christian in our researches, our
walks or drives. We went shop-
ping about the streets of Naples in
a thoroughly womanly fashion, and
condescended to red and pink co-
ral, amber and tortoise-shell orna-
ments, with a full appreciation of
their prettiness. The bracelets, ear-
rings, and brooches made out of
lava never appeared to me other-
wise than as remains of barbarism.
Much of the coral-work, though
very ingenious, is also in bad taste.
But a string of pink coral beads is al-
ways a beautiful ornament, and also
always an expensive one. Amber
abounds, not of course as a native
product, but imported from the
East. The tortoise-shell is very
delicately carved, and inlaid with
gold, and some of it is extremely
pretty. There is also a great deal
of alabaster-work in figures and
vases, whfte and colored. Neither
Mary nor I could bear it, though
we did our best to try and be tempt-
ed by a shop in the Toledo * which
was filled with it. It is always con-
nected in my mind with shell orna-
ments and wool mats. They are
things that generally seem to go
together, and equally impress me
with their uselessness and ugliness.
I must include in my list of horrors
the lava and even the terra-cotta.
figures of lazzaroni and Neapolitan
peasants. Mary was rather dis-
appointed at not finding shops of
old funiiture, and rococo. She had
collected a variety of pretty and
even valuable objects when she was
he're many years ago ; but now she
was told by the Neapolitans that
the English and Americans had
bought up all there was to be had
of that nature. No doubt, however,
we might still have found treasures

* A street of that namt*

l64

On the Wing.

had we known where to look for
them. But the days are over when
bargains could be picked up in Con-
tinental towns. All those things
have now a real marketable value,
and no venders are ignorant of
what that value is. Of course there
are occasional exceptions.

We went once to a flow6r-show
held in the Villa Reale, the beau-
tiful public promenade which runs
by the sea-shore and the Chiaia. I
believe it was the first of the kind
which had been attempted, and
as such was worthy of all praise.
But, apart from that consideration,
it was inferior to most of the numer-
ous flower-shows held in the rural
districts of England. We often
drove up and down the Chiaia,
which is the name of the fashion-
able street of Naples, and along
which there is a tan road for the
sake of horsemen, who ride back-
wards and forwards at a furious
rate. It is neither very long nor
very broad; but the gentlemen
who frequent it are evidently great-
ly impressed with their manly bear-
ing and distinguished horseman-
ship. For my own part, I prefer a
Neapolitan on the driving-box to
one in the saddle. They are ex-
cellent coachmen and but indiffer-
ent horsemen, as all men must be
who are deficient in phlegm and
in external calm. The horse is a
dignified animal, and demands
correspo'hding dignity in his rider.
We used often to stop at the caffe
in the Via Reale, and refresh our-
selves with "granite*' — that is, a
glass of snow sweetened, and ^ith
the juice of fresh lemons squeezed
into it.

As a rule, I cannot say that the
shops in Naples are particularly
good, and certainly they are very
dear. The same may be said of pro-
visions. And as the taxes are every

year on the increase, this misfortuiM
is not likely to be remedied. I fre
quently used to walk through tb<
generally narrow and always crowd
ed streets of Naples accompanied
by Frank, and as often Emidio, whc
had arranged some point of meetini
with my brother, would come dowx
from the heights of Capo di Monte
where his lovely villa stood, and }cn^
us in our saunter through the has}
city. I have seen him stop where a
piece of rope was hung near a to-
bacconist's shop-door, or at the cor-
ner of the street, and light his cigu
from the smouldering end which h^d
been set fire to for that purpose. 1
have never seen a burning rope la
the streets in England or in FraiiOQ
for the accommodation of smokers

We visited most of the churchc&
but they were as nothing to me m
ter the churches in Rome. Tm
flower-boys soon got to know us m
we walked and drove about, aad
the most lovely roses and bunches
of orange-blossoms would be press-
ed upon us for a few pence. The
boys would sometimes cling to the
carriage-door with one hand, while
the horses were going fast, implor-
ing us to buy the bouquets they
held in the other, till I used to think
they must fall and be run over.
But they are so lithe and supple,
and they seemed to bound about so
much as if they were made of in-
dia-rubber, that at last I got har-
dened, and would stand to my bar-
gain half-way down a street with-
out any apprehension for the safety
of my dark-eyed, jabbering flower-
boys. They generally addressed us
in a jargon of Italian, French, aad
^English, and as generally sold their
flowers for half the price first named

I greatly enjoyed the freedom
and absence of restraint in these
our rambles ; for, having my bro-
ther with me, I was not afraid of

On the Wing.

165

gratxfyiog my curiosity about the
manners and customs of the hura-
bkr classes. I frequently stood by
the fountains in the streets, where
the women washed the linen, and
entered into conversation with them ;
or I would buy friiiure of various
kinds (which is, in fact, fried bat-
ter, sometimes sweet, sometimes sa-
rory). I did not find it always to
ray taste, because it was made with
rancid olive-oil quite as often as
with fat But the piles of light-
brown fritters lying on the little ta-
bles in the open streets, or being
tossed about, smoking hot, in iron
pans, had a very inviting appear-
ance. Then I would get Frank to
let me have a glass of lemonade
from the pretty little booths thaf
are so numerous for the sale of that
delightful beverage, with festoons
of fresh lemons hanging from the
gsyly-painted poles. I delighted
»il the more in my freedom that I
bew, when I should be Emidio's
^c, and drive about Naples as the
CoDiessa Gandolfi, I could no long-
w expect to enjoy these privileges.
I said so one day to Emidio, when
I WIS takmg my second glass of
ktnonadc in a peculiarly dingy
lad out-of-the-way street in Naples.
He laughed at the assertion, though,
fcc did not for a moment attempt to
deny it; and meanwhile he enjoy-
ed as much as I did the absence
of all form and ceremony, which as
foreigners we could allow ourselves,
h was then that jestingly he asked
tac whether it should be put in my
toaniagc^ettlements that he was to
^kc mt, at least once, to the Festa
dl Monte Vergine. I could not
nndentand what he could possibly
"*ttn, until he explained that so
»wh is thought of this feast by the
^ttpolitan peasantry that if a girl
^ a good doty it is generally in-
*«tied in the marriage-deeds that

her husband is bound to give her
this gratification. The feast takes
place on Whit-Monday, and Emidio
assured me that my marriage-portion
was enough to entitle me to more
than one excursion to the sanctuary
of the Madonna, if such was my de-
sire. It is held at Monte Vergine,
near Avellino ; and as we had not
been able to attend it during our
stay at Posilippo, I declared that I
should expect to be taken some
day, though I declined to puzzle
our family lawyer by the introduc-
tion of so strange an article in my
marriage-settlements.

We had reserved Pompeii for
the close of our stay at Naples, be-
cause from thence we meant to go
on to Sorrento. We entered Pom-
peii by the **Sea Gate," having
left our travelling-bags and shawls
at the little hotel Diomfede — such
a grand name for such a mean, vul-
gar little place ! How full of flies
it was ! How bad was the food !
How miserable the accommodations,
with advertisements of Bass* pale
ale adorning the walls ! Nothing,
however, of the kind could diminish
the interest with which we were
about to enter the dead city of the
dead. Mary remembered having
come to this same little public-house
five-and-twenty years before. It has
been added to since then. At that
time it afforded very little refresh-
ment for either man or beast. She
had taken some tea with her, and
they accommodated her with hot
water. Milk was not to be had, so
she floated a slice of lemon in the
ted-cup, after the Russian fashion.
And all the time a handsome youth,
indifferently clad, and with the
red Phrygian cap covering his crisp
black curls, sang a native song to
the accompaniment of a small gui-
tar, and danced the while. The
cotton-plants were ready to give up

166

On the Wing.

their bursting pods of snow-white
fluff in the fields around, and the
heat was extreme. The scene had
been much less invaded in those
days by ordinary sight-seers; but
also, it must be owned, there was
less to see, as many of the most
important excavations have been
made since that date. As the heat
was very great, and as, even with-
out seeing anything like all that is
worth seeing, we could not possibly
devote less than two or three hours
to walking in those shadeless streets,
it was decided Mary and I should
be carried by the guides in open
sedan-chairs. The guides are ap-
pointed by government, and are
thoroughly well informed on the
subject, and are able to answer
most questions.

We first visited the Forum. It is,
even in its utter ruin, very impos-
ing, for it stands on rising ground,
and all the principal streets lead to
it. Several Doric columns, arches
or gateways, and the pedestals
which formerly supported statues,
remain. The Temple of Venus is
close to the Forum ; the entrance
steps are intact, and the altar stands
in front of them. Words fail me
to express the intense melancholy
of the scene, as we wandered from
Temple to Baths, and from house to
house, down the narrow streets — for
all the streets are narrow — whose
flag-stones are dentjed by the wheels
of the chariots, and have a jraised
path for foot-passengers, so high
that there are stones placed at in-
tervals to enable one to step across
the road, with a space left for the
wheels of the chariot to pass be-
tween. This was to keep the pas-
sengers from having to step into
the water which in rainy weather
must have poured down these gut-
terless streets. From the houses
being now all reduced to the ground

floor, with the exception of a fe
in which the stairs leading to th
first story and some portions of th
wall remain, it cannot be said tha
any of the streets produce at all a
imposing effect. Perhaps the ab
sence of this, except in the ruins o;
the temples and public buildings
rather adds to the pathetic sadnes
of the scene, by bringing all th«
more vividly before us the fact of
the utter and sudden destructioi
which swept away a vast city of
crowded human beings, leading th<
daily life of all of us, in a few short
hours ! We saw the casts of several
dead bodies that had been found-
one, of a man making his escape with
a sack of money ; another, of a ma-
tron with her young daughter.
What masses of hair, what round
and slender limbs, what beautiful
teeth ! It is ghastly, and yet fas-
cinating; for it seems to bridge
over so wide a gulf of time, and
by one touch of nature makes xis
akin to the ancient dead. I felt
this specially as we went down the
*^ Street of Abundance,*' as it
was named — mere dwelling-houses
and shops on either side ; a long,
ordinary street, where men came
and went in their round of every-
day life, buying and selling and
paying visits. The green lizards
ran over the whitened walls and
the small, brown-red bricks. The
sun poured down his relentless
rays from a perfectly cloudless sky.
Except ourselves and the guides,
no footsteps were heard, no sound
broke the death-like silence. And
at the far end of the " Street of
Abundance," just beyond the limits
6\ the doomed city, a solitary pine-
tree, looking like a black spot in
the white shimmer of the mid-day
heat, alone indicated a world of
nature and of life and growth be-
yond. Here is an oil-shop, full of

On the Wing.

167

tlie beaatifully-shaped, huge jars in
wbich the oil was kept. There, on
that slab of marble, are the stains
of wine. You see the oven, with
what once was soft white bread —
the real bread ; and you feel that
it might have happened a few years
ago, and that somewhere or other,
perhaps even at Naples, it might
happen again to-morrow. And two
thoughts rush in upon us, one full
of yearning pity, and one of awful
inquiry — they were our brethren,
and where arc they now ?

The first eruption of Mount Ve-
suvius occurred in the reign of the
Emperor Titus, a.d. 79. Pompeii,
Hercnianeum, and even Naples it-
self, had suffered before them from
earthquakes, and a portion of the
two first-named towns had been
laid low. But nothing had ever
happened to prepare the inhabi-
tants for the terrible calamity which
^»as about to befall them, when, in
their villa at Misenum, the younger
Fliny's mother called the attention
of Pliny the elder to the cloud, in
the form of a pine-tree, which she
Jaw rising up into the heavens.
When she did so, she did not even
Ww that it was from Vesuvius
that the cloud ascended. Pliny
the elder invited his nephew, then
pDly eighteen, to accompany him
in his galley to Retinae, a town on
the coast, whither he intended to go,
with the idea that the people might
^ in distress. But so little was
*oy one prepared for what was
really about to occur that young
Winy did not even lay aside his
^olumc of Livy which he was read-
ing; while his uncle took his tab-
lets in his hand, that he might ndte
^^'^ the curious phenomena he
'^ about to investigate, and left
the house to go on board. It was
with great difficulty and at im-
'fttn^c risk that he effected a land-

ing and made his way to Stabiae,
near Pompeii, where dwelt his
friend Pomponianus. In attempt-
ing to escape from thence in the
night, he was suffocated by the
noxious vapors that accompanied
the eruption. It would seem that
young Pliny continued his study
for some hours, never realizing
what an awful tragedy was going
on beyond the Bay of Naples.
There had been shocks of earth-
quake for some days previous, but
these were not unusual occurren-
ces, and therefore excited but little
alarm, until they became so violent
as to threaten utter destructioi:
through the night. He seems to
have been seriously frightened
about the same time as his mother;
for each had risen with the inten-
tion of calling the other. By this
time the air was black with fall-
ing ashes, and the morning light
could scarcely penetrate the gloom.
Pliny would not leave his mother,
while she, being aged and very
heavy, feared she should not be
able to follow him, and implored
him to go away without her, which
he would not do. They escaped to-
gether into the country, in danger
of being trodden down by the
crowds of flying people, and of be-
ing smothered by the falling ashes.
The day was spent in agony and
terror, and all but total darkness.
But that nighj they were able to
return to Misenum, though not to
enjoy much repose, as the shocks of
earthquake still continued. Then
the young Pliny learnt that his
imcle, whom he had, happily for
himself, declined to accompany,
had perished. This eruption did
not resemble the more recent oneS,
inasmuch as no lava poured from
the mountain, but burning stones
of enormous size, and ashes, to-
gether with volumes of steam, which

168

On the Wing.

poured down in torrents of water,
filled with ashes, upon the earth
beneath. The shape of the moun-
tain was altered entirely by this
eruption, as it has been in a much
less degree by that which occur-
red in April, 1872, and which our
friends, the Vemons, had witnessed.
The Neapolitans firmly believe that
their city will ultimately perish as
Pompeii has perished; and proba-
bly science is still unable to prog-
nosticate whether the awful moun-
tain has or has not too far exhaust-
ed its volcanic powers to produce a
second destruction as terrible as
that which Pliny has described with
such accurate detail, and yet in so
calm and un impassioned a style.

Sensational writing is a discovery
of modem times. We exhaust our
subject in describing it diffusely
and minutely. But nevertheless
the scene Pliny's letters call up be-
fore our imagination — the young lad
poring over his book in company
with his devoted mother, and the
brave and learned elder Pliny calm-
ly setting sail, tablets in hand, to
study the scene, and to assist those
in danger, and then perishing in
the attempt — is as replete with pa-
thos and human feeling as language
can make it. It is full of a Ian*
guage not put into words.

On the afternoon of the day wc
visited Pompeii we drove to Sorren-
to, and took up our abode dt a quiet
little pension recently established,
and literally hidden amongst orange-
groves. There was a small chapel
close by. Our rooms were bright
and clean, and the greater part of the
time we had the house entirely to
ourselves.

Let no one presume he knows
the beauty of Italy who has not
visited Sorrento. Can anything be
more lovely than the approach to
Vico, Meta, and Sant' Angelo, and

the aspect of these little toipms
nestling amid gardens, with their
feet in the blue ripples of that tide-
less sea?

The Sorrentines are a difierent
race from the Neapolitans, and no
love is lost between them. Xhey
are a more reserved and more dig*
nified people. They make less
noise, and are not so excitable.
The land they live on is not vol-
canic, the vegetation is more luxu*
riant, and the people are more
pastoral in their habits. The air
is softer and less exciting than at
Naples. Mary and I felt as if ire
had drifted into the land " where it
is always afternoon," and a lotos-
eating calm and serenity seemed to
come over us — a pleasant change
after the nervous tension which
Naples produces, and which is sin-
gularly inimical to sleep.

Every description of food is bet-
ter at Sorrento than it is at Naples.
Sorrento beef is excellent, and Sor-
rento pigs have a world-wide repu-
tation for making good pork, though
they are ugly animals to look at,
having large, fiabby, white bodies
on tall, thin, greyhound legs, and
very large, pink ears. Naples seems
never at any time to have been well
famed for producing good food.

Nearly all Cicero's letters to Pa-
pirius Psetus contain allusions to
eating and drinking, and in one be
says : ** It is a better thing, let me
tell you, to be sick with good eat-
ing at Rome, than for want of vic-
tuals at Naples."

When he was thinking of buying
Sylla's house at Naples, he asks Pae-
tus to take some workmen to survey
it for him, saying : '* If the walls ^d
roof are in good repair, I shall
perfectly well approve of the rest"
** If I can procure a house at Naples,
it is my purpose to live so abstemi-
ously that what our late sumptuary

On the Wing.

169

liv aOows for one day's expense
sball suffice me ten.*' This last
sentence, when coupled with that
quoted from the other letter, looks
ruber like making a virtue of ne-
cessity. The marvel is that the
Naples noarket is not more abun-
dantly provided with Sorrento pro-
duce. The fruit is very good;
and we all agreed we had never
known the real merit of cherries
until we bad eaten them at Sorren-
to, and even better still at CaprL
In our own land, in France, and
even in cherry-loving Germany, I
had always considered them as a
Tcry poor fruit, unless cooked or
preserved. But I entertained a
very different opinion of them when
I had feasted on them in the South
of Italy. They are as different as
the fresh oranges, picked from the
tree, are from those that have been
phicked while green, and have ri-
pened in a box during a long voy-

I never cared for cherries in Eng-
ird. I used to believe in oranges
« I found them in the fruiterers*
«^)s. But now they appear to
me a snare and a delusion when
ttten in the north.

^Ticn we arrived at Sorrento, the
Empress of Russia and her daugh-
ter, the grand duchess, were still
there. We met them driving just
w we entered the town, and of
course looked eagerly at her who was
JO loon to become our own Duch-
es» of Edinburgh, and were charm-
ed with her amiable and youthful
expression, and with the pretty
^ile with which she returned our
|>ow. They were to leave Sorrento
in 1 very few .days. The yacht was
already moored close to the cliffs,
'waiting them. The empress shed
tein, as the people crowded round
to sec her embark and wished her
Jewell in their own graceful way

and soft language. She said she
had grown to love Sorrento and
its inhabitants more than she
could express, and that she should
always hope some day to return
amongst them.

The house in which Tasso was
bom is now converted into a hotel,
much to the detriment of all poetic
sentiment.

Nothing can be more lovely
than the neighborhood of Sorrento,
though a great deal is unapproach-
able, except on horseback, don-
keys, or mules ; and much more is
equally so for all but very vigorous
pedestrians. We went more than
once to the small, picturesque town
of Massa, at the extreme point of
the Peninsula. We visited II De-
serto, the name given to a Francis-
can monastery situated on the top
of a somewhat barren hill, and
which commands a magnificent
view. We found only a few lay
brothers at home, and about half
a dozen orphan boys, who were
there by way of learning the art of
agriculture. The land around the
monastery was mostly barren, and
to the left was covered with brush-
wood. No agriculture was there,
at any rate. There was a large gar-
den enclosed within walls ; and as
the small agricultural were in it, I
hoped to see some evidence of their
labors. I am bound, however, to
speak the truth, much as it tells
against the expectations of Sorrento
with regard to the future tillers of the
soil, as also, which is worse, against
the efficiency of the Franciscan
instructors in this particular case.
The garden was quite full of
weeds. I scarcely saw a vegetable
or plant of any kind likely to prove
edible to anybody except our don-
keys ; but for them there was hope,
as thistles abounded. The juvenile
agriculturists were by no means

I/O

On the Wing.

usefully engaged, but were listlessly
roving about, doing nothing in
particular. * They looked bored ;
and I could not wonder at it.
Certainly, the orphans learned
no agriculture, and I doubt if
either the fathers or lay brothers
can teach it. It is to be hoped
that at least they learn something
else.

One bright morning we resolved
on a trip to Capri. We chartered
a- boat, a man, and two boys, the
party consisting of Ida and Eliza-
beth Vernon, Mary, and me. The
wind was not altogether in our fa-
vor, and our three sailors had hard
work to row us. Nothing can well
be more beautiful than the line of
coast, with picturesque ruins, deep
sea-caves, varied rocks, and green
slopes down to the water's edge.
We had resolved to spend one
night at Capri, and intended visit-
ing the Blue Grotto the next day.
But the wind was blowing fresh,
and it seemed but too probable
that, if we did not accomplish our
visit at once, we might miss it al-
together. Our boatmen made no
objection to this addition to our
original bargain, and we soon
found ourselves rowing up to an
entrance into the rock that did not
present a different appearance to
many other such small, slit-like fis-
sures and holes, some of which
had been pointed out to us as the
3irens* caves. We found two boats
moored to the rock ; one was empty,
and in the other was a lad.

We were given to understand
that only two of us at a time could
enter the mysterious cave, and that
our boat was a great deal too large
to pass through that low, dark hole
in the rock which the restless blue
sea was lapping incessantly with a
rapidity of motion that seemed to be
momentarily on the increase. We

were moreover told that il tfecchio *
was inside — a piece of information
which, conveying no express ideas
to my mind, awoke a vague appre-
hension that perhaps I might have
touched on the abode of the Old
Man of the Sea — a prospect not
altogether desirable. There was a
great question who was to enter the
little boat and first* encounter the
passage and the old man. Ida and
Elizabeth refused to be separated,
and Mary, with an exclamation —
something about being responsible
to their mother for their safety — saw
them embark with a pang. In an
instant, obedient to- the sailor lad's
injunctions, they both disappear-
ed, lying, flat down at the bottom
of the boat. The sailor gave one
vigorous stroke of his oar, ducked
down himself, and the boat was
sucked into the awful cavern be-
tween the heaving sea and the low
arch. Mary and I sat silent. Of
course we knew there was no dan-
ger. It was what everybody did,
and there could be nothing to ap-
prehend ; nevertheless, I am free to
acknowledge that those twenty min-
utes, during which we were as much
shut out from all sight and sound
of them as if they were gone to the
bottom, while the treacherous waves
slapped and lapped the rock like
some hungry live thing, and in so
doing almost closed the orifice
through which the boat had disap-
peared, were not by any means
minutes of absolute serenity to our
nerves. Presently, however, the
prow of the little boat reappeared,
and in a second up jumped Ida
and Elizabeth like Jack in the
box.

" Well ! " we both exclaimed.

"Oh! it is beautiful. Make
haste ! "

•TlMOldBMB.

On the Wiitg.

" And the old man ? " said I
dabiously.

"Oh! yes, he is there," was the
only reply, and no more satisfacto-
ry than my previous information.

Of course Mary and I, on getting
into the boat, made ourselves as flat
as we could at the bottom of it;
and suddenly a heaving of the sea
shot us into the grotto. Instantly
I forgot the old man and every-
thing else in the marvellous beauty
of the scene around me. The sides
of the cave, one or two large shelv-
ing rocks, and the roof were per-
fectly blue. The very air seemed
blue. The water itself was ultrama-
rine. I dipped in my hand, and
instantly it shone and flashed
like brilliant silver. We approach-
ed one of the large rocks where
there is a landing-place. On it I
beheld some strange, dark object.
Suddenly the object leaped into the
blue water, and was transfigured
before my eyes into a huge silver
frog, swimming about in all direc-
tions with a white head above the
«^ter. It was my much-dreaded
old roan ; and certainly the result,
in point of color and brilliancy,
of the disporting of this venerable
indiridual in the blue water, which
converted him into sparkling silver,
was very remarkable. But it is not
often given, to female eyes at least,
to behold a mortal swimming close
to her, and to notice the peculiar-
ly frog-Uke and ungraceful action
vhich swimming necessitates, and
which is heightened by the apparent
foreshortening of the Hmbs from
the refraction of the light in the
water. It suddenly flashed upon
ne: was it thus that Hero saw
Leandcr.' — minus the silver of
coarse. Poor Hero! The silver
frog croaked an indescribable patois^
calling our attention vociferously
to his own extraordipary brillian-

cy. At length we entreated him
to spare his aged limbs any more
aquatic gymnastics, and to return
to his rock ; which he did, resuming
his garments in some niche of a
darker blue than the rest.

Meanwhile, our lad had rowed
the boat close up to the other large
rock on the opposite side of the
grotto, telling us that he would
gather some coral for us. It was
getting dark, and, as we sat alone
in the boat, we could neither see
nor hear him. A deep-violet hue
began to spread over the grotto
and the water. Evening was draw-
ing near, and I began to conjure
our sole protector to leave his coral
reefs and return to the boat. Then
we ducked down once more, and,
with the edge of the boat absolutely
grating against the mouth of the
cave, we emerged into the open sea
and the fair white light of heaven.

It happened once upon a time
that some one, perhaps an ordinary
traveller, perhaps another profes-
sional and belated old man, went
into the blue grotto alone, and stay-
ed too long. The wind blew hard,
and the sea rose. For three days
no boat could pass through the
closed mouth of the cave. Happily,
his friends succeeded in floating in
a loaf of bread, which he devoured
on his solitary blue rock. I have
often wished to know the history
of those three days. Did the sirens
come and sing to him ? Did no
mermaid bear him company, or
was he left a prey to " the blue
devils"?

We had a stiff breeze as we steer-
ed our course to the Marina Pic-
cola, one of the only two landing-
places of the Island of Capri. We
determined, as we were to be there
for so short a time, to sleep at the
small inn close by, called the " Lit-
tle Tiberius,** and which we found

172

On the Wing.

comfortable, though very unassum-
ing and not quite finished. We din-
ed in the loggia^ shaded by a vine,
and they brought us cherries the size
of plums that melted like a ripe
peach, and beautiful oranges, gath-
ered with the green leaves around
them.

The only way to get about on the
little Island of Capri is on donkeys
or on foot. We chose the former,
and directed our course to where
stood the Palace of Tiberius. The
village of Anacapri is very pictu-
resque, with its narrow streets, some-
times raised a step or two, dark,
wide doorways, and domed roofs.
We went to the top of the precipi-
tous rock called " II salto di Tibe-
rio," * which falls sheer and smooth
down to the sea, without a break
save a few tufts of wild flowers, and
over which Tiberius is said to have
flung his victims, whose bodies then
floated away to the coast of Baiae.
When Augustus was dying, he said
of his successor, "I pity the Romans.
They are about to be ground be-
tween slow jaws.*' Never was the
cruelty of a coward better express-
ed than by these words.

I suppose the only history that
will ever be correctly written will
be that which will date from the
day of judgment — that day which
alone will clear up the falsehoods,
misapprehensions, and delusions
with which all history abounds, and
will leave probably only the devil as
black as he is painted, while it will
also prove that many of our angels
are fallen ones. It is always diffi-
cult, perhaps impossible, to arrive
at the secret motives of a man who
is a coward, is reserved, has a cer-
tain superficial refinement of taste
and intellect, and is cursed with ab-
solute power. Tiberius appreciat-

* Tiberias' leap.

ed the extraordinary be^
favorite Capri; and yei
there only to commit the
eous crimes in secret,
coursing on the subtleties
mar and the beauty of art
ing elegies and love songs.
ed to have no human aflfe
for the low-bom Sejan
nevertheless years aftei
accused to the Roman St
pitiful, whining letter, aiic
torn to pieces in conseqiH
always hated those who i
belonged to him, whethei
ural tie or by that of a
intimacy. He hated R
even the terror and dread
it, giving way to the longii
how far his bloody orders
ing carried out, he appro
gates. That day his p«
the friend of his bosom,
and eaten by a million \
** Multitudes are dangc
marked the sententious
and back he went to the
solitary rock at Capri.

The .same type of nui
from time to time upon tl
the earth to show us the
within itself of which, alaj
man heart is capable- Ri
was a man of affable m^n
loved flowers and kept
He had delicate white \
a simper for ever on his
In early life he wrote a
against capital punish men
his turn came to die on t
tine, he showed no fracti
courage of the younge;t an
of his many victims. He U
and cruel. There are m
but happily the outward
stances are wanting whi
develop them into the m
which, as a race, they be

We spent only a few
Salerno, just time enoug

On the Wing.

173

the tomb of the great Hildebrand,
S. Gregory VII., the little man with
a great soul, the spiritual Alexander
of the church, who, as he said him-
self, "without being allowed the
h*bcrty of speech or deliberation,
had been violently carried away and
placed on the pontifical throne";
and through volumes of intimate
and interesting letters relates his
sorrows, his anxieties, and his ef-
forts to the friend of his soul, Car-
dinal Didier, the Abbot of Monte-
Casino. In the crypt we visited
the altar and relics of S. Matthew.
The same evening we drove along
the coast to Amalfi. It was grow-
ing dark before we got there, and
I think, though no one said a word
about it till we were safe in the
Hotel of the Capuchins, we were
not altogether without some appre-
hension that the towering rocks, the
dark caves, the mountain heights,
and the thick woodlands which
filled us with admiration, did not
also suggest an unpleasant suspi-
cion of possible banditti. But here
1 stop. If Amalfi is not seen, it
may be painted ; but it cannot be
described in any words I know of
^hich will tell its beauty. The
world has naany jewels from na-
ture's casket, but few more lovely
and in more gorgeous setting than
the Lttle mediaeval town of Amalfi.
I am writing these pages in an
English village. I see a low line
0^ pale, misty hills to my left. A
venerable church tower peeps from
*niid large elms and red brick cot-
l^e chimneys. In front of my
^ garden is a green meadow.
T*l»e white butterflies are coursing
«*ch other in the noontide warmth,
*od the village children have
crowned themselves with tall paper
^ps, and are holding some jubilee
of their own, the mysteries of which
ttt undiscemable to older minds.

The clematis which climbs my
porch breathes soft, perfumed sighs
at my open window. It is pretty,
simple, homely. But between this
and the dreamlike beauty of Amalfi
there lies far more than the dis-
tance of many hundreds of miles.
There lie the yearning of the soul
for the best of God's beautiful cre-
ation — for the warmth of the sun,
that natural god of life and glad-
ness — the thirst of the artist's eye
for color, and the poet's love of
the language of song; there lie
the Catholic's hunger for the land
of faith and the longing for the re-
gions of old memories and heroic
sanctities.

Yes, I love my own pale land,
with her brief, scarce summer
smiles, her windy autumns, and
her long, fireside, wintry evenings.
But while I write it and feel it,
there comes up before my mind the
rose-tints and blue and silver spar-
kle, the golden rocks and emerald
verdure, of the land with the " fatal
gift of beauty, " and I feel my
heart sink as I recall Amalfi.

A few more days, and we had
looked our last on' Southern Italy.
There were other reasons besides
the thirst for sunshine and beauty
why our leaving Naples should prove
so sad. There was the close friend-
ship with the Vernons and Padre
Cataldo; and as regarded four
hearts, there was something more, I
suppose, than friendship.

On leaving Amalfi we only slept
one night at Naples (for Posilippo
we saw no more), and that was a
dream-tost, tearful night. We would
not suffer any of our friends to ac-
company us to the station. Public
farewells would be unbearable.

The last thing I remember, as
I drove through the hot, bright
streets teeming with life, was two
young girls with naked feet gayly

174

The Three Edens.

dancing the tarantella on the
burning pavement. Lightly, trip-
pingly* daintily they danced —
these two supple-limbed daughters
of the sunny south. How joyous,
how free from care, from after-
thought or forethought, did they
seem ! A few figs (they were just
ripe) in summer, a few chestnuts
and some yellow bread of Indian
com, are all they need for food;
and one scant frock, that hides
neither arms nor ankles, is all that
decency demands. The sun does
the rest, pouring rich color into
their veins, bright sparkles into their
eyes. And so at mid-day shall
they dance, on flags which would
scorch my northern skin, singing
the while to their own steps, un-
challenged by police, unreproach-
ed by man, and know no harm,
while we go back to our mists and

showers amidst our " advanced civ-
ilization."

While writing this my eyes rest
upon these lines : " Many take root
in this soil, and find themselves
unable to leave it again. A species
of contemplative epicurism takes
possession of them — a life freed
from all vain desires and sterile
agitation ; an ideal existence which
is shocked by no inconvenient re-
ality. Others return to their hy-
perborean country, bringing with
th^m a luminous remembrance to
light up the gray twilight of their
frozen sky for evermore; others
still have quaffed the enchantress*
charmed potion, and can no longer
' resist the gentle desires which drair
them periodically back to her."

May I also be numbered with
those who return to the southern
shores of beautiful Italy !

THE THREE EDENS.

Bloom'd the first Eden not with man alone,

But woman, equal woman, at his side.

And seemly was it when, together tried,
They fell together — for the two were one.
On Calvary stood the Mother by the Son :

New Eve with Second Adam crucified ;

And as through Eve in Adam we had died.
Through Mary was our loss in Christ undone.
Then how should not the Paradise regained

Behold its Eve beside her Ad^m throned ;
Both risen, both ascended — unprofaned

Each virginal body, by the grave disowned ?
Else had our foe his conquest half maintained,

The primal ruin been but half atoned.

Lakb Gbqxgb, Fbast op tub AssuurnoN, 1874.

A Discussion with an Infidel.

175

A DISCUSSION WITH AN INFIDEL.

XIV.
THE SEAT OF THE SOUL.

Buchfur, You will admit, I pre-
sume, that ** the brain is not merely
the organ of thought and of all the
higher mental faculties, but also the
sole and exclusive seat of the soul.
Every thought is produced in the
brain, every kind of feeling and
sensation, exertion of the will, and
voluntary motion, proceeds from it "
(P- 141).

Kta^, Not exactly "from it,"
but from the soul, as I have already
established; though certainly the
brain is instrumental in all vital
operations. As to the brain being
"the sole and exclusive " seat of
tbe soul I think that physiologists
do not agree, and that philosophers
liave something to object.

Bii(hner, It is now a recognized
inith. " It took a long time before
it was recognized, and it is even to
this day difficult for those who are
not physicians to convince them-
selves of its correctness ''(ibid)

Reader, It must be difficult in-
deed; for although we have reason
to believe that the brain is, so to
' ^y» the central telegraphic office
vlicrc every intel^ence from the
other parts of the body is received,
yet it is but natural to suppose that
tbere cannot be a central office if
there are no other offices destined
to correspond with it. On the other
^d, philosophers teach that the
^ii the form of the body ; which
""Splits that there are other parts of
^r body, besides the brain, where
tlw soul must be present.

Buchner, ** These philosophers
are a singular people. They talk
of the creation of the world as if
they had been present on the occa-
sion ; they define the Absolute as if
they had sat at its table for years ;
they babble about the nothing and
the something, the ego and non-ego,
the per se and in se^ universals and
particulars, perishability and abso-
lute existence, the unknown jc, etc.,
etc., with a confidence as if a celestial
codex had given them exact infor-
mation about all these ideas and
thii^gs, and they plaster up the
simplest notions with such a confus-
ed mass of high-sounding and learn-
ed but incomprehensible words and
phrases as to turn the head of a
rational man. But, in spite of all
this, upon their metaphysical emi-
nence they are not unfrequently so
far off from any positive knowledge
that they commit the most amusing
blunders, especially in those cases
in which philosophy and science
meet, and when the latter threatens
to destroy the results of metaphysi-
cal speculation. Thus almost all
philosophical psychologists have
struggled with rare energy against
the theory of the seat of the soul in
the brain, and continue in their op-
position Without taking the least
notice of the progress of experi-
mental science " (pp. 142, 143).

Reader. I am surprised, doctor,
at your declamation against phi-
losophers. You have no right to
denounce them either in general or
in particular. I admit that ration-
alistic philosophers richly deserve
all the contempt you can heap upon

176

A Discussion with an InfideL

them, but it is not fair in you to
attack them; for they are better
than you. To lay your own faults
on the shoulders of your opponents
is an old trick. The burglar calls
his victim a thief; designing Free-
masons always prate about Jesuiti-
cal machinations ; and writers whose
philosophical baggage is as light as
their pretensions are high inveigh
against those by whom they dread
to be exposed, refuted, and sup-
planted. Such is the case with you.
While pretending to describe others,
you have made the portrait of your-
self. It is certainly difficult to find
another man in the world who bab-
bles with as much confidence as
you do about, or rather against,
creation, the Absolute, and the un-
known .T, etc., etc. Yet your oppo-
nents are not infallible, nor do they
pretend to be ; but if they " commit
the most amusing blunders," it is
not owing to their "metaphysical
eminence," as you suppose, but
rather to their metaphysical in-
capacity. Science, you say, some-
times " threatens to destroy the re-
sults of metaphysical speculation ";
but you should have added that
metaphysical speculation oftentimes
saves science from shipwreck ; for
empiricism without philosophy is a
ship without a rudder.

You denounce your adversaries
as men Who do not take " the least
notice of the progress of experi-
mental science." This is a calumny.
In fact, you yourself inform us that
one of your adversaries is philoso-
pher Fischer, a man who not only
took notice of the progress of ex-
perimental science, but greatly
contributed to such a progress by
his own intelligent and indefatigable
labors. You cannot therefore pre-
tend that such a man lacked " posi-
tive knowledge." Now, he says:
" That the soul is immanent in the

whole nervous system is provedU as
it feels, perceives, and acts in every
part thereof. I do not feel pain in
a central part of the brain, but in a
particular spot and place."

Buchner. " An^ yet what Fischer
denies is undoubtedly the fact.
The nerves themselves do not per-
ceive ; they merely call forth sensa-
tions by conducting the impressions
received to the brain. We do not
feel pain in the place injured, but
in the brain. If a nerve of sensa-
tion be divided in its course to the
brain, all the parts which are sup-
plied by it lose their sensibility, for
no other reason than that the con-
ducting of the impression to the
brain is no longer possible. Every
man who has no knowledge of
physiological processes believes
the feeling of hunger to be in the
stomach. This is not so ; the brain
alone makes us conscious of the
feeling. If the nerve uniting brain
and stomach be divided, hunger is
at an end, nor does it return.
Neither does anger arise in the liver,
or courage in the chest, but in the
brain only" (pp. 143, 144). " Habit
and external appearance have led
to the false notion that we feel in
places subjected to external irrita-
tion. Physiology calls this relation
* the law of eccentric phenomena.*
According to it, we falsely attribute
the feeling perceived in the brain
to the place where the impression
is made. . . . Persons who have
lost their arms m legs by amputa-
tion often feel during their whole
lives, in atmospheric changes, pains
in limbs which they no longer
possess. . If all his limbs were re-
moved, man wou^d still feel them.
From these facts it can scarcely be
doubted that there must exist in
the brain a topography by means of
which the various sensations of the
different parts of the body arise.

A Discussion wit A an Infidel.

177

Ereiypart of the body which can
be sq)arately perceived must have
1 corresponding spot in the brain
which in some degree represents it
in the forum of consciousness " (pp.

Readir. This answer, doctor, is
not altogether satisfactory. " The
nerves," of course, "do not per-
rcivc." This I willingly admit;
but neither does the brain perceive ;
for it is the soul that perceives.
The nerves " merely call forth sen-
sations by conducting the impres-
lions received to the brain." This
cannot be denied ; but it does not
prove the non-existence of the soul
in the nervoas system. Suppose
that a pin or a thorn presses the
finger; before the impression can
be transmitted from the finger to
i the brain, its reception in the finger
I must give rise to a change of rela-
tion between the soul and the finger
itself; vhich would be impossible,
if the soul were not in the finger.
For, if the soul is not in the finger,
the impression nuide by the thorn
will consist of a merely mechanical
Borement; and when this move-
Bcnt b conmiunicated to the brain,
vhat sensation can be called forth ?
A sensation of pain ? No ; for
mere mechanical movement cannot
produce a sense of pain, unless it is
felt to disagree with the living
organism. Now, the pricking is
not felt to disagree with the brain,
^•Jt with the finger. It is therefore
in the finger and nof in the brain
that we feel the pain ; which shows
^ the soul really is ii) the finger,
wd in every other part of th^ body
=n which we may experience any
icnsatioQ.

Your reason for pretending that
" »e dk) not feel pain in the place

ftjoTtd, but in the brain," is quite
tiBtttisfactory. It is true that if a
r»€tTc of sensation be divided in its
VOL. XX. — 12

course to the brain, all the parts
which are supplied by it lose their
sensibility "; but what of that ?
Those parts lose their sensibility
because they lose their sensitive-
ness; that is, because the cutting
of the nerve, by impairing the body,
causes the soul t# abandon the
organic parts supplied by that
nerve. You argue that, if the soul
is not present in a given part of the
body, when the nerve has been
injured, the soul was not present in
that same part before the nerve was
injured. This inference is evident-
ly wrong. The soul informs the
organism, and any part of it, as
long as the organs are suitably dis-
posed for the vital operations, and
abandons the organism, or any part
of it, as soon as the organs have
become unfit for the vital opera-
tions. Hence, as you cannot infer
the non-existence of the soul in the
brain of a living man from the non-
existence of the same in the brain
of a corpse, so you cannot infer its
non-existence in a part of the body
before the cutting of the nerve from
its non-existence in the same part
after the nerve has been cut.

The feeling of hunger, you say,
is not in the stomach, because " if
the nerve uniting brain and stomach
be divided, hunger is at an end." Is
not this very curious ? Men need
none of your theories to know
where they feel hungry; and they
not only beliive^ as you say, but
also experience^ that their feeling of
hunger is in the stomach. How
can this be reconciled with your
theory? You try to discredit the
common belief by observing that
we " have no knowledge of physio-
logical processes." This, however, is
not true ; for although we may not
possess your speculative knowledge
of those processes, yet we have an
experimental knowledge of them,^

178

A Discussion with an Infidel.

which beats all your speculations.
The simplest common sense teaches
that a theory contradicted by facts
is worth nothing. Now, the fact is
that we experience the sensation
of hunger in the stomach, and not
in the brain ; and therefore no phy-
siological theoiff that contradicts
such a fact can be of any value.

You pretend that "habit and ex-
ternal appearance have led to the
false notion that we feel in places
subjected to external irritation."
This assertion cannot be justified.
Habits are acquired by repeated
acts ; and to assume that habit leads
us to a false notion is to assume
that we are cheated by our actual
sensations; which is inadmissible.
As to " external appearances," it is
evident that they have nothing to
do with the question, as sensations
are not external appearances, but
internal realities. Hence when we
say that " we feel in places subject-
ed to external irritation," we ex-
press a real fact of which we have
experimental evidence, and in re-
gard to which no habit or external
appearance can make us err.

The fact that "persons who have
lost their arms or legs by amputa-
tion often feel during their whole
life, in atmospheric changes, pains
in limbs which they no longer pos-
sess," does not tend to prove that
the brain is the exclusive seat of
the soul. Hence I dismiss it alto-
gether. With regard to your con-
clusion that "every part of the
body which can be separately per-
ceived must have a corresponding
spot in the brain which in some de-
gree represents it in the forum of
•consciousness," I have not the least
objection against it ; I merely add
that no part of the body in which
the soul is not actually present can
be represented in the forum of con-
sciousness. For if the soul is not

in the finger when the thorn prici
it, the soul cannot say, I fee/ /A
pain; it could only say,/ >&«<?zi/ t/u.
a material orgauy with which I ha^z
nothing to do^ is being injured, Th
soul would, in /act, but receive .
telegram announcing what happen
in some distant quarter. If a tele
gram comes to you from Siberia, an
nouncing twenty degrees of cold, d<
you feel the sensation of cold }

Buchner, Yet "the theory thai
the brain is the seat of the soul i<
so incontrovertible that it has lonj
been adopted in the rules of law in
regard to monstrosities. A mon-
strosity with one body and two heads
counts for two persons; one with
two bodies and one head, only for
one person. Monstrosities without
brain, so-called acephali, possess no
personality " (pp. 147, 148).

Header. This is true; and there-
fore the soul certainly informs the
brain. But it does not follow thai
other parts of the body are not in-
formed. Hence your remark has
no bearing on the question ; and it
remains true that the soul, as the
form of the body, is directly con-
nected with every part of the or-
ganism in which vital acts are per-
formed.

XV.

SPIRITISM.

Header. May I ask, doctor, what
you think of spiritism }

Buchner. I think it to be a fraud.

Becuier* Of course, when a man
denies the existence of spiritual
substances, he cannot but deny
their manifestation. Yet the phe-
nomena of spiritism are so well
known that we can scarcely be of
your opinion.

Buchner, " Some of these pheno-
mena, clairvoyance especially, have
been laid hold of to prove the exis-
tence of supernatural and super-

A Discussion with an Infidel.

179

sensaal phenomena. They were
considered as the link of connec-
tioQ between the spiritual and the
Material world ; and it was surmis-
ed that these phenomena opened a
gale through which man might pass,
and succeed in obtaining some im-
mediate clue regarding transcen-
dental existence, personal continu-
cnce, and the laws of the spirit. All
these things are now, by science
and an investigation of the facts,
considered as idle fancies which
human nature is so much inclined
to indulge in to satisfy its longing
after what appears miraculous and
SBpersensual " (p. 149).

Reader. I apprehend, doctor,
that science has no means of show-
ing that "all these things are idle
fiincies.** Materialism, of course,
assumes, though it cannot show,
that spirits do not exist; but ma-
terialism is no science at all; and
if the "investigation of the facts"
kas been conducted by materialists,
wc may well be sure that their ver-
oict was not unbiassed. On the
odicr hand, men of science, who
ife not materialists, a great number
ofphysicians, philosophers, and the-
ologians, are convinced that the
phenomena of spiritism are neither
rovcntions nor delusions. And,
thoagh human nature feels a cer-
tain propensity to believe what is
wonderful, we cannot assume that
learned and prudent men yield to
this propensity without good rea-
sons.

Buchner. "This propensity has
pvcn rise to the most curious er-
tors of the human mind. Though
it sometimes appears that the pro-
gress of science arrests its develop-
ment in some place, it suddenly
breaks forth with greater force at
some other place where it was less
expected. The events of the last
few years afford a striking example.

What the belief in sorcery, witch-
craft, demoniac possession, vampi-
rism, etc., was in former centuries,
reappears now under the agreeable
forms of table-moving, spirit-rap-
ping, psychography, somnambulism,
etc." (p. 150).

Reader, You aA right. Spirit-
ism is only a new form of old su-
perstitions and diabolic manifesta-.
tions. But you are mistaken, if you
believe that science can show such
manifestations to have been fables.
Your scientific argument against spi-
ritual manifestations is, you must
own it, inconsistent with your sci-
entific process. Your process re-
quires a basis of facts; for it is
from facts that science draws its
generalizations. You should, there-
fore, first ascertain that sorcery,
witchcraft, etc., never existed in the
world, and that not one of the
thousand facts narrated in profane,
sacred, or ecclesiastical history has
ever happened; and then you
might conclude that all mankind
have been very stupid to believe
such absurdities. But you follow
quite a different course. You ar-
gue hprioriy and say : Spiritual mani-
festations are an impossibility; there-
fore all the pretended facts of spirit-
ism are impositions. This manner
of arguing is not scientific ; for evi-
dently it IS not based on facts, and
the assumption that spiritual mani-
festations are impossible cannot
be granted ; for it cannot be prov-
ed. Hence not only the ignorant
classes, but also educated per-
sons, as you complain, believe in
spiritual manifestations, in spite of
your pretended science ; for, when
they see the facts, they will only
smile at your deniarl of their possi-
bility.

Biichner. But the facts themselves
are incredible. " Magnetic sleep,
induced either by continued passes

i8o

A Discussion with an Infidel.

on the body, or spontaneously
without external means, as in idio-
somnambulism, is stated to be fre-
quently attended by an intellectual
ecstasy, which in certain privileged
persons, chiefly females, rises to
what is called clairvoyance. In this
state those persdns are said to ex-
hibit mental faculties not natural
to them, to speak fluently foteign
languages, and to discuss things
perfectly unknown to them in the
waking state. . . . The person
perceives things beyond the sphere
of his senses, he reads sealed letters,
guesses the thoughts of other per-
sons, reveals the past, etc. Finally,
such individuals sometimes give us
information about the arrangements
in heaven and hell, our state after
death, and so forth ; but we cannot
help mentioning that these revela-
tions are ever in remarkable har-
mony with the religious views of
the church, or of the priest under
whose influence the patient may be
for the time" (p. 151).

Header, Poor Doctor Bttchner !
You are most unlucky in your allu-
sion to the church. Spiritism is not
a priestly invention, nor is it practis-
ed under the influence of the priest.
The whole world knows that the
practice of spiritism is utterly for-
bidden by the church;^ and you
cannot be ignorant that your insi-
nuation of the contrary is a slander.
Perhaps your Masonic conscience
allows you to tell lies ; but is it wise
to do so when the lie is so patent
that no one can believe it }

BUchner. ** There can be no
doubt that all pretended cases of
clairvoyance rest upon fraud or
illusion. Clairvoyance — that is, a
perception of external objects with-
out the use of the senses — is an im-
possibility. It is a law of nature
which cannot be gainsaid that we
require our eyes to see, our ears to

hear, and that these senses are
limited in their action by space.
No one can read an opaque sealed
letter, extend his vision to America,
see with closed eyes what passes
around him, look into the future,
or guess the thoughts of others.
These truths rest upon natural laws
which are irrefutable, and' admit,
like other natural laws, of no ex-
ception. All that we know we
know by the medium of our senses.
There exist no supersensual and
supernatural things and capacities,
and they never can exist, as the
eternal conformity of the laws of
nature would thereby be suspended.
As little as a stone can ever fall in
any other direction than towards
the centre of the earth, so little can
a man see without using his eyes "

(p. 152).

Header. Your reasoning is not
sound, doctor. The stone can faU
in any direction, if it receives an
impetus in that direction ; it is only
when it is left to itself that it must
fall directly towards the centre 0/
the earth. So also a man, when
left to himself and His natural pow-
ers, cannot see without using his
eyes ; but if acted on by a preter-
natural agency, he may be made ac-
quainted with what his eyes cannot
see. Your mention of natural laws
is uncalled for. You will certainly
not pretend that the natural laws,
which hold in regard to this visible
world, can be assumed to rule the
world of the spirits. Moreover,
when you say that " there exist
no supersensual and supernatural
things," because " the eternal con-
fortnity of the laws of nature would
thereby be suspended," you merely
make a gratuitous assertion, ^or
as you can raise a weight withoui
suspending the law of gravitatioa
so can other agents do other things
conflicting with the uniform execu-

A Discussion with an Infidel.

i8i

tioQ of natural laws without the
natural laws becoming suspended.
Tfcus your assertion that " there
exist no supersensual and superna-
tural things " is wholly gratuitous,
and therefore cannot be the basis
of a sound argument against the
facts of spiritism. "There is no
fighting against facts; it is like
kicking against the pricks/' as you
BMj in one of your prefaces (p.
xviii.)

Biuhner. "Ghosts and spirits
haTc hitherto only been seen by
children, or ignorant and supersti-
tious individuals " (p. 152).

Reader, Did not Saul see the
ghost of Samuel }

Buekner. ** All that has been nar-
rated of the visits of departed spi-
rits is sheer nonsense ; never has a
dead man retumfd to this world.
There are neither table-spirits nor
my other spirits " (p. 153).

Reader, How can you account
for such a singular assertion ?

Bucknir, ** The naturalist enter-
tains» from observation and experi-
ence, no doubt as to these truths ;
a constant intercourse with nature
and its laws has convinced him that
they admit of no exception " (p.

153).

Reader, This is not true. Natu-
niists, with their observation and
experience of natural things, do not
and cannot reject facts of a higher
order, though they have not observ-
ed them. Their non-observation
v^ no argument, especially when w*
have other witnesses of the facts,
and when we know that the natu-
ralists of your school are pledged
to materialism, and therefore shut
their eyes to the facts which oppose
their theory. The majority of edu-
cated persons admit the facts ; not
indeed all the facts narrated, but
many of them which no critical
rtle allows us to reject.

Buchner, Where are those facts ?
"The scientific impossibility of
clairvoyance has been confirmed
by an examination of the facts by
sober and unprejudiced observers,
and were proved to be deceptions
and illusions " (p. 153).

Reader. Of course there are jug-
gleries and impositions; but what
of that ? Would you maintain that
there can be no doctors because
there are quacks t I appeal to your
logic

Buchner, " The faculty of medi-
cine of Paris many years ago took
the trouble of submitting a number
of such cases to a scientific exami-
nation ; they were all proved to be
deceptions, nor could a single case
be established of a perception with-
out the use of the senses. In 1837
the same academy offered a prize
of 3,000 francs to any one who
could read through a board. No
one gained the prize " {ibid)

Reader, You forget, doctor, .that
in 1837 spiritism was as yet most im-
perfectly known. It was only about
ten years later that it developed
throughout America and Europe.
Let the medical faculty of Paris
again offer a prize to any one who
can read through a board ; and no
one doubts there would be no lack
of competitors. When we see that
physicians and others, owing to
their own experience of spiritual
manifestations, were compelled to
repudiate their previous material-
istic opinions; when we know
that infidels by the same mani-
festations were brought to believe
the immortality bf the soul ; when
the learned and the ignorant, the
rich and the poor, the layman and
the churchman, the diplomatist,
the philosopher, and the theologian,
bear witness to the reality of the
spiritual phenomena, and are ready
to bring forward innumerable facts

lS2

A Discussioft with an Infidel.

in support of their affirmation, we
do not care what the faculty of
medicine of Paris may have pro-
nounced many years ago. You say
that the faculty " submitted a num-
ber of such cases to a scientific ex-
amination," and that " they were
all proved to be deceptions "; but
you would be very much embar-
rassed to say in what that " scien-
tific examination "consisted. On the
other hand, the proofs of the decep-
tion have never appeared ; and the
simple truth is that the spiritual
phenomena were h priori rejected,
as clashing with the materialistic
theory of the faculty. You pretend
that "whenever the proper means
were employed to prevent deception,
clairvoyance was at an end " (p.
153)- Such an assertion proves
that you are completely ignorant
of what is going on in the world, or
that you are determined obstinate-
ly to ignore whatever could compel
you to acknowledge the existence
of spiritual substances.

Biichner, " I have had the oppor-
tunity of examining a clairvoyant,
of whom remarkable things were
told, under circumstances when a
deception on the part of the mag-
netizer was out of the question.
The lady failed in all her indica-
tions; they were either absolutely
false or so expressed that nothing
could be made of them. She, more-
over, made the most ridiculous ex-
cuses for her shortcomings. As she
failed in her clairvoyance, she pre-
ferred to fall into a state of heaven-
ly ecstasy, in which she discoursed
with her ange or tutelar genius, and
recited religious verses. In reciting
a poem of this kind she once stop-
ped short, and recommenced the
verse to assist her memory. She
manifested, withal, in this ecstasy,
no superior mental capacities; her
language was common, and her

manner awkward. I left with the
conviction that the lady was ai\ im-
postor Mcho deceived her patron.
Still, several gentlemen present iwrere
by no means convinced of the de-
ception practised on them" (p.

154).

Reader, If these gentlemen could
by no means be convinced of the
deception, must we not presume
that there was no deception, and
that your peculiar construction of
the case was brought about by a
strong desire of not being disturbed
in your fixed idea that there is no-
thing but matter .> If "the lady
failed in all her indications," \i
" she made the most ridiculous
excuses for her shortcomings," U
" she manifested no superior ca-
pacities," it should have been evi-
dent to those " several gentlemen **
that she was a fraud. Their inabil-
ity to be convinced of the deception
would therefore show that the lady
did not fail in all her indications, but
manifested superior capacities. Be
this as it may, the truth and reality
of spiritual manifestations cannot
be disproved by particular attempts
at imposition. Spiritualists admit
that many impositions have been
practised under the name of spirit-
ual manifestations, but they aver
that in most instances cheats could
not have been palmed off, even if
designed; and that in other cases
there could be no possible motive
for deception, as the investigations
were carried on in private families
where the mediums were thtir
own sons and daughters.* Spirit-
rapping is a fact. Table-turning
is a fact. Clairvoyance is a fact
Thousands of all conditions, sects,
and nations have witnessed, watch-
ed, and examined all such facts with
a degree of attention, suspicion, and

* Nrm A mtricam Cychpmdia^ t. SpizitnalHA.

A Discussion with an Infidel.

183

incmiulity proportionate to their
mnrelty, strangen^, and unnatural-
oess. ^Vhat has been the result?
A verdict acknowledging the reality
of the facts and the impossibility
of accounting for them without
intelligent preternatural agencies.
This verdict disposes of your ma-
terialism. To deny the facts in
order to save materialism is so much
time lost. Facts speak for them-
selves.

XVL
INNATE IDEAS

Riader. And now I should like
to know, doctor, why you thought
proper to fill twenty-seven pages of
your F^rce and Matter with a discus-
ftioa about innate ideas.

Biuhner, For two reasons, sir.
Fint, because " the question wheth-
er there be innate ideas is arery old
one, and, in our opinion, one of the
aost important in relation to the
contemplation of nature. It de-
cides to some extent whether man,
considered as the product of a.
lugber world, has received a form
of existence as something foreign
Mid external to his essence, with
the tendency to shake off this earth-
ly covering, and to return to his
spiritual home ; or whether, both in
his spiritual and bodily capacity,
tnan stands to the earth which has
produced him in a necessary, in-
separable connection, and whether
^ has received his essential nature
^rom this world ; so that he cannot
he torn from the earth, like the
plant which cannot exist without
its maternal soil. The question is,
^ the same time, one which does
not dissolve itself in a philosophi-
cal mist, but which, so to speak,
has flesh and blood, and, resting
opon empirical facts, can be dis-
eased and decided without high-

sounding phrases " (p. 157). The se-
cond reason is, that " if it be correct
that there are no innate intuitions,
then must the assertion of those be
incorrect who assume that the idea
of a God, or the conception of a
supreme personal being, who creat-
ed, who governs and preserves the
world, is innate in the human mind,
and therefore incontrovertible by
any mode of reasoning " (p. 184).

Reader. Do you mean^ that, by
sefuting the theory of innate ideas,
you will cut the ground from unde%
the feet of the theist and the spiri-
tualist ?

Bikhner. Yes, sir. Such is the
drift of my argumentation.

Reader. Then your labor is all
in vain. For you must know that
we do not base our demonstration
of the substantiality and immortali-
ty of the soul on the doctrine of
innate ideas, nor do wn assume that
the notion of a God is an " innate
intuition." Had you been even
superficially acquainted with the
works of our scholastic philoso-
phers, you would have known that
innate ideas are totally foreign to
their psychological and theological
doctrines. You would have known
that the axiom, Nihil est in iniel-
lectu quod non fuerit in sensu — that
is, " There is nothing in our intel-
lect whfch has not entered by the
gate of the senses " — is not a discov-
ery of your Moleschott, to whom
you attribute it, but is an old dic-
tum familiar to all the schoolmen
of past centuries, and approved by
the most orthodox philosophers of
our own time. Now, these phi-
losophers, while denying that we
have any innate idea, admit at the
same time that our soul is a special
substance and is immortal, and
show that the human intellect can
easily form a concept of God as a
supreme cause, and ascertain his

i84

A Discussion with an InfideL

existence without need of innate
intuitions. This might convince
you that your chapter on innate
ideas has no bearing on the ques-
tions concerning the nature of the
soul and the notion of a God.
Your assumption that if man has
innate ideas, he will have a ten-
dency "to shake off this earthly
covering, and to return to his spi-
ritual home," is incorrect. For the
human body has no spiritual home,
as is evident ; and the human souly
•as having no previous existence in
a separate state, has no home but
in the body, and the presence of
innate ideas would not create in it
a tendency to shake off its earthly
covering. . On the other hand, your
other assumption, that, if man has
no innate ideas, he is " a produc-
tion of the earth alone, and cannot
be torn from the earth, with which
he is inseparably connected both
in his spiritual and bodily capaci-
ty," is even more incorrect. For
the absence of innate ideas does
not mean, and does not entail, the
absence of an intellectual princi-
ple; and such a principle, as evi-
dently immaterial, is not a produc-
tion of the earth, and has no need
of earthly things to continue its
existence.

Buchner* How can a soul exist
without ideas? And, if Ml ideas
come through our senses, how can
a soul exist without being united
to the organs } " Daily experience
teaches us that man begins his in-
tellectual life only with the gradual
development of his senses, and in
proportio^i as he enters into a
definite relation to the external
world; and that the development
of his intellect keeps pace with that
of his organs of sense and his organ
of thought, and also with the num-
ber and importance of the impres-
sions received. * Every unpreju-

diced observer,' says Virchow, ' has
arrived at the * conviction that
thought is only gradually devel-
oped in man.' The new-bom child
thinks as little, and has as little a
soul, as the unborn child ; it is, in
our view, living in the body, but in-
tellectually dead. . . . The embryo
neither thinks nor feels, and is not
conscious of its existence. Man
recollects nothing of this state, nor
of the first period of his existence
in which the senses were dormant ;
and this perfect unconsciousness
proves his spiritual non-existence
at that period. The reason can
only be that, during the foetal state,
there are no impressions whatever
received from without, and so weak
and imperfect are they in the first
few weeks that the intellect cannot
be said to exist " (p. 159).

Reader, It is plain that the new-
bom child cannot form an idea of
exterior objects without the use of
his senses. But is it true that the
new-born child is not conscious of
its own existence ? Certainly not ;
, for, without a previous knowledge
of its own existence, it would never
be able to attribute to itself the
feelings awakened in it by exterior
objects. The mind cannot say, /
feely if it is not already acquainted
with the /. Nor does it matter
that " man recollects nothing of the
first period of his existence." Re-
collection is impossible so long as
the brain has not acquired a certain
consistency; and therefore what-
ever happens with us in the first
period of our existence leaves no
durable trace in our organs, and is
entirely forgotten. Hence your as-
sertions "that the senses of the
new-born child are dormant, and
that its perfect unconsciousness
proves its spiritual non-existence,"
are both falsfe. The child feels its
being, its senses are quite ready to

A Discussion with an Infidel

18$

receire impressioDS, and its soul is
qmte alive to suct impressions.

Vou say that "the development
of the intellect keeps pace with
that of the organs of sense." What
do you mean by development of the
intellect ? If you simply mean that
the intellect is furnished with ma-
terials of thought in proportion as
sensible objects are perceived, and
that, by being so furnished, it can
easily perform a number of intel-
lectual operations, I admit your as-
sertion ; but if you mean that the
soul itself is substantially developed
*m proportion as the organs are
growipg more perfect, then your
issertion is both groundless and
absurd. Now, it is evident, by your
manner of reasoning, that this sec-
oad meaning is the one you adopt.
And therefore it is evident that
yoor conclusion is wrong. " The
impressions," you say, "are so
wtak and imperfect that the intel-
lect cannot be said to exist." This
is simply ludicrous. Would you
*0ow us to say that at night the
impressions of light are so weak
ind imperfect that the eye cannot
be said to exist ? Or that the impres-
sions m^e on a piece of paper by
« bad pencil are so weak and im-
perfect that the paper cannot be
«id to exist ? It is obvious that
^e impressions do not cause the
Mistencc of their subject; and,
I'iercfore, if the intellect "cannot
be said to exist " before the im-
prejsions, the time will never come
^en it can be said to exist.

And now, suppose that a new-
boni child dies without having
acquired through its sen set any
knoBrlcdgc of the exterior world.
^^Tial shall we say of its soul?
WU such a soul be entirely desti-
^tttc of ideas, and unable to think ?
By no means. Such a soul, after
it* short permanence in the body,

where it f^lt its own being, will
henceforward understand its own
being as actually present in its own
individuality; it will perceive its
own essence as well as its existence ;
it will be able to abstract from selfy
and to behold essence, existence,
and being, secundum se — that is, ac-
cording to their objective intelli-
gibility ; and, finally, it will be
able to commune with other spirit-
ual beings with the same facility
with which, while in the body, it
could communicate with the exte-^
rior world by means of its organic
potencies. I know that you do
not believe this ; but your unbe-
lief will not change things. The
soul, when out of the body, is com-
petent to perform intellectual ope-
rations about intellectual objects as
freely and as perfectly as it per-
forms the sensitive operations in its
present condition. If you consult
the works of our philosophers and
theologians, you will fin4 the proofs
of my proposition. As to your op-
posite assumption, since you have
no means of establishing it, we are
free to dismiss it without further
discussion. >

Buchner, If the soul is a sepa-
rate substance, how and when is it
introduced into the body? "The
scientific and logical impossibility
of determining the time (of its in-
troduction) proves the absurdity of
the whole, theory, which assumes
that a higher power breathes the
soul into the nostrils of the foetus "
(p. 160).

Header, You are grossly mistak-
en, doctor. The impossibility of
determining the time of the anima-
tion of the foetus proves nothing
but our ignorance. Do you deny
that Paris was built by the Gauls
on the plea that you do not know
the date of its foundation ? Again,
since the animation of the foetus

i86

A Discussion with an Infidel.

is not an operation of the mind,
how can you speak of logical im-
possibility ? Evidently, you write
at random, and know not what you
say. As to the question itself, one
thing is clear, viz., the child can-
not be born alive, unless its body
has been animated in the womb.

Buchiur, " Moses and the Egyp-
tians entertained a decided opinion
that the child was not animated
while in the womb " (p. i6i).

Reader, False. Moses describes
^n the Book of Genesis the fighting
of Jacob and Esau while in the
womb of their mother. Could he
assume that they would fight before
being animated ?

Buchner. ** In some countries
they know nothing of an animated
- foetus " (/^///.)

Reader, False. Every mother
will give you the lie.

buchner. " The destruction of
the foetus and infanticide are, ac-
cording to Williams, common occur-
rences in Madagascar. It is also
common in China and the Society
Islands " {ibid,)

Reader. This shows the immoral-
ity of those nations, not their igno-
rance of the foetal life. But why
should you appeal to the presumed
ignorance of barbarians against the
verdict of civilized nations.^ Are
you an apostle of barbarity and
brutality } Do you wish your rea-
der to persuade himself that the
destruction of the foetus is no
crime ?

Buchner, "The Roman lawyers
did not look upon the fcetus as an
individual being, but as a part of
the mother. The destruction of
the foetus was therefore permitted
to the women of Rome, and we find
that Plato and Aristotle had already
adopted the same view " (p. 160).

Reader, Do not calumniate Aris-
totle. This great philosopher and

naturalist is decidedly not of your
opinion. He teaAes that the foetus
is animated in the womb. And.
pray, are the legal fictions of the
Roman lawyers of any weight ,
against the facts averred by modeni '.
medicine? Do you again appeal
to ignorance against science ?

Buchner. Physicians have not
yet decided the question. " Even
at birth, when the child is separated
from the mother, it is impossible to
assume that a ready-made soul, ly-
ing in wait, should suddenly rush
in and take possession of its' new 1
habitation. The soul, on the con- '
trary, is only gradually developed
in proportion to the relations which,
by the awakening senses, are now
established between the individual
and the external world " (p. 161).

Reader. No, sir. If this last as^
sertion were true, it would follow
that every child would be lifeless
at its birth ; for without a soul no ]
animal life can be conceived. What
is "gradually developed" is not
the substance of the soul, but the
exercise of its faculties. This is a
point already settled. As to your
other assertion, that the question
has not yet been decided, t>y the
physicians, I need only say that,
although there are different opinions
regarding the time of the animation
of the embryo, yet no physician
(unless he is a materialist) denies
that the embryo is animated long
before its nativity. Hence your
notion of a ready-made soul lying
in wait, and suddenly rushing in
when the child is bom, is only a
dream of your fancy or an un-
worthy attempt at ridiculing the
proceedings of nature.

What you add about the develop-
ment of the child's mind by means
of the senses, education, and exam-
ple does not prove the subjectivey
but only the objective^ growth of the

A Discussion tvith an Infidel.

187

mind, as you yourself seem to con-
cede (p. 162). And as the objec-
I lift growth means an accidental ac-
quisition of knowledge without any
substantial change of the soul, hence
nothing that you may say in refu-
tation of innate ideas can have the
least weight or afford the least
ground against the doctrine of the
immortality and substantiality of
the soul

XVII.
THE IDEA OF A GOD.

Reader, From the non-existence
of innate ideas you infer, doctor,
that " the idea of a God, or the con-
ception of a supreme personal being,
who created, who governs and pre-
senres the world, is not innate in
the human mind, and therefore is
w* incontrovertible " (p. 184). On
the other hand, you say with Luther
that '*' God is a blank sheet, upon
which nothing is found but what
yott have yourself written " (ibid,)
1^ you mean that our notion of
(iod is merely subjective— that is,
a creation of our fancy without any
objective foundation ?

Biuktier, Yes, sir. ** We can have
wither any knowledge nor any con-
ception of the absolute — of that
which transcends the surrounding
*«isttal world. However much me-
taphysicians may vainly attempt
to define the absolute, however
nmch religion may endeavor to ex-
cite faith in the absolute by the as-
wimption of a revelation, nothing
can conceal the defect of the defini-
tion. All our knowledge is relative,
and results from the comparison of
surrounding sensible objects. We
could have no notion of darkness
without light, no conception of high
without low, of heat without cold-
ness, etc.; absolute ideas we have
Done. We are not able to form any

conception of * everlasting* or * in-
finite,' as our understanding, limited
by time and space, finds an impass-
able barrier for that conception.
From being in the sensual world ac-
customjed to find a cause for every
effect, we have falsely concluded
that there exists a primary cause of
all things, although such a cause is
perfectly inaccessible to our ideas,
and is contradicted by scientific ex-
perience " (p. 179).

Header. How do you show* tl^
we have neither any knowledge no^
any conception of the absolute } or
that our understanding is limited by
time and space ? or that, from being
accustomed to find a cause for every
effect, we have falsely concluded
that there exists a primary cause of
all things.? or that its existence is
contradicted by scientific experi-
ence ? Of course you cannot ex-
pect that a rational man will swal-
low such paradoxes on your puny
authority.

BUchner, We know neither abso-
lute truth, nor absolute good, nor
absolute beauty. This I have shown
by proving that all our notions of
truth, of good, and of beauty are
the fruit of experience, observation,
and comparison, and that such no-
tions vary according to the charac-
ter of the nations in which they are
to be found. It is only after this
demonstration that I concluded
** that we can have neither any
knowledge nor any conception of
the absolute."

Reader, Yes; this is the only
point which you have tried to estab-
lish, and you have failed, as I am
ready to show. But that our un-
derstanding is limited by time and '
space you merely assert. That we
falsely conclude that there is a
primary cause you boldly assume.
That God's existence is contradict-
ed by scientific experience you im-

i88

A Discussion with an Infidel.

pudently affirm, well knowing that
•it is a lie.

And now, with regard to the
knowledge of the absolute, you are
much mistaken if you believe that
we know no absolute truth, no abso-
lute good, and no absolute beauty.
We know absolute being ; and there-
fore we know absolute truth, abso-
lute good, and absolute beauty.

Buchner. We know of no absolute
being, sir.

^Reader, Be modest, doctor; for
Urou know of how many blunders
you stand already convicted. Ab-
solute being is not necessarily " that
which transcends the surrounding
sensual world." The sun, the moon,
the planets have their absolute be-
ing, and yet do not transcend matter.
Now, can we not form a notion
of the absolute being of these bo-
dies } You say that " all our know-
ledge is relative, and results from
the comparison of surrounding sen-
sible objects " ; but you should re-
flect that all relative knowledge
implies the knowledge of the abso-
lute terms from the comparison of
which the relation is to be detected.
Hence you cannot admit the know-
ledge of the relative without assum-
ing the knowledge of the absolute.
Accordingly, it is false that " all our
knowledge is relative," at least in
the sense of your argumentation.
Nor is it true that all our know-
ledge *' results from the comparison
of surrounding sensible objects."
There is a kind of knowledge which
results from the comparison of in-
tellectual principles, as the know-
ledge of the logical rules ; and there
is also a knowledge which results,
not from the comparison, but from
the intellectual analysis, of things,
as the knowledge of the constituent
principles of being. If I ask you
what is distance^ you will soon point
out any two sensible objects, by the

comparison of which di
become known ; but if
what is syllogism^ or wli
meniy or what is philoso
you to point out any " s
sensible objects," by th
son of which such notic
understood.

I need not discuss yo
that "we could have n<
darkness without light,
tion of high without 1<
without coldness, etc."
cede the assertion asirre
whenever we designate i
lative terms, it is clear t
lative carries within its(
notation of its correlati
does not follow that all
ledge is relative. How c
for instance, the relation
hood intervening be«^\^
and John, if we know
one nor the other .^ C
ceive the brother withoi:
Or is it necessary, whe
the man, that in such
should see his peculiar
another man ?

You pretend that we ;
to form any conceptioi
lasting " or " infinite "; a
this, you affirm that **
standing, being limited 1
space, finds an impass;
for that conception."
but what did you meat
contended that matter i
and " infinite " ? Had y
conception of " eternal
finite " } If you had nc
ceptions, you made a fc
self by using terms whi
not understand; while,
such conceptions, ther
that we are not able to
In the same manner, ha
conception of the "abso
you have it, then it is ri
pretend that we cann<

A Discussion with fit Infidel.

189

the absolute ; while, if you have it
not, jou know not about what you
arc speaking. Alas! poor doctor.
What can you answer 1 It is the
common fate of the enemies of truth
to be inconsistent with themselves,
and to demolish with one hand what
they build with the other.

Bat is it true that our intellect
" is limited by time and space " ?
No, it is not true. Imagination is
indeed limited by time and space,
as all our philosophers concede ;
but intellect understands things in-
dependently of either space or time.
This \s evident. For in what space
do we place the universals ? To
what time do we confine mathemat-
ical truths } Two and two are known
to make four in all places and in all
times — that is, without restriction or
limit in space and time ; and the
%amt is true of all intellectual prin-
ciples. Hence it is obvious that
oar understanding transcends both
apftce and time, and can reach the
infinite and the eternal. It is
through abstraction, of course, and
not by comprehension or by intui-
tbn, that we form such notions ; for
(wr intellect, though not limited by
time and space, is limited in its own
entity, and therefore it cannot con-
ceive the unlimited, except by the
help of the abstractive process— that
IS, by removing the limits by which
the objective reality of the finite is
circumscribed. That we can do this
I need not prove to you y for you ad-
mit that splice is infinite, and pre-
tend that matter itself is infinite, as
1 have just remarked; and conse-
quently you cannot deny that we
have thc.notion of infinity.

What shall I say of your next as-
Krtion, that, from being accustom-
ed to find a cause for every effect,
**irc have falsely concluded that
there exists a primary cause of all
things"? Do you think that the

principle of causality has no other
ground than experience? or that,
when we do not " find ** the cause
of a certain effect, we are to con-
clude that the effect has had no
cause ? I hope you will not deny
that the notions of cause and effect
are so essentially connected that
there is no need of experiment to
compel the admission of a cause for
every efTect. Hence we are certain,
not only that all the effects for which
we have found a cause proceed fro^i
a cause, but also that all the effects
for which we cannot find a cause
likewise proceed from a cause. This
amounts to saying that the principle
of causality is analytical, not empiri-
cal, as you seem to hold. Now, if
all effects must have a cause, on
what ground do you assert that " we
have falsely concluded that there ex-
ists a primary cause of all things " ?
Our conclusion cannot be false, un-
less it be false that the world has
been created ; for if it ^as created,
we must admit a Creator — that is,
a primary cause. But the fact of
creation is, even philosophically,
undeniable, since the contingent
nature of the world is manifestly es-
tablished by its liability to continu-
ous change. And therefore it is
manifestly established that our ad-
mission of a primary cause is not a
false conclusion. I might say more
on this point ; but what need is there
of refuting assertions which have not
even a shadow of plausibility ? The
primary cause, you say, " is pertect-
ly inaccessible to our ideas." I an-
swer that, if the word " idea " means
" concept," your statement is per-
fectly wrong. You add that the ex-
istence of a primary cause " is con-
tradicted by scientific experience."
I answer by challenging you to
bring forward a single fact of ex-
perimental science which supports
your blasphemous assertion.

5je

A Discmssum with an InfideL

Tra most agree, doctor, that a
wiro ci a icm phrases com-
Bi2> sc nunr vncooceiTable blun-
ders 2.2S BO right to censure the
OKtiphrsscians or to attack revela-
ccn. It is rash* therefore, on jour
port, to tieciire that "however
■mch nKCiphTsiciaiis maj vainly
arrempt to define the absolute,
hov^ver msch reiigioii may en-
&avor to excite £iith in the ai>-
seiu^f by the assomptioii of a reve-
kfccn* soch^in^ can conceal the
Af^^ ot t^ definition.'* Of what
Atas.r.oa do YOtt speak? Your
^w^ deiiaitioQ of the absolute, as
*:*^ut wh>:h transcends the sur-
pvx:.:rxi:rr^ sensual world," is cer-
ti-^'v Btto^t deficient; but religion
asKi meuphvsics are not to be
wufcvic rt^xmsible for it. Why did
xvsjt Tvn, beiore censuring the meta-
j\^\^viJins and the theologians, as-
cvrt^im their definitions? We call
^fcN^'jfc^v a being whose existence
dvMts not depend on the existence
^rf another being; and in this
sense God alone is absolute. • He
i$ tkt ahs&iute antonomastically.
And we call absoluU analogically
any being also whose existence
diH^s not depend on any created
being, although it depends on the
creative and conservative action of
God ; and in this sense every cre-
ated substance is absolute. And
we call absolute logically whatever
is conceived through its own in-
trinsic constituents without refer-
ence to any other distinct entity;
and in this sense we speak of ab-
av^lute movement, absolute weight,
atvsolute vohime, etc. Without
ri\uuun\iting other less important
mvaniuiis of the term, I simply ob-
vtvc th.U the absolute may be de-
MHs vl .u lh.it which is independent
sk| s vtiauv^nu conditions; and that
\W v,w\w\ iu independence, the
^vu^v r«U^s^t\Up Hud the more per«

feet is the being. Have you any-
thing to say against this defini-
tion ?

We must, then, conclude that all
your argumentation is nothing but
a shocking display of false asser-
tions, and, I may ►add, of "intellec-
tual jugglery."

BucHncr, I will accept your con-
clusion, if you can show that our
conception x)f a God is not a child-
ish delusion of our fancy. "An
exact knowledge and unprejudiced
observation of individuals and na-
tions in an uncivilized state prove
the contrary to be the fact. Only
a prejudiced mind can, in the wor-
ship of animals practised by an-
cient and existing nations, find
something analogous to a real be-
lief in a God. It by no means
corresponds to the idea of' a
God when we see man worshipping
such animals as he from experience
knows may injure or be useful to
him. ... A stone, a tree, a river,
an alligator, a parcel of rags, a
snake, form the idols of the negro
of Guinea. Such a worship does
not express the idea of an almighty
being, governing the world and rul-
ing nature and man, but merely a
blind fear of natural forces, which
frighten uncivilized man, or appear
supejnatural, as he is not able to
trace the natural connection of
things. ... A god in the shape
of an animal is no God, but a
caricature" (pp. 184, 185).

Reader, True. But individuals
and nations existing " in an unciv-
ilized state " are scarcely to be ap-
pealed to for a decision of the
question. The notion of worship
implies the notion of a supreme
being; but rude and brutal men,
thinking of nothing but of the de-
velopment of their animal nature
and the pursuit of degrading plea-
sure, though they know that there

A Discusswn with an Infidel,

191

being, are not the
consult about the
»utes of divinity*

as if you had a
1 for unciviibed
It ions. You have
countenance abor-
;, on the ground
Imitted the horri-

now you would
that our concep*
t a childish deln-
ind that barbari-
lake, the alligator,
icature of a god.

rivilized men are
nee of barbarians
e notion of divin-
s better expound -
man origin of the
n Ludwig Feuer-

all conception?
nily mtihr0pmn&r-
lets of human fan-
onsj formed after
uan individuality,
this anthropomor-
ng of dependence

human nature,
and superhuman
bach, * is nothing
i and supernaturai
being placedt by
limits^ above the

of man/ The
gions is indeed a
lent for this asser-
oulcl it be other-
any knowledge or

absolute, without
velation, the exist-
ndecd asserted by
d by any religious
jod, no matter of
n only be human;
Ciws in animated
ntellectiially supe-
t follows that his
iupreme being can

only be abstracted from his own self,
and must represent a self-idealiza-
Hon " (p.^ 190). • Hence it is plain
that our idea of a God is a mere
delusion. •

Reader. It is by no means plain,
doctor. Feuerbach's authority, you
know, is worth very little. Your
German philosophers, as you own,
"have pretty much lost their au-
thority, and are now but little at-
tended to " (p. 158). On the other
hand; "nothing," says Herschel,
"is so improbable but a German
will find a theory for it" (p. 155).
Therefore let Feuerbach alone.

As for the reasons which you
adduce in support of the assump-
tion, we need not go into deep rea-
sonings to lay open their true
value. Is " the history of all reli-
gions a continuous argument for
Feuerbach's assertion " t No. For
the history of the Mosaic and of
the Christian religion is a continu-
ous refutation of such a slander.
Are men " without any knowledge
or any notion of the absolute " 1
No. This I have already shown to
be entirely iilse. Men, however,
are " without any immediate reve-
lation." This is true, but it has
nothing to do with the question;
first, because philosophy and reason
are competent without supernatu-
ral revelation to ascertain the ex-
istence of a primary cause infinite-
ly superior to all the natural beings ;
secondly, because, although we
have no immediate revelations, we
have the old revelation transmitted
to us by written and oral tradition,
and by the teaching of the living
church. That this revelation "is
asserted by all, but not proved by
any religious sect," is one of those
lies which it is quite unnecessary
to refute, as there are whole libra-
ries of Scriptural treatises, in which
the truth of revelation is super-

192 ^ Destiny.

abundantly vindicated. I would had a beginning? That man is

therefore conclude, without any ignorant, weak, wicked, and subject

further discussion,, that it is to to death ?

yourself, and not to your oppo- Buchncr, Who can doubt that ?
nents, ti^at you should apply that Reader, Then man by self-ideaU-

low criticism with which you close zaiion cannot form an anthropo-

the twenty-sixth chapter of your morphic notion of a supreme being

work. For it is you that " delight without involving limitation, igno-

in hashing up cold meat with new ranee, impotence, malice, an origin,

phrases, and dishing them up as the and an end of existence. Such, and

last invention of the materialisiic no other, would be the result of

kitchen " (p. 194). self-idealization. Now, our notion

To sum up : Do you admit that of God is that of a being eternal,

man is a finite being ? infinite, omniscient, omnipotent,

Buchner, Of course. holy, immense. Is this anthropo*

Reader. Do you admit that man morphism ?

TO BB COMTINVBD.

DESTINY.

nOM THB FBBNCR OP LOOTS VBOILLOT.

It is the lot of mortals here below
That they shall ever crawl from bad to worse,
Approaching step by step the dismal tomb —
Instance an aching tooth, with no relief
Save by its loss. Cure comes by sacrifice.

All victories are seeds of further strife —
Of strife that never ends but in the grave.
In which he only conquers who succumbs :
And this is destiny.

Ye dreamers of love-dreams, of glory, wealth.
Who, growing old, are scouted by the world,
And then swept on into forgetfulness !
All disappears — laurels, afiection, gold !
Blame not your faults that so things come to pass.
For this is destiny.

The Veil Withdrawn.

193

THE VEIL WITHDRAWN.

TkxaaLisw^ BY pnuftssiox, pkom thb pubnch op umb. cravbn, author of a "a sistbr*s story,"

** PLBURANCB," BTC.

XXII.

The following day was as gloomy
IS might have been expected from
the evening before. Never had I
suffered such inexpressible anguish
and distress.

It is useless to say that I went to
church alone, as on the preceding
Sunday, but I was not as calm and
recollected as I was then. I was now
in a state of irrepressible dissatis-
faction with everything and every-
body, myself not excepted, and yet
1 was very far from being in that
humble disposition of mind which
"iubdues all murmuring, extinguishes
resentment, and throws a calm, se-
rene light on the way one should
▼alkin. I regretted my hastiness
of the evening before, because I re-
alized that a different course would
karc been more likely to further
my wishes. In short, I felt I ought
to have managed more skilfully,
but it never occurred to me I might
have been more patient. I found
It difficult, above all, to calm the
excessive irritation caused by the
recollection of Lorenzo's manner
throughout our interview. I com-
pared it with his appearance on the
tJay when he spoke to me for the
first time concerning her.

What tenderness he then mani-
fested ! What confidence ! What
respect even ! Even while uttering
i^cr name — alas ! with emotion —
iow manifest it was that, while de-
sirous of repairing his wrongs to-
wards her, he felt incapable of any
towards me! Not a week had

VOL. XX. — 13

elapsed since that time, and yester-
day how cold, how hard ! What
implacable and freezing irony !
What an incredible change in his
looks and words! Was it really
Lorenzo who spoke to me in such a
way.^ Was it really he who gave
me so indifferent and almost dis-
dainful a look .> . . . No, he was
no longer the same. A previous
fascination had recovered its power,
and the fatal charm over which I
had so recently triumphed had re-
gained its empire over a heart
which I was, alas ! too feeble to re-
tain, because I had no sentiments
more profound and elevated than
those of nature to aid me !

As I have already said, I did not
try to fathom Faustina's motives.
I ought, however, to say a few words
concerning her, if only through
charity for him whom she had fol-
lowed, like an angel of darkness, to
disturb his legitimate happiness !

That she had long loved him I
do not doubt — ^loved him with the
unbridled passion that sways all
such hearts as hers. She thought
he would return to her. She be-
lieved she was preparing for her-
self a whole life of happiness by two
years of apparent virtue. Mistaken,
wounded, and desperate, she had at
first yielded to an impetuous desire
of perhaps merely seeing him once
more ; perhaps, also, to avenge her-
self by destroying the happiness
that had defeated her dearest
hopes.

194

The Veil Withdrawn.

She had calculated on the extent
of her influence, and had calculated
rightly. But in order to exert it, I
was necessary to her design, and
she played with consummate art
the scene of our first encounter.
She wished to take a near view of
the enemy she hoped to vanquish ;
she must sound the heart she wish-
ed to smite. Alas! all that was
worthy of esteem in that heart was
not perceived by him, and it was
natural to underrate a treasure not
appreciated by its owner. What
could I do, then ? What advantage
had I over her, if, in Lorenzo's eyes,
I was not protected by a sacred, in-
surmountable barrier which he re-
spected himself? What was my love
in comparison with her passion.?
What was my intelligence in com-
parison with that which she possess-
ed ? My beauty beside the irresisti-
ble charm that had even fascinated
me ? Finally, my youth itself in com-
parison with all the advantages her
unscrupulous vanity gave her over
me ? In fact, I think it seemed so
easy at the first glance to vanquish
me that she was almost disarmed
herself. But I also believe she soon
discovered something more in me
than all she found so easy to eclipse.
She saw I might in time succeed in
acquiring an ascendency over Lo-
renzo that no human influence could
destroy. She saw I might kindle a
flame in his soul it would be impos-
sible to extinguish — a flame very dif-
ferent from that which either of us
could be the object of. She saw I
might lead him into a world where
she could no longer be my rival,
and that I wished to do so. She
discerned the ardent though con-
fused desire that was in my heart.
In a word, she had on her side an
intuition equal to that which I had
on mine. She perceived the good
there was in me, as I had fathomed

the evil there was in her, and she
knew she must overpower my good
influence, which would render him
invulnerable whom she wished to
captivate. She made use of all the
weapons she possessed to conquer
me, or rather, alas ! to conquer him
— weapons always deadly against
hearts without defence. The very
esteem she had heretofore won be*
came a snare to him when her pride,
her passion, changed their calcu-
lations — an additional snare, a dan-
ger that, combined with others^
would be fatal ! . . .

If I speak of her now in this way,
it is not to gratify a resentment long
since extinguished. Neither is it to
palliate Lorenzo's offences against
me and against God. It is solely
to explain their secret cause, and tp
repeat once more that human Ioyo^^
even the most tender, is a frail foniir
dation of that happiness in which
God has no part ; and honor likewise^
even the highest and most unim-
peachable, is a feeble guarantee of a
fidelity of which God is not the bond,
the witness, and the judge ! . . *

I saw Lorenzo barely for a mo»
ment in the morning. I clearly per-
ceived he wished to make me forget
what had passed between us the
evening before, but I did not sec
the least shade of regret. It was
evident, on the contrary, that he
thought himself magnanimous in
overlooking my reproaches, and fell
no concern at having merited them.
In short, we seemed to have chang-
ed rSles, As for me, I suffered so
much on account of the outburst
1 had indulged in that it would
have been easy to call forth ac-
knowledgments that would have
atoned for it. They only waited for
the least word of affection, but not
one did he utter. Lando came for
him before two o'clock, and they
went away together, leaving me with

The VeU Withdrawn.

195

a sad, heavy heart. I was not to see
him again till my return from the
Hotel de Kergy. Where would he
pass the time meanwhile? . . .
Would it really be in Lando's com-
pany? And was the business they
had- to settle really such as to render
it impossible for him to spend this
last evening with me? . . . Would
it not have been a thousand times
better to have remained silent, and,
as this was really our last day, and
we were to leave on the next, would
it not have been wiser in me to have
spent it wholly with him, . . . even
if that included her? . . . Had I
not committed an irreparable folly
in yielding to this explosion of un-
mistakable anger ? This was indu-
bitable, but it was too late to remedy
it. The die was cast. Lorenzo
was gone ! I passed the afternoon,
like that of the Sunday before, at
chorch, but was pursued by a thou-
sand distractions which I had not
now the strength to resist. On the
contrary, I took pleasure in dwell-
ing on them, and my mind wandered
without any effort on my part to
prcrent it I neglected, on the very
day of my life when I had the most
need of light, courage, and assist-
ance, to have recourse to the only
iiourcc whence they are to be obtain-
ed, and I returned home without
having uttered a prayer.

Two hours later I was at the
H6tel dc Kergy, and in the same
room where just a week before I
had felt such lively emotion and
conceived such delightful hopes!
But, ah ! what a contrast between
niy feelings on that occasion and
those of to-day ! I seemed to have
itvcd OS many years since as there
h*d been days ! . . .

Mme. de Kergy advanced to meet
oe as I entered, and I saw she no-
ticed the change in my face the
looaent she looked at me. I did

not know how to feign what I did
not feel, and she had had too much
experience not to perceive I had
undergone some pain or chagrin
since the evening before. She ask-
ed me no questions, however, but,
on the contrary, began to speak of
something foreign to myself; and
this did me good. I soon felt my
painful emotions diminish by de-
grees, and a change once more in
the atmosphere around me, as when
one passes from one clime to an-
other.

The guests were but few in num-
ber, and all friends of the family.
Diana, prettier than ever, and so
lively as to excite my envy, was de-
lighted to see me, but did not ob-
serve the cloud on my brow ; and
if she had, she would have been in-
capable of fathoming the cause.
She hastened to point out the vari-
ous guests who had arrived.

"They are all friends," said she;
" for mother said you were coming
to get a little respite from society."

Mme. de Kergy presented them
to me one by one, and among the
persons introduced were several
of celebrity, whom I regarded with
all the interest a first meeting adds
to renown. But I saw nothing of
Diana's brother among those pre-
sent, and was beginning to wonder
if I should never see him again,
when, jus* as dinner was ready, he
made his appearance. He bowed
to me at a distance, appearing to
have forgotten it was his place to
escort me to the table. A sign
from his mother seemed to bring
him to himself, and he offered me
his arm with some confusion,
though without any awkwardness.
But after taking a seat beside me,
he remained for some moments
without speaking, and then address-
ed his conversation to others in-
stead of me. L saw he was for

196

7*^ Veil Withdrawn.

some reason embarrassed, and I
was confused myself; for such
things are contagious. He soon
recovered his accustomed ease,
however, and when he finally ad-
dressed me it was with a simplicity
that set me, on my part, entirely
at ease. His conversation surpris-
ed and pleased me, and I felt I
conversed better with him than any
one else. There was nothing tri-
fling in what he said, and, above all,
he refrained from everything like a
compliment, direct or indirect, and
even from every subject that might
lead either to me or himself.
Women generally like nothing so
much as a style of conversation
that shows the effect they produce,
so it was not astonishing it had
been employed with me as well as
with otKers. But this language
had always embarrassed and dis-
pleased me, and I now felt propor-
tionately pleased with the unusual
way in which I was addressed — ^a
way that seemed to raise me in my
own estimation. And yet he did
not try to absorb my attention, but
gave others an opportunity of tak-
ing part in the conversation.

It soon became general, and I
stopped to listen. I had then the
pleasure — a new one for me— of
witnessing a kind of game in which
thoughts and opinions fly from one
to another, wit mingles with gravity,
and the intellect is brightened by
contact with the brilliancy of others.
Gilbert was not the only one in
this circle wRo knew how to inter-
est without fatiguing, and excite,
not by ridicule, but by a better
kind of wit, the hearty, cordial
laugh that wounds neither the
absent nor the present !

What struck me especially was
the interest and almost deference
with which a man of well-known
eloquence, whose opinions had

weight with every one, endeavored
to draw forth the opinions of othen;
It might have been said he listenei
even better than he talked.

Thus during the whole time ve
were at table, and the evening thiit
followed, I realized the true meaa»
ing of the word conversation in a
country where it originated, in tfae
social world where it was coined^
and in the language which is, oi 9§l
mediums, the most delicate, tbe
most perfect, and the most univei*'
sal.

In spite of myself, I felt my siA^
ness gradually vanish, and my laagh
more than once mingled freely ta
the merriment of others. I s«v
that Mme. de Kergy observed tha
with pleasure, and a benevolatt
smile increased the habitual sweet*
ness of her expression. She was •'
woman whose unvarying serendf
was the result of great suffering, aa4
who now sought nothing in ths
world but the happiness of othen;
to whose pains she was as folly
alive as she was full of profound
compassion.

She wore mourning, not only for
her husband, but a number of
children, of whom Gilbert and
Diana were the sole survivors.
But far from centring her affection
on them, she seemed to have given
to all who were young the love ^c
had cherished for those who were
gone, and the vacant places they
had left in her maternal heart. 1
could not help regarding her with
astonishment, for I belonged to a
country where it is more common
to die of grief than to learn how to
live under its burden. I returned
Mme. de Kergy *s smile, and for an
hour felt gay and almost happy.
But by degrees the burden, remov-
ed for an instant, fell back on my
heart. The reality of my troubles,
and the thought of bidding farewell

The VM Withdrawn.

197

to this delightful circle of friends,
filled me with a melancholy it was
impossible to repress. The regret
that weighed on my heart was for
a moment as profound as that we
fee! for our country when we fear
never to behold it again.

I remained seated in an arm-
chair near the fire-place, and fell
into a revery which was favored by
Diana, who was at the piano. She
was at that moment playing with
coasuramate skill an air of Chopin's
which seemed to give ^ expression
to my very thoughts. . . .

I awoke from my long revery, and
felt a Wush mount to my very fore-
head when, raising my eyes, I found
Gilbert's fixed on mine. . . . And
mine were veiled with tears ! I
hastily brushed them away, stam-
mering with confusion that Chopin's
muac always affected my nerves,
and then, leaving my seat, I ap-
proached the piano, where Diana
continued to play one air after
»other. . . . Gilbert remained
with a pensive manner in the place
where I left him, looking at me
from a distance, and trying, per-
haps, to conjecture the cause of
my emotion.

Bat the approaching separation
WIS sufficient to account for this.
I was that very evening to bid a
long farewell to these new friends,
whom perhaps I should never meet

again in this world ! And when the
hour came, and Mtoe. de Kergy
clasped me for the last time in her
arras, I made no effort to restrain my
tears. Diana wept also, and, throw-
ing her arms around my neck, said :

** Oh ! do not forget* me. I love
you so much!"

Her mother added with a tearful
voice :

" May God watch over you
wherever you go, my dear Ginevra !
I shall follow you in spirit with as
much interest as if I had known you
always ! . . ."

Gilbert offered me his arm, and
conducted me to the carriage with-
out uttering a word ; but as I was on
the point of entering it he said :

" Those you leave behind are
greatly to be pitied, madame."

"And I am much more so," I
replied, my tears continuing to
flow without restraint.

He remained silent an instant,
and then said :

" As for me, madame, I may hope
to see you again, for I shall go to
Naples, . . . if I dare**

" And why should you not dare ?
You know well we shall expect you
and welcome you as a friend."

He made no reply, but after
helping me into the carriage, and I
had given him my hand, as I bade
him adieu, he answered in a low
tone : " Au revoir /"

XXIII.

Our Joumey through France and
^^ the Alps did not in the least
<iimini$h the impressions of my last
<^y5 in Paris. But everything was
singled in my recollections like the
joy and regret I felt at my depar-
ture-joy and regret, both of which
^tiad reason to feel, though I did
^^ try to fathom their cause. I
^to only conscious that in more

than one way the repose and hap-
piness of our life were threatened,
and it was necessary we should
take flight. It seemed as if we
could not go fast enough or far
enough. The very rapidity with
which we travelled by railway was
delightfully soothing, for it second-
ed my wishes. The sudden change
of scenery and climate, and the

198

The Veil Wiihdravm.

different aspect of the towns as
soon as we crossed the mountains,
also gave me pleasure, because all
this greatly added in my imagina-
tion to the distance we had so
rapidly come

Lorenzo also, though doubtless
for a different reason, seemed more
at ease after we left Paris, and
gradually resumed his usual manner
towards me. He never mentioned
Faustina's name, and I had only
ventured to speak timidly of her
once. As we were on the point of
leaving, I proposed writing her a
farewell note, but he prevented me
by hastily stammering something
to this effect : that my absence the
evening before was a sufficient ex-
planation for not seeing her again,
and it was useless to take the
trouble of any further farewell.

This new attitude surprised me.
He had changed his mind, then,
since the day he urged me so strong-
ly to be her friend ! ... It is true
I had myself expressed a vehement
desire — too vehement, perhaps ! —
to break off this friendship. But
he did not try in the least to profit
by my present good-will to renew it.
It was evident he no longer desired
it himself. His only wish seemed
to be to make me forget the scene
that had occurred, as well as the
cause that led to it. Why was this .?
If I had really been in the wrong,
would he have forgiven tne so read-
ily ? If, instead of this, his con-
science forced him to excuse me,
did not the affection he now mani-
fested prove his desire to repair
wrongs he could not avow, and
which perhaps I did not suspect ?

These thoughts involuntarily
crossed my mind and heart with
painful rapidity. I loved Lorenzo,
or rather, I felt the need of loving
him, above all things. But if he
himself loved me no longer, if he

had become treacherous, unfaitbfu]»
and untrue to his word, could X
continue to love him .^ Was tkia
possible.^ . . . What would become
of me in this case .? Merciful hca»'
vens ! . . . I asked myself these
questions with a terror that coaid
not have been greater had I been
asking myself what would become
of my eyes should they be deprirod
of light. And this comparison is
just, for there could be no darka
night than that which would have
surroundet^ me had the ardent, pu^
dominant feeling of my heart beea
left without any object. I might
suitably have taken for my motto :
. Aimer ou mourir — either love or
die — words often uttered in a jesfe*
ing, romantic, or triffing way, but
which were to me full of profound>
mysterious meaning. But Uhs
meaning was hidden from me, aad'
the day was still far distant whea
its signification would be nuuk
manifest !

After crossing the Alps and the
Apennines, and passing through
Florence and Rome, we at length
proceeded towards Naples by the
delightful route that formerly cross-
ed the Pontine Marshes, Terracina,
and Mola di Gaeta. Every one
who returns to Italy the first time
after leaving it experiences a feel-
ing of intoxication and joy a thou-
sand times more lively than when
one goes there for the first time.
The eyes wander around in search
of objects which once gave them
pleasure and it had been a sacrifice
to leave. I yielded to this enjoy-
ment without attempting to resist
it. Sadness, moreover, did not be-
long to my age, and, though in-
tensely capable of it, it was by no
means natural to me. During the
first weeks after my return to Na-
ples my mind was diverted from
all my troubles and anxiety by

The Veil Withdrawn.

199

norelhes that everything contri-
buted to render efficacious and
powerful.

In the first place, I was glad to
find myself once more in my de-
lightful home, which, by the order
of Lorenzo, had undergone a mul-
titude of improvements during my
absence, and was now additionally
embellished with the contents of
the boxes we had brought from
Paris. It was Lorenzo's taste, and
not mme, which had dictated the
choice of these numberless objects,
the chief value of which in my eyes
was derived from the estimation he
attached to them himself.

The anxiety that clouded his
face seemed to have disappeared.
He appeared as delighted as I to
find himself at home, and was quite
disposed to resume his favorite oc-
cupation in his studio. Conse-
quently, the clouds soon began to
disperse from my soul; the sun
once more began to brighten my
life.

Lorenzo soon insisted, with an
cinicstness equal to that he had
before shown to have me all to
himself, that my door should now
be constantly open. My drawing-
room was filled with people of the
best society and highest rank in
Naples, and, thanks to their cordi-
^ty and natural turn for sudden
intimacies (a characteristic, charm-
jng trait in that delightful region),
instead of feeling at all embarrassed
among so many new acquaintances,
I fell as if surrounded by friends I
had always known and loved.

Above all, I at last saw Livia
oocc more, and though through a
double grate, which prevented me
from embracing her, it afforded me
*n unalloyed happiness which left
^ tcgrets.

The monastery she entered was
^tttaud at one extremity of Na-

ples, which could only be reached
by traversing an endless number of
narrow, gloomy, winding streets, in
which it seemed impossible to
move a step without knocking
down the people on foot, over-
throwing their shops, and even
kitchens, established in the open
air ; and, if in a carriage, crushing
the children playing, running about,
or sleeping in the sun.

The first time a person ventures
into such streets he is terrified at
every step, and wonders he is al-
lowed there. He feels guilty and
like apologizing to every one he
meets. But he soon sees he has
done no harm; that everybody,
young and old, mothers and chil-
dren, the passers-by, the coachmen,
and even the horses themselves, are
endowed with a dexterity, good-hu-
mor, and at the same time an en-
ergy that make their way through
everything. In a word, they all
have such quickness of sight, hear-
ing, and motion that not a day
passes in which miracles of skill
are not effected in these narrow
streets, which not only prevent ac-
cidents from happening, but even
from being feared, and you are at
last unwilling to admit there is any
crowd in Naples so compact, any
street so narrow, or any descent so
perilous, as to make it necessary to
leave the vehicle you are in, or
which the coachman who drives,
and the horses he manages, cannot
pass without danger.

At the end of some such way as
I have described it was necessary,
in addition to all this, in order to
reach the monastery I am speaking
of, to stop at the foot of an acclivi-
ty the horses could not ascend, not
on account of its steepness, which
would have been no obstacle, but
because every now and then there
were steps to facilitate the ascent

2CX>

The Veil Withdrawn.

of pedestrians, but which rendered
it impassable for equipages of any
kind whatever. It had therefore to
be ascended on foot, and, when once
at the top, there was still a flight
of fifteen or twenty steps to climb
before reaching the broad terrace
or platform before the gate through
which strangers were admitted to
the convent

If this ascent was difficult, it
must be confessed one felt repaid
for the trouble of making it by the
view from the terrace. Here the
visitor wandered along the narrow,
gloomy streets through the old, his-
toric city, as well as its more ele-
gant quarters, towards that side of
the bay where Vesuvius was to be
seen in its most striking aspect, and
from the summit of the volcano
followed its descent to the vast,
smiling plain, more charming even
in that direction than that to the
sea by Ottagno, Stabia, and Castel-
lamare. On every side the eye re-
posed on the verdant orange-trees
growing in numberless gardens.
Such was the outer world that en-
circled my sister's cloistered home.
Such was the view from every win-
dow on this side of the convent.
On the other there was a more
quiet prospect, perhaps even better
suited to contemplation — that of
the cloister, with its broad arcades
of fine architecture, which sur-
rounded an enclosure planted with
lemon-trees, in the centre of which
stood a massive antique fountain
of marble. The pines of Capo di
Monte stood out against the clear
sky, further off were the heights of
Sant' Elmo, and along the horizon
stretched the majestic line of moun-
tains which form the background
of the picture.

When able to tear my eyes fron
Uiis magnificent prospect, lit up by
all the fires of the setting sun, I

suddenly found myself in the
somewhat gloomy vestibule of tiie
monastery, whence I was coDduct--
ed to a large parlor divided by
a grate, behind which fell a long,
black curtain. Here I was left
alone, with the assurance I should
soon see my sister. I felt an emo-
tion I had not anticipated, and for
the first time it seemed as if the
most horrible separation had taken
place between us. The admiration
I had just experienced, and my joy
at the prospect of seeing her agatu^
both vanished. My heart swelled
with painful emotion, and it wa»
with more terror than devotion I
looked up at a large crucifix — the
only ornament on the bare wall in
front of the grille. As to the %X93m
itself, it filled me with horror, and
I did not dare look at it.

All at once I heard the sound of
a light step, the curtain was draw^i
quickly aside, and a beloved voio9
softly uttered my name: "Gina!**
Turning around, I saw Livia, my
sister, standing before me! The
shock I received could not have
been greater if, supposing her dead,
I had seen her descend from the
skies and appear thus suddenly be-
fore me. She wore the white veil
of a novice, and her habit, as well
as the band across her forehead and
the guimpe around her neck, was of
the same color. Her face was radi-
ant. The dazzling rays of the set-
ting sun suddenly poured in through
the door of the cloister, left open
behind her, and she seemed to be
wholly enveloped in light. I gazed
at her speechless with affection,
surprise, and I know not what
other indefinable emotion. ... I
was almost afraid to address her;
but she did not appear to observe
it. The words that rapidly fell
from her lips were animated, na-
tural, and affectionate as ever —

The Veil Withdrawn.

20I

moK affectionate even. And there
W3S the same tone of anxious so-
licitude. But she was calmer,
more serene, and even more gentle,
ind, though at times she had the
same tone of decision, there was
Qo trace of the sadness and auste-
rity she sometimes manifested, in
spite of herself, in former times
when an invisible cross darkened
everything around her. The band
that concealed her hair revealed
more clearly the extreme beauty of
her eyes, and while I stood gazing
at her as if I had never studied her
features before, I felt she spoke
troly in saying " the grates of the
convent should neither hide her
face nor her heart from me." Never
hid the one, I thought, so faithfully
reflected the other.

As to her, she by no means per-
ceived the effect she had produced.
She was anxious to hear all I had
been doing while absent, and asked
me one question after another with
the same familiarity with which we
oscd to converse when side by side.
Glad to be able to open my heart
in this way, I forgot, when I be-
gw, all I had to say if I would
conceal nothing from her. But my
•ccount soon became confused, and
I suddenly stopped.

^ Gina mia ! said she, *' you do
not tell me everything. Why is
^is? Is it because you think I no
longer take any interest in your
worldly affairs .>"

" It is not that alone, Livia, but
it ii really very difficult to speak
of Paris and the senseless life I led
there before this grate and while
^^ing at you as you are now."

**! shall always take as much
Pleasure in listening to you," said
*l»c, "as you do in talking to me.
^ admit, when our good aunt,
^Mina Clelia, comes to see me
*Uh her daughters, I often assume

a severe air, and tell them what I
think of tht world ; . . . but I must
confess my aunt does not get angry
with me, for she depends on my
vocation to procure husbands for
Mariuccia and Teresina, who are
worthy of them, because, as she
says, a person who consecrates her-
self to God brings good-luck to all
the family. She no longer regards
me as ^jettairice^ I assure you !"

She laughed as she said this, and
I could not help exclaiming with
surprise and envy :

" Livia, how happy you are to be
so cheerful!"

Her face resumed its usual ex-
pression of sweet gravity, as she re-
plied :

" I am cheerful, Gina, because I
am happy. But you were former-
ly livelier than I. Why are you no
longer so, my dear sister.^ Cheer-
fulness is for those whose souls are
at peace."

"0 Livia!" I cried, not able
to avoid a sincere reply to ,so di-
rect a question, " my heart is
heavy with sorrow, I assure you,
and the cheerfulness you speak of
is frequently wanting."

She started with surprise. at these
words, and questioned me with an
angelic look.

I did not delay my reply. I felt
the need of opening my heart, and
resumed the account I had broken
off. I described without any cir-
cumlocution the life of pleasure to
which I had given myself up, at
first through curiosity and inclina-
tion, and in the end with weariness
and disgust. I spoke of the day
at Paris when fervor, devotion, and
good impulses awoke in my soul,
my meeting Mme. de Kergy, and
all I had seen and felt in the pla-
ces I had visited in her company.

Finally, I endeavored, with a
trembling voice, to explain all my

203

The Veil Withdrawn.

hopes and wishes with respect to
Lorenzo, and the nature of the pro-
jects and ambition I had for him.
With a heart still affected at the
remembrance I depicted the new
happiness — the new and higher
life I had dreamed of for him as
well as myself!

Livia listened with joy to this
part of my story, and her face
brightened while I was speaking.
But, without explaining the cause
of my disappointment, I ended by
telling her how complete it was,
and this awoke so many bitter re-
membrances at once that I was
suffocated with emotion, and for
some moments I was unable to
continue. . . .

A cloud passed over her brow,
and she suffered me to weep some
moments in silence.

"Your wishes were good and holy,
Ginevra,*' said she at length, " and
God will bless them sooner or later."

I paid no heed to her words. A
torrent of bitterness, jealousy, and
grief inundated my heart, and, feel-
ing at liberty to say what concern-
ed no one but myself, I gave vent
to thoughts I had often dwelt on
in silence, but now uttered aloud
with vehemence and without any
restriction.

Livia listened without interrupt-
ing me, and seemed affected at my
impetuosity. Standing motionless
on the other side of the grille^ her
hands crossed under her long, white
scapular, and her downcast, thought-
ful eyes fastened on the ground,
she seemed for a time to be listen-
ing rather to the interior voice of
my soul than to the words I utter-
ed. At length she slowly raised
her eyes, and said with an accent
difficult to describe :

" You say your heart feels the
need of some object of affection —
that not to love would be death ?

You need, too, the assurance that
the one you love is wholly worthy
of your affection } , , , Really,"
continued she, smiling, "one would
say you wish Lorenzo to be per-
fect, which of course he is not, even
if as faultless as man is capable of
being."

She stopped, and the smile that
played on her lips became almost
celestial. One would have said a
ray of sunlight beamed across her
face. She continued :

"I understand you, Ginevra; I
understand you perfectly, perhaps
even better than you do yourself,
but I am not capable of solving
the enigma that perplexes you — of
drawing aside the veil that noir
obscures the light. . . . Oh ! if I
could !" said she, clasping hex
hands and raising her eyes to h^*
ven with fervor. " To solve all your
doubts — to give you the light ne-
cessary to comprehend this mys-
tery clearly — would require a mira-
cle beyond the power of any hu-
man being. God alone can effect
this. May he complete his work!
May you merit it !"

The bell rang, and we hastily
took leave of each other. It was
dusk when I left her. She assured
me I could make her a similar visit
every week, and this prospect made
me happy. I was happy to have
seen her — happy to feel she could
still descend to my level from the
holier region she inhabited, and
that there was nothing to hinder roe
from enjoying in the future the
sweet intercourse of the past

But however fully I opened my
heart to Livia, I should have con-
sidered it profaning the purity of
the air I breathed in her presence
to utter the name of Faustina Rcali.
And, without knowing why, neither
did I mention the name of Gilbert
de Kergy.

The Veil Withdrawn.

203

XXIV.

Naples at that time was styled by
some one ** a small capital and a
lii^ city," and this designation
was correct. The society, though
on a small scale, was of the very
highest grade, consisting of an
aristocracy exempt from the least
haughtiness, and retaining all the
habits and manners of bygone
times. However frivolous this so-
ciety might be in appearance, its
defects were somewhat redeemed
by an originality and lack of af-
fectation which wholly excluded
the vexatious and insupportable
tmm produced by frivolity and
pretension when, as often happens,
they are found together. With a
few exceptions, devoid of great
talents or very profound acquire-
ments, it had wit in abundance, as
well as a singular aptitude for seiz-
ing and comprehending everything.
If to all this we add the most cordial
reception and the readiest, warmest
wekome, it will at once be seen
that those who were admitted to
this circle could not help carrying
aw»y an ineffaceable remembrance
of it

But the special, characteristic
trjdt which distinguished Naples
from every other city, large or small,
^as» strange to say, and yet true,
the utter absence of all gossip, slan-
der, or ridicule. The women un-
aoimously defended one another,
and no man, under the penalty of
being considered ill-bred, ever ven-
tured to speak ill of one of their
number, unless perhaps by one of
those slight movements of the fea-
tures which constitute, in that
country, a language apart — very
floquent, it is true, and perfectly
WidcTslood by every one, but which
'^^er produces the same effect as
•ciual words. It wa5 generally

said, and almost always with truth,
whenever there was any new gos-
sip in circulation, which sometimes
happened, that " no doubt some
stranger had a finger in it " ! To
complete this picture, we will add
that there was a circle of ladies in
Neapolitan society who fully equal-
led in beauty and grace the genera-
tion before them, which was cele-
brated in this respect throughout
Italy.

It may be afl&rmed, therefore,
without fear of denial on the part
of any contemporary, that the gene-
ral result of all this was to produce
a kind of beau-ideal of gay society.

Among these ladies was one I par-
ticularly remarked, and who speed-
ily became my friend. Lorenzo
had predicted this the day (after-
wards so fatally memorable to me)
when for the first time the name of
the Contessa Stella di San Giulio
met my eyes. To tell the truth, this
remembrance at first took away all
desire to make her acquaintance.
It seemed to me (yielding no doubt
to a local superstition) that the day
on which I first heard the name of
Faustina could bring me no luck.
But this prejudice was soon over-
come. It Mias sufficient to see her
to feel at once attracted towards her.
At first sight, however, there was
something imposing in her features
and manner, but this impression
immediately changed. As soon as
she began to converse, her eyes,
the pleasing outline of her face,
and her whole person, were lit up
by an enchanting smile on her half-
open lips — a smile that the pencil
of Leonardo da Vinci alone could
depict. It is among the women
who served as models to this great,
incomparable master that a like-
ness to Stella must be sought It

204

The Veil Withdrawn.

IS by studying the faces of which
he has left us the inimitable type
we recognize, notwithstanding their
smiling expression, a certain firm-
ness and energy which exclude all
idea of weakness, nonchalance, or
indolence. Stella's physiognomy,
too, expressed courage and patience,
and they were predominant traits
in her character. She was, how-
ever, vivacious, versatile, and so
lively as to seem at times to take
too light a view of everything ; but,
when better known, no one could
help admiring the rare faculty with
which heaven enabled her to bear
cheerfully the heavy trials of life,
and feeling that her gayety was
courage in its most attractive as-
pect.

Married at eighteen, she had
seen this union, with which conve-
nience had more to do than incli-
nation, dissolved at the end of two
years : her husband died soon after
the birth of her only child. From
that time family circumstances
obliged her to live with an uncle,
who was the guardian of her child,
and had, in this capacity, the right
to meddle with everything relating to
both mother and daughter — a right
which his wife, a woman of difficult
and imperious temper, likewise ar-
rogated in a manneZf that would
have exhausted the patience of any
one else ; but Stella's never failed
her. Feeling it important for the
future interests of her little Angio-
lina to accept the condition im-
posed by her widowhood, she sub-
mitted to it courageously without
asking if there was any merit in so
doing. Her liveliness, which had
been so long subdued, returned be-
neath the smiles of her child, and,
as often happens to those who are
young, nature gained the ascen-
dency and triumphed over all there
was to depress her. Angiolina was

now five years old, and was grow-
ing up without perceiving the
gloomy atmosphere that surround-
ed the nest of affection and joy m
which her mother sheltered her,
and the latter found her child so
sweet a resource that she no longer
seemed to feel anything was want-
ing in her lot.

This intimacy added much to
the happiness of a life which began
to please me far beyond my expec-
tations. The gay world, with which
I thought myself so completely dis-
gusted, took a new and more sub«
tie aspect in my eyes than th^ I
had so soon become weary of.
But in yielding to this charm it
seemed to me I was pleasing Lo-
renzo and seconding his desire to
make our house one of the mott
brilliant in Naples. Nevertheless,
he resumed his labors, and passed
whole hours in his studio, where he
seemed wholly absorbed, as for-
merly, in his art. I found him
there more than anywhere else, as
he was before our fatal journey.
He had begun again with renewed
ardor on his Vestal, which was now
nearly completed, and was consid-
ered the most perfect work that
ever issued from his hands. He
attributed the honor of his success
to his model, and, though formeriy
more annoyed than flattered by
suffrages of this kind, I now wel-
comed the compliment as a presage
of days like those of former time&

The first time I entered the stu-
dio after my return I sought with
jealous anxiety some trace of the
remembrance that haunted me, and
seemed to find it on every hand
In a Sappho whose passionate, tra-
gical expression alone had struck
me before, and the Bacchante
which seemed at once beautiful and
repulsive, I imagined I could trace
the features, alas! too perfect not

The Veil Withdrawn.

205

to be graven in the imagination of
a sculptor in spite of himself. . . .
I iaw them, above all, in a Proser-
pme, hidden by accident, or on
purpose, in an obscure comer of
the studio, which struck me as a
sudden apparition of her fatal
beauty. Finally, I saw them also
in the other Vestal, to which the
ofte I sat for was the pendant. It
was then only I remembered with
pleasure he said when he first be-
gan it that no one before me had re-
alized the ideal he was trying to
embody.

Hiunted by these recollections,
I began to find my sittings in the
studio painful and annoying, but
I did not manifest my feelings. I
bad acquired some control over
ikem, and felt it was not for my
interest to revive, by a fresh dis-
play of jealousy, a remembrance that
seemed to be dormant, or again ex-
cite a displeasure that appeared to
be exiingubhed. Besides, the like-
QC« that haunted me so persistent-
ly became in time more vague and
aocertain, and seemed likely to
disappear entirely. The current
<>f gayety and pleasure that now
WTTounded me absorbed me more
and more. The very light of the
s^ it Naples is a feast for the heart
is well as the eyes. It is a region
that has no sympathy with gloom,
w cren the serious side of life, and
it must be confessed that the social
ideal 1 have spoken of is not the
raost salutary and elevated in the
^orid. It must also be acknow-
Wg«d that if it is not absolutely
^Tut that this charming region is
|hc classic land of iki^far niente^ as
it has been called (for the number
<^f people everywhere who do no-
t^ing make me think all skies and
»Jl cVimcs favorable to them), it is
^crtheless indubitable that every
^t ^ttls a mingled excitement

and languor at Naples which oblige
him to struggle continually against
the double temptation to enjoy at
all hours the beauty of the earth
and sky, and afterwards to gi\e
himself up unresistingly to the re-
pose he feels the need of. When
weary of this struggle, when nothing
stimulates his courage to continue
it, he is soon intoxicated and over-
powered by the very pleasure of
living. One day foHows another
without thinking to ask how they
have been spent. The interest ta-
ken in serious things grows less,
the strength necessary for such
things diminishes, all effort is bur-
densome ; and as this joyous, futile
life does not seem in any way wrong
or dangerous, he no longer tries to
resist it, but suffers the subtle poi-
son which circulates in the air to in-
fuse inactivity into the mind, indif-
ference and effeminacy in the heart,
and even to the depths of the soul
itself.

Such were the influences to which
I gave myself up, but not without
some excuse, perhaps. At my age
this reaction of gayety and love of
pleasure was natural. After the
experience I had passed through, I
felt the need of something to divert
me — the need of forgetting. How,
then, could I possibly resist all there
was around me to amuse and enable
me to forget } Of course I had not
forgotten Mme. de Kergy, or Diana,
or the eloquence of Gilbert, but I
had nearly lost all the pure, noble,
and soul-stirring sentiments my ac-
quaintance with them had awak-
ened ; and if any unacknowledged
danger lurked therein, it had so
ephemeral an influence on me that
all trace was effaced, as a deadly
odor passes away that we only
inhaled for a moment.

As for my charming Stella, she
no more thought of giving me

2o6

The Veil Withdrawn.

advice than of setting me an ex-
ample. She shared with me her
happiest hours in the day, but I
could not follow her in the coura-
geous course of her hidden daily
life. I did not see her during the
hours when, with a brow as serene,
a face as tranquil, as that with
which she welcomed me at a later
hour, she immolated her tastes and
wishes, and by the perpetual sacri-
fice of herself earned the means
of rendering her daughter as happy
as she pleased. I saw her, on the
contrary, during my daily drive
with her and Angiolina — one of
the greatest pleasures of the day
for us all. To see them together,
the mother as merry as the child,
one would have supposed the one
as happy, as fully exempt from all
care, as the other ! . . . We often
took long drives in this way, some-
times beyond the extreme point of
Posilippo, sometimes to Portici, or
even to Capo di Monte. There we
would leave our carriage and for-
get ourselves in long conversations
while Angiolina was running about,
coming every now and then to
throw herself into her mother's arms
or mine. I loved her passionately,
and it often seemed to me, as I
embraced her, that I felt for her
something of that love which is the
strongest on earth, and makes us
endure the privation of all other
affection. Angiolina was, it is true,
one of those children better fitted
than most to touch the maternal
fibre that is hidden in every woman-
ly heart. She had accents, looks,
and moods of silence which seemed
to indicate a soul attentive to voices
that are not of this world, and
sometimes, at the sight of her ex-
pressive childish face, one could
not help wondering if she did not
already hear those of heaven.
Lorenzo from time to time made

a journey to the North of Italy, in
order to see to his property. His
absence, always short, and invari-
ably explained, caused me neither
pain nor offence. He seemed hap-
py to see me again at his return, and
appeared to enjoy much more than
I, even, the gay life we both led
He devoted his mornings lo work,
but spent his evenings with mCy
either in society or at the theatre
of San Carlo, where, according to
the Italian custom in those days,
we went much less to enjoy tbc
play, or even the music, than to
meet our friends. As for gaming,
I had reason to believe he had en-
tirely renounced it, for he never
touched a card in my presence.
The twofold danger, therefotr^
which had threatened my peace,
seemed wholly averted, and I once
more resumed my way with confi-
dence and security, as a bird, bett-
en by the tempest, expands its
wings at the return of the sun, and
sings, as it flies heavenward, as if
clouds and darkness were never to
return !

But in the midst of this new
dawn of happiness I was gliding
almost imperceptibly but rapidly
down, and suffering my days to pass
in constantly- increasing indolence.
It is true my good Ottavia, who
had been with me since Livia's en-
trance at the convent, reminded
me of the days and hours assigned
for the practices of devotion she
had taught me in my childhood,
which, though not piety itself, serve
to keep it alive. Without her I
should probably have forgotten
them all. I thought of nothing but
how to be happy, and I was so be-
cause I seemed to have recovered
absolute empire over Lorenzo's
heart. . . . My lofty aspirations
for him had vanished like some
fanciful dream no longer remem-

The Veil Withdrawn.

207

bered The charm of his mental
qnalities and his personal attrac-
twos gave him a kmd of supremacy
£Q the circle where he occupied the
foremost rank, and had every desir-
able pretext for gratifying his taste
for display ; while, on the other
hand, the aureola of genius that
surrounded him prevented his life
from appearing, and even from be-
bg. wholly vain.

It was vain, however, as every
one's life is that has no light from
above. I was not yet wholly in-
capable of feeling this, but I was

becoming more and more incapable
of suffering from it.

It is not in this way the vigor of
the soul is maintained or renewed.
Livia^lone had not lost her benefi-
cent influence over me. A word
from her had the same effect as the
strong, correct tone of the diapason,
which gives the ear warning when
the notes begin to flatten. Every
descent, however gradual, is diffi-
cult to climb again, and I did not
at all perceive the ground I had
lost till I found myself face to face
with new trials and new dangers.

XXV.

Several months passed, however,
without any change in my happy,
mtroubled life. Lando's arrival,
and shortly after that of Mario,
wtrc the chief incidents. Mario's
fwts were short and rare, for he
seldom left my father. He loved
home, now he was alone there, better
thin he used to do ; and my father,
relieved of a heavy responsibility
by the marriage of one daughter
wmJ the vocation of the other, en-
joyed more than ever the Com-
paq of a son who gave him no
anxiety and prevented him from
finding his solitude irksome. He
only lived now in the recollections
of the past and for his profession,
and Mario fulfilled with cheerful
dcvotedness the additional obliga-
tions our departure had imposed
on him. He came from time to
^me to sec his two sisters, and had
not entirely lost the habit of favor-
ing me with advice and remon-
strances. Nevertheless, as my pre-
sent position obliged me to make a
cwtain display he was not sorry to
have a part in, and as, on the whole,
^ did not find my house disagree-
able, it was not as difficult as it
^*t«e was to win his approbation,

particularly as, notwithstanding the
frivolous life I led, I was still (per-
haps a strange thing) wholly de-
void of coquetry and vanity, which,
almost as much as my affection for
Lorenzo, served as a safeguard in
the world, and not only shielded
me from its real dangers, but from
all criticism. This point acknow-
ledged, Mario, who did not consi-
der himself dispensed by my mar-
riage from watching over my repu-
tation, was as kind to me now as
he would have been implacable had
it been otherwise. As I, on my
side, by no means feared his
oversight, and he brought news
of my father and recalled the
memories of the past, which I
continued to cherish in my present
life, I welcomed him with affection,
and' his visits always afforded me
pleasure.

As to Lando, he had been forced
to tear himself away from Paris, and
devote to economy an entire year
which he had come very reluctantly
to spend in the bosom of his family.
He at once observed with astonish-
ment that I was happier at Naples
than at Paris. As for him, he de-
clared life in a small city was an

2o8

The Veil Withdrawn.

impossibility, and he should pass
the time of his exile in absolute ex-
clusion. But he contented himself
with carrying this Parisian nostalgia
from one drawing-room to another,
exhaling his complaints sometimes
in Italian (continually grasseyant\
sometimes in French sprinkled
with the most recent argot^ only
comprehensible to the initiated.
But as, in spite of all this, his natu-
ral good-humor was never at fault,
everything else was overlooked, and
he was welcomed everywhere; so
existence gradually became endu-
rable, and he resigned himself to
it so completely that by the time
the Carnival approached he was so
thoroughly renaturalized that no
one was more forward than he in
preparing and organizing all the
amusements with which it termi-
nates at Naples — vehicles, costumes,
confetti^ and flowers for the Toledo ;*
suppers, dominos, and disguises for
the Festini di San Carlo, f without
reckoning the great fancy ball at
the Accademia ; J and, to crown all,
private theatricals with a view to
Lent. With all this, he had ample
means of escaping all danger of
dying of ennui before Easter ! . . .
I must acknowledge, however,
that he found me as much disposed
to aid him as any one. I was in
one of those fits of exuberant gayety
which at Naples, and even at Rome,
sometimes seize even the roost
reasonable and sensible people
during the follies of the Carnival.
But it must be confessed these
follies had not in Italy the gross,
vulgar, and repulsive aspect which
public gayety sometimes assumes

* The Strada di Toledo, where the maskers as-
semble, and the combats with confetti take place
during the Carnival.

t Bals masques,

X The name of the place where large public and
private balls are given by the Neapolitan nobility, to
whom one must belong to have the right to sub-
scribe.

at Paris on similar occasions. Ooc
would suppose everybody at Paris
more or less wicked at Carnival
time ; whereas at Rome and Naples
everybody seems to be more or less
childlike. Is this more in appear-
ance than reality ? Must we believe
the amount of evil the same every-
where during these days devoted
to pleasure? I cannot say. At
Rome, we know, no less than at
Paris and Naples, while people on
the Corso are pelting each other
with confetti and lighting the wuk»
coUttiy the churches are also illumi-
nated, and a numerous crowd, pros-
trate before the Blessed Sacrament
exposed on the altars, pray in order
to expiate the follies of the merry
crowd. But it seems to me no one
who has made the comparison
would hesitate to acknowledge a
great difference in the gayety of
these places, as well as the diflfercnt |
amusements it inspires.

Stella was in as gay a mood 2s
I. Angiolina (whose right it was)
could not have prepared more en-
thusiastically than we to throw con-
fetti at every one we met, or pelt
the vehicles in which most of the
gentlemen of the place, arrayed in
various disguises, drive up and
down the Toledo. These vehicles
are stormed with missiles from
every balcony they pass, and they
reply by handfuls of confetti and
flowers thrown to the highest
stories, either by means of comets,
or by instruments expressly for this
purpdse, or by climbing the staging
maae on the carriages to bring the
combatants nearer together.

Lorenzo, Lando, and even Mario
were enrolled among the number
to man a wonderful gondola of the
XVth century, all clad in the cos-
tume of that period, and Lorenzo^
by his taste and uncommon acquire-
ments of all kinds, contributed to

The Veil Withdrawn.

209

reader this masquerade almost in-
teresting from an artistic and his-
toric point of view, and he was as
zealous about it as any one.

We were in the very midst of
these preparations when one morn-
ing he told me with an air of vexa-
tion he had just received a letter
from his agent which would oblige
him to be absent several days. But
he was only to go to Bologna this
time, and would be back without
fail the eve of Jeudi-Gras* the day
fixed for the last exhibition of the
gondola. But his departure afflict-
ed me the more because he had not
l)een absent for a long time, and I was
no longer used to it. I did not, there-
fore, conceal my annoyance. But as
his seemed to be equally great, I
anally saw him depart, not without
regret, but without the least shade
ofHny former distrust.

The Carnival was late that year,
iad the coming of spring was al-
ready perceptible in the air. I
Had passed two hours with Stella in
'he park of Capo di Monte, while
Angiolina was filling her basket
vith the violets that grew among the
frass. Our enjoyment was increas-
ed by the freshness of the season
^nd the enchanting sky of Naples.
When the circumstances of a per-
son's life are not absolutely at vari-
ance with the beauty of nature, he
feels a transport here not experienc-
ed in any other place. That day
1 was happier and merrier than
usual, and yet, as we were aboi^t to
leave the park, I all at once felt
that vague kind of sadness which
*l«ray5 throws its cloud over exces-
sive joy.

"One moment longer, Stella,"
<aid I, ** it is so lovely here. I never
^w the sea and sky so blue before !
I cannot bear to go home.'

* Tbinday btfiDffc Lent
VOL. XX. — 14

" Remain as long as you please,
Ginevra. I am never tired, you
know, of the beautiful prospect be-
fore us ! Nature is to me a mother,
a friend, and a support. She has
so often enabled me to endure
life."

"Poor Stella!" said I with a
slight remorse, for I felt I was too
often unmindful of the difference in
our lots.

But she continued with her
charming smile :

*'You see, Ginevra, they say I
have /^ sang joyeux ! which means,
I suppose, that I have a happy dis-
position. When all other means,
fail of gratifying my natural turn, I
can do it by looking around me.
The very radiance of the heavens
suffices to fill me with torrents of
joy."

At that moment Angiolina ran
up with a little bunch of violets
she had tied together, and gave
them to her mother. Stella took
the child up in her arms.

" Look, Ginevra. See how blue
my Angiolina's eyes are. Their
color is a thousand times lovelier
than that of the sky or sea, is it
not } Come, let us not talk of my
troubles," continued she, as her
daughter threw her arms around
her neck, and leaned her cheek
against hers. "This treasure is
sufficient; I ask no other."

" Yes, Stella, you are right. Ta
enjoy such a happiness I would
give all I possess."

" God will doubtless grant you
this happiness some day," replied
she, smiling.

Our merriment, interrupted for a
moment, now resumed its course.
It was time to go home, and we re-
turned without delay to the carriage,,
which awaited us at the gate of
the park.

It was Tuesday, the day but one^

The Veil Withdrawn.

before Jeudi-Gras ; consequently
I expected Lorenzo the following
day. All the preparations for the
masquerade were completed, and
in passing by the door of my aunt,
Donna Clelia, who lived on the
Toledo, I proposed to Stella we
should call to make sute she had
attended to her part ; for it was
from her balcony the first great
contest with confetti was to take
place the next day but one.

Donna Clelia, as I have remark-
ed, felt a slight degree of ill-humor
at the time of my marriage. But
she speedily concluded to regard
the event with a favorable eye. It
would doubtless have been more
agreeable to be able to say : ** The
duke, my son-in-law "; but if she
could pot have this satisfaction, it
was son^ething to be able to say:
"My niece, the duchess," and my
aunt did not deny herself this
pleasure.

Besides, she anticipated another
advantage of more importance — of
obtaining an entrance by my means
to high life, which hitherto she had
only seen at an immeasurable dis-
tance ; and she was still more anx-
ious to introduce her daughters
than to enter herself. From the
day of my marj-iage, therefore, she
resolved to establish herself at Na-
ples, and this resolution had already
had the most happy results. Tere-
sina and Mariuccia were large girls,
rather devoid of style, bht not
of beauty. Thanks* to our telation-
ship, they were invited almost every-
where, and the drfeam of their mo-
ther was almost realized. As I had
indubitably contributed to this, and
they had the good grace to acknow-
ledge it, I was on the best terms
with them as well as with Donna
Clelia. The latter, it will be readily
imagined, had enthusiastically ac-
ceded to ray request to allow the

cream of the beau monde to
her balconies on Jeudi-Gras^ \
found her now in the full tide <
preparations she considered
sary for so great an event.

My aunt had apartments of j
size on the first floor of one c
large palaces on the Strada di
do. They were dark and glc
in the morning, like all in
cality, but in the evening, when|
drawing-rooms were lit up,
produced a very good effect,
to Donna Clelia herself, whea|
voluminous person was enc
a suit of black velvet, and her 1
boldly turned back, had the
tion of a false chignon^ a pluB
red feathers, and superb
she sustained very creditably,
can testify, the part of a dig
matron, and it was easy to
had been in her day handso]|
than either of her daughters,
when she received us on this ^
sion, enveloped in an enor
wrapper, which indicated th
spite of the advanced hour, s
not even begun her toilet, and
her hair reduced to its simf
expres*sion, she presented quit
different aspect. She was, howcij
by no means disconcerted when |
made our appearance, but met
on the contrary, with open arms;
she was very glad of an opportu
of explaining all the arranger
she was at that instant occupie
superintending, which likewise
'cottnted for the n/glig^ in which I
•surprised her. She took us
through the drawing-rooms,
ing out in the penumbra the pla
here and there, where she intend
to place a profusion of flowc|
Here a large table would st
loaded with everything that woii
aid us in repairing our streng
during the contest ; and there ^
were genuine tubs for the conftUiy

The Veil Withdrawn.

211

vbcre we should find an inexhaus-
tible supply of ammunition. My
loot was rich. She spared noth-
ing for her own amusement or to
amnse others, and never had she
found a better occasion for spend-
ing her money. She had already
given two successful soirees, at which
her large drawing-rooms were filled,
but thi§ crowd did not include ev-
cr)'body, and those who were ab-
sent were precisely those she was
most anxious to have, and the very
ones who, on Jeudi-GraSy were to
give her the pleasure of making use
of her rooms. She did not dream
of fathoming their motives ; it was
enough to have their presence.

At last, after examining and ap-
proving everything, as disorder
reigned in the drawing-room, my
aunt took us to her chamber. She
gave Stella and myself two arm-
• hairs that were there, placed on
the floor a supply of biscuits, can-
tJied chestnuts, and mandarines for
Angiolina's benefit, and seated her-
^If on the foot of her bedstead,
tiking for a seat the bare wood ; the
n^attress, pillows, and coverings be-
ing rolled up during the day, ac-
cording to the Neapolitan custom,
like an enormous bale of goods, at
the other end of the bedstead.
Arrainghcrself with an immense fan,
^hich she vigorously waved to and
fro, she set herself to work to en-
tertain us. First, she replied to my
TJcstions:

**You ask where the ragcufze*
-re. , . . I didn't tell you, then, they'
ite gone on a trip to Sorrento with
ihc krofussa f**

**Ko, Zia Qelia, you did not tell
n^c. When will they return V*

"Oh! in a short time. I expect
them before night. It was such
fee weather yesterday ! They did

• Thegirli.

not like to refuse to accompany the
baroness, but it would not please
them to lose two days of the Carni-
val, and the baroness wouldn't, for
anything in the world, miss her part
at San Carlo. Teresina is to go
there with her this evening."

The baroness in question was a
friend of my aunt's whom she parti-
cularly liked to boast of before me.
If she was indebted to me for some
of the acquaintances she was so
proud of, she lost no opportunity
of reminding me that for this one
she was solely indebted to herself.

" Ah ! Ginevra mia ! . . ." con-
tinued she, "you have a fine house,
to be sure — I can certainly say no-
thing to the contrary J but if you
could only see that of the baron-
ess! .. . Such furniture.! Such
mirrors ! Such gilding ! . . . And
then what a ^iew ! . . ." *

Here my aunt kissed the ends of
her five fingers, and then Opened
her whole hand wide, expressing
by this pantomime a degree of ad-
miration for which words did not
suffice. . . .

"How?" said Stella with an
air of surprise. " I thought her
house was near here, and that there
was no view at all. It seems to me
she can see nothing from her win-
dows."

" No view !" cried Donna Clelia.
" No view from the baroness'
house! . « . See nothing from
her wiridows ! , . . What a strange
mistake, Contttsa Stella ! You are
\n the greatest error. You can see
everything from her windows —
everything/ Not a carriage, not a
donkey, not a horse, not a man or
woman on foot or horseback or in
a carriage, can pass by without
being seen; and as all the OTaw-
ing-rooms are eU primo piano^ you
can see them as plainly as I see
you, and distinguish the color of

212

The Veil Withdrawn.

their cravats and the shape of the
ladies* cloaks."

"Ah ! yes, yes, Zia Clelia, you are
right. It is Stella who is wrong.
The baroness has an admirable
view, and quite suited to her
tastes."

"And then," continued Donna
Clelia, waving her fan more delib-
erately to give greater emphasis to
her words, " a situation unparallel-
ed in the whole city of Naples ! . . .
A church on one side, and the new
theatre on the other ! And so near
at the right and left that — imagine
it ! — there is a little gallery, which
she has the key of, on one side,
leading to the church ; and on the
other a passage, of which she also
has the key, which leads straight to
her box in the theatre ! I ask if you
can imagine anything more conve-
nient ? . . . But, apropos, Ginevra,
have you seen Livia lately ?"
" Yes, I see her every week."
" Ah ! par exemphy' said Don-
na Clelia, folding her hands, " there
is a saint for you ! But I have
stopped going to see her since the
Carnival began, because every time
I go I feel I ought to become bet-
ter, and the very next day off I go
to confession. ... It has precise-
ly the same effect on the ragazze ;
so they have begged me not to
take them to the convent again be-
fore Ash-Wednesday."

Stella, less accustomed than I
to my aunt's style of conversation,
burst into laughter, and I did the
same, though I thought she express-
ed very well in her way the effects
of her visits at the convent. At
that minute the doors opened with
a bang, and Teresina and Mariuc-
cia made their appearance, loaded
wit# flowers. At the sight of us
there were exclamations of joy :

" O Ginevra ! . . . Contessa !
. . . E la bambinai Che piacere I

. . . How delightful to find yotf
here! "

A general embrace all arouoid.
Then details of all kinds— a strcMn
of words almost incomprehenrfBfe
''Che tempo! Che bellezza! Of
paradise f They had been amiiaed
quart to mai! And on the way badE,
moreover, they had met Don Lan-
dolfo, and Don Landolfo had inirit-
ed Teresina to dance a cotillon
with him at the ball to-morrcnr.
. . . And Don Landolfo said Mari- i
uccia's toilet at the ball last Sat* j
urday was un amore .'"

It should be observed here ti»t i
everything Lando said was takeft I
very seriously in this household. Hi
opinion was law in everything relit*^
ing to dress, and he himself did not
disdain giving these girls advice
which cultivated notions of gOod-
taste, from which they were too ^
ten tempted to deviate.

We were on the point of leav-
ing when Mariuccia exclaimed :

" Oh ! apropos, Ginevrina, Tere-
sina thought she saw Duke Loreoxo
at Sorrento at a distance."

"Lorenzo? ... At Somaite?
No, you are mistaken, Teresaw.
He went to Bologna a week agp.
and will not be back till to-morrow.**
" You hear V said Mariuccia to
her sister. " I told you you were
mistaken — that it was not he.**

"It is strange," said Teresina.
"At all events, it was some one
who resembled him very much. It
is true, I barely saw him a second."
"And where was it.'" I asked
^Vlth a slight tremor of the heart

" At the window of a small villa
away from the road at the end of
a masseria * we happened to pass
on the way."

She was mistaken, it was evident;
but when Lorenzo returned that eve

* An enclosure planted with ouixe, ¥100, ^
orange- trees.

Fac-SimiUs of Irish National Manuscripts.

213

Bvg a day sooner than I expect-
ed* I felt a slight misgiving at see-
af him. He perceived it, and
imilingly asked if I was sorry be-
camse he had hastened his return.
I was tempted to tell him what
tnmbled me, but was ashamed of

the new suspicion such an explana-
tion would have revealed, and I re-
proached myself for it as an injus-
tice to him. I checked myself,
therefore, and forced myself to for-
get, or at least to pay no attention
to, the gossip of my cousins.

TO BE CONHNUBO.

FAC-SIMILES OF IRISH NATIONAL MANUSCRIPTS.

CONCLUDBD.

Thi Liber Hymnorum is the next
tdected. It is believed to be more
thio one thousand years old, and
<nit of the most remarkable of the
SKved tracts among the MSS. in
Tkmity College, Dublin. It is a col-
ke^ of hymns on S. Patrick and
cAor Irish saints, which has been
iritKshed by the Irish Archaeologi-
es md Celtic Society, under the
«^ntendence of Dr. Todd. The
JJlwe pages selected contain the
J9™ written by S. Fiach of Stetty,
te»ecn the years 538 and 558, in
taawof S. Patrick. The hymn is
inmahed with an interlinear gloss.

The tenth of these MSS. is The
SiiiaircfS. ^/V^?/wflrr//, Bishop of St.
Dfcvid's between the years 1085 and
*09^ a small copy of the Psalter
containing also a copy of the Ro-
■an Martyrology.

Of the four pages of this volume
wfcich have been selected for copy-
ttgitwo are a portion of the Martyr-
oloorand two of the Psalter. The
to of these last contains the first
tWft verses of the loist Psalm, sur-
Wttadcd by an elaborate border
fa»ed by the intertwinings of four
•Wpentine monsters. The initial
# aC Domine is also expressed by a
ttiW snake, with its head in an at-
^Stadc to strike ; the object of its

attack being a creature which it is
impossible to designate, but which
bears some resemblance to the hip-
pocampus, or sea-horse. The second
page of the Psalter contains the
115th, ii6th, and 117th Psalms,
in which the same serpentine form
is woven into shapes to represent
the initial letters. The version of
the Psalms given in this volume dif-
fers from that used in England
in Bishop Ricemarch's time. It is
written in Latin in Gaelic charac-
ters. The volume belongs to Trin-
ity College, Dublin.

Next in order appears the Lead-
har ft a h-Uidhr/^ or Book of the
Dark Gray Co7V^ a fragment of one
hundred and thirty-eight folio pages,
which is thought to be a copy made
about the year 1 100 of a more an-
cient MS. of the same name writ-
ten in S. Ciaran's time. It derived
its name from the following curious
legend, taken from the Book of Lcin-
stery and the ancient tale called
Im thee hi na irom daimh/y or Adven-
tures of the Great Company^ told in
the Book of Lismore. About the
year 598, soon after the election of
Senchan Torpei^ to the pfl^ of
chief fil^ (professor of philosophy
and literature) in Erinn, he paid
a visit to Guair^, the Hospitable,

214

FaC'Similes of Irish National Manuscripts.

King of Connaught, accompanied
by such a tremendous retinue, in-
cluding a hundred and fifty profes-
sors, a hundred and fifty students, _
a hundred and fifty hounds, a hun-
dred and fifty male attendants, and
a hundred and fifty female relatives,
that even King Guair^'s hospitality
was grievously taxed; for he not
only had to provide a separate meal
and separate bed for each, but to
minister to their daily craving for
things that were extraordinary, won-
derful, rare, and difficult of procure-
ment. The mansion which con-
tained the learned association was
a special source of annoyance to
King Guair^, and at last the " long-
ing desires" for unattainable
things of Muireann, daughter of
Gun Culli and wife of Dalian, the
foster-mother of the literati, became
so unendurable that Guair^, tired
of life, proposed to pay a visit to
Fulachtach Mac Owen, a person
whom he thought especially likely
to rid him of that burden, as he had
killed his father, his six sons, and
his three brothers. Happily for him,
however, he falls in with his bro-
ther Marbhan, " the prime prophet
of heaven and earth," who had
adopted the position of royal swine-
herd in order that he might the
more advantageously indulge his
passion for religion and devotion
among the woods and desert places ;
and Marbhan eventually revenges
the trouble and ingratitude §ho,wn
to his brother by imposing ^upori
Senchan and the great Bardic As-
sociation the task of recovering the
lost tale of the Tdin Bd Chuailgn^^ or
Great Cattle Spoil of Cuailgne, After
a vain search for it in Scotland,
Sei^Mtn returned home and invited
the^llowing distinguished saints,
S. Colum Cille, S. Caillin of Fiodh-
nacha, S^Ciaran, S. Brendan of Birra,
and S. Brendan the son of Finnlo-

gha, to meet him at the grave of
the great Ulster chief, Feargus Mac
Roigh — who had led the Gonnaudit
men against the Ulster men diui$g
the spoil, of which also he appeSEl
to have been the historian — to tiy
by prayer and fasting to induce bh
spirit to relate the tale. After ^dig^
had fasted three days and three
nights, the apparition of Feargas
rose before them, clad in a green
cloak with a collared, gold-ribbed
shirt and bronze sandals, and ctr-
rying a golden hilted sword, and
recited the whole from beginniag
to end. And S. Giaran then and
there wrote it down on the hide of
his pet cow, which he had had
made for the purpose into a bodCf
which has ever since borne tlib
name,

The volume contains matter of >
very miscellaneous character: A
fragment of Genesis; a fragnwft
of Nennius* History of the Br^ms^
done into Gaelic by Gilla Gaomhafii,
who died before 1072 ; an amhrM Of
elegy on S. Colum Gille, written by
Dalian Forgail, the poet, in jji;
fragments of the historic talc rf
the Mesca Uladh^ or Inebriety ofAi
Ulstermen j fragments of the cattle-
spoils Tdin Bo Dartadha and 7^
Bo Flidais ; the navigation of Mad*
duin about the Atlantic for three
years and seven months ; imperfect
copies of the Tdin Bd Chunilgnfy the
destruction of the Bruighean da
Dearga^ or Court of Da Dearga, and
murder of King Conair6 M6r; a
history of the great pagan cemeter-
ies of Erinn and of the various old
books from which this and other
pieces were compiled ; poems bf
Flann of Monasterboice and otheis;
together with various other pieces
of history and historic romance
chiefly referring to the ante-Chris-
tian period, and especially that of
the Tuatha D6 Danann. Three

Fac-Similfs of Irish National Manuscripts,

215

PH^ containing cunoas prnycrs

UMtthcIegcnd of Th€ iViihirifi^ of

(^hi!mn and the Birds of Emev,

^xtpcicd from \X\t L€abhar buidh

.*3l&r, or Yflimi} Bmk of Slane, one

fthc ancient lost books of iRlnnd

.:cffli which the i^abhar na h- Uidhre

«a«C0mptled» have been selected.

Tbc Bp^k af Lcimier^ a folio of

OfTFrfour hundred pages, appears as

tlien<fxL It was compiled in the first

half of the Xllth century by Finn

Mic Gorman, Bishop of Kildare, by

■^derof Aedh Mac Cnmhthainn,lhe

itorof Dcrmol, King of Leinstcr,

'^OQg OtUcr pieces of interiial

•deuce pointing to this conclu-

*wii uc the following entries

tie finl in the original hand, llie

cowl bjr one strange but ancient^

^™>t!ircd and quoted by O "Curry :

^BSBciiedktions and health from

^B^lhc Bishop of Kildare^ lo Aedli

Mp Crimhlain, the tutor of the

"irfKing of Leth Mogha Nuadut

— ^Jf of Lciniler and Munster), suc-

■■bwof Col^Ltm Mic Crurntaind of,

^Hl chief hUtorian of, Leinster, in

^^fefaOt iQieUigence, and the cuhi-

^^^h of books, k no \^ ledge, and

^^^Bg* And I write the conclu-

M of Ibis little tale for thee, O

^^■tc Aedh ! thon possessor of the

^utltcig intellect. May it be long

Waieweare without thee! It is

»K ikSNV that thou shouldst always

'««llJiiif. Let Mac Loran'sbook

if poons be gtvcn to me, that 1 may

^ifcnUtiil the sense of the poems

t^*t trc In it; and farewell in

** Mary ! it is a great deed that
has been done in Erinn this day, the
Kalends of August — Diarmait Mac
Honnchadda Mic Murchada, King
of Leinster and of the Danes (of
I^Win), to have been banished over
^t sea eastwards by the men of
Brinn ! Uch, uch, O Lord ! what
sUll I do ?"

The more important of the vast
number of subjects treated of in
this MS. are mentioned as being :
The usual book of invasions ; ancient
poems ; a plan and explanation of
the banqueting-hall of Tara; a copy
of The Battle of Boss na Righ in the
beginning of the Christian era; a
copy of the Mesca Uladh^ and one
of the origin of the Borrdhiean Tri-
bute, and the battle that ensued ; a
fragment of the battle of Ceanna-
brat, \vith the defeat of Mac Con
by OilioU Olium, his flight into, and
return from, Scotland with Scottish
and British adventurers, his landing
in Galway Bay, and the defeat of Art,
monarch of Erinn, and slaughter of
Olium 's seven sons at the battle of
Magh Mucruimh^ ; a fragment of
Cormac's Glossary ; another of the
wars between the Danes and Irish ;
a copy of the Dinnsenchus ; genea-
logies of Milesian families ; and an
ample list of the early saints of
Erinn, with their pedigrees and
affinities, and with copious refer-
ences to the situation of their
churches. The volume belongs to
Trinity College, Dublin.

Three pages have been selected. •
The first contains a copy of the
poem on the Teach Miodhchuarta
of Tara — ^a poem so ancient that of
its date and author no record re-
mains — and of the ground-plan of
the banqueting-hall by which the
poem was illustrated, published by
Dr. Petrie in his History and An-
tiquities of Tara Hill, The ground-
plan, which in this copy is nearly
square, is divided into five com-
partments 'lengthwise, the centre
and broadest of which contains the
door, a rudely-drawn figure of a
daul or waiter turning a gigantic
spit, furnished with a joint of^^at,
before a fire, the lamps, and l^uge
double-handed vase or amphora
for the cup-bearer to distribute.

2l6

FaC' Similes of Irish National Manuscripts.

This great spit, called Bir Nechin^
or the spit of Nechin, the chief
smith of Tara, which in the drawing
is half the length of the hall, appears
to have been so mechanically con-
trived as to be able to b« coiled up
after use ; and the instrument is
thus described in another MS. be-
longing to Trinity College, Dublin,
quoted by Dr. Petrie : " A stick at
each end of it, and its axle was
wood, and its wheel was wood, and
its body was iron ; and there were
twice nine wheels on its axle, that
it might turn the faster; and there
were thirty spits out of it, and
thirty hooks and thirty spindles,
and it was as rapid as the rapidity
of a stream in turning ; and thrice
nine spits and thrice nine cavities
(or pots) and one spit for roasting,
and one wing used to set it in
motion.**

In the two compartments on either
side are enumerated in order of
precedence the various officers and
retainers of the king's household,
together with their tables and the
particular portions of meat served
out to each, forming a very curious
and instructive illustration of the
social condition and habits of the
early Irish. The description of the
rations that were considered spe-
cially adapted to the several ranks
of consumers is very amusing. For
the distinguished men of literature,
" the soft, clean, smooth entrails,**
and a steak cut from the choicest
part of the animal, were set aside ;
the poet had a " good smooth "
piece of the leg ; the historian, " a
crooked bone,** probably a rib ; the
artificers, " a pig*s shoulder *'; the
Druids and aire dessa^ a " fair foot."
These last are said to decline to
drii^ not so the trumpeters and
COOKS, who are to be allowed
" cheering mead in abundance, not
of a flatulent kind." The door-

keeper, ** the noisy, humorous
and the fierce, active kerne'
the chine ; while to the sati
and the braigitore, a class of 1
foons whose peculiar function '
to amuse the company after a 1
ion which will not only not
description, but almost defies!
— licensed and paid Aethons of 1
court — ^** the fat of the shoulden
divided to them pleasantly."

The selection is continued by*
Leabhar Breac^ or Speckled
probably named from the color \
its cover, or, as it was formerly i
cd, Leabhar Mdr Duna Doi{
the Great Book of Dun Doigh
place on the Galway side of
Shannon not far from Athlone,
is a compilation from various
cient books belonging chiefly"'
churches and monasteries in
aught, Munster, and Leinster.l
tifully written on vellum, as is \
posed about the close of the XI
century, by one of the Mac 0%
a literary family of great repute 1
longing to Dun Doighr6.

Its contents are of an extremi
miscellaneous character, and
are all, with the exception of a i
of The Life of Alexander the Gr
from the Vllth century, MS. of 1
Berchan of Clonsost, of a religic
nature, comprising Biblical na
tives, homilies, hymns; pedig
of saints, litanies and liturg
monastic rules, the Martyrology {
Aengus C^ul6 D^, or the Culd«
the ancient rules of discipline of I
order of the Culdees, etc..
When the Abb^ Mac Geoghc
wrote his History of Ancient Er
in Paris, in the year 1758, til
volume, his principal MS. of refc
ence, was in Paris. It is now
the Royal Irish Academy.

Three pages have been sclc
for fac-similes, giving a descriptic
of the nature and arrangement of tt

FaC'Similes of Irish National Manuscripts.

217

F&r^y or Festology of Aengus the
Caidee, and the date and object of
its composition, which was made
between the years 793 and 817,
when Aedh Oirdnidhe was monarch
of Erinn.

Then comes the Leabhar Buidhe
LecmtL, or Yellow Book of Lecain^ a
large quarto volume of about five
hundred pages, which was written
by Donnoch and Gilla Isa Mac
Fifbis in the year 1390, with the
exception of a few tracts of a some-
what later date. O'Curry, in his
ninth lecture, supposes it to have
been originally a collection of an-
cient historical pieces, civil and
ecclesiastical, in prose and verse.
In its present imperfect state it
contains a number of family and
political poems; some monastic
rules; a description of Tara and its
banqueting-hall ; a translation of
part of the Book of Genesis ; the
Feist of Dun-na-n Gedh and the
battle of Magh Rath; an account
of the reign of Muirchertach Mac
Eica, and his death at the palace
of Ckitech in the year 527 ; copies
of cattle-spoils, of the Bruighean
D» Dcarga, and death of the king ;
the tale of Maelduin*s three years*
wanderings in the Atlantic ; tracts
concerning the banishment of an
ancient tribe from East Meath, and
their discovery in the Northern
Ocean by some Irish ecclesiastics ;
accounts of battles in the years
5H^34i and 718, and many other
curious and valuable pieces and
tracts. It is preserved in the Library
of Trinity College, Dublin.

Two pages have been selected.
The first contains the plan of the
TachMiodchuarta of ancient Tara,
^ith a portion of the prose pre-
1^ to the poem, which the plan
B intended to illustrate. This
pound-plan differs somewhat in
tie ihape of the hall and the ar-

rangement of the tables from that
given in the Book of LeinsUr, an
earlier copy of a different .original.
It is also very much superior to it,
both as regards the drawing and
writing. The daul and his spit are
unrepresented here, but there is the
door, the common hall, the swing-
ing lamp and candles, the great
double-handed vase, called the dab-
hack or vat, and three places mark-
ed out for the fires. The arrange-
ment of the hall appears to have
been this : Each of the two outside
compartments contained twelve
seats, and each seat three sitters ;
the two airidins or divisions on
either side of the centre of the hall
held each eight seats and sixteen
sitters. There were eight distribu-
tors, cup-bearers, and herdsmen at
the upper end of the hall, and two
sat in each of the two seats on
either side of the door, being the
two door-keepers and two of the
royal fools. The daily allowance
for dinner was two cows, two salted
hogs, and two pigs. The quantity
of liquor consumed is not specified,
but the poem states that there ^vere
one hundred drinkings in the vat,
and that the vat was supplied with
fifty grooved golden horns and fifty
pewter vessels. The order of pre-
cedence seems to have ranged from
the top of the external division to
the left on entering the hall ; then
to the top of the external division
to the right ; then the two internal
divisions beginning with the left;
then the iarthar or back part of the
hall, the upper end opposite the
door; and last the seats on either
side of the door itself. There is no
seat marked for the king, but it is
stated in the poem that a fourth
part of the hall was at his bac^ind
three-fourths before him, and^e is
supposed to have sat about a quar-
ter of the way down the centre of

2l8

FaC'Similes of Irish National Manuscripts.

the hall with his face toward the
door, which would place him be-
tween two of the great fires, with
the artisans on his right and the
braziers and fools on his left hand.
It is probable, however, from no
mention being made of the king's
seat, and no provision being made
for him in the appropriation of the
daily allowance of food, which is
specified in as many rations as there
are persons mentioned in the plan,
that this is not the plan of the royal
banqueting-hall, but of a portion
of it only — the common dining-hall
for the officers and retainers of the
palace; the monarch himself and
his princes and nobles, none of
whom are even alluded to in the
plan, dining in another and supe-
rior apartment.

The second page contains a por-
tion of the sorrowful tale of the loves
of fair Deirdr^ and Naoisi, the son
of Uisneach, one of the class of
Irish legends called AithidhSy or
elopements. An outline of this
story, in the commencement of
which the reader will recognize that
of one of his early nursery favorites,
" Little Snow White," is given by
Keating in his General History of
Ireland,

The Book of Lecain Mac Fir^
bisighy a folio of more than six hun-
dred pages, was compiled in the
year 1418 by Gilla Isa M6r Mac
Firbis, Adam O'Cuirnin, and Mo-
rogh Riabhac O'Cuindlis. f ts con-
tents are nearly the same as t\iih^
of The Book of Ballymotf y'io some of
which it furnishes valuable addi-
tions, among the most important
of which is a tract on the families
and subdivisions of the territory
of Tir Fiachrach in the present
cou||v of Sligo. The volume is
preWved in the Royal Irish Acad-
emy.

Four pages have been selected,

being a port ion of a copy of the -
har na g-Ceart^ or Book of RigA
a metrical work attributed in
work itself to S. Benean or Beu
S. Patrick's earliest convert, and I
successor in the Archbishopnc ^
Armagh in the middle of the
century. These four pages,
are written in columnar form, <
tain the concluding ten verses j
the stipends due to the chte
ries of Connacht from the su|
King of Cruachain ; the met
accounts, with their preceding ]
abstracts, of the privileges of
King of Aileach ; the payment \
stipends of the same king to
chieftainries and tribes for
tion and escort ; the privileges -
the King of the Oirghialla with i
stipends due to him from the
of Erinn, and by him to his <
tainries ; the rights, wages, stif
refections, and tributes of the
of Eamhain and Uladh ; and J
all the prose abstract of the risglriltl
of the King of Tara.

The Book of Bally mote, a la<9 j
folio volume of five hundred iiVL
two pages of vellum, was writUilfi
as stated on the dorse of folio 1^
at Ballymote, in the house of T^
maltach oig Mac Donogh, Lord diF
Corann, during the reign of T»*
logh oig, the son of Hugh O'ConO^
King of Connaught. It appeals
to be the work of different hand%
but the principal scribes employed
in writing it were Solomon O'Dro*
ma and Manus O'Duigenann, and
it was written at the end of die
XlVth century.

It contains an imperfect copy of
the Leabhar Gabhala, or Book tf
Invasions^ a series of ancient chro-
nological, historical, and genealogi-
cal pieces in prose and verse; tl»
pedigrees of Irish saints, and die
histories and pedigrees of all the
great families of the Milesian race,

Fac^Sintiles of Irish National Manuscripts.

219

wiih their collateral branches, so
that, as O 'Curry remarks, there is
scarcely any one whose name be-
g»s with "O"' or "Mac" who
toald not find out all about his ori-
gin and family in this book ; then
follow stones and adventures, lists
of famous Irish names, a Gaelic
translation of Nennius' History of
the Britons^ an ancient grammar
and prosody, and various other
tracts.

Six pages have been selected.
The first four contain the disserta-
tion on the Ogham characters, and
the last two the genealogy of the
Hy Nialls, showing their descent
from Eremon, one of the sons of
Milesius. The volume belongs to
the Irish Academy.

The last in Mr. Sanders* list of
the great volumes of Irish History
IS the Book of ATCarihy Riabliac,
a compilation of the XlVth cen-
tary— in language of a much ear-
lier date — now also known as the
B»k of UsmorCy to which a very
curious story attaches. It was first
^liscovered in the year 1814, enclos-
ed in a wooden box together with
a ine old crosier, built into the
masonry of a closed-up doorway
»hich was reopened during some
repairs that were being made in
tJic old Castle of Lismore. Of
course the account of its discovery
*W)n got abroad and became a
niattcr of great interest, especially
to the antiquarian class of scho-
^. Among these there happened
^ be then living in Shandon Streejt,,
Cork, one Mr. Dennis O'Flinn, a
professed Irish scholar. O'Curry
sap that he was a " professed but
* very indifferent" one; but at
*py rate his reputation was sufii-
cjwtly well grounded to induce
Colonel Curry, the Duke of Dev-
wwhircs agent, to send him the
Ms. According to OTlinn's own

account, the book remained in his
hands for one year, during which
time it was copied by Michael O'-
Longan, of Carrignavan, near Cork ;
after which O'Flinn bound it in
boards, and returned it to Colonel
Curry. From that time it remain-
ed locked up and unexamined until
1839, when the duke lent it to the
Royal Irish Academy to be copied
by O'Curry, and O'Curry's practis-
ed eye and acumen soon discover-
ed that much harm had oorae to
the volume during its sojourn in
Shandon Street. The book had
been mutilated, and, what was
worse, mutilated in so cunning a
way that what remained was ren-
dered valueless by the abstraction,
no doubt with the view of enhanc-
ing the value of the stolen portions
as soon as it should become safe
to pretend a discovery of them.
Every search was made, especially
by O'Curry, about Cork, to see if
any of the missing pages could be
found ; but it was not till seven or
eight years afterwards that a com-
munication was made that a large
portion of the original MS. was ac-
tually in the possession of some
person in Cork, but who the per-
son was, or how he became possess-
ed of it, the informant could not
tell. This clue seems to have fail-
ed; but soon afterwards the late
Sir William Betham's collection of
MSS. passed into the library of the
R9yal Irish Academy by sale, and
among these were copies of the
lost portions, and all made, as
the scribe himself states at the end
of one of them, by himself,. Michael
O'Longan, at the house of Dennis
Ban O'Flinn, in Cork, in 1816, from
the Book of Lismore, The missing
portions of the MS. were at length
traced, and the ^50 asked* for
them was offered by the Royal
Irish Academy; but the negotia-

^'ft^

220

Facsimiles of Irish National Manuscripts.

tion ultimately broke down, and
they were purchased by Mr. Hewitt,
of Summerhill, near Cork. Since
that time, however, they have been
restored, and the whole volume ex-
cellently repaired and handsomely
bound by the Duke of Devonshire,
who has most liberally allowed it
to remain in Mr. Sanders* posses-
sion for the purpose of copying.
Whether O'Flinn actually mutilat-
ed the volume or not, there can be
no doubt that pages and pages of
it have been ruined and will even-
tually be rendered illegible by the
most reckless use of that perni-
cious chemical agent, infusion of
galls. Besides this, Mr. OTlinn
has written his name in several
places of the book, among others
all over the colored initial letter of
one of the tracts, which he has
entirely spoiled by filling in the
open spaces with the letters of his
name and the date of the outrage.
But perhaps the most character-
istic act performed by him is the
interpolation of an eulogistic ode
upon himself in Gaelic, of which
the following is a literal transla-
tion :

" Upon the dressing of this book
by D. O'F., he said (or sang) as
follows :

** * O old chart ! fois«t not, wheresoerer you are

taken,
To relate that you met with the Doctor of Dooks ;
That helped you, out of compassion, from severe

bondage,
After findii^ you in forlorn state without a tatter

about you, as it should be.
Under the dbparagement of the ignorant who

liked not to know you,
Till you met by chance with learned good-oiature

from the person •
Who put healing herbs with zeal to thy old

wounds,
And liberally put bloom on you at your old age,

And baptized you the Book of LUmore,

* " That is, Dennis O'FUnn, with whom was this
booktfnring a year, namely, from the seventh month
of the year 18x5 to the eighth month of the
year x8x6, 1.*., viz., D. O'F., of hhandon Street, in
Oxrk, of Great Munster, and that put it carefully
in this form, as say the stanzas above.'*

Forget not this friend that esteemed year I
Distinguishing you, (though) <^ una^mly \

aace, in hudible words.
I doubt not that truly you will declare Ift I

there
That you met with your fond friend ere yt

to dust."

The book contains ancient
of Irish saints, written in very
Gaelic ; the conquests of
magne, translated from Arch^
Turpin's celebrated romance ofl
Vlllth century ; the con
of the Pantheon into a Ch
church ; the stories of David, i
Jesse, the two children, Sarnhjua^'
three sons of Cleirac ; the Im\
na trom daimM ; the story oC
Peter's daughter Petronilla and
discovery of the Sibylline Oracte
account of S. Gregory the
the Empress Justina's
modifications of minor cerei
of the Mass ; accounts of the
cessors of Charlemagne, and of
correspondence between
and the clergy of Rome ; exi
from Marco Polo's Travels;
counts of Irish battles and m
and a dialogue between S. Pai
Caoilt6, Mac Ronain, and
(Ossian), the son of Fionn Mac Oil
haill, in which many hills, rivers^
verns, etc., in Ireland, are descril
and the etymology of their m
recorded. This la.st is preluded
an account of the departure of
Oisin and Caoilt6 on a hunting ex*,
pedition, during which their gillitf
sees and is much troubled by x
very strange spectacle. As this
tale furnishes a good example of the
contents of these ancient books,
we subjoin a translation of the
commencement of it.*

" On a certain time it happened
that Oisin and Cailte were in Dan
Clithar (the sheltered or shady Dtuj)
at Slieve Crott. It was the time

• The writer acknowledges his indebtednea* to Ms-
James 0*Farrell for this traudation and other Tab*'
ble

FaC'SimiUs of Irish National Manuscripts.

221

tlttt Patrick came to Ireland. It
is tbere dwelt a remnant of the
Fenians, namely, Oisin and Cailte
sad three times nine persons in
their company. They followed
this custom : about nine persons
wect out hunting daily. On a cer-
tain day it chanced that Cailte Mac
Ronain set out with eight persons
(b% men) and a boy (gilla), the
ntotb. The way they went was
nofthward to the twelve mountains
of Eibhlinn<^ and to the head of the
aivcient Moy Breogan. On their
fttnming from the chase at the
cheerless close of the day they
came from the north to Corroda
Cntmhchoill. Then was Fear Gair
CaiUe's gilla loaded with the choice
pattiof the chase in charge, because
be had no care beyond that of
CaStc himself, from whom he took
v»aes. The gilla comes to the
<ti«im, and takes Cailte 's cup from
Wi back and drinks a drink of the
rtieim. AVhilst the gilla was thus
*iri«king the eight great men went
JWf way southward, mistaking the
ttid, and the gilla following after-
wirts. Then was heard the noise of
At large host, and the gilla proceeds
to obsenre the multitude ; bushes
Old a bank between them. He
ttwiu the fore front of the crowd a
Grange band ; it seemed to him one
Hnndred and fifty were in this
^**n<l. They appeared thus : robes
^f pure white linen upon them, a
l>«id chief with them, and bent
standards in their hands; shields,
^w>*d-stTcaked with gold and silver,
Wghl shining on their breasts;
^^m faces pale, pitiably feminine,
*nd having masculine voices, and
every man of them humming a
"'^'ch. The gilla followed his peo-
pfe» and did not overtake them till
^ came to the hunting-booth, and
'^ctme possessed, as he thinks,
^^ the news of the strange troop

he had seen, and casts his burden
on the ground, goes round it, places
his elbows under, and groans very
loudly. It was then that Cailte
Mac Ronain said : * Well, gilla, is it
the weight of your burden affects
you.^* * Not so,* replied the gilla;
*when is large- the burden, so great
is the wages you give to me. This
does not affect me ; but that won-
derful multitude I saw at the hut
of Cnamhchoill. The first band
that I saw of that strange crowd
filled me with the pestilent, heavy
complaint of the news of this band.'

* Give its description,' said Cailte.

* There seemed to me an advanced
guard of one hundred and fifty-six
men, pure white robes upon them,
a head leader to them, bent stand-
ards in their hands, broad shields
on their breasts, having feminine
faces and masculine voices, and
every single man of them humming
a march.' Wonder seized the old
Fenian on hearing this. * These
are they,* said Oisin — * the Tailginn
(holy race), foretold by our Druids
and Fionn to us, and what can be
done with them } Unless they be
slain, they shall ascend over us al-
together.* * Uch !* said Oisin, * who
amongst us can molest them } For
we are the last of the Fenii, and
not with ourselves is the power in
Erinn, nor the greatness, nor plea-
sure but in the chase, and as an-
cient exiles asserting the right,*
said he ; and they remained so till
came the next morning, and there
was nothing on their minds that
night but these (things). Cailte
rose early the fore front of the day,
being the oldest of them, and came
out on the assembly-mound. The
sun cleared the fog from the plains,
and Cailte said : . . .'*

The procession thus described as
having been seen by the gillie was
probably one of ecclesiastics, with

222

Annals of the Moss-Troopers.

S. Patrick himself at their head, on
the saint's first arrival in Ireland.

The foregoing sketches of certain
of the MSS., extracts from which
are intended to appear in the series
of fac-similes, may serve to con-
vey an idea of hpw rich Ireland
is in such national records, what
an immense mass of historical and
romantic literature her libraries
contain, and how great is their an-

tiquity. Besides the evidence at
forded by these books, both as tP
the ancient social, political, and
ecclesiastical history of Ireland»aii<
its topography, the books t hca
selves are found to be full of Bbfr-
trations of the customs, ino<le fli
life, manners, and costume oi ter
early Celtic inhabitants ; often cMm^
veyed trough the medium oC
charming legends and fairy talea»

ANNALS OF THE MOSS-TROOPERS.

Outlawry was never carried to a
greater degree of systematic organ-
ization, or practised on a larger
and more dignified scale, than dur-
ing the centuries of Border war-
fare between the English and Scot-
tish chieftains. The only parallel
to this warfare was furnished by
the raids of the Free Companions
in mediaeval Italy; but the merce-
nary element in the organization of
those formidable bodies of profes-
sional marauders destroys the inte-
rest which we might otherwise have
felt in their daring feats of arms.
The warfare of the Border was
essentially a national outburst ; the
"moss-troopers," although trained^
soldiers, were also householders
and patriarchs. Their stake in the
country they alternately plundered
and defended was a substantial one.
The field of their prowess was never
far from home. Each retainer, in-
significant as he might be, humble
as his position in the troop might
be, had yet a personal interest in the
raid ; and revenge, as well as plun-
der, was the avowed object of an ex-
pedition. There was never any
changing of allegiance from one

side to the other ; the tie of Mood
and clanship welded the ivhol*
troop into one family. The Bcifr
der, or debatable land between dw
rival kingdoms of England gsd
Scotland, bristled with stronghoUs^
all of historical name and £um:
Newark and Branxholm (wUch
Sir Walter Scott in his Lay of tk
Last Minstrel has euphonized into
Branksome), held by the all-powef»
ful Scotts of Buccleugh ; Crichtotm
Castle, the successive property of
the Crichtouns, the Bothwells, and
the Buccleughs, and, while in the
hands of its original owners, the
haughty defier of King James IH.
of Scotland ; Gifford or Yester (it
bears either name indifferently),
famous for its Hobgoblin Hall, or,
as the people call it, " Bo-Hall/
a large cavern formed by magical
\xi\ Tantallon Hold, the retreat
of the Douglas, in which the family
held out manfully against James V
until its chief, the Earl of Angas
was recalled from exile. Of tbi-
expedition it is related that thtr
king marched in person upon the
castle, and, to reduce it, I orrowed
from the neighboring Castle of

Annals of the Moss- Troopers.

223

Daabar two great cannons whose
nunes were " Thrawn-mouthed
Meg and her Marrow " ; also two
/^at hctcards^ and two moyaUyX^o
double falcons and two quarter-fal-
Qons, for the safe guiding and re-
delivery of which "three lords
were laid in pawn at Dunbar."
Notwithstanding all this mighty
preparation, xhe king was forced
to raise the siege. The ruin of Tan-
tallon was reserved for the Cqve-
nanters, and now there remans no-
thing of it save a few walls stand-
ing 00 a high rock overlooking the
Cfcrman Ocean and the neighbor-
ing town of Berwick-upon-Tweed.
Ford Castle, the patrimony of the
Herons, had a better fate, and
stands in altered and modernized
guise, the centre of civilizing and
peaceful influences, the residence
of a model Lady of the Manor,
overlooking, not the wild ocean,
Iwt a pretty village, faultlessly
neat, and a Gothic school filled with
frescos of Bible subjects, executed by
the Lady Bountiful, the benefactress
of the neighborhood. Yet Ford
Castle bad a stormy, stirring past,
wd stands not far from the histo-
tic field of Flodden, where tradi-
tion says that, but for the tardiness
^ the king's movements — an effect
dtJe to the siren charms of Lady
Ford— James IV. might have been
victorious. In the castle is still
shown the room where the king slept
the night before the battle, and only
fi^c or six miles away lies the fatal
Wd, on which, Marmion in hand
the curious traveller may stift
"^»^e out each knoll, the Bridge of
Twisd, by which the English un-
<i« Surrey crossed the Till, the hil-
^^ commanding the rear of the
English right wing, which was de-
^«cd, and in conflict with whom
pott's imaginary hero, Marmion,
* apposed to have fallen.

Very curiou^ are the accounts of
the various fights and forays given
by the chroniclers of the middle
ages, especially in their utter uncon-
sciousness of anything unusual or
derogatory in this almost interne-
cine warfare. JTheir simplicity in
itself presents the key to the situa-
tion. In reading their graphic, mat-
ter-of-fact descriptions, one needs
to transport one's self into a total-
ly different atmosphere. We must
read these racy accounts in the
same spirit in which they were writ-
ten, if we would understand aright
the age in which our forefathers
lived. We are not called upon to
sit in judgment over the irrevocable
past, but to study it as a fact not to
be overlooked, and a useful store-
house of warning or example. The
possession of the king's person was
sometimes the origin of terrible
clan-feuds among the warlike Scot-
tish imitattors of the Prankish
** Maires du Palais." Thus, on one
occasion, in 1526, the chronicler
Pitscottie informs us that James V.,
then a minor, had fallen under the
self-assumed guardianship of the
Earl of Angus, backed by his own
clan of Douglas and his allies, the
Lairds of Hume, Cessfoord, and
Fernyhirst, the chiefs of the clan of
Kerr.* " The Earl of Angus and
the rest of the Douglases ruled all
- which they liked, and no man durst
say the contrary.". The king, who
wished to get out of their hands,
*sent a feecret letter to Scott of Buc-
cleugh, warden of the West Mar-
ches of Scotland, praying him to
gather his kin and friends, meet the
Douglas at Melrose, and deliver
him (James) from his vassal's power.
The loyal Scot gathered about six
hundred spears, and came to the
tryst. When the Douglases and

• Prooouaoed K4ur.

224

A nnals of the Moss- Troopers.

Kerrs saw whom they had to deal
with, they said to the king, "Sir,
yonder is Buccleugh, and thieves
of Annandale with him, to unbeset
your grace from the gate (/.^., in-
terrupt your passage). I vow to God
they shall either fight or flee, and ye
shall tarry here on this know (knoll),
and I shall pass and put yon thieves
off the ground, and rid the gate un-
to your grace, or else die for it."
Scant courtesy in speech used those
Border heroes towards one another !
So an escort tarried to guard the
king, and the rest of the clans went
forward to the field of Darnelinver
now Damick, near Melrose. The
place of conflict is still called
Skinner's Field, a corruption of
Skirmish Field. The chronicler
tells us that Buccleugh "joyned
and countered cruelly both the said
parties . . . with uncertain victory.
But at the last the Lord Hume,
hearing word of that natter, how it
stood, returned again to the king
in all possible haste, with him the
Lairds of Cessfoord and Fernyhirst,
to the number of fourscore spears,
and set freshly on the lap and wing
of the Laird of Buccleugh *s field,
and shortly bare them backward to
the ground, which caused the Laird
of Buccleugh and the rest of his
friends to go back and flee, whom
they followed and chased ; and es-
pecially the Lairds of Cessfoord
and Fernyhirst followed furiouslie,
till at the foot of a path the Laird
of Cessfoord was slain by the stroke
of a spear by one Elliott, who was
then servant to the Laird of Buc-
leugh. But when the Laird of
Cessfoord was slain, the chase ceas-
ed." The Borders were infested
for many long years afterwards by
marauders of both sides, who kept
up a deadly hereditary feud between
the names of Scott and Kerr, and
finally, after having been imprisoned

and had his estates forfeited nine
years later for levying war against
the Kerrs, the bold Buccleugh was
slain by his foes in the streets of
Edinburgh in 1552, twenty-six jcars
after the disastrous fight in which
he had failed to rescue hjs sover-
eign. It was seventy years before
this Border feud was finally qu^
ed.

On t'iie English side of the
Marches the same dare-devilry CX'
isted, the same speed in gathering
large bodies of men was used, tte
same quickness in warning and
rousing the neighborhood. Equal
enthusiasm was displayed whethtf
the case were one of " lynch law **
or of political intrigue, as in- dK
fight at Darnelinver. Sir Robcit
Carey, in his Memoir Sy describe
his duties as deputy warden for his
brother-in-law. Lord Scroop. The
castle was near Carlisle. " We had
a stirring time of it," he says, "and
few days passed over my head but
I was on horseback, either to pre-
vent mischief or take malefactors,
and to bring the Border in better
quiet than it had t)een in times
past." Hearing that two Scotch-
men had killed a churchman in
Scotland, and were dwelling five
miles from Carlisle on the English
side of the Border, under the pro-
tection of the Graemes, Carey took
about twenty-five horsemen with
him, and invested the Graeme's
house and tower. As they did so.
a boy rode from the house at full
speed, and one of his retainers,
better versed in Border warfare
than the chief, told him that in half
an hour that boy would be in
Scotland to let the people know of
the danger of their countrymen and
the small number of those who had
come from Carlisle to arrest theno.
" Hereupon," says our author, "we
took advice what was best to be

Anna is t^f the Moss-Troopers.

225

docc. Wc sent notice presently to

•II parts 10 raise the counlr)% and

III cofnc 10 us with all the spei^J

tftrf could; and withal we sent to

C^fiiiir to raise the townsmen, f-»r

villlDist foot wc could do no gond

-fiaOft ihc lower. There we slavLd

•tne botirs, expecling more com-

j;*aoT, aod vrithiri a short time aficr

the country canie in on all«sides, so

rt ifc were quickly between three

d four hundrc^d hor:^e ; nnd after

*iiie longcf 5la.)% the foot of Carlisle

'Jmc to us, to the number of three

^ four hiiiidred men, whom we

pfcfcntlf set toivork to get to the

♦c^p of the tower, and to niicavcr

-^ roof, and then some twenty of

cm to fall down together^ and by

.It moms 10 win the tower The

'" seeing die if j>rcHcnt danL^er,

1: to parley, and yielded thetn-

ltd to my mercy." But the

ft&r5oT7"^ Cirliskans had rcckoiud

L'ir host. From the lull 'i

;* ^*i.,,^^ around came pouring

ild-lookiQgEiourit,ijneerson rough,

vf ponies, farm-horses, etc, to

f r^nmber of fou r h imd red . '1' h e

'-■ri% cciiscd their j^lcatJing, and

. I i cattily towards their dtli vc i-

^1. Meanwhile, the m^w of *' mer-

» Catllslc*'* gave their perpIexiJ

lief rnoTc trouble than hiiieneniics,

'^bo '" stood at ^a:Ee " a rpiartf r of a

nrfic ffom him ; for^ F,ay»i ht*|^ ** oil our

llofd^rers catne crying with lull

fmwths, *Sir, give us leave ta set

j>oii them ; for these are tliey

'Ut hive killed our fathers our

niffeen and unrleH^, and nur

^.' ^- rflthey arc eomtng, tlunk-

- ■ ■ priHC you with weak i;ra^s

W4gi»»ttchas lliey rouid gel m\ a

AiidAefi; and God hath put tlinn

imopior hands^ that wc may take

vftts^^ of them for much binod

thit they have spilt of ours.' " The

• Tkt Lay 9/the Latt Mintirtl^ canto i. tt. ri.
VOL. XX. — 15

warden was a conscientious man,
and had come here to execute jus-
tice against two malefactors, not to
encourage indiscriminate private re-
venge ; but even with his rank and
vested authority he did not dare
sternly to forbid a faction fight.
He only told them that, had he not
been there, they might have done
as best pleased them ; but that, since
he was present, he should feel that
all the blood spilt that day would
be upon his own head, and for his
sake he entreated them to forbear.
*' They were ill-satisfied,'* he adds,
"but durst not disobey." So he
sent word to the Scots to disperse,
which they did, probably because
they were unprepared to fight such
a large and well-disciplined force,
having expected to find but a hapd-
ful of men. The necessity for deli-
cate handling of this armed mob of
English Borderers points sufficient-
ly to the c&tious standard of per-
sonal justice which prevailed in
those wild times. And yet, strange
to say, while a Border " ride " (alias
foray) was a thing of such ordinary
occurrence that a saying is record-
ed of a mother to her son which
soon became proverbial: ^^ Ride,
Ro7vley^ hough's V the pot " — that is,
the last piece of beef is in the pot,
and it is high time to go and fetch
more-^still it would sometimes hap-
pen, as it did to James V. of Scot-
land, that when an invasion of
England was in contemplation, and
the royal lances gathered at the
place where the king's lieges were
to meet him, only one baron would
declare himself willing to go wher-
ever the sovereign might lead. This
faithful knight was another of the
loyal race of Scott — John Scott of
Thirlestane, to whom James, in
memory of bis fidelity, granted the
privilege set forth in the following
curious and rare charter :

226

A finals of tlie Moss- Troopers.

"... Ffor the quhilk (which)
cause, it is our will, and we do
straitlie command and charg our
lion herauld, ... to give and to
graunt to the said John Scott ane
border of ffleure de lises about his
coatte of armes, sic as is on our
royal banner, and alsua ane bundle
of lances above his helmet, with
thir words, Readdy ay, Readdy,
that he and all his after-cummers
may bruik (carry ?) the samine as a
pledge and taiken of our guid will
and kyndnes for his true worthi-
nes."

The list of the damages done in
some of these Border rides sounds
strange in modern ears. Each
country was a match for the other,
though the strong castles of Wark,
Norham, and Berwick in English
hands were thorns in the side of
the Scottish Borderers. Rowland
Foster of Wark, on the i6th of May,
1570, harried the barony of Blythe
in Lauderdale, the property of Sir
Richard Maitland, a blind knight
of seventy-four years of age. None
of that country ** lippened " (ex-
pected) such a thing, as it was in
time of peace ; and despite what may
have been said — and truly — as to
their lawlessness, the Borderers had
a code by which to regulate their
actions. The old man wrote a
poetical account of the harrying,
calling the poem the Blind Ba-
ron*s Comforty and in the intro-
duction he enumerates his losses :
five thousand sheep, two hundred
nolt, thirty horses and mares, and
the whole furniture of his house,
worth jQS 6s. 8d., and everything
else that was portable. The sum
represents some forty dollars.

In these narratives one feels it
impossible to be very sorry for
either party, each was so thorough-
ly unable to take care of itself!
Those who to-day seem down-trod-

den victims of lawlessness will fig-
ure again a year hence as " stark
moss-troopers [moss for marsh] and
arrant thieves ; both to England
and Scotland outlawed, yet some-
times connived at because they
gave intelligence forth to Scotland,
and would raise four hundred horse
at any time upon a raid of the
English ipto Scotland." This was
said of the Graemes, Earls of Mob-
teith, but was applicable, muiaiis
mutandis, to most of the Borderas 1
on both sides. An old Northum-
brian ballad, that survived in the
North of England till within a
hundred years, and was commoniy
sung at merry-makings till the roof
rang again, gives forcible and rather
coarse details as to the personal re-
sults of these forays. It celebrates
the ride of the Thirlwalls and Rid-
leys in the reign of Henry VIll
against the Featherstons of Feathcf-
ston Castle, a few miles south of the
Tyne. Here is one of the rude
stanzas :

** I canno* tell a\ I canno* tell a',
Some gat a skelp (blow), and some gat x daw ;
But they gard the Featherstons baud their jaw,
Nicol and Alick and a*.
Some gat a hurt, and some gat nane ;
Scmie had harness, and some gat sta'en (stolen or
plundered)."

In later days Sir Walter Scott
wove the annals of the Border into
more tuneful rhyme, and sang of
the exploits of his bold countrymen
with an enthusiasm worthy of bis
moss-trooping ancestors. These
old ballads, and the recollections
of ancient dames in whose youthful
days the exploits celebrated in
these ballads were not yet quite
obsolete, furnished him with much
of his romantic materials. Tkt
Minstrelsy of tJu Scottish Border^ a
collection of many such traditions,
is a storehouse of information upon
these subjects. We find descrip-
tions of the caves and morasses

Annals of the Moss- Troopers,

227

whkh were the usual refuge of
the marauders; the banks of the
Tcriot, the Ale, the Jed, the Esk,
were full of these caverns, but even
these hiding-places were not always
safe. Patten's Account of Sower-
sefs Expedition into Scotland tells
bow "George Ferres, a gentleman
of my Lord Protector, happened on
a cave " the entrance to which
showed signs of the interior being
tenanted. "He wente doune to
trie, and was readilie receyved with
a hakcbut or two," and when he
foand the foe determined to hold
oat, "he wente to my lorde's grace,
and, upon utterance of the thinge,
gst license to deale with them as he
€wUe " — which significantly simple
statement meant that he was per-
fectly at liberty to do as he eventu-
ally did, 1.^., smother them by stop-
ping up the three ventes of the
ca»e with burning faggots of damp
wood.

The next case is one of nation-
al jealousy and instant reprisals.
The English Earl of Northumber-
^ gives a graphic account of the
doable raid in a letter to King
Henry VIII. He says that some
Scottish barons had threatened to
come and give him " light to put
on his clothes at midnight," and
moreover that Marke Carr (one of
the same clan whose prowess was
exercised against Buccleugh) said
ihat,"scying they had a governor
on the Marches of Scotland as well
^ they had in England, he shulde
^«pe your highness* instructions,
lyffyn unto your garyson, for mak-
^^% of any day-forey; for he and
"W friends wolde bume enough on
^^ nyglti' ..." Then follows a
detailed account of the inroad of
^irty horsemen on the hamlet of
^itell, which they did not burn,
^use ** there was no fyre to get
^^we, and they forgat to brynge

any withe theyme !" But they killed
a woman, under circumstances of
peculiar atrocity, and departed.
The reprisals, however, were fai
worse. The Earl of Murray, who
had winked at all this, was chosen
by the English as a scape-goat, and
a hundred of the best horsemen of
Glendaill **dyd mar the Earl of
Murreis provisions at Coldingham,
for they did not only burn the said
towji of Coldingham, with all the
corne thereunto belonging, but also
burned twa townes nye adjoining
thereunto, called Branerdergest and
the Black Hill and took xxiii. per-
sons, Ix. horse, with cc. head of ca-
taill, which nowe, as I am informed,
hathe not only been a staye of the
said Erie of Murreis not coming to
the Bordure as yet, but alsoo that
none inlande will adventure they rself
uppon the Marches. . . . And also
I have devysed that within this
iii. nyghts, Godde willing, Kelsey,
in like case, shall be brent with all
the corn in the said town, and then
they shall have noo place to lye
any garyson nygh unto the Bor-
ders."

The physical strength and rude^
cunning required for this daring
life of perpetual warfare are well
described in the stanza of The Lay
of the Last Minstrel referring to
One of the Border heroes of the
clan of Buccleugh :

" A stark, moss-trooping Scott was he
As e*er couchM Border lance by knee;
Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss,
Blindfold he knew the paths to cross ;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds.
Had baffled Percy's best bkx)dhounds ;
In Eske or Liddel fords were none,
But he would ride them one by one ;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December's snow or July's pride ;
Alike to him was tide or time.
Moonless midnight or matin prime ;
Steady of heart and stout of hand
As ever drove prey from Cumberland ;
Five times outlaw'd had he been
By England's king and Scotland's queen."

We have already alluded to the
origin of the name of the Border

228

Annals of the Moss-Troopers.

riders. Fuller, in his Worthies of
England^ says they are called moss-
troopers " because dwelling in the
mosses (marshes or morasses), and
riding in troops together; they
dwell in the bounds* or meeting of
the two kingdoms, but obey the laws
of neither. They Come to church
as seldom as the 29th of February
comes in the calendar. " Their cus-
toms and laws are even more interest-
ing than the details of their forays.
Loyalty to each other was their first
principle, and on occasions when
money could purchase the freedom
of one of their number they invari-
ably cast in their lots, and made
up a large common purse. They
were scrupulous in keeping their
word of honor when passed to a
traveller, and Fuller likens their
dogged fidelity in these cases to
that of a " Turkish janizary"; but
otherwise, woe to him that fell into
their hands! Their own self-xm-
posed laws they observed for the
most part faithfully, and a breach
of them was punished far more
summarily than modern crimes in
modern courts of law. Several
species of offences peculiar to the
Border constituted what was call-
ed March- treason. Among others
was the crime of riding or causing
to ride against the opposite coun-
try (or clan) during the time of
truce. Such was the ofifence com-
mitted by Rowland Foster in his
raid on the " Blind Baron," though
in his case the criminal was pro-
bably too powerful to be punished.
In one of the many truces signed in
the olden time is one of 1334 be-
tween the Percys and the Douglas-
es, in which it is accorded : " Gif
ony stellis (steals) anthir on the ta
part or on the tothyr, that he shall
be hanget or beofdit (beheaded);
and gif ony company stellis any
gudes within the trieux (truce) be-

foresayd, ane of that company shall
be hanget or beofdit, and the rema-
nant sail restore the gudys stolen
in the dubble." * In doubtful cases
the innocence of Border criminab
was often referred to their own
oath. The same work that quotes
the above agreement also gives us
the form of excusing bills by Bor-
der oaths: "You shall swear by
the heaven above you, hell beneath
you, by your part of paradise, by dl
that God made in six days and seven
nights, and by God himself, you are
whart out sackless of art, part, way,
witting, ridd kenning, having, or re-
cetting of any of the goods and cat-
tels named in the bill. So help you
God." It seems almost as if the
Borderers had consulted the cate-
chism as to the nine ways of being
accessory to another's sin, so mi-
nute is the nomenclature of treason-
able possibilities.

Trial by single combat was also
a favorite mode of clearing one's
self from- a criminal charge. This
was common in feudal times and
throughout the XVIth century ; but
time stood still in the Borders, as
far as civilizing changes were con-
cerned, and even in the XVIIth
century a ceremonious indenture
was signed between two champions
of name and position, binding them
to fight to prove the truth or falsity
of a charge of high treason made
by one against the other.

The most ancient known collec-
tion of regulations for the Border
sets forth that in 1468, on the i8th
day of December, Earl William
Douglas assembled the whole lords,
freeholders, and eldest Borderers,
that best knowledge had, at the
College of Linclouden, "where he
had therti bodily sworn, the Holy
Gospel touched, that they justlieand

♦ History 0/ WtstmoretaHd and Cmmktrlamd,
Introd.

Annals of the Moss-Troopers,

229

trniie after their cunning should
dccrete ... the statutes, ordinan-
ces, and uses of the marche." The
carl further on is said to have
thought these " right speedful and
profiuble to the Borders.**

Daring the truces it was not un-
usual to have merry-makings and
fairs, to which, however, both Scotch
and English came fully armed.
Foot-ball was from time immemorial
a favorite Border game, but the na-
tional rivalry was such that the
play often ended in bloodshed.
Still, there was no personal ill-feel-
ing, and a rough sort of good-fel-
lowship was kept up, which was
strengthened by intermarriages, and
was not supposed to debar either
party from the right of prosecuting
private vengeance, even to death.
When, however, this revenge had
been taken, it would have been
agamst Border etiquette to retain
my further ill-will. Patten, in his
Account of Somerset's Expedition
into Scotland^ remarks on the dis-
orderly conduct of the English Bor-
derers who followed the Lord Pro-
tector. He describes the camp as
full of " troublous and dangerous
W)yses all the nyghte longe, . . .
more like the outrage of a dissolute
huntynge than the quiet of a well-
ordered armye." The Borderers,
like masterless hounds, howling,
whooping, whistling, crying out " A
Berwick, a Berwick! a Fenwick,
a Fenwick ! a Bulmer, a Bulmer !**
paraded the camp, creating confu-
sion wherever they went, and dis-
turbing the more sober southern
^wops; they used their own slogan
or battle-cry out of pure mischief
*od recklessness, and totally disre-
garded all camp discipline. Yet
in this land of defiles, caverns, and
roarshes their aid was too precious
to be dispensed with, and remon-
ttrancc was practically useless.

The pursuit of porder marauders
was often followed by the injured
party and his friends with blood-
hounds and bugle-horn, and was
called the hot-trod. If his dog
could trace the scent, he was en-
titled to follow the invaders into the
opposite kingdom, which practice
often led to further bloodshed. A
sure way of stopping the dog was
to spill blood on the track ; and a
legend of Wallace's adventurous
life relates a terrible instance of this.
An Irishman in Wallace's train was
slain by the Scotrish fugitive, and
when the English came up with
their hounds their pursuit was baf-
fled. But poetical justice required
some counterbalancing doom, and
accordingly the legend tells us that,
when Wallace took refuge in the
lonely tower of Cask, and fancied
himself safe, he was speedily dis-
turbed by the blast of a horn. It
was midnight. He sent out at-
tendants, cautiously to reconnoitre,
but they could see nothing. When
he was left alone again, the summons
was repeated, and, sword in hand,
he went down to face the unknown.
At the gate of the tower stood the
headless spectre of Fawdoim, the
murdered man. Wallace, in un-
earthly terror, fled up into the tower,
tore open a window, and leaped
down fifteen feet to the ground
to continue his flight as best he
could. Looking back to Gask, he
saw the tower on fire, and the
form of his victim, dilated to an
immense size, standing on the bat-
tlements, holding in his hand a
blazing rafter.

The system of signals by beacon-
fires was common on the Borders.
Smugglers and their friends have
now become the only remaining heirs
to this practice, which was once that
in use by the noblest warriors of
Gaelic race in either island. The

230

Annals of the Moss- Troopers,

origin of this custom was perfectly
lawful ; indeed, the Scottish Parlia-
ment, in 1445, directed that one
bale or beacon-fagot should be
warning of the approach of the
English in any manner; two bales,
that they are coming indeed ; four
bales blazing beside each other,
that the enemy are in great force.
A Scotch historian tells us that in
later times these beacons consisted
of a long and strong tree set up,
with a long iron pole across the
head of it, and an iron brander fixed
on a stalk in the middle of it for
holding a tar-barrel.

It was a custom on the Border,
and indeed in the Highlands also,
for those passing through a great
chieftain's domains to repair to
the castle in acknowledgment of
the chiefs authority, explain the
purpose of their journey, and receive
the hospitality due to their rank.
To neglect this was held discour-
tesy in the great and insolence in
the inferior traveller ; indeed, so
strictly was this etiquette insisted
upon by some feudal lords that
Lord Oliphaunt is said to have
planted guns at his Castle of New-
tyle in Angus, so as to command
the high-road, and compel all pas-
sengers to perform this act of hom-
age. Sir Walter Scott, in his Fro-
vincial AnUquiiies^ has hunted up a
curious instance of the non .fulfil-
ment of this custom. The Lord of
Crichtoun Castle, on the Tyne,
heard that Scott of Buccleugh was
to pass his dwelling on his return
from court. A splendid banquet
was prepared for the expected guest,
who nevertheless rode past the cas-
tle, neglecting to pay his duty-visit.
Crichtoun was terribly incensed, and
pursued the discourteous traveller
with a body of horse, made him
prisoner, and confined him for the
night in the castle dungeon. He

and his retainers, meanwhile, feast-
ed on the good cheer that had been
provided, and doubtless made many
valiant boasts against the inoprison-
ed lord. But with morning cometh
prudence. A desperate feud with
a powerful clan was not desirable,
and such would infallibly have been
the result of so rough a proceeding.
Indeed, it would have justified the
Buccleugh in biting his glove or his
thumb —a gesture indicative on the
Border of a resolution of mortal
revenge for a serious insult. So, to
put matters right, Crichtoun not only
delivered his prisoner and set him
in the place of honor at his board
the following day, but himself re-
tired into his own dungeon, where
he remained as many hours as
his guest had done. This satisfac-
tion was accepted and the fend
averted.

The Borderers had a rough, prac-
tical kind of symbolism in vogue
among them ; and, though they were
not afraid of calling a spade a
spade, yet loved a significant alle-
gory. It is told of one of the
marauding chiefs, whose castle was a
very robber's den, that his mode of
intimating to his retainers that the
larder was bare, and that they must
ride for a supply of provisions, was
the appearance on the table of a
pair of clean spurs in a covered
dish. Like many brigand chiefs,
this Scott of Harden had a wife of
surpassing beauty, famed in song as
the " Flower of Yarrow. " Some
very beautiful pastoral songs arc
attributed to a young captive, said
to have been carried as an infant to
this eagle's nest, built on the brink
of a dark and precipitous dell. He
himself tells the story of how
" beauteous Mary, Yarrow's fairest
flower, rescued him from the rough
troopers who brought him into the
courtyard of the castle."

Aitnals of the Moss- Troopers.

231

** Ber car, afl anxi«os, catu^t the wauling sound :
With trambting haste, the ytmthful matron flew,
And from the hnnied heaps an infant drew.

Of nUder mood the gentle captive grew,

Nor knrcd the scenes that scared his iniant view,

He fired o*cr Yarrow^s Flower to shed the tear,
To ftrew the bdly4eaves o*er Harden's bier.

He, nameless as the race from which he sprung.
Saved ocbct names, and left hu awn tmsung.'*

Work and pleasure were some-
times mingled in those royal expe-
ditions called a chase, which had
so little to distinguish them from
regular Border forays. Law and
no law were so curiously tangled-
together that each bore nearly the
same outward features as the other —
features especially romantic, which
both have now equally lost. Ettrick
Forest, now a mountainous range
ofsheep-walks, was anciently a royal
pleasure-ground. The hunting was
4n aflair of national importance,
»d in 1528 James V. of Scotland
*made proclamation to all lords,
birons, gentlemen, landward-men,
and freeholders to pass with the
king where he pleased, to dan ton t/ie
iWffVf 01 Teviotdale, Annandale, and
Liddesdale (we have heard this ex-
pression before in another mouth),
and other parts of that country,
and also warned all gentlemen that
had good dogs to bring them, that
he might hunt in the said country
as he pleased."

A very interesting account is
given by one Taylor, a poet, of the
mode in which these huntings were
conducted in the Highlands. This,
however, is a sketch of a later day
than that in which the moss-troop-
ers were at their best, but many
of the characteristics of the scene
suggest the earlier and hardly yet
forgotten time of the true Borderers.
He begins by enumerating the many
** truly noble and right honorable
brds *' who were present, and gives
a detailed description of the dress

which they wore in common with
the peasantry, " as if Lycurgus had
been there and made laws of equali-
ty." The dress is the Highland
costume of to-day — a dress that has
never changed since at least the
beginning of this century. The
English poet evidently finds it very
primitive, and takes no notice of the
difference of color or of mixing of
color that distinguishes the various
tartans. He says : " As for their
attire, any man of what degree so-
ever who comes amongst them must
not disdain to wear it ; for if they
do, then they will disdain to hunt or
willingly to bring in their dogs ; but
if men be kind to them and be in
their habit, then they are conquered
with kindness, and the sport will be
plentiful." The gathering is of
some fourteen or fifteen hundred or
more men — a little city or camp.
Small cottages built on purpose to
lodge in, and called lonquhards^
are here for the chiefs, the kitchens
whereof are always on the side of
a bank. A formidable list of pro-
visions follows; there are "many
kettles and pots boiling, and many
spits turning and winding, with
great variety of cheer, as venison
baked, sodden, rost, and stewed
beef, mutton, goats, kids, hares,
fresh salmon, pigeons, hens, capons,
chickens, partridges, muir-coots (wa-
ter-fowl), heath-cocks, capercailzies
and ptarmigans, good ale, sacke,
white and claret (red) tent, or alle-
gant, with the most potent aqua-
vticB- All these, and more than
these, we had continually in super-
fluous abundance, caught by falcon-
ers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by
my lord's tenants and purveyors to
victual our camp, which consisteth
of fourteen or fifteen hundred men
and horses. The manner of the
hunting is this : Five or six hun-
dred men do rise early in the mom-

232

Annals of the Moss-Troopers.

ing, and they do disperse themselves
divers ways, and seven, eight, or ten
miles compass ; they do bring or
chase in the deer, in many herds
(two, three, or four hundred in a
herd), to such or such a place as the
noblemen shall appoint them ; then,
when day is come, the lords and
gentlemen of their companies do
ride or go to the said places, some-
times wading up to the middles
through burns (streams) and rivers,
and then they, being come to the
place, do lie down upon the ground
till those foresaid scouts, which are
called the iinkhell^ do bring down
the deer. But as the proverb says
of a bad cook, so these tinkhell men
do lick their own fingers; for,
besides their bows and arrows,
which they carry with them, we can
hear now and then a harquebuss or
a musket go off, which they do
seldom discharge in vain. Then
after we had stayed there three hours
or thereabouts, we might perceive
the deer appear on the hills round
about us (their heads making a
show like a wood), which, being
followed close by the tinkhell^ are
chased down into the valley where
we lay ; then all the valley, on
each side, being waylaid with a bun-
dled couple of strong Irish grey-
hounds, they are all let loose, as
occasion serves, upon the herd of
deer, that with dogs, guns, arrows,
durks, and daggers, in the space of
two hours, fourscore fat deer were
slain, which after are disposed of,
some one way and some another,
twenty and thirty miles, and more
than enough left for us, to make
merry withal at our rendezvous.'*
Doubtless the scene must have
been very picturesque before the
battue began ; but as sport what
could be more unsatisfactory ? For
once modern customs seem to ex-
cel ancient ones, and the Scotch

deer-stalker of to-day, in his ardu-
ous, solitary walk over the moors
and through the forests, is a much
more enviable personage than the
high and mighty huntsman of King
James* train. The best sport re-
corded in this curious narrative
was the result of the unatithorized
shots heard in the distance, -ft^hea
the tinkhell men could not resist -
the temptation of "licking their
own fingers."

It was the result of all these cen-
turies of wild life and romantic
lawlessness that made Scotland so
safe a retreat for the unfortunate
Prince Charlie after the last stand '
had been so loyally and unsuccess-
fully made at Culloden in 1745*
Personal fidelity to a beloved chief-
tain, and an habitual disregard of
all laws of the " Southron " that '
clashed with their own immemo^ S
rial customs, made of the Scottish
people the most perfect partisan*
in the world. Even at this ^zj^
when they are famed for their
thriftiness, their amenableness to
law, their eminently peaceful quali-
ties, a strong undercurrent of ro-
mance lies at the bottom of their
surface tranquillity. The organi-
zation of clanship has disappeared,
but the feeling that put life into
that system is itself living yet. The
humblest Scotsman is a bom genea-
logist, and privately^ considers the
blood of the laird under whose
protection or in whose service he
lives as immeasurably bluer than
that of the German royal family
that sits in the high places of Eng-
land ; and a characteristic instance
of the clinging affection with which
the national nomenclature of rank
is still looked upon by the Scottish
peasantry was afforded not many
years ago, when the tenants of
Lord Breadalbane were required to
conform to modern usage, and ad-

Annals of tlu Moss-Troopers.

233

dress their master as **my lord."
**What !" they exclaimed, "call the
Breadalbane my iord^ like any pal-
tiy Southron chiel (fellow) ?" They
t&ooght — and rightly, as it seems
tons — that the old appellation, " the
Breadalbane," as if he were sover-
eign on his own lands, and the only
one of the name who needed no
tttk to distinguish him from others
of his kin, was the only fitting one
for their chief. The English title
of marquis was nothing to that.

The superstitions of the Border,
those of early times and those
whose traces remain even to this
diy, are another interesting phase
ia the annals of the moss-troop-
OSy but they would occupy more
Ipftoe than we have now at com-
lotftd. We will close this sketch by
fiOttng an old saying that shows
ttut iome at least of the Border
dMbins, doubtless through the
Jnfceoce of their wives, had not
rdhi|nished all reverent belief in
the ftbgs of the world to come.

They may not always have acted
up to what they believed ; and in-
deed so wise a maxim as the fol-
lowing, if carried out in practice to
its furthest limit, would have caus-
ed the pious Borderer to retire
altogether from his adventurous
" profession," unless, indeed, the
obscure sentence in the second line
of the couplet, "Keep well the
rod," could have been twisted into
an injunction to him to become an
embodiment of poetical justice in
the eyes of less discriminating
moss-troopers. The inscription is
found over an arched door at
Branxholm or Branksome Castle,
and is in old black-letter type :

Xti baclUJii.itocltitatttre.l^ris*
brottfii^tsat.iial.leiitas.

Siiavefore « aerbe » tiRoK * fcrfp.
beU.se.toK* tfju • {ame.0al>
nocfttHeitas**

* ** In worid is naught, nature has wrought, that

shall stay.
Therefore serve God, keep well the rod, thy fiune

shall not decay.*'

«34

Assunta Howard.

ASSUNTA HOWARD,

CONVALESCENCE.

"I HAVE almost made up my
mind to go back to bed again, and
play possum. Truly, I find but
little encouragement in my tre-
mendous efforts to get well, in the
marked neglect which I am suffer-
ing from the feminine portion of
my family. Clara is making her-
self ridiculous by returning to the
days of her first folly, against
which I protest to unheeding ears,
and of which I wash my hands.
Come here, Assunta; leave that
everlasting writing of yours, and en-
liven the * winter of my discontent *
by the 'glorious summer' of your
presence, of mind as well as of
body."

Mr. Carlisle certainly looked very
unlike the neglected personage he
described himself to be. He was
sitting in a luxurious chair near
the open window ; and he had but
to raise his eyes to feast them
upon the ever-changing, never-tir-
ing beauties of the Alban hills,
while the soft spring air was laden
with the fragrance of many gardens.
Beside him were books, flowers,
and cigars — everything, in short,
which could charm away the tedi-
ousness of a prolonged convales-
cence. And it must be said, to
his credit, that he bore the mono-
tony very well/i?r a man — which", it
is to be feared, is after all damning
his patience with very faint praise.

Assunta raised her eyes from her
letter, and, smiling, said :

" Ingratitude, thy name is Severn

Carlisle ! I wish Clara were h
to give you the benefit of one of
very womanly disquisitions on
You would be so effectually silei
that I should have a hope of finid
ing my letter in time for the st
er."

" Never mind the letter,"
Mr, Carlisle. " Come here, child;
am pining to have you near me.**

Assunta laughed, as she replied'

" Would it not do just as wdl
I should give you the opera-gla*
and let you amuse yourself by
ing believe bring me to you V*

" Pshaw ! Assunta, I want jOt'
Put away your writing. You kno^ri
very well that it is two days befdy
the steamer leaves, and you wifl
have plenty of time." And Mr. CarV
lisle drew a chair beside his own.

Assunta did know all about it; '
but, now that the invalid was so
much better, she was trying to with-
draw a little from any special atten-
tions. She felt that, under the cir-
cumstances, it would not be right
to make herself necessary to his
comfort; she did not realize how
necessary he thought her to his
very life. However, though she
would skirmish with and contradict
him, she had never yet been able
sufficiently to forget how near he
had been to death to actually op-
pose him. Besides, she had not
thought him looking quite as strong
this morning; so she put the un-
finished letter back in the desk, and,
taking her work-basket, sat d^tm

Assunta Howard,

235

course my

beside her guardian, and tried to
idirerthim from herself by pointing
out the wonderful loveliness of the
»iew. His face did have a weary
toq>ression, which his quondam
mrsc did not fail to perceive. She
It once poured out a glass of wine,
JDd, handing it to him, said :

Tell me the truth, my friend ;
|Qa do not feel very well to-day ?*'
* I do not feel quite as strong as
in," he replied ; " but you for-
Dalila, how you and the bar-
have shorn off the few locks
fever left me. Of

;h went too."

Well, fortunately," said Assun-

* there are no gates of Gaza

require immediate removal,

BO Philistines to be overcome."

"lam not so sure of that," said

Carlisle, putting down the

s. " There are some things

to overcome than Philistines,

*q1 lome citadels so strong as to

' bid defiance to Samson, even in the

fidf^n^ of his wavy curls. What

, <fifflccis there, then, for him now,

ondDalila?"

Assunta wilfully misunderstood
kwn, and, taking her work from her
petty basket, she answered, laugh-

"VVclI, one thing is very certain :
four illness has not left you in the
least subdued. Clara and I must
begin a course of discipline, or by
the lime your brown curls have at-
^wncd their usual length you will
Hivc become a regular tyrant."

"Give me your work, petite^'*
^ Mr. Carlisle, gently disengag-
ing it from her hand. " I want this
morning all to myself. And please
do not mention Clara again, i can-
not bear her name without thinking
^ that miserable Sinclair business.
^^ is well for him that I am as I
«n»tiniil I have had time to cool.
^ «a not ver}' patient, and I have

an irresistible longing to give him
a horse-whipping. It is a singular
psychological fact that Clara has
been gifted with every womanly at-
traction but common sense. But I
believe that even you Catholics
allow to benighted heretics the
plea of invincible ignorance as an
escape from condemnation ; so we
must not be too severe in our judg-
ment of my foolish sister."

" Hardly a parallel case," said
Assunta, smiling.

" I grant it," replied her guar-
dian ; " for in my illustration the
acceptance of the plea, so you hold,
renders happiness possible to the
heretic, to whom a * little knowl-
edge' would have been so * danger-
ous a thing* as to lose him even a
chance among the elect \ whereas
Clara's invincible ignorance of the
world, of human nature, and in par-
ticular of the nature of George Sin-
clair, serves only to explain her folly,
but does not prevent the inevitable
evil consequences of such a mar-
riage. But enough of the subject.
\Yill you not read to me a little
while > Get Mrs. Browning, and
let us have * Lady Geraldine,' if
you will so far compassionate a
man as to make him forget that
he is at sword's points with himself
and all the world, the exception
being his fair consoler . Thank you,
petite^*' he continued, as Assunta
brought the book. *' There is plen-
ty of trash and an incomprehensi-
ble expression or two in the poem ;
but, as a whole, I like it, and the
end, the vision, would redeem it,
were it ten times as bad. Well, I
tpo have had a vision ! Do you
know, Assunta, that the only thing
I can recall of those weeks of illness
is your dear form flitting in and
out of the' darkness? But — may
I dare say it } — the vision had in it
a certain tenderness I do not find

236

Assunta Howard

in the reality. I could almost be-
lieve in your doctrine of guardian
angels,- having myself experienced
what their ministry might be."

"I am afraid," interrupted As-
sunta, " that your doctrine would
hardly stand, if it has no other basis
than such very human evidence.
Shall I begin ?"

" No, wait a minute longer," said
Mr. Carlisle. " * Lady Geraldine *
will keep. I wish to pu^ a question
to your sense of justice. When I
was sick, and almost unconscious,
and entirely unappreciative, there
was a person — so the doctor tells
me — who lavished attentions upon
me, counted nothing too great a
sacrifice to be wasted upon me.
But now that I am myself again,
and longing to prove myself the
most grateful of men, on the prin-
ciple that * gratitude is a lively
sense of favors to come^* that per-
son suddenly retires into the soli-
tude of her own original indifference
(to misquote somewhat grandilo-
quently), and leaves me wonder-
ing on what hidden rock my bark
struck when I thought the sea all
smooth and shining, shivering my
reanimated hopes to atoms. But,"
he added, turning abruptly towards
her, and taking in his the hand
which rested on the table beside
him, " you saved my life. Bless you,
child, and remember that the life
you have saved is yours, now and
always."

The color had rushed painfully
into Assunta's face, but her guar-
dian instantly released her hand,
and she answered quietly :

" It really troubles me, Mr. Car-
lisle, that you should attach so
much importance to a mere service
of duty and comqaon humanity. I
did no more than any friend so
situated would have had a right to
claim at my hand* '^^ur thanks

have far outweighed your indet
ness."

" Duty again !" exclaimed
Carlisle bitterly. " I wish you !
let me die. I want no duty s<
from you ; and you shall be
fied, for I do not thank you fotl
life on those conditions. You i
no opportunity to let me
stand that I am no more to
than all the rest of the wovld.
it so.** And he impatiently snat
the Galignani from the table^i
settled himself as if to read

Assunta's temper was al'
roused by the unjust remarks
guardian sometimes made, and
would probably have answered
a spirit which would have
the angel had she not ha[
to glance at the paper, and seea
it was upside down; and then
Mr. Carlisle's pale and t
features, to which even the crij
facings of his rich dressin
hardly lent the faintest glow,
same sentiment of common he;
ty which had prompted those
of care and nights of watching
checked the reproach she w<
have uttered. She turned over
leaves of Mrs. Browning, until
eye lighted upon that exquisi
valediction, " God be with thee, my
beloved." This she read through
to herself; and then, laying thci
book upon the table, she said with
the tone and manner of a subdued
child :

" May I finish my letter, please T

Mr. Carlisle scarcely raised his
eyes, as he replied :

" Certainly, Assunta. I have no
wish to detain you."

It was with a very womanly
dignity that Assunta left her seat ;
but, instead of returning to her
writing-desk, she went to the piano.
For nearly an hour she played,
now passages from different sonatas.

Assunta Howard.

237

snd tbfo selections from the gran-
der music of the church. Without
letming to notice, she saw that the
at last fell from her guardian's
and understanding, as she
crery change in his expressive
c^shc knew from the smoothing
the brow and the restful look of
\ tjes that peace was restored
the charm she wrought. When
was sore that the evil spirit had
qoilc exorcised by the power
lEHisic, she rose from the piano,
rang the bell. When Giovanni

ed, she said :
I think that Mrs. Grey will not
until quite late, as she has
to Tivoli; so you may serve
here for me as well as for
Carhsle. If any one calls, I
01 receive this afternoon."
*Very well, signorina," replied
ni. ** I will bring in the
Mit from the library. " And
■9 lift the room.

iwill be much pleasanter than
fe Hdi of us to dine separately in
WOxj state," said Assunta, going
^•■wds her guardian, and speaking
« if there had been no cloud
between them ; " though I know that
«avn^ in the drawing-room must,
of necessity, be exceptional."

"It was a very bright thought of
yours," answered Mr. Carlisle, " and
a very appetizing one to me, I can
wsuie you. Will you read * Lady
*;i«aldine' now? There will be
m time before dinner."

Without a word Assunta took the
^k, and began to read. She had
nothing of the dramatic in her
**yl*i but her voice was sweet, her
fttunciaiion very clear and distinct,
J^^lifce showed a thorough appre-
aeiiiion of the author's meaning;
*o her reading always gave pleasure,
^•'^Mt. Carlisle had come to de-
M upon it daily. The vision to
*wch he had referred was robbed,

perhaps fortunately, of some of its
sentiment, by Giovanni's table pre-
parations ; and his. presence pre-
vented all but very general com-
ment.

When they were once more by
themselves — Giovanni having left
them to linger over the fruit and
wine — Mr. Carlisle said :

" By the way, Assunta, you have
not told me yet what your friend
Miss Percival had to say for her-
self in her last letter. You know I
am always interested in her ; though
I fear it is an interest which par-
takes largely of the nature of jeal-
ousy."

"Well," replied Assunta, "she
tells me that she is going to be mar-
ried."

"Sensible girl ! What more ?"

" She regrets very much . that her
brother, whom she dearly loves, will
not return from his year's exile in
time for the ceremony."

" So much the better," exclaimed
Mr. Carlisle with unusual energy.
" I hope he may lose himself in the
deserts of Arabia, or wander off
to further India, and there re-
main."

Assunta laughed. "Truly, my
guardian is most charitable ! I
should not be surprised 'if he did,
one of these days, follow in the foot-
steps of S. Francis Xavier. But
what has he done to merit sentence
of banishment from you ?"

"You know I am a student of
human nature," rejoined her guar-
dian, "and I have always ob-
served that where a young girl has
a brother and a friend, she cannot
conceive of any other destiny for
the two objects of , her affection
than to make of them one united
object in the holy bonds of matri-
mony; and, in order to bring
about the desired consummation,
she devotes herself to intrigue in a

238

Assunta Howard,

manner and with a zeal truly femi-
nine. Mary Percival has a brother
and a friend; ergo, may her bro-
ther be — induced to become an
Oriental; that is all."

" In this case,*' replied the young
girl with a merry laugh, " your ob-
servations are quite at fault. I am
truly grieved to be compelled to
spoil such a pretty romance. But,
seriously, Mary has a far higher
choice for her brother than her
most unworthy friend. She has
but one desire and prayer for him,
and that is that he may enter the
holy priesthood. I believe she will
not be disappointed. Did you ever
see Mr. Percival?**

** No, I have never had the plea-
sure,** replied Mr. Carlisle.

"I wish you might know him,*'
said Assunta enthusiastically. " I
am sure you would like him. He
is not what would generally be con-
sidered handsome, but I think his
face beautiful, it is so very spirit-
ual. It is the beauty of a remark-
able soul, which literally shines in
his eyes. He has taken the high-
est honors at college, and, if his
health is only re-established, I think
his sister's very laudable ambition
will be more than gratified."

" He certainly has a most ardent
admirer. I did not know you
could be so enthusiastic about any
member of the genus homo*' said
Mr. Carlisle. Assunta was not to
be daunted by the perceptible
sneer, and she at once added :

" I can hardly be said to admire
him, but rather the power of grace
in him. I have so great a rever-
ence for Augustine Percival that I
could not imagine it possible for
any human affection to turn him
from what I firmly believe to be his
great vocation. So my guardian
may see him return to the West
with equanimity, and may perhaps

even be induced to look with favor
upon another part of the letter."

"And what is that?" asked Mr.
Carlisle. i

" Mary invites me very urgentlyj
to pass next winter with her k
Baltimore. Her husband-elect »
a naval officer, and his leave of j
absence expires in October. She
wishes me as a substitute, you uo^
derstand."

"Is it your wish to go, mf
child ?*' said her guardian, lookiag
at her earnestly.

" I never like to make any ddK
nite plan so long beforehand; hot
it seemed to me a very suitable
arrangement. You remember," ad^
ed Assunta, " that Clara will piub*
ably be married before then."

" I do not wish Clara to be mo-
tioned ; she has nothing to do .widi
it," said Mr. Carlisle imperiously;
and then he added more getiti^
" May I ask, petite, what answer
you have given her ?"

" None, as yet ; you rcmenbcr
you interrupted my letter. But I
think I will tell her that my guar-
dian is such an ogre that I dare
not reply to her invitation until
after August. Will that do ?"

" Tell her what you will," said
Mr. Carlisle; "only, for heaven's
sake, say no more to me upon the
subject. I am not Augustine Per-
cival, and consequently not elevat-
ed above the power of human fctl-

Poor Assunta! she too was not
above human feeling, and some-
times it was very hard for her w
keep her heart from being rebel-
lious; but she had learned to put
God before every earthly consider-
ation, and to find her strength in
his presence. But it required con-
stant watchfulness and untiring F*
tience to conquer herself. There-
fore she could not but feel gre^^

Assunia Howard.

239

an for her friend, who

%T his disappointment with

outside of his own strong

She rose from the table,

aoYcd it a little to one side, in

that she might arrange the

for her guardian, who

untistially weary to-night.

you angT>' with me, Mr.

r?" said she softly, as he

^back in his chair.

lgr>% pttiteV he repeated,

; steadily in her face. *' Yes,

arvgT>,, but not with yoii, or

jLny thing you have said lo-

but rather with that ac-

barrier. Go, child, ring for

lliii» or I shall say what yoii

like to hear." As she

awaVf he caught her hand,

moment. I have been

^rudei and yet I would die for

There, I will not say another

Phrase ring for Giovanni,

I ompcUed to be so un-

I! 1 request the favor of

let us talk a little

ma plans. I must

■ and put myself into a good-hu-

T before Clara comes; for she

:i have something to say about

r handsome Sinclair^ and then I

jM not give much for my tein-

The t4blc having been removed,

:r^ the wood which had been laid

teMly in the fire-place kindled into

a blt^e — for the evenings were htill

h to admit of its cheery

-the two, whose lives^

teemed so tinited, and yet were, in

reality, so far apart, drew towards

t!>e (be. The heavy curtains, which

bad beeti fiut aside to admit the

waim, genial air and sunshine of

cij"! ilv,, \vrre now closely drawn,

Hvopler to shut out the chilling

dampness of evening. A hanging

lamp cast a soft, mellow light

through its porcelain shade upon
an exquisite basket of roses and
carnations adorning the centre of
the table, which was covered else-
where with books, arranged with
studied negligence, and number-
less little suggestions of refinement
and feminine occupation. Every-
thing seemed favorable to a most
harmonious conversation, except
that inevitable something which,
like a malicious sprite, awakens us
from our dreams just when they
are brightest; breaks the spell of
our illusions at the moment when
we are clinging to them most per-
sistently ; ruthlessly crosses, with its
fatal track, our promised pleasures;
and unfeelingly interrupts us in
some hour of complete rest and
satisfaction. Ah ! we may fret in
our impatience, and wonder at the
fatality which seems to pursue us.
It is no mischief-loving Puck, no
evil-minded genie, but a gpod
angel, who thus thwarts us. This
is no time to dream and cherish il-
lusions which can but deceive. It
is no time for repose. To detach
ourselves from all these things
which would make this world a
satisfaction to us is the labor we
must all perform, more or less gen-
erously and heroically, if we would
one day enjoy the reality of the
one dream that never fades — the
vision of the Apocalypse ; the one
repose that never palls — the rest
that remaineth for the people of
God. Welcome, then, those mis-
named "juggling fiends" that
"keep the word of promise to our
ear, and break ^t to our hope."
Welcome the many disappoint-
ments, trifling in themselves, the
daily crossings of our will and plea-
sure, which seem so petty; they
perform a great mission if they
succeed in loosening ever so little
the cords which bind down to

240

Assunta Howard.

earth the souls that were meant for
heaven. Thrice welcome what-
ever helps to turn the sweetness of
this world to bitterness !

Poor Mrs. Grey ! it had never
occurred to her that she had a mis-
sion, still less such an one as we
have now assigned to her. For it
was her voice which caused Mr.
Carlisle to sigh so profoundly that
Assunta could not but smile, in
spite of the regretful feeling in her
own heart. It was better — and she
knew it — that the softening influ-
ence of the hour should be thus
rudely interrupted ; but nature will
not be crushed without an occa-
sional protest. The expression of
annoyance still lingered on Mr.
Carlisle's face when Clara entered
the room, exclaiming :

** Come, caro mio^ they have had
the livelong day to themselves, and
must have talked out by this time,
eveij if they had the whole ency-
clopaedia in their brains." And as
Mr. Sinclair followed with an apolo-
getic bow, she continued :

"This ridicujous man has con-
scientious objections to interrupting
yoMX tite-h-iiie, I am sure, Severn,
if Assunta is not tired to death of
you by this time, she ought to be,
particularly if you have been as
solemn all day as you look now. I
would much rather spend the whole
day in church — and that is the most
gloomy thing I can think of — than
be condemned to the company of a
man in a mood. Make a note of that,
George.

" I think, Clara," said her brother,
somewhat coldly, " that Mr. Sinclair
was judging others by himself, and
in doing so he judged kindly in my
regard and gallantly in yours ; but
this is not always the true criterion.
Mr. Sinclair, I beg you will be seat-
ed, and excuse me if I do not rise.
I am still obliged to claim the in-

valid's cloak of charity. No doubt
a cup of tea will be acceptable af-
ter your long drive; and it will
soon be served."

The eyes of the two men met
They had measured each other b©»
fore now, and understood each other
well; and each knew that he w»
most cordially disliked by the other*
Their ceremonious politeness irai
all the more marked on that ac»
count. Assunta's tact came to thf
rescue, and made a diversion. Jtf:
she assisted Mrs. Grey in remoTUJf
her shawl and hat, she said :

"And how have you enjoyed
the day, Clara .^ You must be Y«gf
tired!"

" Oh ! I am nearly dead with jBi»
tigue," replied the lady, lookoig
very bright and very much alive te
a moribund; "but we have had A
delicious time. You should hiM
seen George trying to support JA
dignity on a donkey which he cooU
easily have assisted in walkin|( 9Si
his feet touched the ground on
both sides; and which started with
a spasmodic jerk every two or
three minutes when the donkey boy
brought down a small club on its
back. I laughed so much at Mr.
Sinclair's gravity and the ludicrous
figure he cut that I narrowly escap-
ed falling off my own donkey down
a precipice."

" * Now, what a thing it is to be an
ass,* " quoted Mr. Carlisle. •*My love-
ly sister visits a spot whose present
beauty is hardly surpassed by the
richness of its classic associations;
where romance lurks, scarcely hid-
den, in the memory of Zenobia;
where the olives that cover the hill-
sides have a primeval look; and,
like a very Titania under the love-
spell, she wakes from her dream
of the past, and, behold! her
vision is — a donkey! — no, I beg
pardon — two donkeys; one that

Assunta Howard.

241

Boiff lost its burden ; and the

otkf that its burden nearly lost !"

**How foolish you are, Severn V

-jJOara, pgufing very beconiing-

, while the others laughed heart i-

'*Bc,iidc5, you need not exiiect

*'" gfl up a.fiy sentiment about

L The mistake of her life

1* tiiat she did not die at the pro-

f tjine, instead of retiring to a

caastiy tai^m— <jf all places in the

living a com fo rtab le 1 ifc» and

J a commonplace death in her

f for alt I know. It was just

I in her *'*

r brother smiled. ''I think von
ritg^t, Clara. Zenol>ia slif*uhJ
riiYe surv*ived her chain.^ and
Roman triumph, if she had
]to leave a perfect picture of
10 posterity. However, I
lif wc have the right to evuct
tucfifice of her merely to gmti-
r idciw of romantic propneiy.
ifmigiihe only proved herself leb>
^ffofce, more woman. Bat, Clarj.
it did you see ?— besides i\w
u inlirvA, I mean,"

Viv ^..uh^lc felt so keenly the
'^^tijj/jnum of Mr. Sinclair's |>rL-
•1^':* ihM he must either leave tlu
ftwwft Of find some vent ; and there-
^^r< hit sisie r w as c o rn p e 1 1 e d t o 1 > r
«fcl]f-valve, .ind submit to histeas-
®g Bvood. Perhaps she wa*^ nut
^to^ether an i n n or v n t v i e t i ni , s i n f e
^^ it »js who had somew-hat wil-
^% introduced the dii^eordantclc-
}«cirtbtothc family.

** ^.V r- s4^ ni i n s a n d w a t c r I a 1 1 s , of
•'ouTse," she replied to the last
'juestion— a little petulance in her
*on€, which soon, however, disap-
P<w«d. "But the most enjoyable
thing of the whole day was the din-
"cr. I usually cannot sec any plea-
'ttrc in eating out of doors, but to-
^ we were obliged to do so, for
^k« hotel was not at all inviting ;
*^lhcn it is the proper thing to

VOL. XX.— 16

do to have the table spread in the
portico of the Temple of Vesta.
Gagiati had put up a delicious din-
ner at Mr. Sinclair's order, so we
were not dependent upon country
fries and macaroni. Just as we were
sitting down Lady Gertrude came
up with her mother and lover, and
we joined forces. I assure you we
were not silent. I never enjoyed a
meal more in my life."

"O Tivoli! ancient Tibur, how
art thou fallen! Donkeys and
dinner!*' exclaimed Mr. Carlisle.
" Well, fair Titania, did you supply
your gentle animal with the fioney-
bag of the * red-hipped humble-
bee,' or was his appetite more ple-
beian, so that * a peck of provender*
was more acceptable.^"

"Assunta, do you allow your
patient to talk so much?" said
Mrs. Grey, her amiability still proof
against attack. " If he excites his
imagination in this way, he can
hardly hope to sleep without a pow-
erful anodyne."

" My patient, as you call him,"
replied Assunta, smiling, "is not
quite so submissive, I find, as when
obedience was a necessity, and not
a virtue. Still, if he would allow
me a very humble suggestion, I
would remind him that he has not
been quite as well to-day, and that
it is some time past his usual hour
for retiring."

There was no irritation in Mr.
Carlisle's face as he looked at As-
sunta with one of his rare smiles.
The very tones of her voice seemed
to give him a feeling of rest. "A
very broad hint on the part of my
tyrant," he replied, "which I will
be wise enough to take, in its pre-
sent form, lest it should become
more emphatic. Good-night, Mr.
Sinclair. I feel that there is the less
need of an apology for excusing my-
self, as I leave you in good hands

242

Assunta Hoivard.

Clara, when Giovanni has served
the tea, please send him to me.**

In leaving the room Mr. Carlisle
dropped his cigar-case, which As-
sunta perceived, and hastened with
it to the library, where she knew
she should find him awaiting Gio-
vanni.

" Peiiify* he exclaimed, as she en-
tered, "kill that man for me, and
make me everlastingly your debtor."

"I am sure,** she answered, laugh-
i^gi " you have had it all your own
way to-night. I began to think he
must have taken a vow of silence.*'

"Still waters!" said her guar-
dian. " He can afford to be silent ;
he is-biding'his time."

"Are you not the least bit unjust
and uncharitable .5*'* asked Assun-
ta. "But never mind, you shall
not have a lecture to-night, for you
look very weary. Promise me that
you will take the medicine I send
you.'*

" I will take it, if you bring ii your-
self.*'

"But I cannot do that. I have
your enemy to entertain, you know."

"And much joy do I wish you,'*
said Mr. Carlisle. "I intend to
study up affinities and repulsions
psychologically; and then I shall
perhaps be able to understand why
one person, without any assignable
cause, should act as a perpetual
blister — genuine Spanish flies — and
another, a certain dear little friend
of mine for instance, should be
ever a soothing balm."

" Cold cream !" suggested As-
sunta, "since you will use such
pharmaceutical comparisons. And
now, if I have shocked your sense
of refinement sufficiently, I must
say good-night/*

" Good-night, dear child," return-
ed her guardian cordially, but his
next thought was a bitter one, and
an almost prophetic feeling of

loneliness came over hiaif as iie
watched the smoke curling up froa
his cigar.

As soon as the incubus of Mr«
Carlisle's pr^ence was removed^
Mr. Sinclair threw off the silence ^
which was so unnatural to him, and
became at once the attentive, gdk i
lant man of the world. Even An- !
sunta, had she met him then %k I
the first time, would not have w>*
ceived that impression of insinctf*^
ity which had repelled her fo
ly. She could hardly wonder
night that Clara Grey, who ny
looked below the surface, or c^so^-
so long as peace reigned on
outside, what elements of disti
ance might be working in
depths, should have suffered
heart to confide itself to the
ing of one apparently so devi
She had never before imagined
they were so well suited to
other; and as Mr. Sinclair, ate
an hour, arose to take his leave*
she was surprised into most unusu-
al cordiality, as she bade him good-
night. But, unfortunately for the
impression he had been at such
pains to produce, the glamour of
fascination disappeared with his re-
treating footsteps; so that even
while Mr. Sinclair was congratulat-
ing himself upon his suqcess, As-
sunta found herself wondering at
the almost painful revulsion of feel-
ing which followed his departure.

Mrs. Grey's bright face indicated
no such change. She was perfect-
ly satisfied with her lover, and no
less so with herself. She checked
a movement of Assunta's to retire
by saying :

"Do you mind waiting a little
longer, dear } I want so much to
have a quiet chat. Come, let us
draw our chairs up to the fire, the
blaze is so cheering."

" You do not look as if you need-

Assunta Howard.

tid my help from outside influen-
«%" said Assunta, and there was
a shade of sadness in her tone.
•'Bttt I am all ready for a talk."

A dottd — a light summer one —

OTeispread Mrs. Grey's clear sky

I and shadowed her face, as she said,

after a pause : ** Assuntai Why does

j ScTcni dislike George so much ?"

AssunU was too truthful to deny
the &ct, so she simply said :

*Wc cannot always control our
Mittgs, Clara; but, as a general
tta|^ I do not find Mr. Carlisle
■mtKHiable."

**He certainly is very unreason-
;Ate in this case," returned Mrs.
fc^ quickly, "and I am sorry
ll ii so, for I love Severn very

idl. Still, I shall not allow an
likiaded prejudice to stand in

fny of my happiness. Assun-
1^1 lave promised Mr. Sinclair
■Ulirill raarr}' him in September,
*fc<|»e shall be in Parfs, on our
*Vte America."

*Il«pposed,*' said Assunta, " that

I It iw)nM come soon, and I hope,

de«r Qara, that you will be very,

' W7 happy.** Doubt was in her

«»d, but she had not the heart to

kt it appear in her manner.

"And," Mrs. Grey continued, "I
*ant you to understand, dear, that
»ilh us |ou will always have a
home at your disposal, where you
^^ be welcomed as a sister,
tieorgc wished me to tell you that
•his b his desire as well as mine."

** You are both too kind," replied
Assunta, touched by this thought-
fulness of her at a time when sel-
"^'icss is regarded as a special
pnyilegc. "My arrangements can
^3y be made afterwards ; but I
^ ^cry much appreciate your kind-
ness.**

"Nonsense!** said Mrs. Grey,
"rou belong to us; and the diffi-
culty will probably be that we

shall not be able to keep such an
attractive bit of property."

"You are setting me the exam-
ple," said Assunta, laughing.

"Ah! yes," returned Mrs. Grey;
"but then, there is only one
George Sinclair, you know, as a
temptation."

Assunta fancied she could hear
Mr. Carlisle exclaim, " God be
praised !" to that natural expres-
sion of womanly pride, and she
herself wondered if it would be
possible for her to fall under such
a delusion.

But Mrs. Grey had not yet reach-
ed the point of the conversation;
what had been said was only pre-
liminary. The truth was, she-
dreaded her brother's reception of
the news, and she wished to avoid*
being present at the first outbreak.

"You have so much influence
with Severn,** she said at last, " I
wish you would tell him about it,
and try to make him feel differently
towards George. I am sure you
can. We are going to the Villa
Doria to-morrow, and this will give
you an opportunity. I hope the
storm will be over before we re-
turn,** she added, laughing; "at
any rate, the lightning will not
strike you."

It was like Mrs. Grey to make
this request — so iike her that
Assunta did not think it either
strange or selfish. She promised
to break the news, which she knew
would be unwelcome. But she
could not Gonscientiously promise
to use an influence in overcoming
a prejudice she entirely shared.
An affectionate good-night was ex-
changed, and then Assunta retired
to her room. It was not often that
she indulged herself in a revery —
in those waking dreams which are
so unprofitable, and from which
one is usually aroused with the

244

Assunta Howard.

spiritual tone lowered, and the
heart discontented and dissatisfied.
But this had been a trying day ;
and now, as she reviewed it, and
came at last to its close, she found
herself envying her friend the joy
which seemed so complete, and
wondering why her lot should be
so different. Happiness had come
to Mrs. Grey as to a natural rest-
ing-place; while she, to whom a
bright vision of it had been pre-
sented, must thrust it from her as
if it were a curse and not a bless-
ing. And here she paused, and
better thoughts came to replace the
unworthy ones. This lot which
she was envying — was it not all
of the earth, earthy? Would she
change, if she could? Had she
not in her blessed faith a treasure
which she would not give for all
the human happiness this world has
power to bestow? And here was

the key to the difference at which
she had for the moment wondered
Much, very much, had been given
to her; was it strange that much
should be required ? Had she, then,
made her sacrifice only to play the
Indian giver towards her God, and
wish back the offering he had ac-
cepted at her hands? No, she
would not be so ungenerous. Ix
the light of faith the brightness
which had illuminated the life cf
her friend grew dim and fada(
while the shadow of what bid
seemed so heavy a cross restiqg
upon her own no longer darkoMi
her soul. And soon, kneeling b^
fore her crucifix, she could fervcafer
ly thank the dear Lord that he fa«l
granted her the privilege of sullBi^'
ing something for his love; Jod
she prayed for strength to take ^
her cross daily^ and bear it «^
courage and generosity.

TO BB CONTINUED.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE BELL " GABRIEL,"

AT S. >IARV*S OF THB LAKB, LAKB GBORGB.

Gabrielem olim Dominam ad Mariam
Evae mutatum cecinisse nomen, ' *
Gabriel tandem cecini sacratas
Primus ad oras.

Switzerland in 1873.

245

SWITZERLAND IN 1873.

LUCERNE.

COMCLUDKD.

At this point we reached the
first of the existing covered bridges.
What a transition ! Like going
back suddenly from the levelling
•Mmotony of steam and the feverish
fRsent-da/ life to the individuali-
tf ind repose of the middle ages !

* II dales," said Herr H , " from

•e year 1300 — ^just seven years
before William Tell and the Rati,
fiil^t before the battle of Morgarten,
■M eighty-six before our great Sem-
pidi victory !"

•William Tell ! What nonsense I
Who believes now in William Tell ?"
HillLied the young school-boy
C— to his sister; but the old
\om fortunately did not hear him,
udy his eyes beaming with affec-
tion for the old relic, he went on :
** Some modem improvers ** — laying
contemptuous emphasis on these
wotds — ** talk of * clearing it away.'
Bui you see what a pleasant, cool
walk it still is for fool-passengers,
with the green Reuss swirling be-
neath, and the lovely view from
its open sides. I tell them that it
would not only be an act of
vandalism, but, as there are so few
antiquities to show in Lucerne, it
would be like * killing the goose
with the golden eggs.'" And so
it would ! It is in no one's way,
and is, with the other bridge, the
only remnant of antiquity worth
looking at. On opening our Words-
avr/^ we found that this is the one
first mentioned by him after leaving
Samcn :

'^Inm thk appropriate court renowned Lucerne
CaBft AM to pace her honored bridge, that cheers

IW |atriai*t beut vrith pictures rude and stern—
Aasaoonth chrooick of glorious years."

And we found it still as he de-
scribes it. The triangle of the
rafters of each arch is painted, and
though as works of art they are of
little value, still they are clever and
quaint representations of the scenes,
certain to make an impression on
young minds in particular, and
easily discernible to an observant
passer-by. Going from the right
bank of the river, reminders of
events in Swiss and local history
meet the eye, and, returning from
the other side, the deeds of the two
patron saints of the town, S. Leo-
degarius and S. Maurice. Both
lives were most striking, and equally
belonged to the earliest ages of the
Chiistianera. S.Maurice especially
is a favorite Swiss patron. He was
the commander of the Theban
Christian Legion in the time of the
Emperor Diocletian, which is said
to have consisted of sixty-six hun-
dred men. This legion had been
raised in the Thebaic or Upper
Egypt amongst the Christians
there, and, officered by Chris-
tians, was marching with the rest
of the Roman army against Gaul,
under the command of Maximian,
when the latter ordered the army to
offer sacrifices for the success of
the expedition. All encamped at the
place called Octodurus, represented
nowadays by the modest Martig-
ny in the Valais ; but the Theban
legion, refusing to join in the
pagan worship, retired to the spot
where now stands S. Maurice, and
day by day they were killed by
orders of Maximian, until none re-
mained. The Monastery of S.

246

Switzerland in 1873.

Maurice, built on the spot of their
martyrdom, is one of the oldest in
the world, said to have been first
erected in a.d. 250, although the
present edifice only dates from
1489. Switzerland and Savoy for-
merly disputed the honor of keeping
the relics, but at last settled the
matter by a small portion being
handed over to Piedmont, the abbey
retaining the principal treasures.
It is therefore to this day one of
the favorite places of pilgrim-
age in Switzerland. A special con-
nection seems to have occurred with
Lucerne, for two hundred bodies of
S. Maurice's companions are said to
have been found at the village of
Schoz, about two leagues distant,
where there was an old chapel re-
nowned for its privileges and indul-
gences. And this seems in no way
unlikely, for we read in Butler's
Liv£s of the Saiiiis and elsewhere
that several smaller corps of soldiers
belonging to the legion were scat-
tered here and there in Switzerland,
and were put to death for the same
reason. Most interesting it is, in
any case, to trace on this bridge the
union of two such heroic, manly
saints in the affections and sympa-
thies of the Lucerne citizens from
olden times.

The bridge is five hundred feet
long, and makes two sharp bends to
suit the current of the river, flowing
swiftly and vigorously from the lake
close by through the old-fashioned
posts on towards old Father Rhine,
which it joins between Schaffliausen
and Basel. This irregularity adds to
the picturesque effect, and at one
of these corners stands a tower,
mentioned in some old documents
of the year 13674 Possibly it may
have existed as part of the fortifica-
tions even before the bridge itself.
It is called the Water Tower, and
has four stories of one room each,

which formerly served as
prison, and record-office
present it is used only for 1
purpose, and contains the
of the city. What tales
tell had we moderns th<
spare for listening !

But we moved on alonj
bank of the river, and tu
the church, still called the
Church." It is large am
takably in their well-kno

Here Herr H explai

the order had been introt
to Lucerne in 1574 by S
Borromeo, who was such a
these cantons. In less 1
years they had founded
and increased rapidly. W
hundred more they erei
church, and the large
adjoining for their college,
as government offices—
and telegraph departments
thing went on satisfactor
secon^ hundred years, \
suppression of the order by
XIV., in 1773, when it
abolished in Lucerne,
towns-people held their m
grateful remembrance, niu
the first acts of the Somi^
1845 was to call back seve
fathers. When the Protesi
tons, however, finally succ<
crushing this League, they
passed a law forbidding ai
to remain on Swiss terri
again the order had to le
cerne, and also Schwytz
they also had a large house
" And now," continue

H , " the liberals are cl

for another revision of oui
tution — a constitution whi(
no revising, except in tht
of doing away with all fa
meddling in our religious
But the people now will 1
that," he added grimly.

Switserland in 1873.

247.

calmly at first, but I
f who will rather fight
c tamely to have their
their pastors interfered

d to hear these forebod-
i an apparently peaceful
, and gladly we turned
the water-hens, which
this corner of the river.
— knew them all, for
iblic property, like the
ime, and protected by
far back as 1678^ No-
be more graceful, glid-
iown the stream in num-
ettier than tlie friendly
are on with all the in-
Thc origin oi the cus-
iiise of the protection,
^ms lost in obscurity; at
aid tell us nothing but
fact itself. A narrow
[IS along this side be-
ouses and the river, up
ileps, and following the
the rapid stream, while
T, unadorned senate-
en opposite, and all the
El that bank rise straight
rater. A true mediaeval
— htgb and low gables in-
uaint old balconies filled
; above ; comely house-
wash mg the household
le fresh waters below ;
g faces peeping through
ows or leaning out over
shioned siHs to gossip
ghing neighbor— a lo-
for a Walter Scott, and
rid of thought and asso-
1 the buttertly existence
orders the lake at only
■ distance.

this ancient pathway we
to the second bridge, at
t end of the town — the
** or Mill Bridge, or,
the ** Dance of Death "

Bridge, celebrated by Longfellow
in his Golden Legend.

We took out the poem, and read
that passage on the spot, and most
perfectly it answers his beautiful
description. Prince Henry's words
were uttered by us where he be-
gins :

*^ God*s blessings on the architects who build
The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses
Before impassable to human feet,
No less than on the builders of cathedrals,
Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across
The dark and terrible abyss of death.
Well has the name of pontifex been given
Unto the church's head, as the chief builder
And architect of the invisible bridge
That leads from earth to heaven."

This one is shorter than the Ha-
fellbrOcke, being only three hun-
dred feet in length, and making a
sharp bend in the centre, and was
built a century later — in 1408 — but
somehow it is not venerable-look-
ing, and its grim paintings give it a
more sombre character. Elsie was
quite right in exclaiming : " How
dark it grows !** It required many
minutes to get accustomed to the
darkness after the brilliant light we
had left, and she must have been
thankful when Prince Henry pro-
ceeded with his explanation, saying
that it was

" * The Dance of Death ; *
All that go to and fro must look upon it.
Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath
Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river
Rushes, impetuous as the river of life,
With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright,
Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it."

By his aid we too followed the
renowned pictures copied from those
at Basel. There we saw :

*'The gnrn musician, who
Leads all mci^ through the maxes of that dance.
To different sounds in different measures moving.**

The

*^ YouQg man singing to a nun.
Who kneels at her devotions, but in knecGng
Turns round to bok at him ; and Death, meanwhile
Is putting out the canales on the altar."

Here he

** Has stolen the jester's cap and bells.
And dances with the queen."

246

Switzerland in 1873.

Maurice, built on the spot of their
martyrdom, is one of the oldest in
the world, said to have been first
erected in a.d. 250, although the
present edifice only dates from
1489. Switzerland and Savoy for-
merly disputed the honor of keeping
the relics, but at last settled the
matter by a small portion being
handed over to Piedmont, the abbey
retaining the principal treasures.
It is therefore to this day one of
the favorite places of pilgrim-
age in Switzerland. A special con-
nection seems to have occurred with
Lucerne, for two hundred bodies of
S. Maurice's companions are said to
have been found at the village of
Schoz, about two leagues distant,
where there was an old chapel re-
nowned for its privileges and mdul-
gences. And this seems in no way
unlikely, for we read in Butler's
Lives of the Saints and elsewhere
that several smaller corps of soldiers
belonging to the legion were scat-
tered here and there in Switzerland,
and were put to death for the same
reason. Most interesting it is, in
any case, to trace on this bridge the
union of two such heroic, manly
saints in the affections and sympa-
thies of the Lucerne citizens from
olden times.

The bridge is five hundred feet
long, and makes two sharp bends to
suit the current of the river, flowing
swiftly and vigorously from the lake
close by through the old-fashioned
posts on towards old Father Rhine,
which it joins between SchafThausen
and Basel. This irregularity adds to
the picturesque effect, and at one
of these corners stands a tower,
mentioned in some old documents
of the year 1367, Possibly it may
have existed as part of the fortifica-
tions even before the bridge itself.
It is called the Water Tower, and
has four stories of one room each,

which formerly served a*
prison, and recordoffic
present it is used only for
purpose, and contains th
of the city. What tales
tell had we modems tb
spare for listening !

But we moved on aloi
bank of the river, and t
the church, still called th<
Church." It is large ai
takably in their well-kn

Here Herr H expl;

the order had been intrc
to Lucerne in 1574 by
Borromeo, who was such
these cantons. In less
years they had founded
and increased rapidly. \
hundred more they er
church, and the large
adjoining for their college
as government offices-
and telegraph department
thing went on satisfacto
secon^ hundred years,
suppression of the order b
XIV., in 1773, when it
abolished in Lucerne,
towns-people held their r
grateful remembrance, Bii
the first acts of the Som
1845 was to call back se^
fathers. When the Prote
tons, however, finally sue
crushing this League, the
passed a law forbidding ;
to remain on Swiss ten
again the order had to 1
cerne, and also Schwyl
they also had a large hous

" And now," contini

H , " the liberals are

for another revision of 01
tution — a constitution wh
no revising, except in tl
of doing away with all
meddling in our rcligioi
But the people now will
that," he added grimly.

Switserland in 1873.

247,

calmly at first, but I
f who will rather fight
t tamdy to have their
their pastors interfered

d to hear these forebod-
\ an apparently peaceful
, and gladly we turned
the water-hens, which
this corner of the river.
— knew them all, for
iblic property, like the
?rtie, and protected by
far back as 1678. No-
be inore graceful, glid-
lown the stream in n unl-
et tier than the friendly
are on with all the in-
The origin of the cus-
luse of the protection,
rms lost in obscurity; at
dd tell us nothing but
fact itself* A narrow
ns along this side be-
ouses and the river, up
iteps, and following the
the rapid stream, while
^e, unadorned senate-
en opposite, and all the
1 that bank rise straight
rater. A true mediaeval
—high and low gables in-
iiaint old balconies filled
\ above ; comely house-
washing the household
ie fresh w^aters below ;
g faces peeping through
ows or leaning out over
shioned sills to gossip
ghing neighbor — a lo-
for a Walter Scott, and
id of tliout;ht and asso-
i the butterfly existence
orders the lake at only
' distance.

this ancient pathway we
to the second bridge, at
t end of the town — the
" or Mill Bridge, or,
the *' Dance of Death "

Bridge, celebrated by Longfellow
in his Golden Legend.

We took out the poem, and read
that passage on the spot, and most
perfectly it answers his beautiful
description. Prince Henry's words
were uttered by us where he be-
gins:

" God*s blessings on the architects who build
The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses
Before impassable to human feet,
No less than on the builders of cathedrals,
Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across
The dark and terrible abyss of death.
Well has the name of pontifex been given
Unto the church's head, as the chief builder
And architect of the invisible bridge
That leads from earth to heaven."

This one is shorter than the Ha-
fellbrucke, being only three hun-
dred feet in length, and making a
sharp bend in the centre, and was
built a century later — in 1408 — but
somehow it is not venerable-look-
ing, and its grim paintings give it a
more sombre character. Elsie was
quite right in exclaiming : " How
dark it grows !" It required many
minutes to get accustomed to the
darkness after the brilliant light we
had left, and she must have been
thankful when Prince Henry pro-
ceeded with his explanation, saying
that it was

"* The Dance of Death;'
An that go to and fro must look upon it,
Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath
Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river
Rushes, impetuous as the river of life,
With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright,
Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it.*'

By his aid we too followed the
renowned pictures copied from those
at Basel* There we saw :

*'The grim musician, who
Leads all mei\ through the mazes of that dance,
To differehc sounds in diflferent measures moving.*'

The

'^ Young man singing to a nun.
Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeCng
Turns round to look at him ; and Death, meanwhile
Is putting out the canales on the altar.*'

Here he

** Has stolen the jester's cap and bells.
And dances with the queen."

\«

246

Svntzerland in 1873.

Maurice, built on the spot of their
martyrdom, is one of the oldest in
the world, said to have been first
erected in a.d. 250, although the
present edifice only dates from
1489. Switzerland and Savoy for-
merly disputed the honor of keeping
the relics, but at last settled the
matter by a small portion being
handed over to Piedmont, the abbey
retaining the principal treasures.
It is therefore to this day one of
the favorite places of pilgrim-
age in Switzerland. A special con-
nection seems to have occurred with
Lucerne, for two hundred bodies of
S. Maurice's companions are said to
have been found at the village of
Schoz, about two leagues distant,
where there was an old chapel re-
nowned for its privileges and indul-
gences. And this seems in no way
unlikely, for we read in Butler's
Lives of the Sai/its and elsewhere
that several smaller corps of soldiers
belonging to the legion were scat-
tered here and there in Switzerland,
and were put to death for the same
reason. Most interesting it is, in
any case, to trace on this bridge the
union of two such heroic, manly
saints in the affections and sympa-
thies of the Lucerne citizens from
olden times.

The bridge is five hundred feet
long, and makes two sharp bends to
suit the current of the river, flowing
swiftly and vigorously from the lake
close by through the old-fashioned
posts on towards old Father Rhine,
which it joins between Schaffliau sen
and Basel. This irregularity adds to
the picturesque effect, and at one
of these corners stands a tower,
mentioned in some old documents
of the year 1367, Possibly it may
have existed as part of the fortifica-
tions even before the bridge itself.
It is called the Water Tower, and
has four stories of one room each,

which formerly served as
prison, and recordoffic
present it is used only for
purpose, and contains th(
of the city. What tales
tell had we moderns th
spare for listening !

But we moved on alor
bank of the river, and t
the church, still called tht
Church." It is large at
takably in their well-kn<

Here Herr H exph

the order had been intrc
to Lucerne in 1574 by
Borromeo, who was such
these cantons. In less
years they had founded
and increased rapidly. V
hundred more they en
church, and the large
adjoining for their college,
as government offices-
and telegraph department
thing went on satisfacto
secon^ hundred years,
suppression of the order b
XIV., in 1773, when it
abolished in Lucerne,
towns-people held their n
grateful remembrance, an
the first acts of the Som
1845 was to call back se\
fathers. When the Protei
tons, however, finally suc<
crushing this League, the
passed a law forbidding a
to remain on Swiss ten
again the order had to 1
cerne, and also Schwyt
they also had a large housi
" And now," continu

H , " the liberals are <

for another revision of 01
tution — a constitution wh
no revising, except in th
of doing away with all i
meddling in our rcligiou
But the people now will
that," he added grimly.

Switserland in 1873.

247,

nly at first, but I

will rather fight
tie]y to have their
r pastors interfered

hear these forebod-
spparently peaceful

1 gladly we turned
water-hens, which
corner of the river,
new ihem all, for

property, like the

and protected by
jack as 1678. No-
nore graceful, glid-

the stream in num-
r than the friendly
3ti with all the in-

origin of the cus-
of the protection,
ost in obscurity; at
ell us nothing but

itself, A narrow
long this side be-
s and the river, up

and following the
rapid stream, while
madorned senate-
iposite, and all the
t brink rise straight
A trite mediaeval
h and low gables in-
\ old balconies filled
>vc ; comely house-
ling the household
esh waters below ;
cs peeping through
or leaning out over
led sills to gossip
; neighbor — a lo-
1 Walter Scott, and
f thought and asso-

bnttertly existence
rs the lake at only
ance,

incicnt pathway we
e second bridge, at
I of the town — the
r Mill Bridge, or,
* Dance of Death "

Bridge, celebrated by Longfellow
in his Golden Legend.

We took out the poem, and read
that passage on the spot, and most
perfectly it answers his beautiful
description. Prince Henry's words
were uttered by us where he be-
gins:

*^ God*s blessings on the architects who build
The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses
Before impassable to human feet,
No leas than on the builders of cathedrals,
Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across
The dark and terrible abyss of death.
Well has the name of pontifex been given
Unto the church's head, as the chief builder
And architect of the wvisible bridge
That leads from earth to heaven."

This one is shorter than the Ha-
fellbrllcke, being only three hun-
dred feet in length, and making a
sharp bend in the centre, and was
built a century later — in 1408 — but
somehow it is not venerable-look-
ing, and its grim paintings give it a
more sombre character, Elsie was
quite right in exclaiming : " How
dark it grows !" It required many
minutes to get accustomed to the
darkness after the brilliant light wc
had left, and she must have been
thankful when Prince Henry pro-
ceeded with his explanation, saying
that it was

" * The Dance of Death ; '
AH that go to and fro must look upon it,
Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath
Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river
Rushes, impetuous as the river of life.
With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright.
Save where the shadow of this bridge (alls on it."

By his aid we too followed the
renowned pictures copied from those
at Basel. There we saw :

*' The grim muucian, who
Leads all mei^ through the mazes of that dance,
To diflereht' sounds ia different measures moving.**

The

** YouQg man singing to a nun.
Who kneels at her devotions, but in knecGng
Turns round to bok at him ; and Death, meanwhile
Is putting out the candles on the altar."

Here he

** Has stolen the jester's cap and bells.
And dances with the queen.'*

i T

246

Switzerland in 1873.

Maurice, built on the spot of their
martyrdom, is one of the oldest in
the world, said to have been first
erected in a.d. 250, although the
present edifice only dates from
1489. Switzerland and Savoy for-
merly disputed the honor of keeping
the relics, but at last settled the
matter by a small portion being
handed over to Piedmont, the abbey
retaining the principal treasures.
It is therefore to this day one of
the favorite places of pilgrim-
age in Switzerland. A special con-
nection seems to have occurred with
Lucerne, for two hundred bodies of
S. Maurice's companions are said to
have been found at the village of
Schoz, about two leagues distant,
where there was an old chapel re-
nowned for its privileges and indul-
gences. And this seems in no way
unlikely, for we read in Butler's
Lives of the Saints and elsewhere
that several smaller corps of soldiers
belonging to the legion were scat-
tered here and there in Switzerland,
and were put to death for the same
reason. Most interesting it is, in
any case, to trace on this bridge the
union of two such heroic, manly
saints in the affections and sympa-
thies of the Lucerne citizens from
olden times.

The bridge is five hundred feet
long, and makes two sharp bends to
suit the current of the river, flowing
swiftly and vigorously from the lake
close by through the old-fashioned
posts on towards old Father Rhine,
which it joins between Schaffliausen
and Basel. This irregularity adds to
the picturesque effect, and at one
of these corners stands a tower,
mentioned in some old documents
of the year 1367, Possibly it may
have existed as part of the fortifica-
tions even before the bridge itself.
It is called the Water Tower, and
has four stories of one room each,

which formerly served as treasury,
prison, and record-oflSce ; but at
present it is used only for the latter
purpose, and contains the archives
of the city. What tales it might
tell had we moderns the time to
spare for listening !

But we moved on along the left
bank of the river, and turned into
the church, still called the " Jesuits'
Church." It is large and unmis-
takably in their well-known style

Here Herr H explained how

the order had been introduced in*
to Lucerne in 1574 by S. Charies
Borromeo, who was such an ally of
these cantons. In less than four
years they had founded a college
and increased rapidly. Within ooc
hundred more they erected tfiis
church, and the large buildmgi
adjoining for their college, now used
as government offices — the posl
and telegraph departments. Every-
thing went on satisfactorily for a
seconjj hundred years, until the
suppression of the order by Qcment
XIV., in 1773, when it was also
abolished in Lucerne. But the
towns-people held their memory in
grateful remembrance, und one of
the first acts of the Sonderbund'm
1845 was to call back seven Jesuit
fathers. When the Protestant can-
tons, however, finally succeeded in
crushing this League, they at once
passed a law forbidding any Jesuit
to remain on Swiss territory; so
again the order had to leave Lu-
cerne, and also Schwytz, where
they also had a large house.

"And now," continued Herr

H , " the liberals are clamoring

for another revision of our consti-
tution — a constitution which needs
no revising, except in their sense
of doing away with all faith, and
meddling in our religious affairs.
But the people now will not bear
that," he added grimly. "They

SwiiMitiand in 1873.

247,

irffl rrsut calraly at first, but I
lioir many who will rather Tight
Am $%ihiml tamdy to have their
J%li|[»0ii or their pastors interfered

II was sad to hear thest; forebod-

•^r" tu §uch an apparently peacefivl

-pbere, and gladly we turned

Tj watch the water-hens, which

ibouod in this corner of the river,

Hcrr H knew them all, for

thty arc pobUc property, like tire
l»cajfs at Berne, and protected by
si?f far back as 167S. Xo-
[Ccmld be more graceful, u}\d-
\^ and down the stream in nimi-
f nor prettier than the friendly
they are on with all tlie in-
bltanls. The origin of the rus-
mnd cause of the protection,
ver, seems lost in obscurity; ;n
he could tell us nothing but
mere fact itself. A n arrow-
ay Tims along this side ln-
twoai the bouses and the river, up
iod dovn steps, and following; the
vmdiji^ of ihe rapid stream, whihj
iJ8< tnsssive, unadorned t^enate-
liome U seen opposite, ^md uU the
4«dlmg5 on that bank rise slraii^hi
ibovi* the watc r, A t ni e 1 1 led 1 ;e v , d
pmnre iti* — high and low gables in-
Utmiied; quaint old balconies hi led
with dowers above ; comely huune-
irires busy wash in g the household
tmcn in the fre^h waters belnw ;
ratrrf yoting face.^ peeping tbron^^h
Upper windows or leaning out over
&e fet!*cushioned sills to f^ossip
with a laughing neii^hbor^a lo-
cajitf made for a Walter Scott, and
anitilicr world of iluinj;ht and asso-
ciation from the butterfly existent e
lliot now borders the lake at only
llew yard** distance.

And by this ancient pathway wc
lOon came to the second bridge, at
Ihe r^mhcxt ^n^ of the town— the
"Spreuner** or Mill Bridge, or,
more irulft the ** Dance of JJeatb '*

Bridge, celebrated by Longfellow
in his Golden Legend,

We took out the poem, and read
that passage on the spot, and most
perfectly it answers his beautiful
description. Prince Henry's words
were uttered by us where he be-
gins:

" God*s blessings on the architects who build
The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses
Before impassable to human feet.
No less than on the builders of cathedrals,
Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across
The dark and terrible abyss of death.
Well has the name of pontifex been given
Unto the church's head, as the chief builder
And architect of the invisible bridge
That leads from earth to heaven."

This one is shorter than the Ha-
fellbrUcke, being only three hun-
dred feet in length, and making a
sharp bend in the centre, and was
built a century later — in 1408 — but
somehow it is not venerable-look-
ing, and its grim paintings give it a
more sombre character. Elsie was
quite right in exclaiming : " How
dark it grows !" It required many
minutes to get accustomed to the
darkness after the brilliant light we
had left, and she must have been
thankful when Prince Henry pro-
ceeded with his explanation, saying
that it was

" ' The Dance of Death ; *
All that go to and fro must look u]>on it,
Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath
Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river
Rushes, impetuous as the river of life.
With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright,
Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it."

By his aid we too followed the
renowned pictures copied from those
at Basel* There we saw :

*'The grim musician, who
Leads all mei^ through the mazes of that dance,
To different sounds in diffierent measures moving."

The

*^ Vouog man singing to a nun.
Who kneels at her devotions, but in knccCng
Turns round to look at him ; and Death, meanwhile
Is putting out the canales oo the altar."

Here he

" Has stolen the jester's cap and beQs,
And dances with the queen."

:?48

Switzerland in 1873.

There,

" The heart cX the new-wedded wife,
Coining ftom. church with her beloved lord.
He startles with the rattle of bis drum."

And under it is written,

*\Nothing but death shall separate thee and cae ! **

In another division is seen

^* Death playing oa a dulcimer. Behind him
A poor dd woman with a rosary
Fdlows the sound, and seems to wish her feet
Were swifter to overtake him."

Underneath the inscription reads,

^^ Better is death than Ufe."

And in this strain the paintings
continue, until, what between the
objects and the general gloom, the
effect becomes most melancholy, and
we heartily sympathized in Prince
Henry's cry — his cri du cosur :

^* Let us go forward, and no longer stay
In this great pcture-gallery of Death !"

It led US straight into the heart
of the old town, and with the poet
we exclaimed :

** I breathe again more
Freely ! Ah I how pleasant
To come once more into the light of day
Out of that shadow of death !"

The streets were narrow, clean,
and well paved, however, and every-
thing looked so bright and cheerful
— perhaps doubly so after, that
gloomy bridge — that our spirits at
once revived. The shops were
small, and all on a homely, simple
scale. But there were no signs of
poverty or neglect in any direction,
and a general air of contentment
was perceptible on all sides.

The schools were just breaking
up for their mid-day hour's rest as
we passed on, and the crowds of
boys and girls flocking homewards
made a bright contrast to the
gloomy bridge. Troops of heatly-
dressed little maidens were espe-
cially pleasant to look at, with their
books slung ip diminutive knapsacks
across their shoulders. A happy-
faced, merry-looking juvenile popu-
lation they all were.

Some fine religious prints in a
small shop-window next attracted

our attention, and, going in, we;
found it to be the principal book^
seller's of Lucerne. Numberlesi
pamphlets on all the leading topics'
of the day lay on the counter, of '
which one caught my eye from its-
peculiarly local title : Fesireden \
der Schlachtjeiery or Speeches at ^
Festwal^ held on the anniversary of
the battle of Sempach, on the 8cii|
of July, 1873.

"What is this .>" I asked.

" The celebration of our gloriooi
victory over the Austrians ! — tte'
Marathon of Swiss history, as iti
hero, Arnold von Winkelried, imy*
be called our Leonidas," replied

Herr H . " It took place i«

1386. You passed near the site
yesterday, for the railway runs bfr-
side the Lake of Sempach, if yo«
remember."

" Oh ! this, then, is a celebratMB,
I suppose, in the style of the twd*e
hundredth commemoration of Bfy
Cathec^l which they are going io
hold in England next month. We
might as well celebrate Agincourtor
Cr^cy. But this cannot be called
a * centenary ' or any name of that
kind, as it will not be five hundred
years since the battle until 1886 !"

" No, it is nothing of the kind,"
he replied, " but is an anniversary
religiously kept every year. The
town council of Lucerne, and the
mayor at their head, with all the
authorities and a vast multitude
of people, go to the battle-field every
8th of July. We go there for two
purposes : first, to pray for the dead
who lie buried there, and then Vi
order to keep the memory of the
heroism of that day and of those
who gained us our freedom fresh jn
our own minds, and to transmit it
to our children, as it has been trans
mitted to us by our fathers. Allow
me to present you with this pam-
phlet. It contains the sermou

Switzerland in 1873.

249

preidied on the last occasion by
Herr Pfarrcr Haas of Hitzkirch, and
the^>eech made at the Winkelried
■Mument by Herr Regierungrath
Gehrig^ and they have been printed
by order of our government here.
Yon will find them interesting, and
also these," giving me another
bundle, **and they will show you
thatr-oe&LlA love of our holy faith,
*bTc of fatherland* and of 'lib-
erty • are deep-seated in the heart
of every man belonging to these
Cttholic cantons."

*Do tell us about the festival!"
weened. " Is it a pretty sight .?"

" You have no idea how pretty,"
be answered — " pretty even if only
M % sight ; for so many priests
cone that they have to erect altars
tt the open air, and Masses are
png on and congregations praying
land Ihem in all directions over
tbi ground the whole morning.
Thb lermon," he continued, open-
ing tbe pamphlet, and reading from
it as he spoke, " opens poetically by
alksions to ^ the green fields, the
sioging of the birds, and the peace-
fal landscape, which alone form
the decorations to the quiet prayer
of the priests — the * Stilles Priester-
gebet — which had been going on
uninterruptedly from the first rosy
dawn of morning up to that hour ' ;
while the speech equally begins by
a reference to the * lovely lake of
the forest cantons, whence came
the men who achieve* the victory,
and whose descendants are as pa-
triotic now as in those far-off days.'
You will seldom hear a sermon, by
the way, in these parts, without al-
lusion to the magnificence of our
na^, and to the great deeds of
our forefathers. Old and young,
clergy and laity, we are always ex-
horting each other to imitate thein.
And is it not right ? We feel the
deep truth of the principle I have

lately seen so beautifully express-
ed by a Catholic writer that I
learned it by heart at the time. * Na-
tions,' he says, * live by traditions,
more even than individuals. By
them the past extends its influence
over the present, illumines it with
the reflection of its glory, and ani-
mates it with its spirit. Traditions
bind together the successive i>e-
riods in a nation's existence, and •
preserve amongst its children the
unity produced by a long commu-
nity of dangers and struggles, of
triumphs and reverses.' Revolu-
tionists alone wish to break with
the past, which, in this country at
least, is in direct opposition to their
godless theories, and at variance
with all their passions. And long
may it continue so ! The last pas-
sage of Herr Gehrig's speech, by
which he winds up, is very fine on
that point," he said, again reading :
" ' The Swiss, says an old proverb
of the XVIth century, have a noble
land, good laws, and a wise Confed-
eracy — a Confederacy that is firm
and strong, because it is not dic-
tated by passion. Comrades! let
us keep tliis legacy of our fathers
sacred. The fatherland before all !
God protect the fatherland !* "

As he spoke these words we
came to the senate-house square,
in sight of the glaring frescos of
this same battle of Sempach, and
the list of all other Swiss victories,
with which its tower has been re-
cently covered.

"It is not by badly-painted re-,—
presentations such as these," he', --^
tinned, smiling, "that we try to
keep up the old spirit, but by that
true eloquence which touches the
heart and convinces the reason.
These two addresses were most soul-
stirring — the sermon and speech
equally fine — and made the greatest
impression. The speech is a short

250

Switzerland in 1873.

summary of our history and of Ar-
nold von Winkelrieds, opening, as I
said, by allusion to that * pearl of
creation,' that lake of the forest
cantons, which is bordered by the
Urschweiz.

" What does that mean ?" asked

Caroline C . " I so often have

noticed the word without under-
standing it."

"It simply means, *The origin-
al Switzerland.* The particle ur
means in German something very
ancient, or the origin or root of
anything. It is the proudest title
of these forest cantons, and there-
fore you will constantly find it
used, varied now and then as the
Urcanione, They are truly the
cradle, not only of Switzerland, but
of our freedom, and so far preserve
the same spirit of independence
and of courage up to this hojur."

" And the sermon — what was

that like?" asked young C ,

whose interest, notwithstanding his
scepticism about William Tell, was
now thoroughly roused.

" The sermon was most suitable

to the times," replied Herr H .

*' The subject was concord or
harmony ; and its aim, to show
how we ought to copy those virtues
of our ancestors which caused true
harmony. It was divided, as you
may see here, into four points ;
First, Fidelity^ when the preacher
drew a beautiful picture of Swiss
fidelity from the earliest ages — a
fertile theme. Next, Justice —
Christian justice, for he averred
that real justice never existed in the
pagan world, and he again goes back
to the XlVih century to show how
the men of that age acted, so that
the historian Zschokke calls it * the
golden age * of Switzerland ! And
lie fortifies his assertions by quota-
tions from old annals. Here is one
from the celebrated oath of the

Rati, in 1307 : * Every man nnj
protect the innocent and oppress
people in his valley, and presert
to them their old rights and frei
dom. On the other hand, we
not wish to deprive the Counts
Habsburg of the smallest poi
of their property, of their rights^
of their vassals. Their govei
followers, servants, and hiri
shall not lose a drop of blood.'
again, how the same men in t\
gave an order to the judges *not-
favor any one in a partisan
but to deal justice accordinf'
their oaths.' Again, in 1334,
answer a proposition made to
by the emperor by proudly t
him that * there are laws which
princes should not transgress.'
their own government they n
'that the citizens shall receive
curily for honor, life, and pro]
that the magistrates shall listtfB-
the complaints of the poor, and
answer them sharply; that
shall not pronounce judgment im*]
periously, nor, above all, condemn
capriciously.* This was in 1335*
He continues then to prove how
scrupulously they forbid feuds and
lawless plundering; and the high
respect our ancestors showed for
churches and ecclesiastical institu-
tions is supported by a quotation
from a league that was sworn to at
Zurich immediately after this very
battle of Sempach, called, in con-
sequence, the Serapacher Brief,
wh^re this remarkable passage oc-
curs : * As the Almighty has chosen
the churches for his dwelling, so it
is our wish that none of us shall
dare to break into, plunder, or de-
stroy any convent or chapel what-
soever.' This took place in 1393,
and Herr Pfarrer Haas ends this
part by an appeal to the present gen-
eration : * Do you wish to imitate
your ancestors ? Then give weight

Swiiseriand in 1873.

251

in iJic council- chamber, in the tri-
btnaK in the framing of laws, in
fkaif txccutton and adininislratlon,
1^ tliat Christ ba justice which
g^ves aod k*a.ves to each man tlnit
%tiich bf tight belon^^s to him.
By tlut means you will preserve
faafmoay in the kind — the louiida-
tiofi-^!otie of national prosperity,
ihc strength of the Confedcr-
^ States grow old and jKass
r, but Christianity has etemal
atid freshness. When a na-
reposes on the rock of Chris-
'^fllkiee. she never sufftTs from
le changes of childhood, ynuth^
ijjWibood; or old age, but flouri^iies
^H|etet in perpetual freshness and

^V'TbaC is very finer' all exclaini-

^Bt ** But It is the more strik-

^^ vhcn one finds it was only

tpo4en ihc other day. It sounds

i«i like £□ old middle -age sermon

add;(ssed to men of the ' ages of

**Vq«i are ngbt," returned Hcrr

rt"^— ; ** but I assure you the tone

\\ the ordinar)' one of sermons

-^ dbiriclSf and elicited no

I'jiJshmcnt* though a great deal

f »ym|i»lHy, It wiU tire you, how-
cvcT, tail car more, so we had bet»
icf j?o on!" We liad been lint^er-
iag on the promenade while listen-
iag lo him, under the shady che.Ht-
nuts faring the lake ; but now*
-iH weanimotisly begged he would

mtrnur, merely movfng to a bench
ncifCT our hotel

**Wdl, as you wish it, I shall

obtfT' he fiaid, making us a bow,

irltli X im\\^ of jdeasure at our in-

li^ interest in his country.

i*.c next division of the seruion,
on i*inue and morality, was ably
ir^UwJ, Ui you will perceive when-
ever you read this pamphlet ; espe^
cially in reference to the modern
doctrines on these subjects now

propounded in other parts of Swit-
zerland." (We thought here of our
recent experience at the book-stall
at Berne !) " And the preacher com-
plimented the inhabitants of the
rural cantons on the Christian faith
and simple, virtuous manners they
still retain, ending by quotations
from our Lord's words in the New
Testament, and saying that * en-
lightenment is not unbelief, but the
true and proper use of belief.' The
fourth and last essential to har-
mony he shows to be that interior
peace which can be produced by
the Christian faith alone. No one
can be a good citizen who does not
conquer the passiotjis of his own
nature, and obtain that inner tran-
quillity of mind which is the growth
of true religion. Amongst other
proofs of his argument he quotes
from Blessed Nicholas von der Fltle.
I presume you know who he
was ?"

Each of us in turn was obliged
to answer " No," although the name
was not unfamiliar to some. But
the more we heard, the greater did
our humiliation gradually become
at finding how slightly we were ac-
quainted with this Swiss life; and

every one rejoiced when Herr K

replied :

" Blessed Nicholas was a hermit,
but as great a patriot as ho was a
saint. However, you will hear enough
about him when you visit Stanz
and Sarnen. His words carried
immense weight in his day, and he
is still very much revered, and is
perpetually quoted. He lived in the
XVth century, and our Herr Pfarrer
Haas here gives a long extract
from one of his letters to the Mayor
of Berne in those years. AfEer this
he goes on to say : * Such was the
faith of your forefathers ! The pray-
ers which the combatants said on
this very spot amidst the scoffs

252

Switzerland in 1873.

of their enemies ; the Sacred Host
which the priest carried at Lauffen ;
che anniversaries they founded ; the
Holy Sacrifice they ordered should
be offered on those days of comme-
moration ; the crosses they erected
over the graves of all who fell in
the combat, prove where their souls
sought and obtained rest and peace.'
* Fidelity, justice, virtue, and faith
form the groundwork of the union
and harmony of a people. Let each
one of us, in his circle, and amongst
those whom he can influence,
strengthen these pillars of the edi-
fice, and in this manner we can
best help to secure the happiness
and solidity of our dearly-loved
Swiss fatherland.' Then he winds
up by a beautiful peroration, thus :
* We stand here on graves. Simple
stone crosses rise above these tombs,
where for the last four hundred and
eighty-seven years the heroes of
Sempach, friends and enemies, re-
pose after their hard day's work.
Sleep in peace, ye dead ! I envy ye
your rest ! There may be fighting
and storm overhead, but what mat-
ters that to the sleepers.? Your
eyes are closed ! Ye do not watch
the troubles and sorrows of man-
kind, the cares and burdens of life,
the battle of the spirits, the play
of passions. Once, too, your hearts
beat high in the decisive hour. Each
Swiss and Aiistrian believed that he
defended the right. On both sides
stood great men and great heroes.
Death, brave hearts, has united you
in peace ; and over your graves, for
nearly five hundred years, has stood
the cross in token of conciliation —
the symbol of peace, the badge of
the confederates; indicating that
Switzerland will still stand firm in
harmony when the hotly-contested
opinions surging in her midst at
this day shall long since have sunk
into dust and ashes.

* Our faith is firm in fatherland :

Although brave sons may die.

Swim soil will still yield faithfol

To wield the cron on high :
The white, unsullied cross for aye
O'er Switzerland shaU fly.' "

" Magnificent !*' all again exclaioh
ed, " in language and sentiment!
How we should like to have hearf
it!"

** There was a great crowd thi&
year," continued Herr H^— %
** though numbers never fail on asf
occasion. But a musical festival h«i
taken place in Lucerne the day b5*
fore, so for that reason there w«Bi
more than usual. The majoiitf
now go by rail, but in my yotttk
the procession of carriages was modi
more imposing. And Lucerne tbca
was a Vorort, or capital of the Con*
federacy alternately with Zmich
and Berne — a system long siaoe
done away with ; so that when ti*
year came for its turn, all the d^o-
ties and the diplomatic represcntap
tives were invited, and came too-
all except an old Austrian, whom no-
thing could move. I well remember
hearing that his colleagues used to
laugh at him for keeping up the feel-
ing after so many hundred years; but
it was so strong that he never could
hear William Tell's name men-
tioned without calling him an * as-
sassin ' ; and you may imagine how
the others amused themselves by
always bringing up the subject. The
feeling against the Austrians is very
strong, too, *nongst the Swiss."

" I never understand it," remark-
ed Caroline C . " I have al-
ways been taught to look on Ru-
dolph von Habsburg as a perfect
character ; and yet the moment
one comes to this country, one
hears nothing but abuse of the
Habsburgs. Do explain it."

" I should have to give you a lec-
ture on Swiss history, dear young
lady, I fear, before you could un-

Switc^rinnd in ^873.

253

Del it ; and there is bo time for

1! do tell us something.

is still half an hour before

r^^/r, and it is so pleasant

here. We should all like to

\ cicafcr view of the re-ison

d t si i ke , I am a 1 way s ni u c h

l» loD, in Schiller's liliitam

It the conspirators always

ag la be utidcr the empire

and not through the Habs-

, a^d it IS so troublesome to

\ lllrough a history when travel-

^ %he replied,

*Bui 1 should go back to the

beginning for that piirjjose/'

• an%w< rird. " However^ if you

it, I shall give you a few lead-

ts Ihat you can ^nd amplified

you feel inclined to read

^biitory right through. May

iie^ then, that you know/'

tinued, laughing, '* that the

habiUnt:^ of Sw'itzerland arc

'<1 to have been offshoots

.m tribes— -*men driven

1 c J r h o m es by fa 1 n i n e ? T h e re

.1 few settlers before these,

i^d ta lie refugees from Italy, but

aly ia a wild corner of the moun-

t4invHrnce called Rhoetia; and they

weft so few and so isolated that

ihry Me not wt>rth mentioning.

tile tlTesni of inhabitants poured

dovn by the Lake of Constance.

^-^iinc «iy that the same names are

/fliiil lo this d.iy in Sweden as in

ite taUcvij of these cantons. In

i^yeasc, (be tradition is that two

fOlhffSj Switcr and Swin, arrived

»ith thfir familicii and followers,

iftd icUjmI at the upper end of this

like, aod from them the territory

th«7 occupied was called Schwyt/,.

H i] <|uite certain that this was the

itix |urt occupied ; therefore the

title \% cImua of * UrschwciiE/ or

^original Sirit2erl.indi* is most ap-

po|iriale« 1 hey spread all routid

this lake and through these forest
cantons, on from one valley to an-
other, to the foot of the great snowy
Alp region, but not further. Other,
races came later, and settled at
Geneva and elsewhere, and, com-
ing into collision with Rome, then
mistress of the world, were finally
made part of the Roman Empire.
Then came the inroad of other
barbarians on the downfall of
Rome, and everything was in utter
confusion until the light of Chris-
tianity shone over the land. It
was introduced here, as in Germany,
by missionaries who came from all
parts, and a bishopric even was
founded at? Chur in the earliest
Frankish times. Convents, too,
rose on all sides. You will find
remains of them in the most remote
valleys and out-of-the-way corners
of the country. S. Sigebert, for
instance, came from France, and
built Disentis in the wilds of Rhoe-
tia, now the Grisons. S. Columba
and S. Mangold preached along the
Reuss and tho Aar, and the great
S. Gall evangelized the wild dis-
trict round the Lake of Constance,
girt by forests filled with all
manner of wild beasts. The cele-
brated convent of his name was
built on the site of his hermitage,
and gave rise to the town of St.
Gall. Einsiedeln, too, the famous
monastery which you are going to
visit, dates also fnom that period,
over the cell of the hermit Meinrad,
and so on in every direction. Even
Zurich and our own Lucerne owe
their origin to convents. As in so
many other countries, so here like-
Avise the monks spread civilization
opened schools, and tau^t the peo-
ple agriculture. Then came an-
other period of confusion after
Charlemagne's reign, which ended
by the greater portion of Swit-
zerland falling to the share of his

254

Switzerland in 1873.

successors in the German Empire.
There were numberless dukes and
counts all over the land who al-
ready held large possessions, but
had been vassals of the Dukes of
Swabia. Now, however, they set
him at defiance, and would obey
no one but the emperor. Many
of the monasteries, too, had acquir-
ed considerable property by this
time, and their abbots were often
powerful lords. They followed
the example of the counts and
dukes, and also assumed indepen-
dence. But, on the other hand, the
towns equally rose in importance,
and often set the nobles and abbots
at naught. These then, in order
not to lose their influence, strove
to increase the number of their vas-
sals by making clearances in their
forests, promoting the establishment
of villages, and granting privileges
to their inhabitants, in all which
you will find the origin of the ex-
traordinary number of rural com-
munes for which Switzerland has
always been so noted. The nobles,
who had no occupation but war,
were engaged in constant feuds
amongst themselves or with the
towns of which they were most
jealous, and, leading lawless lives,
wasted their inheritance little by
little. The Crusades also contri-
buted to diminish them, for all
the knights in the country flocked
thither. In the course of time
their numbers dwindled considera-
bly by these means, or by the sale
of their property and feudal rights
to the towns and even to the villa-
ges. At the period we arc talking
of, however, they were amongst the
heroes of the land, and often fought
bravely and made themselves re-
spected.

" In one district, however, there
were neither nobles, nor castles,
nor towns, nor monasteries, nor

any inhabitants, except the descen-
dants of the first settlers. Thai;
was in the wild region of RhoettA^^
and in what now constitutes
forest cantons, or Vierwaldstatteflj
as they are called in German,
latter all sprang from one com:
stock, and for a long time had
one head and one church,
was in the Muotta Valley,
thither came the entire popul
of Schwytz, Unterwalden, and Wi
At last, when they increased
multiplied, they divided into
three districts, built their
churches, and elected their
Landamtnan^ or chief magisi
and their own council. No
claimed sovereignty over
mountain district but the e
ror. To him the people n(
objected ; on the contrary,
were rather glad to enjoy his
erful protection, and willingly «e»
cepted, nay, often chose, the impe-
rial judges to act as arbitrators in
cases of their own internal disputes.
Now, these judges were called' gov-
ernors, or Vogts, and, in order to
distinguish them from inferior gov-
ernors, were entitled ReichsvogUy or
governors of the empire. It is well
to bear this in mind, for on this
point turned the whole dispute
with the Habsburgs, and it was the
cause of the conspiracy of the RQti
and of our subsequent freedom. It
must also be remembered that the
object of every community in the
country at that period was to free
itself from the yoke of the local
laws, whether nobles or abbots,
and to place themselves directly
under the empire. And in this al-
most every town succeeded by
slow degrees. The advantages
were very great. First of all, they
were not liable to the constant
petty exactions of near neighbors,
and the imperial government was

Swii JIT land in 1873.

255

tavty that ihey were allowed

ioister their own property

i to choose their own authorU

l^ing only asked in exchaoge

light taxes to the im-

treajtury, and to accept a

^ksufigf^ or gm^emor. His of-

e was merely to uphold the cm-

:r()r f rights, and to act as judge

nuttem of life and death— a

ndilioja never refused; for it was

J thai, being a stranger, he would

1 c im[»a.rtial than one of their

..t the nobles who had

liy grown powerful at this

! the Counts of Habsburg,

U'ftd in the Aargati, and, in-

of dimrnishing, had been

^eJttendmg, their possessions

EC. Suddenly and un*

Count Rudolph was

[leror of G e r m a n y . T li e r e

disputes between the

sflBia princes on the death of the

-fc enipcffsr, and the story runs

il ihey elected him simply on the

^i^riac« of the Elector of Co-

lofBcwho declared that Rudolph

icm Halisburg was upright and

*!«, beloved by God and man.

"I'htt^Asyou know% proved true,
Attd yoa were perfectly right in be-
Iieiiijg Maa to have been a * perfect
t'uri^ter.* Moreover, he never
i'*fl^i*i hii old fellow -country men,
*a^ thowered fa^vors on them as
'^^ as he lived. Many places
'trc tnadc direct fiefs of the
^pirc by him, amongst others
^^ town of Lucerne, but more
f^petidly these forest cantons:
^d he raised the Binhoi) of
1-^nianne and the Abbot of Ein-
^^nldn to the rank of princes of
'•^^ mipire. As a natural result,
'fic whole couiitry grew devoted to
tai* and came forward wilh gdis
<rf money and assistance of every
mi whenever he required it.

** But with his successor, his son
Albrecht, comes the reverse of the
medal. It was soon seen that he
thought of nothing but increasing
his own family possessions, and had
no respect for the privileges of the
towns or rural populations. Fore-
seeing evil times, therefore, Uri,
Schwytz, and Unterwalden met to-
gether, and made a defensive league,
binding themselves by oath to stand
by each other and to defend them-
selves against all enemies. Hence
the origin of their name, * Eidge-
nossen,* which in German means
* oath-participators.' The Bishop
of Constance and Duke of Savoy
made a separate agreement, and
so did various others. At last the
princes of Germany also became
so discontented with Albrecht that
they elected a Prince Adolf of Nas-
sau in his stead. The whole country
was soon divided into two parties,
one for and the other against Al-
brecht of Austria, as he had then be-
come. Down he marched with a
large army, devastated the territory
of the Bishop of Constance, and
Adolf of Nassau Idst life and crown
in a desperate battle. The confeder-
ates had taken no part against Al-
brecht openly as yet, and sent
ambassadors to beg he would re-
spect their ancient rights, as his
father of glorious memory had al-
ways done. But he only answered
*that he would soon change their
condition.' Meantime, the majori-
ty of the nobles joined his side; but
the towns resisted him, and Berne
gained such a great victory that
he got alarmed and made peace
with Zurich, confirming all its
privileges. He then sent word to
the Waldstatter cantons that he
wished to treat them as the beloved
children of his own family, and
that they had better at once place
themselves under Austrian protcc-

256

Switzerland in 1873

tion. But the sturdy, free-hearted
mountaineers replied that they pre-
ferred the old rights they had in-
herited from their fathers, and de-
sired to continue direct vassals of
the empire. Albrecht was not pre-
pared to enforce their submission,
so he resorted to the expedient of
sending them Reichsvdgte who were
wicked and cruel men, that were
ordered, besides, to oppress and
torment them in such a manner
that they should at last desire in
preference to place themselves
under Austro-Habsburg protec-
tion. Chief of these was the now
far-famed Gessler, and also Lan-
derberg, whose castle at Samen was
the first destroyed later. Not only
were they cruel, but they insisted
on living in the country, although
all previous Reichsvdgte^ or gover-
nors, had only come there occa-
sionally, and had allowed the people
to govern themselves. Unable to
bear it, the celebrated * three,'
Stauffacher, Ftirst, and Melchthal,
whom you now know through Schil-
ler, if from no other source, met
together. Stauffacher came from
Schwytz, Walther FUrst from Uri,
and Arnold von Melchthal repre-
sented Unterwalden, and they chose
for their meeting the central spot
of the meadow, called the Rtiti,
which you will pass when sailing
up the lake. Each brought ten
others with them, and in their name
and that of all their fellow-coun-
trymen they took that oath which
was quoted in the sermon as I read
it just now. This union of the
three cantons was the foundation
of the Swiss Confederation. Lu-
cerne joined it in 1332, and then it
became the League of the Four For-
est Cantons, all surrounding this
lake. Some say that Tell was one
of the ten from his canton, but
others deny this. It does not

^ytUTi

Bbi!

much matter, for one fact is cei^
tain : that the whole country wif
discontented, and Gessler giew
alarmed without knowing of
conspiracy, which alarm was
cause of his conduct towards Tdt**'

" Oh ! William Tell is all a m^

exclaimed young O , who

could conceal his sentiments on
point. ** No one believes in
nowadays."

" My dear young gentleman,"

swered Herr H quietly, " it

easy for modem critics to say
They may laugh and sneer as
like. Nothing is more easy
to argue against anything. I
member often hearing that
bishop Whately — your own
bishop — was so convinced of
that he once undertook to
pamphlet in this style, dispn
the existence of the First Nap
and succeeded triumphantly.
/ hold with Buckle — your
Buckle too !" he said, laughhif—
" who declares that he relies BKMfe
on the strength of local traditions
and on native bards than on any-
thing else. The great arguraert
against William Tell, I know per-
fectly well, is that the same story
is to be found in Saxo-Granimati-
cus, and also in Sanscrit ; but that
does not disturb me, for there is no
reason why the same sort of thing
may not have happened in many a
place. These mountaineers cer-
tainly had no means of studying
either the one or the other in what
you^ no doubt, will call the * dark
ages ' ! Just have patience until
you see the Tell chapels and hear
a little more on the subject, and I
hope you will change your mind.
One thing is certain, namely, that
Tell was not the cause of the con-
spiracy, and that his treatment did
not make the confederates depart
from their original plan, which was

Switzerland in 1873.

257

toiise on the New Year's night of
ijoS. In 0r^ humble opinion, Schil-
\k kis done poor William Tell no
fDod, for between him and the
open the story has been so much
popnianzed that this alone has
laiMd all the doubts about it. Peo-
|»k fcncy it was Schiller's creation
OMie or less, altogether forgetting
tJiat the chapels and the veneration
fcr Tell have existed on the spot
these hundreds of years. It is for-
tBSite Arnold von Winkelried has
Mt been treated in the same way,
9r «c should doubt his existence

"You have not told us anything
lllOrtSempach yet," broke in Caro-

liiftC , anxious to stop the dis-

MrioQf which seemed likely to vex
Ar lid gentleman, especially as she
^H blew her brother's school-boy
tiM^n for argument.

Vofgarten and much more oc-
c«ml before that, mademoiselle,"

vamoA Herr H , " all tend-

«g to iacrease the national hatred
of Antria. As a natural conse-
<IMaccof the Rati and its uprising,
Attttecht became enraged against
^ foccst cantons, and marched
*l once to Switzerland with a large
forcfc But a most unexpected,
startling event happened. He had
^ nq>hcw, Duke John of Swabia,
^ho was his ward, but from whom
he continued to withhold his patri-
mony on one pretext or another,
fbe young man at length grew fu-
noo$, and, as they were crossing
^i|isvcty same river Reuss at Win-
<^»«ch,Duke Jobn stabbed his uncle,
''■ibt a noble, a conspirator of
J<*t\^ struck him on the head.
J^heie were a few others present,
l»at in t panic they all fled, and left
the Emperor of Germany to die in
^^ aims of a poor woman who

"•PPOted to be passing.
*"rhc deed was so fearful that
VOL. XX.— 17

even Albrecht's worst enemies were
horrified, and it is said that the
murderers wandered over the world,
and ultimately died as outcasts.
Zurich shut its gates against them,
and the forest cantons refused
them all shelter. But Albrecht's
family not only pursued them, but
behaved inhumanly. His widow
and two children, Duke Leopold
and Agnes, Queen of Hungary, came
at once to Switzerland, and seized
innocent and guilty right and left,
destroying without scruple the cas-
tle of any noble whom they sus-
pected in the slightest degree, and
executing all without mercy. Agnes
in particular was cruel beyond mea-
sure. One story related of her by
Swiss historians is that, after hav-
ing witnessed the execution of sixty-
three innocent knights, and whilst
their blood was flowing at her feet,
she exclaimed : * Now I am bath-
ing in May-dew!' Whether lite-
rally true or not, it shows what she
must have been to have given cause
for such a tale. In fact, the stories
of her merciless character are too
numerous and terrible to repeat
now. At last she and her mother,
the widow, built a magnificent con-
vent on the site of the murder,
which you may have heard of as
Konigsfelder^ or the King's Field.
There she subsequently retired to
* end her days in piety * ; but the
people detested her, and Zschokke
says that once when she was pass-
ing through the convent, and bowed
to one of the monks, he turned
round and boldly addressed her
thus : * Woman ! it is a bad way to
serve God, first to shed innocent
blood, and then to found convents
from the spoils of the victims.' She
died there, and we have a piece of
silk in the arsenal in Lucerne which
formed part of her funeral apparel."
"Oh! how horrible," exclaimed

3S8

Switzerland in 1873.

Caroline C . "But I would

give anything to see it ! How
could we manage it ?"

" Very easily," replied Herr

H . " If you only have time, we

might go there after dinner. It is
close to the Spreuner Brlicke, and I
can get you in. There are many
trophies also from Sempach, and
other victories besides."

" Do tell us about Sempach," I
interposed. " It is getting late, and
I fear the dinner-bell will soon
nng.

" First came the battle of Mor-
garten, of vhich you will see the site
from the top of the Rigi. Albrecht's
son Leopold followed up his father's
grudge against the forest cantons,
and gave them battle there in 1308,
when he was signally defeated. It
was a glorious victory by a hand-
ful of peasants. But you will read
about it on your journey. Sempach
is our Lucerne property. It did
not take place for sixty-nine years
after Morgarten, but in the interval
there had been constant fighting with
the house of Austria, which still kept
its possessions in Switzerland, and
also with the nobles, who hated
the towns-people, and clung to the
Habsburgs more or less. It was
about this time that a castle belong-
ing to the latter, on this lake, just
round the projecting corner to our
left, was destroyed by the people.
It was called here Habsburg, and
has lately been restored by a for-
eigner. On all sides the worst feel-
ings were kept alive, and it only
required a spark to set all in a
blaze. This eventually happened
by some angry Lucerners levelling
to the ground the castle of a knight
Avho had imposed undue taxes upon
I hem. He, on his side, appealed to
(he Habsburg of the day, who, by
X nirious coincidence, was also a
J')uke Leopold, son of the Leopold

who was defeated at Morgartl
Full of anger, he gathered
forces, and marched in hot
against Lucerne. But on the h(
near the Lake of Sempach
countered the confederates,
had come from Lucerne, with
tingents, though in small :
from all the forest cantons,
was hilly ground, most unfitted
cavalry; but Leopold would
wait for his infantr}', and,
his heavily-armed knights disi
he ordered them to rush with
pointed lances in close rai
the enemy. It was like a ^
iron, and at first the confede]
could make no impression ui
They fell in numbers, and \
beginning to despair when a
cried out, ' I will open a
freedom ! Faithful, dearly-
confederates, take care of
and child !' and a man,
forward, seized as many lances
could clasp, buried them in his
body, and fell dead. This
Arnold von Winkclried, an
habitant of Stanz, about w
little else is known. Over
corpse his comrades pressed
ward through the opening he
thus made, and they never aj
yielded the dear-bought advant;
The struggle became fearful
both sides ; prodigies of valor wej
performed, and it is said that thr^
standard-bearers were killed befol
the flag of Austria couid be capl
ed. Eventually the knights turnt
in order to retreat ; but their hea^
armor impeded them, and theirmd
sure of victory, had led their h«
far away. So they were cut down
hundreds. Duke Leopold waskill(
by a man from Sch>vytz ; but they
all fought bravely, and defended
their banners with such tenacity
that one was found torn into small
shreds, in order that the enemy

Switzerland in 1875

^59

migfct not get it, while its pole was
finriy clenched between the teeth
of die dead man who had been car-
mng it. That was the glorious
battle of Sempach, which finally
crashed the power of the Habsburgs
in Switzerland, and after which our
liberty was firmly established. Is
ii any wopder, then, that we cele-
brate it so religiously, or that the
*ntipathy to Austria was so deeply
I looted in the nation ? The whole
As of the Habsburgs after Ru-
iz's reign, and of the nobles who
weit Acir vassals, was to crush our
priilfegcs and freedom. In con-
•Hpencc, they were so hated that
W) one could even venture to wear
tpeicock's feather, merely because
ttwaithe favorite ornament of the
AwllSin dukes. In fact, peacocks
'Wfcrbidden in Switzerland ; and
s ttolf is told, to show how far the
"*fi(j*ent, of a man having broken
nil mc-glass at a public tavern,
">«rff because he fancied that he
»wthe colors of a peacock's tail in
^ pUy of the sun's rays on the
gjass."

As Herr H pronounced these

vords the first dinner-bell rang, and
^t all rose, thanking him cordially
^or bis most interesting lecture.

Caroline C in particular was

most grateful, declaring that she
never could understand anything
•' Swiss history before, but now
had the clearest view of its general
^firings.

After dinner all except myself

'J^d Mrs. C started off at once

•Of Ac arsenal to see the " relics,"
^^ now called them ; but we two
J^Wncd to the Hofkirche at four
''^iocklo listen to the organ, play-
ed there daily for strangers, as at
°^nicand Frcyburg. The Lucerne
'JJ^^mcnt is not so well known as
^^^ two, but it is equally fine, if
^^^ finer. It was admirably played.

too, and we sat entranced by its tones,
especially by its heavenly Vox
Angelica, fully sympathizing with
Wordsworth when standing on the
old Hofbridge that came up to the
church hill in his day, and writing :

** Volumes of sound, from the cathedral rolled,
This long-roofed vista penetrate."

We had arranged to sleep that
night at Vitznau, at the foot of the
Rigi, in order to ascend by the first
train next morning, and for this pur-
pose were to leave in a six o'clock
steamer. It seemed difficult to
tear ourselves so quickly aw'ay from
Lucerne, and the hurry was consid-
erable. The remainder of our par-
ty, however, returned just in time,
full of all they had seen — " Agnes'
shroud," a dreadful title for a piece
of heavy silk used at her fune-
ral, striped yellow and black, the
Habsburg colors; Duke Leopold's
coat-of-mail, in which he was killed
at Sempach, and a dozen others; a
heap of lances taken there; num-
bers of trophies from Grandson and
Morat, the battles with Charles the
Bold ; but, what interested them
most, the great standard of Habs-
burg, of yellow silk with a red lion
on it, taken at Sempach, and an-
other, a white flag, covered, they
said, with blood, also captured

there. Young C was most

struck besides with a very old vase
decorated with the meeting at the
Rati.

It was a lovely evening, but,
though the sail promised to be de-
lightful, wc left Lucerne and its
worthy citizen with regret, thanking
him cordially, over and over again,
for the interest he had given us in
his country, and at last persuaded
him to come and meet us in a day
or two, and act as our cicerone in
part of the forest cantons, which
by his means already assumed a
place in our affections.

26o

A Legend of Alsuci.

A LEGEND OF ALSACE.

riOM THB rmsMCH or m. lb vicomtb db bussibbbb.

CONCLUDBD.

VIII.

Odile, who had returned to Ho-
henbourg without her father's con-
sent, was now forced to remain
against her own will. Her reputa-
tion so spread throughout the pro-
vince that people of the highest
rank went to see her, and several
aspired to her hand. Among these
suitors was a young German duke
whose station, wealth, and personal
qualities gave him an advantage
over his rivals. Adalric and Ber-
swinde joyfully gave their consent,
and the marriage settlements were
agreed upon. The arrangement
was then made known to Odile,
who declared firmly but respect-
fully that she had chosen Christ
for her spouse, and could not re-
nounce her choice. But this pro-
jected marriage flattered the pride
and ambition of her father, and,
after vainly endeavoring to per-
suade her to consent to it, he
sought to obtain by force what
mildness had not been able to ef-
fect. Odile, seeing that her liberty
of action was to be infringed upon,
felt that flight was her only re-
source. Commending herself to
God and Our Blessed Lady, she
clothed herself early one morning
in the rags of a beggar, and left the
castle unobserved, descending the
mountain by an obscure and al-
most impassable ravine. It was in
the year 679. Her first intention
was to take refuge in the Abbey of
Baume, but, considering that would
be the first place to seek for her.

she resolved to conceal hemtf
from all mankind, and lead heiMaih
forth a difficult and solitary life
the love of her Redeemer.
therefore directed her steps
ward the Rhine, and, meettoff It-
fisherman, she gave him a "
piece of money to take her
the river.

Odile had been accustomcdi ii
seclude herself several hours 8^1^
for prayer and meditation, ao M
non-appearance excited no iS^
prise. She was supposed to iMtiit
her devotions, and was already 4Qt*
eral miles from home, when the le*
port of her disappearance ^NVad
consternation throughout the mn-
or. The duke, distressed by bcr
flight, assembled all his followeis.
ordered his four sons to pursue btr
in four different directions, and di-
rected his servants to scour the
surrounding country. Berswinde
alone did not share the general
grief. She would indeed have bccB
pleased by the marriage of bcr
daughter and the German duke,
but Odile 's motives for declining
the alliance, the remembrance of
the miracle wrought at her baptism,
and the manifest protection of
heaven she was so evidently under»
made her mother sure that the
support of the Most High would
not in this case be wanting.

Adalric himself set off" with sev-
eral esquires, and unwittingly took
the same route as his daughter.
He soon came to the Rhine, where
he heard that a young beggar-girl.

A Legend of Alsace.

261

rmgs could no£ conceal her

^r and eictrcme beauty, had

llie river and gone towards

rarg. The dukcj sure it was

dangliter, likewise crossed over,

lad CAfne so close upon her steps

lai It seemed impossible for her

" ''-irapc. Bat the princess, says

1 chronicle of Fribourg con-

'ning these details, coming in

gilt of the city near a j^lace called

M«j\7l ji h» was so overcome with

*:r*;"«r Uuxt she was obliged to sit

and t:ike breath. She had

V iliatiked God for his protec-

iiis far when she perceived, at

' * nee, a company of horse-

' y app roac h i n g* Th e n

■^ her father and his fol-

'_ raised her eyes to hea-

voiiiiybeiiee alone she cfiuld expect

lorror. and prayed fervently : "

OiV -Sjviour V* cried she, " spotless

Iwi^icctuT of virgins I I am lost un-

Uiv ti:ou skhieldest me from their

^y^ and covercst me with the

^iodciw of thy wings !" And our

»ayi Che legend, heard thi^

prayer : the rock on which

vu seated opened to sheUer her

eager pursuers, and liad

ted upon her whcti Adal-

fk Cime up. As soon as he had

pu^cd byOdilc came out, and> that

>► .my might not lose the re-

tiivinUaacc of this miracle, a lim-

[>id ftream oi healing waters flowed

htnccfortli from the rock, 'rhrs

fmmimiii liecame eventually the re-

wn <rf pil^msp and the saint her-

kH Ittd a chapel buUl over it in

^onUBiefnomtion of her deliverance,

Tbc dtike, unsucce^sftd in his

muK returned to Hohenbourg.

IfQiblr to TMign lum^clf to the Joss

of U^dattghtrr, lit? fell into a state

of itdneis and di«courag(*nient.

^ W etkg^ nay, monthne, passed, but

^■io v^fws nf the fugitive. Adalric

HfiaiUy procbuxitd throtighoiit hi^

duchy, at the sound of the trumpet
that he would henceforth leave his
daughter free to pursue her own
course of life, if she would only re-
turn to her family.

Having no longer any excuse for
remaining away from her family,
where she might be called to labor
for God, Odile left her retreat at
Brisgau, and returned home.*

IX.

Adalric's promises were sincere.
He was eager to aid Odile as much
as he could in the realization of
her most cherished hopes. " For it
was in the decrees of divine Pro-
vidence," says an old Latin chroni-
cle, ** that this light should be plac-
ed in a candlestick, that it might
give light to all who were in the
house ; and God had inspired Odile
with the resolution to found a com-
munity of noble virgins who would
live in retirement and observe the
evangelical counsels. "

The saint opened her heart to
her father, representing to him that
Alsace had already convents for
men, but no retreat for women
who wished to renounce the world,
and that such a refuge would be
useful and at the same time
pleasing to God. Adalric lis-
tened favorably to his daughter,
and, whether the proposition pleas-
ed him or he did not wish to
oppose her inclinations, he gave
her in due form, in the year 680,
the Castle of Hohenbourg with its
vast dependencies and immense
revenues, that she might convert
what had till then been the princi-
pal bulwark of Alsace into an in-
violable asylum for noble ladies
of piety who wished to consecrate
themselves to God.

Odile then assembled a number

^ The chronicles do not say how she passed her
time at Brisgau. They merely state that she Iiv«d
there about a year as a hermitess and mendicant.

262

A Legend of Alsace.

of workmen, and had all the build-
ings removed that would be of no
use to a religious community. This
done, they proceeded to construct
the convent. It took them ten
years. Adalric generously defrayed
all the expenses, and even directed
the architects, enjoining on them to
neglect nothing that could contri-
bute to the solidity and beauty of
the edifice.

As soon as it was known that
Odile intended forming a commu-
nity of women, a crowd of young
ladies of rank came to Hohenbourg,
renouncing their families and earth-
ly possessions for the love of Christ.
They besought her to receive them
as her companions, and to direct
them in the way of salvation.
There were one hundred and thirty
of them before the convent was
finished. Among them were At-
tale,* Eugenie, and Gundeline, the
daughters of Odile*s brother Adal-
bert,! and her own sister Ros-
winde.J All these renounced the
joys of the world without regret,
hoping to obtain eternal life. They
united themselves to God by silence,
recollection, and prayer. Manual

* S. Attale became tke superior of the chapter
of S. Etienne at Strasbourg, founded by her father
and composed of thirty canonesses. She lived to a
good old age, and died in the odor of sanctity,
her soul waAed to heaven by a troop of angels and
their Queen. Her feast b celebrated at 3trasbourg
on the 3d of December.

tS. Eug<^me succeeded S. Odile as abbess of
Hohenbourg, and died in 735. She was buried in
the Chiqiel of S. John, and her tomb remained entire
till the Lutheran soldiers of Man&feldt broke it open
in i6a». Her relics were collected by the clergy,
and afterwards restored to the convent. Later, the
Swedes cast them to the winds. Only a portion is
preserved at Oberehnheim, and still exposed on her
festival, 5>ept. x6.

S. Gundeline became the second abbess of Niedcr-
mUniter. Her remains were once in a shrine of
silver beside the grand altar, but were mostly lost
In the Thirty Years* War. What remain arc at
Kinsiedeln.

\ Ro«wlnde, who had renounced the worid before
the Monastery of Hohenbourg w.ns erected, lived
hullly under the direction of her sister. She was
buried in the chapel of SS. Peter and PauU The
nikin* of 9. RoRwinde is found in an ancient litany
ftotmvrly chanted in the Diocese of Strasbourg.

labor and the chanting of the
Psalms varied their occupations.
Like the first Christians, they seem-
ed to have only one heart and one
soul. Their only study seemed to
be to equal their superior in hu-
mility, sweetness, piety, and self-
renunciation. They lived on bar*
ley bread and vegetables cooked in
water. They took wine only flO
festivals, and passed their nights i&
vigils and prayer, permitting them
selves only some hours of slc€|»
when exhausted nature absolitletf
required it. Then they slept oofy
on a bear's skin with a stone Hoar A
pillow. In a word, they onlj al-
lowed the body what was necessary
for the preservation of life.

Adalric had a profound reaped
for Odile, as one under the spmal
protection of the Divinity. Tfcc
system of her community, the .de-
votion and the rigid and holy frcs
of those who composed it, and
above all their inexhaustible chari-
ty, led him to lavish his wealth on
their monastery. Not satisfied
with giving them his palace and its
domains, and establishing a foun-
dation in perpetuity for one hun-
dred and thirty young ladies of
noble birth, he likewise gave four-
teen benefices for the priests who
served the convent chapels.

Odile, in lier ardent charity, wish-
ed there should be free access to
her abbey, not only for all the mem-
bers of her family and persons of
high rank who came often to dis-
course with her on the things of
God, but also for the poor, the un-
happy, and the sick. The steepness
of the mountain in some places
made its ascent impossible for the
aged. Our saint had an easy path-
way constructed, paved with broa<i
flag-stones. Thenceforth the unfor-
tunate of all grades of society flock-
ed to the abbey — the poor to ob-

A Lrgifid of Alsace.

263

tltH a^dstaiice^ the infirm for rcinc

iiies» and sifiners for saliiuiry vid-

We* All who were vtn happy or

•ttfbntinatc. whoever tlifv iiii^ht

be, were ihc objects of OJik 's ten-

det ;L^ection« ** Th<^ (ioa[itfl/* she

OBSianiiy repeated to lier f:oiiip;:in-

ijii«,*'is a law of love," and siu?

t'\h'ifte<l them, in imitation of Hi;n

*bu gave his life for u^, to Ijc

hanlable lo iheir fell ow-crtfatu res,

' >dilc'» charity was boundless. Not

4tiifi^ with distribuhng »ilms, she

ikc«?t>ed all with sweet words^ car-

licd tht^oi noiiri^ihingnL nnd remc-

diei with her own haiuis, and (Iil!^'^-

ed tJw? most frightful woinuls,

'There came oae day,*' says a wii-

tcr of that time, " a man tuvrrLti

with a homd leprosy to the i^aie.i

of HT>lif*iibovirg for a]nis» uturin,u

niD&t luEiL*ntabie cries. He was so

Ttvoldng, and he fbffused so infL- -

tioiii an odor^ that none of the st r-

Tsnii would approach him, One

of ihem, however, informed the

laint oC his condition. She at onrc

prfjxirtd som.c suilalile foot!, iuul

h^lcntd to serve the lefM-r. hi

ifiile of her tenderness town n Is ihe

lAflfonunatc and her habitual caSw-

iTol Ofer her senses, her fir^t move-

rnest was one of horror at the '^i^lu

of j<i diKgu St i n i;: a be in g. Ash n in L'd

cjf her weakness, and resolved to

CCfkfjUcr it* she folded the leper

aircclion.'itely in her arms, and Imrsr

inta leari. Then she broke the

food she broui^ht into small pieees,

^d fed him, At the same time she

iiii«d bcf cyt^s to heaven, and, with

a tmcc tretabling s\ith emoiujn,e\-

cliimed : * O Lord ! dt i^n to re-

Uwe him to healtli or ^ive inin

li« courag;e necessary to suppnrt

njch an a^iction!/ Her hum'jle

prayer wiis immediately ! km 1*1.

Tlie leprosy disai>iicared, ar.d l!ir

«|>tdsive odor gave place t(j unt: of

f«rctn<S5, so that those who ;n oid-

ed him a short time before were
now eager to approach, to touch
him, and to wonder."

Odile gave bread, wine, and meat
to all the poor who came to the ab-
bey; she was unwilling any should
go away hungry. On feast days a
great crowd of beggars would be-
siege the gates^ and on one occasion,
all the food of the community, and
even the wine, being given them,
the Sister who had charge of the
wine-cellar sought Odile in church
to tell her there was none left for
dinner. The abbess replied with a
gentle smile : " He who fed five thou-
sand persons with five loaves and two
fishes will provide for us, if it be
his will. Forget not, ray daughter,
that he has promised to those that
seek first the kingdom of heaven
all other things shall be given. Go
where duty calls you." The Sister
went away, an'd at the hour of re-
past, going to the wine-cellar, found
a supply of excellent wine

The two chapels already built by
the duke were too small for cele-
brating the divine service with
suitable pomp. There was hardly
room enough in them for the sister-
hood. The crowds from the neigh-
boring villages were often obliged
to kneel outside. A larger church
was indispensable. Adalric provid-
ed the materials, and it was com-
pleted by the year 690. Two square
towers of pyramidal form rose
beside the grand entrance. The
abbess had it consecrated to the
Blessed Virgin, her chosen pa-
troness and her model. One of the
side chapels she styled the Oratory
of the Mother of God. There she
loved to take refuge in her mental
troubles, in tribulation, and in sea-
sons of spiritual dryness. A second
chapel she called Holy Rood Cha-

264

A Legend of Alsace.

pel. In commemoration of her
baptism she wished also to erect a
small church in honor of S. John
the Baptist. Undecided about the
location, she went out of the mon-
astery one night about midnight,
and, kneeling on a great rock, she
remained a long time buried in
profound meditation. Suddenly,
says the old legend, she was sur-
rounded by a dazzling light, and
before her stood the radiant form of
the precursor of our Lord in a gar-
ment of camefs hair, such as he wore
in the desert. He seemed to indi-
cate the spot where the chapel
should be erected. The next day it
was commenced, and was finished in
the autumn of 696. The night be-
fore it was to be consecrated S.
Odile spent in prayer therein. The
prince of the apostles himself, with
a choir of ang'^ls, descended and
performed the ceremony.

** The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels officsd all."

This miraculous chapel was some-
times called the Sdcrarium^ be-
cause the abbess deposited in it the
cassette of relics Bishop Erhard
gave her on her baptismal day. It
was afterwards more commonly
called the Chapel of S. Odile, be-
cause she was buried there herself.
Besides these, she built the Chapel
of Tears and the Hanging Chapel,
so called because it stood on a steep
precipice looking down into a deep
chasm. All these chapels were so
many stations where the abbess and
lier companions betook themselves
<o meditate in silence and solitude.
Adalric and Berswinde, weary of
power and grandeur, retired to the
Convent of Hoheijbourg with their
daughter. Advanced in age, they
now thought only of preparing
themselves for death by prayer and
good works. The duke, naturally
violent and hard, had sometimes in

his moments of passion forgotten
his duty. There were many iaukB
for him to expiate before God, mod
many scandals to repair before ncBi.
While he was practising all the W^
tues of a holy penitent, he was al»
tacked with a serious malady. CMik
felt that his last hour was at haiid^
and hardly left his bedside, wish*
ing, not only to give him the caie
his illness required, but to consok^
encourage, and prepare him for a-
holy death. Contemporary tcttji '
mony expressly declares: ^"^ Cmt»^
lanie eum et roborante beata OdiSo^ .
She received his last breath m4-'
closed his eyes on the 20th of Fdb»
ruary. The year is variously st at g A
It was between 690 and 700.

A witness of her father's sonav
for his sins, and of his resignatte
in his last moments^ Odile ho|M|i
the mercy of God would be exteiift*
ed to him. She imposed on Iwr-
self the severest mortifications, sirf
shed floods of tears for the sokce
of his soul in the chapel, cadfed
from this circumstance the Chapel
of Tears. On the fifth day she
had an inward assurance of his sal-
vation.

There are numberless traditions
in Alsace respecting S. Odile. They
have been handed down from one
generation to another in the vil-
lages grouped around the foot of
Mount Hohenbourg. One of these
legends changes the tears of the
saint into a limpid stream, where
the blind, or those who have any
disease of the eyes, go for a remedy.
Another says her teajs perforated
a rock. A third makes her and all
her community behold her father
convoyed heavenward by a choir
of angels led by S. Peter in sacer-
dotal robes. The more we exam-
ine S. Odile's life, the more nume-
rous become these brilliant legends,
and the more fully do we find her

A Legend of Abiue.

26$

lifemirked bjractsof benejirence

Icnwinilif survived her husband
oalf iiinc davi. She died suddenly
wlwlc praying in ibe Chapel of S.
J0IUL

The descendants of the duke and
4aclic\s a&setnbkd at Hohenbourg
' tkpkkre i heir double loss. A mag-
fictui funeral service was per-
naedi AU the people of Alsace
• <lEed to the convent to weep
*r their de;ith. One would have
ught they had lost dear p.irenls,
V the chronicles. The duke's
:^ ^ve abundant alms on this
:Ji40ii* The remains of the de-
ceased were placed in the Chapel
ol tiw; VirgiOt according to their
lOfiKsU and thither came pilgrims
^f^pnyUy their torab till they were
Tiioied^

V'-Jnc, no twilh standing his gen-

, £0 Uic church, left immense

ieuaij to hU children. His nld-

' id0t KUon, or Etichon* bcc^ime

'^keoC Brisgau and Count ot Ar-

ft'tit. He was ihe progenitur uf

tiellotites of Egisheim and Lor*

fURe. The second son, Adclbert,

W the duchies of AIsmc, Swabia,

Md SvMi^au. From him sprang

*ht bosses of H.ibsburg and Zali-

™>|HI* Htigo, the third soUi died

'KSorrliu father, but left three sons.

"TkeoWest^ Rcrnigius, was Abbot of

^ Oftfarf in the Val dc Mitnstcr,

^ml fiiully It i^ h a p o f S t ra s b o n rg.

He «I3 a great friend of Charte-

*t(iie\ and built the celebrated

■•neiy of Eschau * where two oi

"»> nieces w^c successively ab-

Afcct Uie death of her i>;\reni^»
^^ib Iqb|w| up most intimate rchi*

^*Im«Iv fi<i^ic' jMHil tibfAe olher tmintaf uHucK \\t
*^Mlf ««i^nHd 41 EkJimu, He died Marvh ^j^

tions with the rest of her family.
She saw them frequently, and la-
bored for their sanctification. Fol-
lowing her counsels, they founded
a great number of convents and
churches, which, in that barbarous
age, became the refuge of science,
literature, and the arts, and for cen-
turies contributed powerfully to the
prosperity of Alsace.

XI.

Hitherto the inmates of Hohen-
bourg had been subjected to no
written rule. Our dear saint was
their living guide. But notwith-
standing the ardor of their piety,
she thought it proper to adopt some
definite rule to obviate the incon-
stancy of the human heart, and to
restrain an excess of fervor. As-
sembling all her spiritual children,
she gave them, after invoking the
Holy Spirit, a fixed rule, probably
drawn from that of S. Augustine.

The steepness of Hohenbourg
made it so difficult of ascent for
the aged and infirm, the very ones
whom Odile desired the most to
aid, that she resolved to build at
its foot, on the south side, a spa-
cious hospice with a chapel, under
the invocation of S. Nicholas.

Berswinde, who was still living,
gave up a part of her revenues for
the benefit of the poor who were
received there. S. Odile daily de-
scended this mountain, too steep
and rough for others, to visit the
hospice. She used to visit each in-
mate, and give him alms and ad-
vice with all the tenderness Christi-
anity alone can inspire. Her chil-
dren shared in her labors. They
loved the freshness and solitude of
the spot where the hospice stood,
and there was an abundance of wa-
ter there, which was lacking on the
summit. The number of the in-
firm that resorted hither became

266

A Legend of Alsace.

so large as to require, night and
day, the constant attendance of the
Sisters, and they begged the abbess
to build another monastery near S.
Nicholas, and dependent on that
of Hohenbourg. Odile consented.

One day, while she was occupied
in overseeing the workmen, an aged
man brought three branches of a
linden-tree, begging her to plant
them. He predicted that the faith-
ful would come to sit beneath their
shade. Odile did as he requested,
planting the first in the name of
the Father, the second in the name
of the Son, and the third in the
name of the Holy Ghost. In fact,
successive generations have sought
repose beneath them, according to
the old man's prediction. Odile
gave this new monastery the name
of Niedermtlnster (Lower Minster).
She established there one-half of
the community of Hohenbourg,
retaining herself the direction of
both houses. She placed in the
new house those who were most
zealous in nursing the sick, and had
the greatest aptitude for it.

Many foreign ladies, drawn to
Alsace by Odile *s reputation for
sanctity, were among their num-
ber. They lived at Niedexmiinster
in obedience to the rule of Hohen
bourg, and led lives of austerity
These two cloisters, says Father
Hugo Peltre, might be compared to
two trees, apparently separate^, but
really drawing nourishment from
the same root.

Odile, though advancing in years
and broken down by her excessive
austerities, daily descended the
mountain. Neither frost nor rain
nor fierce winds prevented her
from visiting the hospice, which was-
her place of delight, for there she
found a vast field for her charity '
She was in the habit of saying :
" Jesus Christ has given us the

poor to supply his place. Imxsn^
ing for them we serve the Savioir
in their person." The whok rf
Alsace blessed her name, seeujg
her constantly occupied in solftciog
sufi*ering humanity, in guiding to
spiritual children in the paths ^f
holiness, and in instructing Ac
people in the sublime truths oS. tat
Gospel.

There is a legend that CMttb
bent down by the weight of jeif^
was one day ascending the inoi%i
tain alone when she saw lyipg.ll
the path an old man dying of tUglJ
and apparently breathing his hiflf
Our saint tried to raise hij% lsi$^
too feeble to do so, she h»l WH
course to the divine assisUSdJ^
After a fervent prayer, remuA#
ing what Moses did, she smfllft.jl
rock close by with her sta£ A
stream burst forth immedilll^
which restored the old pilgrin to
life. This fount is still veneoted
and frequented. The water is con-
sidered miraculous.

XII.

Odile was ripe for- hearcfl.
Whether the state of her health
announced it, or God gave herase-
cret presentiment of her approach-
ing end, on the 13th of December
(S. Lucius' Day) she called together
her companions in the Chapel of S.
John the Baptist, vvliich had be-
come her oratory, and, after beg-
ging them not to be afflicted at
what she had to say, she sweetly
announced to them that she was
near the end of her earthly pilgrim-
age, and her soul, ready to quit its
prison of clay, would soon enjoy
the liberty God has promised bis
children. Then the holy abbess
exhorted them to remain faithful
to the Lord, not to allow their fer-
vor to relax, to resist with all their
strength the temptations of the ad-

A Ligend of Alsace,

26j

', and to submit their wills to

the Almighty.

lie she waji speaking Xo them

tbree nieces, Attale, Eugenie,

Gutidelicie. shed floods of tears.

dear saiQl^ seeing their pro-

gricCt tttmed towards tlicm

kid : '* Weep not, beloved

tu Vour tears cannot pro-

\y ejcistence here below, Go

all of you, to the Chapel of

C5sed Lady, prny together,

tc the Psalms, and beg for nie

PKLce of a happy death.*' As

as ail the community had gone

to obey her wishes, the saint

inio an ecstasy, in which she

a foretaste of hcaveniy joys,

- 1 pan tots s, returning from

.uid finding her insensi-

n to express tlieir sorrow

liad departed without re-

Holy Communion. The

used by their sobs and

rouks, opened her eyes and said :

\rny have jon returned so soon,

^y dear children, to disturb my

cpO«e? 1 was in the presence of

ita B leticd S. Lucius, and inex-

ly happy \ for* as the npostle

i« eye hath not seen, nor the

he&Ttl, nor hath it entered into

Jeail of man to conceive it/*

tiken expressed an ardent dtrj^^ire

to rtcwe the most Sacred Body

snd P^cioits Dlotnl of our Lord-

Wl Jt oneCt says tlie old legend, a

'^-i of da tiling light pervaded the

• ■*. The saint fell on her knees,

: ct% i m \ tflti ng her e x .1 tn pie .

miniiitrant, radiant with

jired at the altar. He

j; ' d ihc dying abbess» plac*

'cd ra lier hands a woDderful chnl-

' ' '*rii reasc ended to heaven.*

nmicatcd ihcrcfroni, mur-

urcd ;l hxsX farewell to her clul-

ii d <rMi it mm clAipoisd. T Ue Abb^ of I I^jIic o-

■t

dren, joined her hands, and then
the eyes, once opened by a miracle,
closed for ever to the light.

According to her wishes, her
body, extenuated with fasts and
other austerities, was laid on a
bear's skin, and exposed for eight
days in the Chapel of S. John the
Baptist, on the Gospel side, and
with the feet turned towards the
altar. During this time a sweet
odor spread throughout the abbey.
Her children felt that, instead of
weeping for her who had fought
the good fight, and never been want-
ing in her fidelity to God, they
should rather rejoice that she was
called to receive the crown of
righteousness, and they to imitate
her example and seek through her
intercession for as happy an end.

Thus died, on the 13th of Decem-
ber, 7 — ,* Odile, eldest daughter of
Adalric, Duke of Alsace, abbess of
the convents of Hohenbourg and
Niedermlinster. Her mortal re-
mains were covered with mastic,
which, at first soft, became hard ;
then placed in a tomb of stone,
which is still to be seen.

The inmates of the two monas-
teries celebrated her obsequies with
all the solemnity due to their abbess
and foundress, and with the re-
collection due to her sanctity. All
the people of Alsace flocked to
Hohenbourg to look once more on
the face of her to whom the un-
fortunate and the afflicted never
appealed in vain. Her inexhausti-
ble charity, her zeal for Christian
perfection, her austere and peni-
tential life, and her good works
without number, had during her life
rendered her the object of public
veneration. As soon as she was
dead a particular honor was paid

• Probably about the year 720. The year is di*-
puted. A popular legend says she lived to be one
hundred and three years old, which would make the
year of her death 760.

268

A Legend of Alsace.

her, first at Hohenbourg, then
throughout the whole province,
which to this day invokes her as its
patroness. This honor has been
sanctioned by the church. Her
venerated sepulchre is in our day
the most frequented place of pil-
grimage in Alsace.

XIII.

Odile had acquired a taste for
letters at the Abbey of Baume. She
had a thorough knowledge of the
Latin language, the Holy Scriptures,
and ecclesiastical history. Her
las^ will and testament, which has
been preserved, proves that she was
as enlightened as holy.* The mo-
nasteries she founded did not de-
generate in this respect. They
were the asylums of learning. In
the XHth century, says Grandidier,
while a large part of Europe was
plunged in ignorance and barbar-
ism, the love of literature and the
sciences was to be found among
some women of Alsace. Hohen-
bourg was inhabited by canonesses
equally learned and regular. Three
abbesses were especially distinguish-
ed for their taste for poetry and
literature in general. The first,
Ricklende or Kilinde, reformed the
monastery in 1141. Some of her
Latin verses, and the fragments of
other works in that language, have
been preserved. Herrade de Lands-
berg, who succeeded her in 1167,
became still more celebrated. Gran-
didier, speaking of her, says : " The
polite arts, painting, music, and po-
etry, charmed the leisure of this
illustrious abbess." A collection
of poetry in Latin, composed for
the instruction of her community,
under the title of Hortus Delicia-
rum^\ is still preserved.

* This win k lo be found in the HUtoirg d* FEg"
list de Strasbourg^ by Grandidier.

t This precious work wa* carefuny presenred in
the library of Stnuboarg until the late dege. It t«

Gerlinde, her sister or cousin, si^i
ceeded her, and equalled her ifti
taste and knowledge.

The first abbesses after S. Odae
were her two nieces, S. Eugteie
and S. Gundeline. They divkM
the authority. The first was iUb
bess of Hohenbourg, the secoad of
NiedermUnster. The reTe&oni
which had hitherto been in eeM»

greatly to be hoped that it was transfiMMt ^%
place of safety, and did not share the firtstflMl
QoUe library. The manuscript throa|^q«l 1*%^
the hand of Herrade. It is composed of thnola^
dred and twenty-four leaves of pardtowab Mi
especially interestii^ because it shows tiMtlriHw
the sciences and literature^Uhs msnn^s, aal M
)»ublic and private usages of the Xil^

This work is a systematic collection «f
taken from ecclesiastical hbtory and finoA
thers, mingled with reflections and obserfi
astronomy, geography, philcacyhy , h>sto»y, «^l?f|r
thology, natunUly introiduced by the «i^| M> ■!
author is treating of. To these arc joined W^M
of Herrade. It is illuminated with naive aadt^— ■
ing miniatures.

This work is dedicated by the ilhistrioatflliOT
her spiritual children. She explains in tli04p#d^
written in prose, the object she had in tmv fel ■>»
dertaking it. *' Like a bee," she says, **t k«R
amassed in this book the hcmey drawn faw Ae
sacred and philosophical writings, that I may Am a
honey-comb to delight you and lead yoa l» fcooor
our Lord "and the church. Seek herein aa ^ff^^
able food for the soul, refresh hereby yoot flHP»id
minds, that you may always be occupied wilh*y«v
heavenly Spouse," etc., etc.

She th<n enters upon the work. After JliitlinK
of God and his attributes, the angels and their lA
she comes to the creation, discusses man beftiie tf"
after his fall, passes in review the Old TestaaeH in
its relations with the New, with the history of tkc
human race, the development of the arts, sooKe,
and philosophy.

She comes finally to the mystery of the Rede«p-
tion, to which she joins the genealogy of our Saviwtf,
traced upon a mysterious tree planted by the D»»'-
nity. Si»e gives an account of the Ufe, miisdes,
teachings, and parables of Christ. Then foBo* n"-
merous extracts from the Acts of the Apostles, to
which are annexed very curious paintings.

The hbtory of the Roman emperors b natanBT
connected with the development of the Chtitfi»n
Church, and there are ingenious miniatures repfv-
senting allegorically the virtues of the fiuthfid W-
k>wers of Christ, the hideousncssof sm, the va»»*
and temptations of the world, the assaults of M>
and the means we should use to oppose them.

Finally, Herrade represenU, in a scries of cfls*-
derations and paintings, the dignities, n^ts, f^
obligations of the ecclesiastical state .

Thb work, by the Abbess of Hohenbourg, b ti«
production of a thoughtful mind, and b one t^*' "T
quired much time. She very carefully indicste* the
numerous and authentic sources whence she d»*^

her materials. _

Herrade has also left a list of an the popes ft«» 2.

Peter to Clement III., and several astronoftK*

works, which also are, or were, in the Librsry *

Strasbourg.

A Legend of Alsace,

269

cgula

rerc divided by Odile before
hCT death. Only Oberehoheim re-
►cd undivided^ that there might
cofnmoQ tic between them.
latity of monastic life and
'^nces was maintained till the
ttir>'. The church was ac-
Iljr destroyed m 1045, ^^^^
lebutU and consecrated lo the
Virgin by Bruno, Count of
mrg, Bishop of Toiil, and
^ve of Alsace, a descendant
*5 brother Etton. A few
ftfter it was again destroyed
»c Hungarian invaders, and
inOt who had become the
Pontiff in 1049 under the
Leo IX,, had it rebuilt.
-, called to Germany by
ts of the churchy went
Tiu^l lo Hohetibourg to conse-
tte the edifice and reassemble
cd sisterhood. He did
lUis place, so dear to his
ill he had re-established the
ttic discipline,
it a Imndred years after
community of Hohenbourg
^MTttlj relaxed its fervor, the num-
^^B of its subjects diminished, their
^Koiues decreased, and the build-
^^k were decaying. The monas-
^BjT would perhaps have been aban-
doned hftd not Frederick Barbaros*
hin quality of Duke of Alsace,
tifercd to save so celebrated a
from falling. He sent to
it Rickknde or Kilinde,
he took from the Convent of
in the Diocese of Eichstadt,
whom he gave the lille and
Princess of the Holy Ein-
also bestowed on her large
of money for the reparation
monastery. Ricklende, whom
itc already mentioned, joined
' aid piety to an enlarged
iiuch information. Sus*
by the authority of the cm-
she re-established discipline

in less than two years, as her suc-
cessor, Herrade de Landsberg, for-
mally testifies. The religious habit
worn in this house was white, a/-
b<ns quasi lilium^ says the Horius
JOeliciarum, The bull of Pope Lu-
cius III. says they followed the rule
of S. Augustine. Ricklende had
under her thirty-three choir Sisters.
In Herrade's time there were forty-
seven and thirteen lay Sisters. It
was in the time of Herrade that the
Emperor Henry VI., disregarding
his oath, had Sibylla, the widow of
Tancred, and Constance, her daugh-
ter, arrested and conducted to Ho
henbourg to take the veil.

In 1354 the Emperor Charles IV.
visited S. Odile's tomb, Agnes de
SlaufTenberg being the abbess. He
had the saint's body exhumed, and
Jean de Lichtenberg, Bishop of
Strasbourg, detached a part of the
arm to be deposited in the Cathe-
dral of Prague. But, at the re-
quest of the sisterhood, Charles IV.
drew up an act which forbade any
one, under the severest penalties,
from ever opening the tomb again.
The bishop pronounced the sen-
tence of excommunication on
whomsoever should violate this
decree of the sovereign.*

The Abbey of Hohenbourg, or
of S. Odile, as it was also called,
was destined to terrible disasters. It
was sacked in the XlVth and XVth
centuries by. the grandes Compagnies
by the Armagnacs and the Burgun-
dians. It was still more unfortu-
nate in the XVIth century. Nie-
dermtinster was burned in 1542,
and Hohenbourg on the 24th of
March, 1546. The canonesses and
prebends then dispersed, and Jean
de Manderscheidt, Bishop of Stras-

^ The relics of S. Odile venerated in other places
are not of our taint. There are three other Mints
of that name— one a companioo of S. Ursula ; a
second, Abbess of Hohenbourg in the XI th cen-
tury ; and a third, who was a widow of Liege.

^70

A Legend of Alsace.

bourg, fearing the Lutherans would
seize the property belonging to the
two abbeys, obtained permission
from the Holy See to annex it to
the episcopal domains by paying
the canonesses an annual pension.
The monastery, rebuilt in 1607 by
Cardinal Charles de Lorraine and
the Archduke Leopold, Bishops of
Strasbourg, was burned anew in
1622 by the Lutheran army of the
Count de Mansfeldt. The church
was repaired in 1630, but again de-
vastated by the Brandenburg sol-
diers in 1633. They removed the
lead from the windows and organs
for ball. Subsequent wars were
also disastrous for Hohenbourg,
and on the 7th of May, i68r, the
whole convent was again burned.
Only the Chapel of Tears and that
of the Angels remained standing.

The Premonstratensians of the
ancient observance established
themselves at Hohenbourg in 1663,
converting it into a priory. They
began to rebuild it in 1684. Two
of the monks, Father Hugues Pel-
tre and Father Denys Albrecht,
carefully collected all the ancient
accounts of S. Odile, and wrote
biographies of the saint, which we
have freely made use of in this
account.

Niedermtinster, which was given
to the Grand Chapter of Stras-
bourg in 1558, is now only a heap
of ruins. Rosine de Stein, who died
in 1534, was the last abbess.

The French Revolution had also
its effect on Hohenbourg. A few
days after the decree of the Nation-
al Assembly on the r3th of Februa-
ry, 1790, suppressing the monastic
vows, the Convent of S. Odile was
vacated. Nevertheless, pilgrimages
to the shrine of the holy Patroness
of Alsace continued to be frequent.

Nearly all that could nourish or
excite the piety of the pilgrim had

disappeared from the antique cldi^
ter of Altitona, but Odile's traik
still remained and sufficed to JK
tract a great number from all At-
surrounding countries.

XIV.

On the 7th of July, 1841, 2X*tikm
o*clock in the morning, the remai^t
of S. Odile were taken out of tte
tomb where they had reposed «^
many centuries, and exposed ta^
public veneration on the altar of
the chapel which bears her naiaii-
On the eve of this festival Moia#
Hohenbourg presented an animated
spectacle. People from AlflM^
Lorraine, and around Metz arrmi
in crowds. In ascending the mow*
tain they dispersed to gather foliup
and wild flowers to deck the 9M
Church of S. Odile with. Laige
vases were placed on the altars aod
the boiserie around the church to
receive these floral offerings of
successive groups. A fir-tree fitmi
a neighboring forest stood beside
each column of the nave. Garlands
of box and of oak-leaves hung from
tree to tree and covered the trunks.
S. Odile's tomb and altar were rich-
ly decorated and her statue crown-
ed with flowers. The chdsse of the
saint was placed on an elevation
elegantly draped. Thousands of
pilgrims roamed around the pre-
cincts in the evening, visiting suc-
cessively the various sanctuaries.

The Chapel of Calvary particu-
larly attracted them. It contained
Adalric's remains, and among others
a large painting in which were dis-
played the genealogies of the houses
of Alsace, Lorraine, France, and
Austria, all of which drew their
origin from Adalric and Berswinde,
and, finally, an antique bedstead
which tradition declared once be-
longed to King Dagobert.

At three o'clock in the morning

Wind and Tide.

271

'JWy 1^^ the bells announced
Lfk impatient pilgrims that the
of the church were open
tEe first Mass about to com-
The edifice was immedi-
crammed ; even the sanctu-
was invaded. The neighbor-
A^els, the large court of the
try, and the green in front,
soon filled ; but order reigned
rhere in the multitude of all
$excs, and ranks. Every face
faith and the most fer-
rdevotion. Eighty priests from
Lorraine, the Grand Duchy
i, and even from Holland,
by their presence the
of this festival, at once
and national. Masses sue-
each other till afternoon.
^ttterable Curate of Oberehn-
^ place of S. Odile's birth),
the bishop's delegate, gave
tbftilpial for the ceremony at nine
Q^dodt A,M. The remains of S.
(Mb Were borne in procession by
Wt ]mest8. Censers waved and
tetoond of the bells mingled joy-

fully with the music and the ancient
hymns of the church. The crowd
opened for the procession to pass.
Every face lights up, hands are
clasped, and tears flow from all
eyes. The president of the festival,
more than eighty years of age, pro-
nounced the panegyric of the saint.
Then followed a grand Mass, dur-
ing which, and for two hours after, a
constant file of pilgrims approach-
ed to venerate a relic of the saint.
The ceremonies closed with Bene-
diction.

The chdsse was exposed during
the whole Octave. From that time
the concourse of pilgrims has con-
tinued. There were fifteen hun-
dred the following Sunday. Hun-
dreds of Communions are daily
made at Hohenbourg, and perhaps
the number of pilgrims has never
been greater than of late.

Glorious Patroness of Alsace,
whose great heart, while on earth,
was so full of pity for the unfortu-
nate, pray for thy unhappy country,
now devastated and full of woe !

WIND AND TIDE.

I STOOD by the broad, deep river,

The tide flowed firm to its mouth ;
I saw the sweet wind quiver.

As it rose in the golden south.
On the river's bosom it fluttered,

And kissed and caressed all day.
And joys of the south it muttered :

But the tide kept its northern way.
Tender and chaste was its suing.

Till the face of the river-bride
Rippled and gleamed in the wooing :

But northward flowed the tide.

And so, thought I, God's graces
Woo our souls the livelong day.

Which brighten and smile in their faces :
Sin bears us another way.

373

Maittr.

MATTER.

IV.

To complete our investigatipn
about the essential properties of
matter, one great question remains
to be answered, viz. : Is the matter
of which bodies are made up intrin-
sically extended so as to fill a portion
of space^ or does it ultimately consist
of unextended points t We call this
a great question, not indeed be-
cause of any great difficulty to be
encountered in its solution, but be-
cause it has a great importance in
metaphysics, and because it has
been at all times much ventilated
by great philosophers.

That bodies do not fill with their
matter the dimensions of their vol-
ume is conceded by all, as po-
rosity is a general property of
bodies. That the molecules, or
chemical atoms, of which the mass
of a body is composed, do not
touch one another with their mat-
ter, but are separated by appreci-
able intervals of space, is also
admitted by our best scientists,
though many of them are of opin-
ion that those intervals are filled
with a subtle medium, by which
calorific and luminous vibrations
are supposed to be propagated.
But with regard to the molecules
themselves, the question, whether
their constitution is continuous or
discrete, has not yet been settled.
Some teach, with the old physicists,
that bodies are ultimately made up
of particles materially continuous,
filling with their mass the whole
space occupied by their volume.
These last particles they call aioms^
because their mass is not suscepti-

ble of physical division, all
their volume is infinitely di^
in a mathematical sense,
on the contrary, deny the m;
continuity of matter, and bold
Boscovich that, as all bodies
composed of discrete moleci
are all molecules composed of
Crete elements wholly destitute
material extension, occupying .(
tinct mathematical points in
and bound by mutual acti<m.
mechanical systems differently
stituted, according to the di&ipiL
nature of the substances to wlldl
they belong.

Which of these two opim<m$ ift
right ? Although scientists uiwt
generally incline to the seoondt
metaphysicians are still in favor of
the first. Yet we do not hesitate
to say, though it may appear p»-
sumptuous on our part, that it is
not difficult to decide the question.
Let the reader follow our reason-
ing upon the subject, and we confi-
dently predict that he will soon be
satisfied of the truth of our asser-
tion.

Groundless assumption of continu-
ous matter. — As the true metaphy-
sics of matter must be grounded on
real facts, we may first inquire what
facts, if any, can be adduced ia
favor of the intrinsic extension and
material continuity of molecules^
Is there any sensible fact which di-
rectly or indirectly proves such a
continuity }

We must answer in the negative.
For sensible facts are perceived by
us in consequence of the impres-

Matter.

273

tions which objects make on our
senses; if, therefore, such impres-
sioB are not calculated to reveal
aojrthing concerning the question
of material continuity, no sensible
fact can be adduced as a proof of
the continuity of matter. Now,
the ispressions made on our senses
cannot reveal anything about our
fBestion. For we know that bo-
dies contain not only millions of
pQCea, which are invisible to the
■ded eye, but also millions of
nonbte and separate particles,
lAiA arc so minute that no mi-
ciosoope can make them visible,
ad 'vbich, though so extremely
nnmte, are composed of millions
of oAer particles still more minute,
'Udk have independent move-
neai% and therefore possess an in-
depwdent existence. There are
WMBf" species of animalcules (in-
fumk) so small that millions to-
gtth«rwould not equal the bulk of
^ gntn of sand, and thousands
raigkt swim at once through the
^e of a needle. These almost
infinitesimal animals are as well
adapted to life as the largest beasts,
and their movements display all
|ne phenomena of life, sense, and
instinct. They have nerves and
rousclcs, organs of digestion and
of propagation, liquids and solids
of different kinds, etc. It is im-
possihle to form a conception of
'he mhrnte dimensions of these or-
ganic structures ; and yet each sep-
•irate organ of every animalcule is
a compound of several organic sub-
^^tnces, each in its turn compris-
ing numberless atoms of carbon,
^W^i and hydrogen. It is
plain from this and other ex-
irap'w that the actual magnitude
^ the ultimate molecules of any
Wy is something completely be-
Tondthe reach of our senses to per-
^«ive or of our intellect to compre-

VOL. XX.— 18

hend.* We must therefore concede
that no impression received by our
senses is calculated to make us
perceive anything like a molecule
or to give us a clue to its constitu-
tion. To say that molecules are so
many pieces of continuous matter
is therefore to assert what no sensi-
b# fact can ever reveal.

Moreover, we know of no sen-
sible phenomenon which has any
necessary connection with the con-
tinuity of matter. Physicists and
chemists, in their scientific explana-
tion of phenomena, have no need of
assuming the existence of continu-
ous matter, and acknowledge that
there are no facts from which the
theory of simple and unextended
elements can be refuted. And the
reason of this is clear ; for the phe-
nomena can be made the ground of
experimental proofs only so far as
they are perceived by our senses r
and since our perception of them is
confined within the narrow limits
above described, it is impossible to
draw from sensible phenomena any
distinct conclusion regarding the
constitution of molecules. Hence
it is plain that no sensible fact
exists which directly or indirectly
proves the continuity of matter.

Secondly, we may ask, Can the
intrinsic extension and continuity
of matter be proved from the es-
sence of material substance }

The answer must again be nega-
tive. For nothing can in any
manner be involved in, or result
from, the essence of material sub-
stance, unless it be required either
by the matter, or by the substantial
form, or by the relation and propor-
tion which must exist between the
form and the matter. But neither
the matter, nor the substantial form,
nor their mutual relation requires.

* See Silliiiuui*s Princi/itt o/Phydcs^ a. so.

274

Matter.

material continuity or material ex-
tension. Therefore the essence of
material substance cannot supply
us with any valid argument in favor
of the extension and continuity of
matter.

In this syllogism the major pro-
position needs no proof, as it is
evident that material substance,
like all other created things, essen-
tially consists ot act and potency;
and it is known that its act is call-
ed the substantial form, while its
potency is called the matter.* It
is therefore manifest that, if any-
thing has a necessary connection
with the essence of material sub-
stance, it must be of such a nature
as to be needed either by the matter
or by the substantial form, or by
both together.

The minor proposition can be
demonstrated as follo'.vs: In the
first place, continuous quantity is
not needed by the matter, whether
actuated or actuable. For, as actu-
able, the matter is a " mere poten-
cy " {pura potentia) which has yet
to receive its " first actuality "
{primum esse)y as philosopi'iers agree ;
and accordingly it has no actual

• The word " matter " ordinarily »ignifies " mate-
rial sub^ance"; but among philosophers material
substance is that in which one of the cot>siitucnts is
the matter, the other being the form. Physicists also
take the word " matter " in the scxise of one of the
constituents of material substance, whenever they
distinguish the matter from the active power of
matter. We arc surprised to find that Fat|icr Ton-
giorgi denies in his Coxinoh^ (n. 102, 103) that the
primitive atom* are constituted of matter and form.
Of what, then, arc they constituted? Hu replies
that those atoms have no constituents. ** Philoso-
phers," he says, **ask what are the constituents of
the atoms ; and we answer that constituents of the
atoms there arc none, whether with regard to their
essence or to their quantity " — Quastiontm prO'
ponunt phiiosophi qutenam sint constii»>.tr^'a ato-
morunt. C ui respondemus^ constituiiva atomomm
nulla £stfy tifc quoad etsentiam, nee quoad quaU'
titateut (n. 119). This is a curious doctrine irtdced ;
for it admits that a thing may be constituted with*
out constituents, and not only ignores the metaphy-
sical analysis of the primitive being, but implicitly
declares it to be absurd. That all created substance
essentially consists of act and potency wo have
shown in The Catholic World for March, 167^, p.
824.

quantity or continuous e
nor is it potential with resj
as its potency regards only
{primum esse)y and evidet
tence is not dimensive
Hence the schoolmen una
maintain with Aristotle th;
matter has " no quiddity, t
and no quantity *' {nee quid
nee quantum) — a truth y
hope fully to explain in so
article. As actuated, the
nothing else than a substai
susceptible of local motio
know from physics that
substance receives no otl
mination than to local n
and for this reason, as we
in another place, it has ht
ed Ens mobile^ or a moval
Now, a term, to be susc<
local motion, needs no di
as is evident. And ther
matter, whether actuate(
has nothing in its nature \
quires continuous extensic
In the second place,
continuity is not require
nature of the substanti
This form may, in fact, b
ered either as a principle
or as a principle of opera
a principle of being, it
first existence to its matte
is plain that to give the f
ence is not to give bulk,
versaries teach that what g
to the bodies is quantity ;
surely, they will not prel
quantity is the substant
On the other hand, it if
that to be and to have bw
the same thing; and sinc<
stantial form merely c:
matter to bey it would be J
infer that it must also cau
extended. As a principle <
tion, the form needs matti
a centre from which its
are directed. Now, the

Matter.

275

exertt0ti, as well as thai of

ivem4dit« mast be taken from

to a point, not from a bulk

and therefore tlie form,

rio€i|il€ of operatioTi, needs

point of matter Thus it

that no matertal extension

to suit the wants of the

fonn,

ihifd place, material exten-

not rccjuireti to make Ihe

propOTlionale to its substan-

\Ve shall see later that

irh requires a determi-

iiy of mass can be a sub*

^ in in the strict sense of

v^vion ; at present it will

keep in mind that the sub-

fomi miist give the first be-

1*0 its matter, and that the mat-

•t ts tiiertfore perfectly propor-

^^gtdlo its lubsiantial form by

^^^Bbbeing in potency to receive

^^^^B being. Now, snch a po«

^^^Hpnpltes no extension * for if

^^^BtlEc accident would precede

le mbsumce. Besides, the matter

<tftit til {\x%% actuation is /i mn-

''fi^r. ami ^% such, is incapable of

-diiipo»ition, as we shall

-^ * uiy explain in the sequcK

♦*i !> tWierminnte bulk would be

t-ni-K . dutposltioo. Heuce the

'^ f ii^.h receiver its fint ac-

**ti*ra IS pro port io n a te t o i ts fo rm

^<lepen4ent1f of material cjiten-

"^•^ We can t h e re fo re sa fe! y * ■ o n -

H- *^c\r ill,* essence of m-Ucrial

Kipplies no proof what-

'^no\ Ua* coniinuHy of maltcr.

'^»aII)\ wl' nskt Can the conti^

irtlfornuUer be proircd from mc-

ilio our onswcr utu.-^t br

For the theorems of me^

Cr""^ «>? rach m^ all demon^

Tpiie indr|>cndcntly of thu

of m til r rial continuity .

|Md wfi'ferfr of mechanical

K«t nuhcT tlic old metaphy-

sicians, from whom these writers
borrowed their notion of matter)
admitted the continuity of matter
on two grounds : first, because they
thought that nature abhorred a va-
cuum ; and, secondly, because they
rejected the actio in distans as im-
possible. But we have already
4k>wn that no action of matter
upon matter is possible, except on
the condition that the matter of
the agent be distant from the mat-
ter of the patient; which implies
that all the material particles, to
act on their immediate neighbors,
must be separately ubicated, with
intervening vacuum. And thus the
only reasons by which the ancients
could plausibly support the conti-
nuity of matter have lost all weight
in the light of modem mechanics.

Fourthly : Can the continuity of
matter be inferred from geometrical
considerations }

We reply that it cannot. For
geometric quantity is not a quantity
of matter^ but a quantity of volume —
that is, the quantity of space men-
surable within certain limits. Hence
it is evident that the continuity of
the geometric quantity has nothing
to do with the continuity of matter,
and is not dependent on it, but
wholly depends on the possibility
of a continuous movement within
the limits of the geometric space.
In fact, we have in geometry three
dimensions — length, breadth, and
depth, which are simple lines.
Now, a line is not conceived as
made up of material points touch-
ing and continuing one another,
but as the track of a point moving
between certain limits ; so that the
continuity of the geometric dimen-
sions is not grounded on any ex-
tension or continuation of material
particles, but on the possibility of
continuous movement, on which
the continuity of time also depends.

276

Matter.

We must therefore remain satisfied
that no geometrical consideration
can lend the least support to the
hypothesis of material continuity.

We have thus exhausted all the
sources from which any it priori or
d posteriori argument in/ favor of
material continuity might have been
drawn, if any had been possih©;
and the result of our investigation
authorizes the conclusion that the
hypothesis of continuous matter is
both scientifically and philosophi-
cally gratuitous.

False reasonings in behalf of con-
iinous matter, — But some philoso-
phers, who are afraid that the denial
of material continuity may subvert
all the scholastic doctrines (to
which they most laudably, but per-
haps too exclusively, adhere in
questions of natural science), con-
tend that the existence of continu-
ous matter can be established by
good philosophical reasons. It is
therefore our duty, before we pro-
ceed further, to acquaint our reader
with such reasons, and with our an-
swers to them.

The first reason is the following :
Geometry is a real, not a chimeri-
cal, science ; and therefore it has to
deal with real bodies — not indeed
inasmuch as they are substances,
but inasmuch as they have a quan-
tity which can be considered in the
abstract. Hence we must admit
that the geometric quantity is a
quantity of matter considered in
the abstract; and accordingly, if
the geometric quantity is continu-
ous and infinitely divisible, as no
one doubts, the quantity of matter
in the bodies must also be continu-
ous and infinitely divisible.

We reply that bodies have two
very different kinds of quantity —
the quantity of the mass and the
quantity of the volume — and that
geometry deals indeed with the lat-

ter, but has nothing to do with lit'
former. Hence the geometric quM^,i
tity is a quantity of volume or \fi^
not a quantity of matter ; and "
fore to argue that, because
geometric quantity is conf"
and infinitely divisible^ the
must be true of the quanti^.
matter, is to make an inexci
confusion of matter with
The argument might have
value, if the quantity of the
could be measured by the qi
of the mass ; but no one wlui
studied the first elements of
can be ignorant that such \& not.
case. Equal masses are found
der unequal volumes, and
masses under equal volumes* S^pit
lumes preserve the same geo«i4dfc
nature and the same geoil4riB
quantity, be they filled with iHttH
or not. A cubic inch of plfttiw
and a cubic inch of water coQltfa
different amounts of matter, Mce
the former weighs twenty-one liaws
as much as the latter ; and yet llttj
are geometrically equal. Geometry
is not concerned with the density
of bodies ; and therefore geometricai
quantities are altogether independ-
ent of the quantity of matter, and
cannot be altered except by altering
the relative position of the extreme
terms between which their three
dimensions are measured. These
dimensions are not made up of mat-
ter, but are mere relations in space
with or without interjacent matter,
representing, as we have already ob-
served, the quantity of continuous
movement which is possible between
the correlated terms ; and their c<m-
tinuity depends on the continuity
of space, not of matter.

The author from whom we have
taken this objection pretends abo
that the geometric quantity posscs-
es no other attributes than those
which belong to all quantity, andare

Matter.

277

to It; whence he concludes
whatever is predicated of geo-
quantity must also be predi-
cted of the quantity of matter.
Bi^ the assumption is evidently
fake; for it is not of the essence
I #C all quantity to be continuous
ftlllie geometric quantity, it being
' *MMiest that discrete quantity is
• true quantity, although it has
Sfrcontinuity. The general notion
ff-qaantity extends to everything
Midi admits of more or less ; hence
Aot is intensive quantity, exten-
dbe quantity, and numeric quanti-
tfm- The first is measured by arbi-
degrees of intensity; the se-
is measured by arbitrary inter-
of space and time ; the third is
by natural units — that is,
\ff Uhridual realities as they exist
iiratftare. It is therefore absurd
i» pnetend that whatever can be
fliikated of geometric quantity
aM be predicated of all kinds of

The second reason adduced in
bfUf of material continuity is as
Mows: To deny the continuity
of nutter is to destroy all real ex-
tntion. For how can real exten-
sion arise from simple unextended
pmts arranged in a certain man-
ner, and acting upon one another ?
The notions of simplicity, order,
aad activity transcend the attribu-
tions of matter, and are applicable
to til spiritual beings. If, then, ex-
tension could arise from simple un-
extended elements by their arrange-
>Knt and actions, why could not an-
9eit, by meeting in a sufficient num-
ber and acting on one another, give
Tm to extension, and form, say, a
vttermelon ?

This argument has no weight
•iwtevcr; but, as it appeared not
««iy years ago in a Catholic peri-
oral of great reputation, we have
thought it best to give it a place

among other arguments of the
same sort. Our answer is that to
deny the continuity of matter is
not to deny real extension, but
only to maintain that no real exten-
sion is made up of continuous matter.
And we are by no means embar-
rassed to explain " how real exten-
^n can arise from simple unex-
tended points." The thing is very
plain. Two points, A and i?, being
given in space, the interval of space
between them is a real interval,
really determined by the real points
A and B^ and really determining
the extension of the real movement
possible between the same points.
Such an interval is therefore a real
extension. This is the way in which
real extension arises from unex-
tended points.

Nor can it be objected that no-
thing extended can be made up of
unextended points. This is» true,
of course, but has nothing to do
with the question. For we do not
pretend that extension is made up
by composition of points — which
would be a very gross error — but we
say that extension results from the
simple position of real points in
space, afnd that it results not in
them, but between them. It is the
mass of the body that is made up of
its components; and thus the sum
A ■\- £ represents a mass, not an
extension. The geometric dimen-
sions, on the contrary, consist
entirely of relations between dis-
tilict points intercepting mensur-
able space. The distinct points
are the terms of the relation, while
the extent of the space mensurable
between them by continuous move-
ment is the formal reason of their
relativity. And since this continu-
ous movement may extend more or
less, according as the terms are va-
riously situated, hence the result-
ing relation has the nature of con-

278

MatUr.

tinuous quantity. This suffices to
show that to deny the continuity of
matter is not to destroy all real ex-
tension.

And now, what shall we say of
those angels freely uniting to form
a watermelon? It is hardly ne-
cessary to say that this bright idea
is only a dream. There is no v^
urae without dimensions, no dimen-
sion without distance, and no dis-
tance without terms distinctly ubi-
cated in space and marking out the
point where the distance begins,
and the point where it ends. Now,
nothing marks out a point in space
but matter. Angels, as destitute
of matter, mark no points in space,
and accordingly cannot terminate
distances nor give rise to dimen-
sions. Had they matter, they
would, like the simple elements,
possess a formal ubication in space,
and determine dimensions ; but,
owing to their spiritual nature,
they transcend all local determina-
tions, and have no formal ubication
except in the intellectual sphere
of their spiritual operation. It is
therefore owing to their spirituality,
and not to their simplicity, that
they cannot form themselves into
a volume. Lastly, we must not
forget that the " angelic " water-
melon should have not only volume,
but mass also. Such a mass would,
of course, be made up without mat-
ter. How a mass can be conceiv-
ed without matter is a profound
secret, which the author of the
argument very prudently avoided
to reveal. But let us come to an-
other objection.

A third reason adduced in favor
of continuous matter is that we can-
not, without employing a vicious
circle, account for the extension of
bodies ^by the notion either of space,
distance, or movement. For these
notions already presuppose exten-

sion, and cannot be formed withMl.- t
a previous knowledge of what €1^.
tension is. To think of spac«*|t-i
in fact, to think of extension. S» i
also distance cannot be concJitl
except by imagining somethii^ ^Kh
tended, which lies, or can Si|
between the distant terms. HeaMt
to avoid the vicious circle, itjfc.
necessary to trace the origin of
notion of extension to the
we see in the bodies. And dMiMc
fore our very notion of extenrioaWj
a sufficient proof of the existeMV .1
of continuous maiter.

We reply that this reason is
less plausible than the precc<id|(
one. To form the abstract tuMlM
of extension, we must first diiMl|r
perceive some extension in thiicQ^
Crete, in the same manner as ••
must perceive concrete hnmaidlf
in individual men before we Cflft-
ceive humanity in the abstract
But in all sensible movements we
directly perfc^ive extension through
space and time. Therefore ftoan
sensible movements, without a pf^
vious knowledge of extension^ we c^
form the notion of extension in
general. Is there any. one who can
find in this a vicious circle 1

This answer might suffice. Btit
we will further remark that tbe
argument may be retorted against
its author. For if we cannot con-
ceive movement as extending in
space without a previous knowledge
of extension, how can we conceive
matter as extending in space with-
out a previous knowledge of exten-
sion ? And how can we conceive
matter as continuous without a
previous knowledge of continuity,
or time as enduring without a prh
vious knowledge of duration 1 To
these questions the author of the
argument can give no satisfactory
answer without solving his own
objection. Space, distance, and

Matter.

279

, says he, involve exteii-
lioi; and tktrtfQri they cannot be
ksHU^ ** without a previous knovv-
Ap: of wl);il extension is." It ts
^«MLrnt ihat this conclusion is W-
b^iesJ; for If splice, distance, ;md
ent irnpfy extension, we can-
perceive space, distance, and
without directly perceiv-
ing cxtrDsion ; andj since the dir^^ct
^cfott^lton of a thing does not
"^re a /r^T^Wj knowledge of it,
c fo^ai CDflcUision should liave
lecu tSujt, to perceive space, dis-
nAce* and movement, no previous
tniovkd^e of extension is needed.

Oto llli otlier hand, while our

sefttes perceive the extension of

coalinuoui movement in sparc^,

4nr ife Dot competent to perceive

i.i " miinuiiy in natural ho-

ti , , t:e it is from movement,

And iK»t from matter, that our

notiaii of continuous extension is

ikimd. In fact, to form a ton*

ceplbd of the dimension*; of a body,

»e lurvcy \\ by a continuous move-

Qceiof onr eyes from one end of it

(^ liie otliL't* In this movement

tte eye glides over innunK-rahle

pen^ by which live material parti-

tteof tic body are separated- If

ttftf CODctption of the geometric ex-

HStti^ii of the body depended on

'W coiktinuity of \\^ matter, ihe^e

iMHe^asnot consisiing of coniinu-

*>«» foatter, should all be thrown

■•If m the measuremenl of the

body. l\l»v, then, do wre consider

tbtm as contributinj^ with their own

dtaffiiftioiis 10 form the total diuun-

.body' Merely berause

i- :, ric dimcnbiuns are e^ti-

by foovcment, and not by

Kwt ilk it in the least strange tliai
»« dimild know extension from
BOfeiDciit, and not from matter.
tWnocmecan perceive exiensuni
hrtucfii two tcrtD»| unlesi he mea-

sures by continuous movement the
space intercepted between them.
The local relation between two
terms cannot, in fact, be peiceived
otherwise than by referring the one
term to the other through space;
hence no one ever perceives a dis-
tance between two given terms
(^herwtse than by drawing, at least
mentally, a line from the one to the
other — that is, otherwise than by
measuring by some movement the
extent of the movement which can
take place between the two given
terms. And this is what the very
word extension conveys. For this
word • is composed of the preposi-
tion exy wdiich connotes the term
from which the movement begins,
and of the verb iendere^ which is a
verb of motion. And thus every-
thing shows that it is from motion,
and not from continuous matter,
that our first notion of extension
proceeds.

A sharp opponent, however,
might still object that before we
can perceive any movement we
need to perceive something mova-
ble — that is, visible matter. But no
matter is visible unless it be extend-
ed. Therefore extension must be
perceived in matter itself before we
can perceive it in local movement.

But we answer, first, that al-
though nothing can be perceived
by our senses unless it be extended,
nevertheless we can see extended
things without perceiving their ex-
tension. Thus we see many stars
as mere points in space, and yet
we can perceive their movement
from the east to the west. Hence,
although matter is not visible un-
less it be extended, it does not fol-
low that extension must be first
perceived in matter itself.

Secondly, we answer that when
we perceive the movable matter as
extended, we do not judge of its

28o

Matter.

extension by its movement, but by
the movement which we ourselves
have to make in going from one of
its extremities to the other. This
is the only way of perceiving ex-
tension in space. For how could
we conceive anything as extended,
if we could not see that it has parts
outside of parts ? And how couifl
we pronounce that anything has
parts outside of parts, if we did not
see that between one part and an-
other there is a possibility of local
movement ? On the other hand,
as soon as we perceive the possi-
bility of local movement between
distinct parts, we have sufficient
evidence of geometric extension.
And thus we have no need of con-
tinuous matter in order to perceive
the volume of bodies.

Before .we dismiss this subject,
we must add that the advocates of
continuous matter, while fighting
against us, shield themselves with
two other arguments. If matter is
not continuous, they say, bodies
will consist of mere mathematical
points acting at a distance; but
actio in distans is the extreme of
absurdity, and therefore bodies
cannot consist of mathematical
points. They also allege that na-
ture abJwrs a vacuum^ and therefore
all space must be filled up with
matter ; which would be impossible,
were not matter continuous. That
nature abhors a vacuum was once
considered a physical axiom ; but,
since science has destroyed the
physical grounds on which the pre-
tended axiom rested, metaphysics
has in its turn been appealed to,
that the time-honored dictum may
not be consigned to complete ob-
livion. It has therefore been pre-
tended that space without matter
is a mere delusion, and consequent-
ly that to make extension depen-
dent on empty intervals of space

imagined to intervene between WH^
terial points is to give a iliiiUMJi
cal solution of the question of M^
terial extension.

The first of these two argauMH
we have fully answered in our k|p
article, and we shall not zsgS^
detain our readers with it. Ii|
us notice, however, that when 41"
elements of matter are caSpl
** mathematical " points, the SOMD
is not that they are not phjs^pllV
but only that those physical pcttSlV
are mathematically, or rigoroo^lft
unextended.

The second argument amfWf
that space void of matter is 4lftf
thing. As we cannot enter tett
into a detailed examination of i|ffr
natnre of absolute space, we dljl
content ourselves with the foUov^
ing answer: ist. All real reladflis
require a real foundation. Kealdii'
tances are real relations. Theue-
fore real distances have a red
foundation. But their foundaticHiis
nothing else than absolute space;
and therefore absolute space is
a reality. 2d. If empty space i$
nothing, then bodies were created
in nothing, occupy nothing, and
all spaces actually occupied arc
nothing. To say, as so many
have said, that empty space is no-
thing, and that space occupied by
matter is a reality, is to say that
the absolute is nothing until it becomes
relative — a proposition which is the
main support of German pantheism,
and which ever>* man of sense must
reject. 3d Of two different recip-
ients, the greater has a greater ca-
pacity independently of the matter
which it may contain ; for, whether
it be filled with the rarest gas or
with the densest metal, its capaci-
ty does not vary. Itis therefore mani-
fest that its capacity is not determin-
ed by the matter it contains, but only
by the space intercepted between its

Matter.

2S1

In the same munner the

olll&r rt^cipient lias less capacity,

Ttrtiective of the# matter it may

in, aod only in consequence

s{k2cc in tc re ep t e d , I f, t h e rc-

>|Mce, prescinding from the

occupving it, i^ nothing, the

cafkauity will be a greater

and the less capacity a

liDlhmg. But greater and less

ly quiintity, and quantity is

Therefore nothing will

VVc \iUyK we shall hereafter have

^ txittr opportunity of developing

wr -and other considerations on

; li-t^* hitt the little we have said

^. fire believe, to show that

tion of the unreality of

ciipicd by matter is a

■bsurdity,

chat thccxi^iteticeof

'4iuiitious matter cannot be prov-

i »t»d that ihoste philosophers

tilJ admit it cannot account

f II oy anything like a good argu-

'♦^•t. They can only shelter them-

' • behind the prejudices of

J] fancy, which they have been

niliie to discardi or behind tlie

^^OliTiye authority of the ancients,

^■ho, tliough iit^ serving our ndmira-

^^■D in other respects, were led

HpiSiy by the same popular preju-

^Tlbe^, owing to their limited know-

W^c of natural st-ieuce. AVe may

I wed to add that if the an*

i)hdo*ophers arc not to be

li for admitting continuous

inastcfi ihe same cannot be said of

*Wir among our contemporaries

•Ho, in iftc prcifrcnt state of scicncei

^^jOUD mlijified with their authori-

^^^Bhe subject.

Hpi ksa/Ur^ — Now, let us suppose
15ai I>i>dic5, or their mokctiles, arc
®adc up of cnntinuouH matter, just
opponents nvunuiu; and kt
^1 i^UKt ncccisarily follow

from such a gratuitous assumption.
In the first place, it follows that a
piece of continuous matter cannot be
actuated by a single substantial act.
This is easily proved.

For a single act gives a single
actual being; which is inconsist-
ent with the nature of continuous
matter. Matter, to be continu-
ous, must actually contain distinct
parts, united indeed, but having
distinct ubications in space. Now,
with a single substantial act there
cannot be distinct actual parts ; for
all actual distinction, according to
the axiom of the schools, implies
distinct acts : Actus est qui distin-
guit. Therefore continuous matter
cannot be actuated by a single sub*
stantial act.

Again, a piece of continuous
matter has dimensions, of which
the beginning and the end must be
quite distinct, the existence of the
one not being the existence of the
other. But it is impossible for two
things which have a distinct exis-
tence to be under the same sub-
stantial act; for there cannot be
two existences without two formal
principles. Hence, if there were
any continuous matter, the begin-
ning and the end of its dimensions
should be actuated by distinct acts ;
and the same would be true of any
two distinct points throughout the
same dimensions. Nor does it
matter that the dimensions are
supposed to be formed of one un-
broken piece ; for, before we con-
ceive distinct parts, or terras, as
forming the continuation of one
another, we must admit the sub-
stance of such parts, as their con-
tinuation presupposes their being.
Hence, however intimately the
parts may be united, they always
remain substantially distinct ; which
implies that each one of them must
have its own substantial act.

282

Matter.

Moreover, continuous extension
is divisible. If, then, there is any-
where a piece of continuous matter,
it may be divided into two, by God
at least. But as division is not
a magical operation, and does not
give the first existence to the things
which are divided, it is plain that
the parts which after the division
exist separately must have had
their own distinct existence before
the division; and, evidently, they
could not have a distinct existence
without being actuated by distinct
substantial acts. What we say of
these two parts applies to what-
ever other parts are obtainable by
continuing the division. Whence
it is manifest that continuous matter
needs as many substantial acts as it
has divisible parts.

The advocates of continuous mat-
ter try to decline this consequence
by pretending that matter, so long
as it is undivided, is one matter and
needs only one form ; but this form,
according to them, is divisible ;
hence when the matter is divided,
each part of the matter retains its
own portion of the substantial form,
and thus the same form which
gives existence to the whole gives
existence to the separate parts.
This is, however, a mere subter-
fuge ; for the undivided matter is
indeed one accidentally, inasmuch
as it has no division of parts ; but
it is not one substantially, because
it has distinction of parts. This dis-
tinction exists before the division is
made, and we have already seen
that no actual distinction is possi-
ble without distinct acts. And
again, the hypothesis that substan-
tial forms are divisible, is a ridicu-
lous fiction, to say the least. For no-
thing is divisible which has no mul-
tiplicity of parts and consequently
a multiplicity of acts. How, then,
can a substantial act, which is a

single act, be conceived as diviair
ble?

They also argue that as the w^
which is a simple form, actuatodie
whole matter of the body, so dft
the material form actuate contiini*
ous matter. This comparisonn^
have some weight with those iriW
confound the essential with 4t
substantial forms, and believe tlot
the soul gives the 'first being to.
matter of the body. But the
is that the substance of the soil ll
the essential form of the living «r>
ganism, and not the substaniii^ imi
giving the first being to TniCtO
The organism and its matter nyal
have their being in nature bdfoft
being animated by the soul; mA
part of matter in the bodjr lua
therefore its own distinct mateiial
form and its own distinct exist-
ence. The soul is a principle of
life, and gives nothing but life.*
Hence the aforesaid comparison is
faulty, and leads to no conclusaoo.

In the second place it foQows
that no continuous matter can be
styled a single substance.

For within the dimensions of
continuous matter there must be as
many distinct substantial acts as
there are material points distinct
from one another; it being cleai
that distinct points cannot have the
same substantial actuation, and ac-
cordingly require distinct substan-
tial acts and constitute distinct
substances. Against this some will
object that a mere point of matter
is incapable of supporting the sub-
stantial form. But we have already
shown that the substantial form is
not supported by its matter, as the
objection assumes, but only termin-
ated to it, the matter being the sub-
stantial term, not the subject, of
the substantial form, f On the

* We propoat to treat this question sqantdy«
t The Catholic World.

Matter.

283

Mf bandf It is manifest that a
kicn aani rally destined to act in a
Uy actuating a single point
•r, jtetttates just as much
i lis nature requires. For
a sitigle point, nol from
lat th^ action must be di-
Heiice nothing more than
«>f matter is required to
Ee the substantial form and
ilwte a f)erffct substance,
lat proofs of this truth will
in our next article, where
II rigorously demonstrate the
ibilily of continuous matter-
' *&5whik« nothing withstands our
iwlftsiofi that there must be as
any distinct substances in con-
itiiotts matter as there ftre dis-
i^ poibl^ within its dimensiDnfj.
Ulird place, it follows that
fliiudi ef ifisiinct subslartces

conclusion is vtTy clear. For

BiuJtitude of actual parts is

•rtiral inuititude, or, a<L they say,

ihitudeinact. But in continu-

■lattcr all the parts arc actual,

they are not actually se-

Therefore ihe multitude

parts is an actual mulii-

tudc

^^Thc npholders of contintious

^BUer do not ad ni i t that t h i s m u 1 -

mi^ift si£tu^d ; they contend that

i^wSWy potential. For were they

'*o concede that it is actual^ they

«TXild be compelled to admit either

^^ it is ^ in ally finite, or that it

lly infinite. Now, I hey can*

that it is actually ruiite,

tliis "would be £igainst the

tlnr^nT, nature of cominuum,

Mti of an endless divi-

ra iherefore contains a mtd-

: uf paitii which has no end.

H: I r nf'jcr hand, thcv can riot R.17

tia; It f, u ttially infmitc; bciiUHe,

nm admitting; the ab^olule po^bi-

^jftujr ^i a multitude actually infi-

nite, it would still be absurd to as-
sert that such is the case with a
piece of matter having finite dimen-
sions. Indeed, Leibnitz and Des-
cartes did not hesitate to teach this
latter absurdity; but they could
not make it fashionable, and were
soon abandoned even by their own
disciples. Thus the difficulty re-
mained; and philosophers, being
unable to solve it, tried to decline
it by denying that there can be in
the continuum an actual multitude
of parts. This was, in fact, the
view of the old advocates of con-
tinuous matter, who uniformly ad-
mitted that the parts of an unbrok-
en continuum are mtxtly potential^
and form a potential multitude.
For, they say, the actual multitude
results from actual division, and
therefore has no existence in the
undivided continuum.

This last view would be very
good, if the continuum in question
were successive — as is the case with
movement and time, which are al-
ways in fieri, and exist only by in-
finitesimals in an infinitesimal pre-
sent, or if the continuum in ques-
tion were virtual, as is the case
with any mensurable interval of
space ; for evidently in these
continuums no actual multitude is
to be found. But the case is quite
different with continuous matter.
For he who asserts the existence
of continuous matter asserts the
existence of a thing having parts
formally distinct and simultaneous.
He therefore affirms the actual ex-
istence of a formal multitude of
distinct parts, or, in other terms, an
actual multitude. To deny the
actual multitude of the parts, on
the plea that there is no actual di-
vision, is to take refuge in a mise-
rable sophism, which consists in
denying the substantial distinction
of the parts on the ground that

'284

Matter.

they are not divided, and in ignor-
ing their actual being solely be-
cause they have not a certain spe-
cial mode of being.

As to the axiom that "Number
results from division," two things
are to be noticed. The first is that
the term " division " here means
mensuratioTiy not separation. Thus
we divide the day into twenty- four
hours, without discontinuing time
for all that; and in like manner
we divide the length of a journey
into miles without discontinuing
space. This shows that the num-
bers obtained by the division of the
continuum are only artificially or
virtually discrete, and that the con*
tinuum remains unbroken. The
second is that a number is not
merely a multitude, but a multitude
measured by a certain unit, as S.
Thomas aptly defines it : Numerus
est multiiudo mensurata per unum.
Hence, if the unit of measure is ar-
bitrary (as is the case with all con-
tinuous quantities), the same quan-
tity can be expressed by different
numbers, according as a different
unit is employed in measuring it.
But so long as the unit is not deter-
mined, the quantity cannot be ex-
pressed by any definite number.
And if the unit employed be less
than any given finite quantity, the
thing which is measured will con-
tain a multitude of such units great-
er than any given number. All such
units exist in the thing measured
prior to its mensuration; and as
such units are actual and distinct,
there can be no doubt that they con-
titute an actual multitude.

Spme modern advocates of con-
tinuous matter have imagined an-
other means of evading the diffi-
culty. Tongiorgi admits extended
atoms of continuous matter, but de-
nies that their parts are actually
distinct. As, however, he confesses

that extension requires parts Mi^
side of parts {Cosmoi.^ n. 143X4M
may ask him : Are not such IHHl
actually distinct.^ Distinctioft-fnJI
negation of identity; and stt^
parts existing actually outsid««]|il
one another are not actually
tical. They are therefore
distinct. Now, to use the
words of the author, " where Aojb
are distinct parts there is a pltlMf*
ity of units, that is, a muit^t^^.
although the parts which axe .4h^<
tinct be united in a conomoii
as is the case with the parts of
tinuum "; * and therefore itisma<
fest that the continuous atom JIh
volves actual multitude.

Liberatore does not entirely dNf
the actual distinction of the pMiv
in continuous matter, but maintam*
that the distinction is inanafl^
and accordingly cannot give list to
an actual multitude. The parts of a
continuum, says he, are united m «
common term ; hence they aie 61-
completely distinct, and make no
number, but are all one. They are
outside of one another, yet in sacb
a manner as to be also inside of
one another. They do not subsist
in themselves, but in the whole.
The whole displays many parts, but
it is one, and its parts are so inde-
terminate that they cannot be mea-
sured except by an arbitrary mea-
sure, f

This view scarcely deserves to be
discussed, as the author himself
owns that it makes continuous mat-
ter seem somewhat contradictory—
Contradictoriis quodammodo notii iuk-
diiur — though he attributes this kind
of contradiction to the opposition
which exists between the matter

* Itaque ubi habetur distincdo unlos ab altero,
ibi habetur uniutum ploralitaSf sen moldtodo, tCt-
aaud quse distincta sant« unita sint, atque adco oon-
muni termixio copulentur, ut ia coodoui partibu<
contingit.— Gw;*!*/., n. 174.

t Cosmoi.y n. 59.

Matter.

385

mil the form — an explanation which
Bt- ' admit for reasons which

Bp -;ive in our next article.

^■1 AS to the assertion that the
' "wtiof a continuum, on account of
cir hair-ing a common term, are
m£ompiet€ly distinct, we can
St once that the author is
mistaken. Incomplete dis-
tion is a distinction which does
completely exclude identity.
cc where there is incomplete
action there is also incomplete
Noi\% not a shadow of
is to be found between any
'parts of continuum. Therefore
two parts of conltnuum are
ipletely distinct. Thus each of
iwenty-four hours into which
divide the day is completely
'let from every other^ although
one is united wilh the other in
a common term; for it is evident
^^*4t the common term, having no
acnaion, is no part of extension,
l! ihcrefore cannot originate iden-
^ Lctween any two jarts of cx-
icnwon. To say that there is some
identity, and therefore an incom-
plete distinction, between two ex-
tensions, because they have a coni-
raOB term which has no extension,
is to pretend that the unex tended
has some identity with the extend-
ed; md this pretension is al)snrd.
We conclude that, in spite of all the
fiforis of our opponents, it is mani-
Icft that continuous matter would
be an actual multitude of distinct,
though not separated, substances.

Lastly, it follows that actuai con-
t^Bmut mafUr would Iff an actual in-
M!Gr multitude of subsiamts.

This conclusion is fully warranted
i^y the infinite divisibility of the
cotiinuum. But here again the
advocates of material continuity
contend that this divisibility is po-
tentiftl, and can never be reduced
to act; whence they infer that the

multitude of the parts is not actual,
but potential. We, however, repeat
that if the division is potential,
the divisible matter is certainly ac-
tual ; and therefore the potency of
an infinite division presupposes an
infinite multitude of distinct terms
actually existing in the divisible
matter. And as we have already
shown that each distinct term must
have a distinct substantial act, we
must conclude that the least piece
of continuous matter would consist
of an infinite actual multitude of
substances — a consequence whose
monstrosity needs no demonstra-
tion.

Hence we are not surprised to
see that Goudin, one of the great
champions of the old physics, con-
siders continuous matter as " a phi-
losophic mystery, about which rea-
son teaches more than it can un-
derstand, and objects more than it
can answer."* He tries, however,
to explain the mystery in some
manner, by adding that " when the
continuum is said to be infinitely
divisible, this must be understood
mathematically, not physically — that
is, by considering the quantity as
it is in itself, not as it is the pro-
perty of a corporeal form. For in
the process of the division we
might finally reach a part so small
that, if smaller, it would be insuffi-
cient to bear any natural form. Nev-
ertheless, mathematically speaking,
in that smallest physical part there
would still be two halves, and in
these halves other halves, and so on
without end." f

* Mysterium philosophicum ; est hsc diflicultas
in qua ratio plus pro)»at, quam possit intelligere ;
plus objicit, quam poasit solvere. — Goudin, Pkihs,

t Quando dicitur continuum esse divisibile in
partes in infinitum divisibles, hoc inteJligendum
est mathematice, non phyuce ; id est considerandok
quantitatem praecise secundum se, ut earn sumit
mathematicus, nco vero ut est proprietas fomus
corporeae, sicut earn conaiderat physicus ; nam per-
veniri tandem posset ad partem ita minimam, ut
minorem nulb forma naturalis pati poaet. Atta

286

Matter.

This explanation is taken from
S. Thomas (i Phys,^ lect. i.), and
shows philosophical thought; but,
far from solving the difficulty, it
rather proves that it is insoluble.
For if, mathematically speaking, in
the smallest bit of continuous mat-
ter there are still halves, and halves
of halves, clearly there are in it dis-
tinct parts of matter, and therefore
distinct forms actuating each of
them distinctly, as the being of each
part is not the being of any other
part. It is therefore false that no-
thing smaller is sufficient to bear
any natural form. And hence the
difficulty is not solved. On the
other hand, the necessity of resort-
ing to purely mathematical (geome-
tric) quantity clearly shows that it
is the space inclosed in the volume
of the body (of which alone geome-
try treats), and not the matter (of
which geometry has nothing to
say), that is infinitely divisible ;
and this amounts to a confession
that continuous matter has no ex-
istence.

While making these remarks, we
willingly acknowledge that S. Tho-
mas and all the ancients who con-
men, matlaeraattce loqvendo, in Ola minima parte
adhuc esEcnt dua medietatet, et in illis duabus
medictoUbus aliie medietateSf et sic in infinitum.—

sidered air, water, fire, and e
the first elements of all things,
perfectly consistent in teaching
natural forms require a d
amount of matter. For by *
ral forms " they meant those
from which the specific propei
sensible things emanate. Non^
things that are sensible are
rially compounded in a greatoif
less degree, and possess pro]
which cannot be ascribed to
gle material point. So far,
these ancient philosophers
right. But they should hare
sidered that the required
of matter ought to consist of
parts, having their own distinct
ing, and therefore their own
tinct substantial acts. This
have led them to the conclusion
the natural form of air, water,
was not a form giving the first l>ii*'
ing to the material parts, btit ■
form of natural composition giving
the first being to the compouwljiar
ture. But let us stop here for th« i
present. We have shown tW
continuous matter cannot be pa>v*
ed to exist, and is, at best, a "pht
losophic mystery." In our next ar-
ticle we shall go a step further, wA
prove that material continuity Is &
metaphysical impossibility.

TO BB CONTINUBD.

New Publications.

287

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Um VERBAL ChCTICH Ill^r(LJKV,

hfik^H and Brme. Vol I. Cjndn-
Rol*irn Claikc & Co. iS74,

Sold by Th*5 Catholic

I for ircelcsiast.ica] siucteittii

llio lipst ex.UnL Dr. P.l^

! ilitrf triirtiL^lor a|id edkoFp b

far his vust eruc]tti<}n» and

klr, the KcY, Mr» B)'(n(;j has

^til aUcuttun t(J tho stylo ul

Gentian into £T»glUh.

ilUn} m^Afi the exterior of

^"-''n" ef its conttftits. We

I ^ ftJioic to recfimmend a

4k% lot ttstiU and has

i'^ii of names iht high

.„.,,ijkl nuik «ind ihiiolDgical

(^ llii»euutiln\

•V nw TUK CATiJotic CirURtMt m
!»!>. Bv Jamss Walih. Gbs*

S>M by The Calholk Publica-

\ ji iTjiUiablr work, because? U 15
f ofto of itn kind, and< even were
»« il would stand on its own
I tlilj be v;ilu;ib1e.
fid be h\^ $0 do Sf: ly u n i ted 1 (1 i t^
%m\ ile^tiriics, and having so
I In f»>rrimr>n with tht* tjisier (^oun-
lor/ of ihc Scoiiish Tburch
iMir have a c1qs« AfhnUv and
^ upon the ccc^simkal
I atid Ireland : so ihat the
itunec of this work is
i hy ihc fact \\\^\ it sup^
;t ii part of the hbtory of
•In the BntUh Iiks. Iljth^
was ncit complete. It
tfy Iht completed nnw. If
fif crijr «ep:^r;itcd hferlirun who
'lOttd 10 srtk %o (Nfi^rntly 4fti-*r trmii
mA# irachin '- ^'! ' ' T^utices of ihc e^rlv
^rciwillil. *rici* at these p.igen»

i*>^ •^i 111' land too wa* cv.in-

'^''^'^ hy ' and thai (i* ^rst

i'^rtWiani \ \ not Ji tnutllated

^flftbaity, hm the whok- qcle of Ciih
(^4««tiuir. They wiU learn, moreovfr,

•?«t'i<

that the so-called Reformation in Scot-
land was entirely a political job, and that
there, as elsewhere, the Protestantism in
which they pride themselves was tinkered
up by a herd of fanatics and foisted upon
the people by a rapacious, profligate, un-
principled nobility. Never was there a
more truthful page of history written than
this. The author, though he modestly
claims for himself nothing more than the
title of compiler, has many of the qualifi-
cations of an historian ; his research has
been long and laborious, and he notices
only the most authentic documents and
records of the past. In no instance do
we discover any attempt to color or gloss
over any of his statements, and he is
never betrayed into exaggerating the vir-
tues or concealing the faults of his coun-
trymen.

Manual of Mythology : Greek and
Roman, Norse and Old German,
Hindoo and Egyptian Mythology.
By Alexander S. Murray, Department
of Greek and Roman Antiquities,
British Museum. Second Edition.
Rewritten and considerably enlarged.
With forty- five plates. New York :
Scribner, Armstrong & Co., 654 Broad-
way. 1874.

As a manual of mythology this seems
to be as concise, complete, and accurate
as such a book can be made. As a
specimen of art it is remarkable. The
author is apparently one of our modern,
cultivated pagans, very much at home
among the heathen religions he describes.
The very brief exposition of his own
theological opinions contained in his
introduction ignores the true and primi-
tive religion revealed from heaven al-
together, and propounds the utterly un-
historical, pernicious, and false notion
that monotheism is a development from
polytheism produced by intellectual pro-
gress. The author does not, however, put
forth anti-Christian views in an offensive
or obtrusive manner, and indeed all he
says is included in a few sentences. We
cannot, certainly, recommend the study

288

New Publications.

of pagan mythology to young pupils, or
consider the present volume as suitable
for indiscriminate peru^. Those who
are fit for such studies, and for whom
they are necessary or proper, will find it
a very satisfactory compendium of in-
formation and a work of truly classical
taste and elegance.

CuRTius* History of Greece. Vol. V.

New York: Scribner, Armstrong &

Co. 1874.

This volume completes the work of
Dr. Curtius. We have already given it
the high commendation which it deserves
in our notices of previous volumes. It is
one of the first-class historical works of
German scholarship, and this is the high-
est praise that can be given to any work
in those departments in which German
scholars excel, so far as learning and
ability are concerned.

A Theory of Fine Art. By Joseph
Torrey, late Professor of Moral and
Intellectual Philosophy in the Uni-
versity of Vermont. New York : Scrib-
ner, Armstrong & Co. 1874.
Looking through this treatise of Prof.
Torrey, whose intellectual head, stamped
in gold on the cover, leads the reader to
expect a thoughtful work on the most
attractive subject of aesthetics, our im-
pression is decidedly favorable. The
University of Vermont used to be consid-
ered as quite remarkable for an elevated,
philosophical tone. Such seems to be
the character of this condensed summary
of the retired professor's lectures on art,
evidently the result of much study and
observation, and given to the reader in
that pleasing style which best suits such
a ver)' pleasant branch of knowledge.

•Protestant Journalism. By the 'au-
thor of My Cltfical Friends. Lon-
don: Burns & Gates. 1874. (New
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica-
tion Society.)
It is enough to name the author of

this collection of short, lively essays — Dr.

Marshall. It is the cream of the London

Tablets articles, during the aathor'
tive connection with that journal, <
most living and interesting topics <
day in regard to the warfare 1
Catholic Church and her enec
recommend it to universal readfc
circulation in the warmest possibte]
ner, and with the most sincere
that the author may long be sp
continue his admirable and useful
as a champion of religion and tnitiu|

Ciiarteris; A Romance. By
Meline. Philadelphia*: J. B.
cott & Co. 1874.
This romance does not belie its :
in its contents. Its plot and in
are romantic and tragic in the hij
gree. Bordering, at least, on
probable, as they are, they are ne
less managed with a very consid
degree of skill and power by the
who has improved very much on 1
story. In Six Months, The charac
drawn with free and bold strokes^ |
have dramatic individuality. The
excites even a painful interest all 1
and there is no mawkish sentiinen
anywhere. Some scenes are ren
well drawn. There are no lecta
religion or morals, but the purity of 3
Catholic woman's faith and mo
shines through the whole story,
may congratulate the fair author on \
success.

Earle. By Miss Ad«
Boston : Lee &

Katherine

Trafton.

1874.

An interesting story, beautifully
lustrated and neatly bound.

Summer Talks about Lourdes.
Cecilia Mary Caddell. Lond
Burns & Gates. 1874. (New Yo
Sold by The Catholic Publicati
Society.)

In this little book the authoress i
lates some of the wonderful miracles I
Lourdes. Its style is simple and chaj
and, we should say, particularly suit
for children.

ITERARY ^aiLETIN.

PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENT.

SPECIAL NOTICE.

depaitment was specially opened to keep the readers of The Catholic
iquainted from month to month with all the new Catholic books published
country and in England, a list of which is given at the end of this Bulletin.
ling this list every month, much time and trouble will 'be saved by our
»id the publisher ; for it will save the former the trouble of writing about the
certain books, and the latter the time lost in answering such letters. It is
rjpillisber's intention to make the list as correct as possible.

I OitbdUe Publicfttioii Society lus In press
■in aooB publish a new revised and en-
Ifldltiaa of « Holy Week," '< Life of Fa-
]teiiard,C.S8.B.,'> ''TheUloirtrated
Ahnanaio for 1875," a Fifth and
and also a Tonng I^adies'

Mmeag the Syrlac MSS. to the Ambrosian Li-
taftt Milan is a copy of the Peshito Yersion
4ik»<Md Testament, which may be assigned to
I as remote as the sixth century. It is
to repiodoce this ancient HS. in fac-
» by mesat of photolithography, nnder the
I of the Rev. Dr. A. Ceriani, the chief li-
I of the Ambroalan. The editioif will be
la taavolBBet IbUo, and wlU consist of six ban-
tat and itzty photographed pages and about
rtl^ ptgea of letterprtts. The entire coat is es-
[ at twelve hundred pounds, and the tub-
I price for a single copy is ten pounds.

^ P. F. Cnnnlogham, Philadelphia, has in
pvMi lid wUl toon publish '^ The Journey of
tht flbk,'* from the French of Abb^ Perrijoe,
with taiatroducUon by Rev. L. Petetot.

Wnmii. Joha Murphy A Co. announce a new
■ai mlarfed edition of the '*lUiiaal of the
Boatflty of the Baored Heart of Jesus."

It is \vlth pleasure we announce the re-
ception as well as the sale of our *' New Se-
ries of Readers " a decided success. Hun-
dreds of our largest and best schools have Intro-
duced them, and the teachers are well pleased
with them.

The entire Catholic press of this country, with
a single exception, has pronounced them the
best Catholic readers in the English language.
Dr. Brownson, in his Revieio for October, iays :
" The series is very handsomely printed and done
up, and we presume will be a great favorite with
hath children and teachers, as it will save the
one all trouble in teachlog, and the other all la-
bor in learning. In a word, the series Is prepared
on a theory we do not approve— that of simplify-
ing the lessons to the greatest possible extent, to
as to ux the Intellect of the child the least pos-
sible. . . . Yet our objection is to the system on
which this series is prepared, not specially to
this series Itsel'. Acce2)t the tysUm, tAess books
are admirable. . . . They are the best we have ex-
amined, and we do not expect to eee for a long
time any to be preferred to them.''''

And the Catholic Telegraph of Cincinnati, the
organ of the Most Rev. Archbishop Purcell, says :
** Some months ago we acknowledged the receipt
of the first three of the above ' Series of Read-
ers.* We are now in receipt of the Third and
Fourth Readers and the Speller, and we are able
to give the promised Judgment of them. VTe can

2 .

Literary Bulletin^

now eafely say that tbey are decidedly the beat
Catholic Readers published in this cofntry. The
(^dfng is almost perfect, the illiiftratlons are
very far ahead of those in any othefs of oar Ca-
tholic Readers, and the literary selections are
inade with good Judgment and excellent taste.
They have another great merit rarely found in
Catholic school-books— that of durability. They
are strongly pat together, and cannot be easily
torn apart. The leaves are banded, and not ;nere-
ly Joined together with thread and paste. By too
many leriee of school readers now in circula-
tion the pockets of the poor are emptied to en-
rich' the bookseller. As to the ' get-up* of these
books— in paper, press- work, and biLdlng—lhey
are in keeping with all the books published by
The Catholic Publication Society, models for onr
other Catholic publishers.

*'It may be said this is strong langnagc, but
we mean what we say. When some one else
shall pablieh a better set of readers, we shall let
our readers know of the fact in Jnst as strong
terms. Wc like to see honorable rivalry between
our publishers, for in this way only will our
literature be improved."

The Chicago TiUii, in a notfee of the First
Reader, fays that, ** however inslgniilcant the
above work may appear to many, it must be re-
irarded as one of the beet of its kind yet pab-
lished. It is well illustrated, each paga having
a reafonable-siaed woodcnt. We agree with the
publishers when they claim that it is f^1Iy,if not
more than, up to the sUndard of its predecessors.
In fact, it would seem that nothiog had been left
undone to make of ft a highly instructive work
fur children, and we would be pleased to hear of
its being the reader adopted by those in charge
of the Catholic schools of our city and else-
where."

And of the other books of the series it rays ;
" We are in receipt of specimen copies of these
deservedly popular school-books, and eongratu-
late The Catholic Publication Society upon their
issue. They are of a high order of merit, beauti-
fully illustrated, and fill a void that has long ex-
isted !n the Catholic educational literature of the
land. We heartily recommend them to onr edu-
cational institutions and to all interested in the
education of Catholic children.*'

r " Sacrum SeptenarlTun." or the Seven Gifts
o« the Holy Qhcat. as exempliiied in the life and

persoit of ihe Blc*ftcd Vifjtla Ifafy
a new 1vo«k by Ret, II, Formby i
by The CathRlIt Pmbilcatlon !

The LoniloH T^sbUt cotiof* ititt |i
fore even looking iuto \hU Utile veJ
It with mare Iban ordlnafy pteati
on tbe ^S44ven^alll Gtltp, attd IHul I
tion ivi t h b (jr w ho was ' @s rrart n ni %\
We wtre t({tl mora Bil()f<fl4tl by 1
flrst psyjTc of the ptefiie«, \t\ wbirh '
French JL'stjIt Father arc qaotnl a
cf Mr. Fontiby'^, is (Tie mic\\\ tmrfit i
Pdre Beloi> work ; for wr ttmA T *
thesptntual life and exampi1«4 nf i
rare cvi^n aniDng' per^Qns wbo mw.)
piety, ni&ff cauKe may be lustgticd
for thif'^ vU., th€ c€m^it\Gm ^ i^^in
a gniU twmher nf Vkri*ttaM Urf t
working r^thE iloty G^tatt in Vf/

•* No k'fo a writer ibao Mgr. df» 9i
the aame ntmnrk la quotlk g tSitni
(in Oite, <!. L > N<f S i h er ore b 1» w on
* Uelai ! qui connatl e«a ^ratideit cli
prcnd pt'Ur bn^e de fa vi#, jumr i
aciioni f Le Sulut E^ipHc f^at ra
prtsgui u/i iitcminnprnn' !«?«/ Ac
quoted i A c-qnallr »tra»u'aiid rqoalljr
illud tDiiiD< dlKiiittttis esse aeiur^i «(u
ostendS : pnueiorei lillttd pvndiTuu
quo mcr<:tflr.*

" A mi wf? mar name aootbtir fwai
itual writer as in concert wlih ibet
glad ec Euy inau7) serraiiU <jf Qm
out, wljtniier b hb paimf ynr fif I
Ei$a^ r/i thf Liwet of ih^f Saint*,
Spirilwtl SulQfcfs^ or hid more l*Jn
quoted in hli tl/e, thai an appi
pracUcnl devnijoa to the Holy UH
SOHOI i?ancimer i» aj becciminj; lu CI
is rare. * I wiab to #e?/ tnld Fatb«
••a mind bawtxl down tterore the b«
candl-ftitk fif ttre Spirit, ifcviil/ i
the brooding air of the lempV^ thf
fyanklTiccDK, and ihe nnearibly U^
rioui Pri?«pnc:c/ And be Eatrnflona
votion of I be Fmnfifcan OriJfT
and Uitf fif m* ^'mUi *Tho*
saintfl whu were d[»ib^iiHbPd i;
devotion to the Holy Oho»l, aod
on tlifl Fca*t of Penlecoet, feetd
with, nr.fl ^nw^ peeuliar eommandi
tares.' Wr will Jusitdd tbitt be t
swera the (hcwlfffifcal diHailty t>f 1
son cno t>e the i>bJL'€t of a epectil d«
same ee*ay.

"Mr. Fc»rmhyi3ow adda bli vole
vious r-nmplftini . gprakli^g of the qi
Pdrt Belot, be remark*;

«"••*)? lhi?wdrer abo^e quoted ht
lament ihj: ibJtt eo meicb }i|,'i»(irmtfiir #1
aa to the giUb of rhu lloTy Ghoa' 9^
tioa la Dit, tbcre caa be 119 mt$e^ §gk

Littrary Bulletin.

paf tli*^ wtikh \st Jinit^titft tlmn the p^cAm^
X M% tiiT owti |«r^^iifi, foTlhcjiiiLdiinCe urn)

^^■Ui l^ itf«ii wr bcUeve lo be irow Hpceiolly
^^Kllio«|ifl tiMa l)t[]plfe«ti»c forlho flrt^ time ^
^^■tolp It i* evw tftf niit «ir4<iiiir U tbt: ttilad
0ifc«fe4tHk M ejpreawNl b/ t^er doctont. Tbua
■ T^OKis** to tll« vrrf rrv&rrnt'T^t uf the Scvrn
?• Ilfi!» »liJe% Mr, Furmby di^rivci to much,
MXlfiil M '^vW A« m>'HUc&l coDDec-
lb* gift Aii4 iK^ b> Bitiailcs whlcb
►-•NT* rT»ii*isil ill iRtfectlOU inilie Mo-
4. «* P'ht* ( ■ thi^ Qil« fu of * All HalDta ' ;
«ai£iti«. lA itii^* ch'ikcii of thli tA thf^

li|e« tK^«it*i? tin;)' ttjul tht; GlfLs; And
MmrlAu'' iI]vr:»}<>j:U]i^ !^^Dr^c— ta wtiom

'^ftJk H^il tbAtiknd him (n* mir Lord hud nU

*s^t%tma'it tut b»vtfiv "o WTitk'H Aboqt tier—

>• ef li^ hvmi d^viduiKiff tif ». '[ Ijuedm In ibe

-ciHfi of th*< ftnlf ^i^trlt We »ay thii to

— «>^fhiit Uir *gtJ|or*tt po»1iifiii. Bca1de«^ we

^4^b«v UK»elli3f eJitiHbatlun \a A Une &i iir^-

I\ 9mmf*9tU^if btr^dTid by the Pr«iich writer
lli^ ■4f4 bf ]>r, Ni>rtlt€i.3^tf4, to tho'W tbci
M'VliE^ii** po^t'Jmi )ti It'pjy StriptQrti. Wc
B|Omioiltc^ I'lvliK* imofiK I^LblLolAterm, to
Siv *tih TtftifLJUu. fiur cxcTiitive H^bt to
ft|r«, and JiJLirj Ui Jniift on Moxy^A pliLco
li. On** ftn^ptft tdoa nficbi ta be eoo^^^h to
tit PtQe««ii«CM ttkhxklhss M>»"Ut htrr In thi; BibEu :
iM ^tt Hui *b« ofMriii wIlU tb« flfJt AQd ^nds
vu^ U» kiit book of the; S^rnrd Vulitmc. And,
m^, Jf««juAii tiuiciit«]y «'jtiif«d frcim ihc two
t« «a ^ciifititrit f«iioii to bold
why Attm krtj the warn ad In tUv
b tha de^'it^ i^iClit the compjuiiou
yf H mk^ U' n. m.« «nd^ If tli« p«tiiece ire par-
tial^ a«a tho wuinmi tn tbu VlrgSu Mother In
iO^ISMi; iitd Ut vilt* Ifl tU« bu|H! nt alk comlDj^
•9a |0 Ibi fli»i, iHi M ahif ttitlf iclory U{)w And fur

" Tk* t«fi ' f >t*r4jiinf*,' w htcH (bll#w each other,
w r*«i ' 111 rt "J lie O Jf t of P let jf , * arfl

ML.i : , ifj4 Ihi.' nr^t Jt v^pc'-jlilly whole-

•■««:, *it^3W4>>K IhetfHi littlfrMitembCrvdhs^lB
4/ 1£#C^lUll«ii i^t A(47. And ii» mii^ht be I'xpet: U?d
t« » bM^k unit^Fii fur ths ' Dmny^htcn of Mary/
IM fcff Bftdll {ir^lif^led Idti of vci^At uQ li not
tait^i«^t<)t Tlitift lit th« uilitruM loihe ' Uaugh-
l«i ftf Eu'i' ' vre read t

"*Vb«i Wtd give hli bcti«dtetinn to bis
*<«i4iBd. tiid« It lui^fui^H; Hud J(ititiJt>!y, ycnr
f4«c« te n tiat ra^Md lo a wundrrful Ait^vhy-n
i^pefiaUkt, iiDdcf like Ci^rlRilMQ Hw^ hut beco
HID ikrIlMr (ftcr^nd^ fur tba ^ok« is tiuw
plK94lif^r»ful|of vlU»rr iheimilirijc the honcr
«f Wftbrrtif * CtirlatUn fiimilr* ^r, bettt-r fltill,
«ief tbi^iixsn ipotttcn i»f Jctoa CbiL^t ; tad

in either case a wonderful trust will bo reposed
in you for promoting the well-being of God's
world bj\he influence of your good example/

" The following passage will best exhibit the
practical and domestic tarn given to the matter
handled :

*' * In the case of the children of a flunily, bow
beautiful soever may have been the example of the
mother while she was yet a maiden, this of course
can form no part whatever of her children's ILrst
early acquaintance with her. Destitute alike of
all ppwer of enquiry into, and capacity to reason
as to, her previons life, they see in her only their
existing protectress and teacher ; and it is by
their own little daily experience that they easily
come to the conviction that it is from her teach-
ing and example that they have most to learn.
There is not wanting a certain beautiful analogy
to this In the example set to her children by the
great Mother of the Christian family. What onr
great Christian Mother's example was when she
was a chosen and elect virgin in the temple, we
can only know in the way of the loving, innooept
belief proper to children, vi2., that it must have ,
been to the fullest measure all that it should have
been. It was plainly not intended that it shonld
be known to us after the manner of an example-
that is proposed for near study and imitation.
It is only wiien the title which we have had gn^
ciously given to us, whereby to claim her as our
mother, is on the very point of being ratified in
the decrees of the Most Holy Trinity, that we
have set boror« us the first definite maternal ex-
ample on her part, which as her children we can
derive profit from closely studying.

** ' And what here is particularly deserving oar
most minute attention is that, as we have said,,
quite in conformity with the wise provision of
the divine Creator regulating what the mother's
pattern ahonld be, her first known example is
fbund to be one inculcating the very lesson,
which, as children of her family, we most of ap
need to learn, at the same time that it is also the
one best suited to our capacities for learning.*

" This lesson ia the ' Fear of the Lord.' ' Come
ye children unto me,' says the divine Spirit, * and
I will teach you the fear of the Lord ' (Ps. xxxill.
12). And the beauUrhl truth, to the discovery of
which we are now come, is that the very first ac-
quaintance which it is given to the children of the
Christian family to make with their great Mother
is one whore her example in the most striking
manner inculcates upon them this lesson of the
* fesr of the Lord.* In her memorable interview
with the holy archangel Gabriel, when her chil-
dren first came to know what her example really
is, she appears before them as one so wholly and
entirely possessed by the * fear of the Lord,* so -
perfectly docile to the holy promptings of this
divine Spirit, as to be found simply immovable
by any rival and cqntrary attraction, simply in-
accessible to so much as any thought or consid-
eration that would draw her away from perfect,
conformity to ita precepts and requirement*.**

Literary Bulletin^

BOOKS OF THE MONTIf,

Undbk this head we intend to give « list of all
the new Catholic Books published in this country
each month, as well as all those published in Eng-
land and for sale here. Publishers will please

tetid H speiuii] edpy t^ the publishH tar Ibil
postc o( hmyiw^ its title inserted bere^
books mentioned be^ow glu be orilereidl if 1
Catholic PtraLidATroM Soci^tt*

NEW AMERICAN BOOKS,

Jfanuai of Vnirertai Church Sittorv.
By Rev. John Alzog. Translated from the
German by Rev. F.J. Pabisch, D.D., and Rev.
Thoa. S. Byrne, Cincinnati. Ohio. Vol. x,
8vo, pp. 780. For sale by The Catholic Pub-
lication Society. Price ^5 00

Sacrum StpUHf^rifm / or lUe SeTco «
the Holy Oho»t a& eAempli^trd in *he fJfe f,
Person oi the liksMd ViTein Ma it. fat]
guidance and iti&lnictioa of C'fiEdrcfL.
Rev. IJeaty Tt^Tm^y. New York : Th« T
Qlk- Publication Sactety, 1 it^w x6m^*^f^

FOREIGN BOOKa

Zife and Zeiierg o/ih0 Countett AdeMam.

By the author of " Kosalie,'* " PaulSeigneret.*'

SioHetofike Sainii for Children. By the
author of "Tom's Crucifix/' "Catherine
Hamilton," etc. Fcap. 8vo. . . ^f 75

£4f€ ofS, Qior. Coiombini. By Fee Belcari.
Translated from the editions of 1541 and 1833.

tr Crown 8vo, with a Photograph Sf 75

ArehdaWt Monasficon Mbemieon.
Edited by Dr. Moran. Vol. I ^fO 60

Ziret of the IHth Sainit. By Rev. J. 0*Han-
Ion. Nos. X, 2, 3, 4, 5 now ready. Price per No.

eoott.

Zeeluret on CaihoHe Failh and fh'aeliee.

By Rev. J. N. Sweeney* O.S.B. 3 vols. ^4. 60

VIrteiory for ^oricet of erety Heiiaioug
Order, pariicutarhf Ihote Iferoied to the
JSducation of Touth ^i 26

Summer Tatkt about Lourdet* By Miss
Caddell ^f 00

Marguertle Hibbert, A Memoir. Bv Very
Rev. R. Cooke, O.M.I 60 ctt.

On Some fhputar Srron Concerning
1\>titiei and Heligion, By Lord Robert
Montagu, M. P. x vol. xamo ^S 00

,A Comparison Vetween the Sitlory of the
Church and the fhropheeiet of the Apoca-
* 'PMC, Translated from the German by
dwinDe Lisle. Paper ^f 00

Beiptrt of the Mo^y Saints. Who and what
they are. With some account of the Life of
their Foundress. By Rev. Charles Garside.

76 cts.

The ZetterSook* of Sir Amiat Ihutet,

Keeper of Mary, Queen of Scots. Edited by

John Morris, S.J. x vol. 8vo S6 26

Me^y ^apere ; or. Thoughts on the Litanies

ot Loretto. By Edward Ignatius Purbrick,

S.J.
7>ame f>otore§ ; or. The Wise Nun of Easton-

shire, and Other Stories S2 00

y>rsictet and Tatee / or. Leisure Hours of a
Youth. By S. Mac Hale Daly ^/ 76

The Diatoguet of S, Gregory the Great.

Edited by Henry James CoIericfge,S.J..^J 00
Flutter ton (Za^y Georgiana). Seven Sto-

rics Sf 60

A Spirituat Compendium, in which the
Principal Difiiculues in the Way of Perfection
are explained. By Father Caspar de la Fi-
guera. of the Society of Jesus. Translated
trom the Spanish by Mrs. R. Bennett Ed*, by
Rev. George Porter, S.J. Forming Vol. VIII.
^f " St. Joseph's Ascetical Library. "...^^ 00
The Zife of Zuita J>e Carrajat* By Lady
FuUerton ^2 60

Ltcturt* on Ctriiftn 7^riio»M ofif^l
tier Otd Iftwettmrni m^iofy* Uf \

Philip G. Mtiuro. i voL lamo,. .,.,..,. J«|
Tht T^-opAf^i of Carmrh A Serl^fi
tkil Coiisidcfairons upon the Histcrf i
in the Old TesUnjcBL By Rcr. C. S;fi___

I val. iJniD^,,. ^ ,,. ^ -..,:... .,m*0Si

fhm Qtfetiion of Ang/ieam

K.AS., Ciiaoii cjf S. Chad'i CalhedtftL 1
miofrbirii. With %n appendijt of or1giii«4
timcDEs and pbolographic fac-sioiiles. t ,

svo..... ...,.„,,-,..,#r<

I^rnw of Arm&HcfM / A Tale of the '
CJilovi«, By J. C, Eatemao.
c]otb. ....,.,*,,,.„._, ...... .,,

A MtiHdred M^tiititiiam on ih^ ,
Gofi, Ky Roben Southwell, of l' _
of Jfi^tis, Priest and Martyr. Wilb
An entirely original work, nowtirsif^
Edited, wttti a prcfac^ep by F. johti L
S.J. % roJ. lama..... . ^,^. ,,,,0S\

Jf&riitati^nt of St. Anttfm^ A nm

laticuj. H V M. R. With Ptefece by tib Gf»f-
the ArchbHshup of WestmiBsief^ .,., 9^^'

Tk^ Life ofthf BietMed Jahm J^erehmm^
Hy K rani: ij; G 4^1 kic, 1 voU r2nio,.^.*,..##J«^

Trttt ie Tf^iti; or, The Storr of a Fertili-
ty <>•

Dr. A'tm-Mfrn's LeciurtM om ^uwiijftviftm^

1 f ol, isnio ^ . , . ^j| JS

Dr. A^tMman > ^ee/tsia^/ie^i and 7^^
/nffienl TraetM . Anew v olucnc of the <*•■»»

Thf f^p^ and ike J^mpetor* XlB* Ui
luri:s d^livcren in the Chyixh of S. JohiiU

ith. By " "
Sweeocy, 0,S.H.. D.D..

Who it Jetut Chriri P Five Leetunel 1
^rcd At the ( uphill k^ Church, SwmQt|& Btl
Risht Rev. Di. lledkv.O.S.B,, HiflWp/
i&ry of Newport and Meni^ria.
noPlcnt&,-L The Word made Flesii, U, .'
licbristi, IIJ. Recfetnplion. IV. Saactii<3
\\ The Abiding Trcis^nce, ..... ...^.,0f I

Z d neiciut i #; , A', ,/, \ M ed iu tioni for 1

Day in the Vciraodlhe Princii'Ji^ KcitH
I tie Very kfv. ¥. N>*.botas Ljar,. .1 '
^wcitfiy oil JciKs. WHh Fiefmcc ? v :^i: >f
(rrorp^ I'orier. S.L KornHTiB^ V oi. iA. «■! "
Joseph'-s A*.i,ct]cal Library/-.... ^....^l J

Zife of iRt. Ser. Sishop Grant. ## ^

The Church and the Empires. Uiitaik«l

Periods by Henry W. Wilbcrforce. Wilk •

Memoir, by Dr. Newman, i vol. 8ro. /tf ^^

Zife of Anne Catherine Xmmeriek. "▼

Helen Kam. i vol. xamo 4^^^

OCT. 15, 1874.
^ This nuperseden aU jMreviaus Catalogues. J^

B0c5ks PUBLISHED

Catholic Publication Society,

19 WARREN STREET, NEW TORK.
Altcntion Is called to the following Catalogue of our Books. The
prices gi%'cn are the retail ones. A large discount is allowed
to Clergymen. Booksellers, Religious Institutions, and Library
Societies.
h\\ l_li« books in this list sent by mail, postage paid, on receipt
* of price.

, HT All the publications of the several Catholic Publishers, both in
^ Ibis country and in England, kept in stock.

iW Koikrn Thought. Contenti : Cbap.
_J* VK«ti<»a of the Cjergy^.—H, Tbe
■nCfjittlf^CDe^IJI. The Oergy Abroad
pt- 71i« Clergy mud Modern Thou if ht
Ptw. arau, , , * 1 51

M7 tfaft iiiiBi« •.utbor.

IS Report of 91 Ciitiference

FrtBcnt Dmsrers of iha Church,

fmtikm of *^Mv^ fJlerital Fdcnds."

I t'» the Coafprence: C»non Llghl-

- "' Icac^'O Tcnnysofij Rev. nyiH

V '' f*l*?iti. The kcKius Proftiisor

' :fte liieltop of Rt>i;beftleTt Rev,

■^ ^ ^ ' liiiles^llieh C&urchmea. The

. -1 ..Hitotif ArcbdeiLCOin Softlv* H«v*

^^^riuuii^n^ton-Low Churchnien. Dean

]mM^, Rfy. i'rebeniilttrv Crecdlca*—

JWQlBrthiurfi. Rev. Mark WcjkJ»el — An-

r4«*Uft«tbiched. 1 vol. i§mti, cloth, 60 O*.

^Ji^GiiB^dj of C^nvocaiioa in the
«^Ent| raurch, Vq Two S<:ett«5, Edited
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«SP I* 'bt F*ji-AiikIic*q SiDod. 8v0,
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Steel Engravings, got up expresslv for this
edition. It contains a complete Vesperal,
with notes and other additions, makmg it xao
pages larger than former editions.

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est Prayer-Book ever publbhed.

DAILY COBQ^ANIOK.

Containing a Selection of Prayers waA

tional Exercises for the use of Cli

Embellished with thirty-six very n«i^-

trative Engravings. 3amo, cloth, 'W^\

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This book is printed on the finest qaality^t
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CHRISTIAX^rS GUIDB

'HEAVBN.1

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CATHOLIC MANUAL.

Containing a Selection of Prayers and

tional Exercises. i8mo, cloth.

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Or. The Day Well Spent. A Manual of Ft^l
*vent Prayers, Pious Reflections, and SdWII
Instructions for Catholics. x8mo. .1

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OABDBN OF THB SOUL|

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r«iall^ Hmisied v^d cla^p, . , 5 DO

Pi0CB 6UIBI! TO FRATISe ANB

DEVOTION.

' — *»«i4piK \»iiijr«i» i'jacUcev <jf Picly cilcti-
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1 '. . GrltmitJStHe Pfoftsslqd of

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^^^^^

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^BjSBVipiteil ffuTn appro rerj sources. New and!

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I fill; . r . . . I tK>
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ft|a*is<»<lv '-i Inth tliFck. iK mchcs Tonif,
ill tjif laebci wide. It contains, beiidea
* &*i^ Bic.^ A Su mttiary af Christian

Doctrine— Morning and Evening Prayers—
The Three LiUnies— The Complete Mass, in
Latin and Bnglish— Vespers— and the Epis-
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MANUAL OF CATHOLIO DIVI-
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The Paople'i Pictorial Lives ef the

Saints, Scriptural and Historical. Abridged,
for the most part, from those of the late Rev.
Alban Butler. In packages of la each. One
packet now ready, containing the lives of
twelve different saints. Per packet, 25 cts.
These are got up expressly for Sunday-school

presents.

Containing Fi ^ „ . ,

from the Old and New Testaments, after

— , niiiitratiims.

ngravings ot Subjects

original deigns by Elster.
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Gospels. Done in colors after original de-

signs.

Price, loose
. . 75 cts.

of the. Holy

after original de-
With appropriate texts, . 25 ctj(.

flited Sondw-School Cards.

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First series, net 30 cts.

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SUmiAT-SCHOOL CLASS-BOOKS.

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TIio Catholic Publication Society,

LAWKKX K KEHOe, Gon. Agent,

Warren Street, New York.

$20 Bonds.

FOR THE SALE OF THB

B oisriD S

OF THB

SECURED BY A

TRUST DEED ON THE WHOLE PROPERTY. AUTHORIZED BY A SPE-
CIAL ACT OP THE LEGISLATURE OP THE STATE OP
NEW YORK, PASSED APRIL 29, 1874.

The Purchaser of a $20 Bond

Will receive for his Bond at the time of redemption the amount invested and a
bonus in lieu of interest The interest on the whole Loan is unequally distribatod
in Premiiuns ranging from $100,000 downwards. In no case can a bond-bokia'
receive less than $21, and may become entitled to any one of ue following sums :

JANUARY AND JULY IN EACH YEAR

$100,000 $3,000 $200

10,000 1,000 100

5,000 500 50

APRIL AND OCTOBER IN EACH YEAR.

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10,000 1,000 100

5,000 500 50

Pour distributions per year — January, April, July, and October — which will con-
tinue imtil the whole loan is redeemed. These bonds are placed at the small de-
nomination of $20, in order to bnng them within the reach of those who ba^
hitherto been debarred from taking an interest in large undertakings.

Every one will here find a safe investment, with guaranteed interest, and Um
additional opportunity of obtaining a very large sum of money. Many million*
have been invested in railroads, without any guarantee of interest or other advantage^
upon the mere atpeetaHon of a doubtful dividend, with the additional risk of a anuttni
decr«a»e of the capital invested. All future allotments will be made precisely •*

•mnvmttid. The next serial drawing vill take place October 5, 1874. It will be an
kiBi&le rale not to pubUsh the names of the holders of the Bonds which draw
pmBiums.

Aj»piy for Bonds, or circulars, or information to

ALBERT WELLS, 67 University Place.
BR08ARY & HIRSCHBERG, 695 Broadway.
E. B. BYINGTON, 268 Broadway.

[From the Herald, Sept. 8, 1874.]
THE

Industrial Exhibition.

Yesterday afternoon Tammany Hall was filled by a respectable gathering to
wftness the first premium drawing of the Industrial Exhibition Bonds, which event
iungorated a new epoch in American finance. The system upon which the draw-
(ng Wit made is one which comes to America with the highest European endorse-
BwBt The French, Prussian, and other governments have raised immense sums —
Wfr 1000,000,000 in gold— by means of this system, which is the creation of
lbs Boihschilds. In the opening address, Hon. F. A. Alberger, President of the
OMpany, stated at great length the workings of the system, saying in the course
of the explanation th^ as each bond only cost $20, it was within the power of the
vQildiigman and tradAnan to assist in one of the greatest enterprises that New York
V^ had ever taken In hand. The system, besides the foreign prestige and expe-
> spoken of, has the sanction of the Legislature of the State by special enact-

Some time since a detailed account of the plans of the Industrial Exhibition Com-
ptBj was published in the SeraM, To restate the object of the Company tersely, it
k to build on what is now known as the ** Cattle Yards," between Ninety-eighth
tod One-hundred-and-second Streets, near Central Park, a Crystal Palace which is
to tenre as a perpetual museum, exhibition, and sales-mart for the industries of the
tistions of the earth. It is hoped to have the buildings finished in 1876, so that all
Uie products and works of art which have been at Pliiladelphia on exhibition can be
bftmght here and left pennanently as a monument to American and foreign industry.

In the 100 premiums drawn yesterday the following important ones occur :

Scries.
4,770
8,487
6,775

6,007

la an $150,000 in premiums were drawn, as will^be seen from the advertisement
tmbOshed.

Number.

Premium

$100,000

10,000

4 .

6,000

8,000

1,000

K0W Beady t the Second Revised SdUion, in a very neat cmd cMraetHfe voiume^ priakd

in Red and Black, Price in Hoth, heveHed, $S 50 ; cloth gUty t^ ;

morocco antigue, $6.

Bituale Bomanum,

Appendix approved by the Sacred Consregratioii 9^
Rites, and other Additions suited to the
wants and conTenienee of the
Clergy oT the IT. 8.

Ordered by the Tenth Provincial Council of Baltimore.

A NEW AND COMPLETE RUBRICATED EDITION.

THE nndereigiied have the pleasareof annonncing to th« Catholic Clerey of the United SixJMMwA
which has long been needed— a oompUU and authentle edition of the Rltoale KomanvB^ Tkr
Tenth Provincial Council of Baltimore, feeling this want, and desiring to supply it, ordered in its i/tt
session that a complete edition of the Ritual, in conformitv with the latest Roman edition, tbooM te

Sublished. A deputations of competent and experienced clergymen was appointed by the Meit
tev. Metropolitan to arrange and superintend its publication. After a long and careful preparatkM.
we have the pleasure of annomidng that the work is now ready. It is offered to the Catholic CIcref
as an authentic and complete Manual of Sacred Rites, with such arrangement and distribution of buk
ter, and such conveniences for nse and reference, as experience has suggested.

Among other advantages possessed by this edition of the Ritual, we call attention cspedallT ^
the notes introduced at nroper places to secure uniformity in the ailministration of the SscnaMai*
and in the perfoiteance of otner.Rites. The Questions to be put to thf Applicants, and the Ab«w«>
to be made by them, are given not only in the Latin text, but, in thes^ktes also, in Bngiiaki FicDdu
and German, for the convenience of the Clergy. W

THE APPENDIX— What makes this edition of the Ritual especially worthy of patronsee to th
copious Appendix, In which will be found Liturgical Instructions and a large collection of Spcci!
Benedictions, drawn from anthentic and approved sources, never before inserted in the ABcrit>*
editions of the Ritual.

The authority of the Provincial Conncll which ordered this new edition, and the approhi rtw tf
the late Most Rev. Archbishop of Baltimore, \» whose care the preparation of the Ritual was ciB«it^
ted by the Council, are more than a sofflcient guarantee that the work now off^^ to the Bet. Gkir
is all that can be desired.

We trust that the typographical execution of the task with which we have been honored, tnd tt
which we have devoted our best skill and care, will be fonnd, in some degree, commensurate with tbr
character and importance of the work itself. Address orders

MURPHY & CO., PuBUSHERs, Baltimore,

Or L. KEHOE, 9 Warren St., New Yobk.

The Improved Catholic Sunday-School Class-Bool

This little book providee for the registry of the scholars' names, ages, readeDC*' «^
tendance, lessons, conduct, and everything necessary for the good order and velftn
ol the school or class. It is small and can be easily carried in the pocket Price $1 Z^
" ' - - Alan tiiA srOTPiT

dozen. Sample copies sent to Sunday-schools on application. Also, the SXTSDJ^
SCHOOL CLASS-BOOK. This is & large Class-Book, bound in flexible clolh. P'^'
dofcen, ^

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY, 9 Warren Street, New Tori.

KTiDTCR^S GATHOZirlG AGBIffCT,

NEW ORLEANS, LA.,

nom, IlHTCA'nONiLL KSTABUSHMBNTS, mdl CITIZBNS QBN SRAIXY

IWndOTiincd U ftUo prepared to 01] with d««piiich all order* for BOOfiLS, STATIONSBT, and
^H!^59i.*?ilftSS: •• ^•'^52*?^ grmaiAL attrhtioii to the coUtotloo and remittAnoe of TUt
fU BILLB AML OraXB AOOOUNTB dao in thiB sm^ob.

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' O. 0«z t,«L NBW 9RLK AN 8, LA.

lr.FiBn.«Ap,

Have been iamllimrlj asd foTorably knowa
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fvart&r» of a century, with yearly increat-
fug popularity.

Tkty ipeak thalr own prait* wbei<eYer planted.

Landreth'8 Rural Re^ster and Almanao,
1878 will be mailed without eh^ge to aO
^ho apply, inclosing a itamp to prepay
postage.

DAVID LANDREfH & SON,

If OS. tl AMD 18 South Bccth St., TmoADmirnik..

JOHN HAROLD,

Sexton iSc Undertaker,

GHUHOH OP BT. PAUL THE APOSTLE,
(Mth Street and 9th Ats., New Tork.

Residence, 921 Eighth Avenue,

Betwesn 64th and 65th SWeets.

MBTAZlkC AND OTHER CASKE18.

Fonsralt ftuniahad with ererything requisite.

Standard American Billiard Tables.

TRADX

MARK.

H. W, GOlMLSIffDER,

Successor to PHELAN & COLLENDER,
738 Broadway f

r- 0. Box 1847, NEW TORK.

Mi^ Mlt, «Mt, m4 arvntklBt trnwUlalaf to BlUtorda »t lawMt pricM. IUmImM CM»

l«tM* Mat kjr aalL

DRADDY BROTHERS,

XONUHENTAL SCULPTORS.

1446 4N0 1448 BROADWAY.

Iw > otty S iwd Mnm, » JTmv r«rfe.

>««««. TMika. A1«MB, ShH, «!».

THE (LONDON) TABLET.

A WEEKLY NEWSPAPER AND REVIEW.

(K8TABLI8HBD 1840.)

Ah effort has been made during the last three years — and it ba^ proved in cTerj re-
Rpeot suoceHsfnl — to raie^ the cbaraoter of the Tablbt to a level with the tastes and cal-
trvation of the most highly educated classes among English-speaking Catholics. It has
attained a wide circulation not only among the clergy and the ^dacated Catholics ip the
British Empire, but is also extensively reaa in the l^ndon clnbs, and by Statesmen and
Anglicans, aod such as, from eitber religions, social, or political motives, deaire to keep
themselves informed on important Catholic events, or to test from week to week the state
^ ef tbe Catholic mind and feelingf. It is now obtaining an extended cironlation among
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In politics, the Tablet belong to no party. It professes to be simply Catholic, and
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An important feature in the Tablet, and one which will commend it to the Gathohot
•( America, is its carefully prepared editorial chronicle of the week's news, which is not
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Those interested in Catholic and general literature will find reviews and notioes of
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With regard to Koman news, the Tablet has peculiar advantages on account of iti
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All official documents published by tbe Holy See, having any kind of public or gea-
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priate title-page, and forwarded to all subscribers.

The Tablet consists of from thirty-two to forty pages each number.

A reduction in price has been made in favor of American annual subscribers who
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Catholic Opinion.

HOME AND FOBEION AND EDUCATIONAL BEGOBD.

A New Series, priee One Penny, U^ietrated.

CXmtAining the bett selections from tbe Catholic Continental, American, and Colonial Papan, with*
ilgMt of the Bnglish Press on Catholic Topics.

The Summary of News will principally chronicle the erents occnrrlng shace the Iseoc of tbeMtf-
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Space will be glren to everything concerning the Propagation of the Faith thronghoat these ktBr
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On tbe first Wednesday of each month, one-half of the paper will be deroted to an Bdncstlooil US'
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Ii MWM of Pablicatioo, and to be completed In Twelre Royal OcUto Volamea, comprielDg 180 Partt
rc^Mctlvely of 64 pagee each Part, nnder an Elaborately Designed Oorer, and profaeely ninatnted
witb fcreral £)«gaot Eograyinge of Ecclesiastical Rains and Objects associated with the snbject,

LIVES OF THE IRISH SAINTS,

Compiled from Huinscript and other Sources,

With the Commemoratioiis and Festirails of H0I7 Persons,

• WOTBD IH

Calendars^ Martyrologies, and Various' Works,

DOBfBSTIO OR FORSldN,

RSLATIMO TO

The Ancient Church History of Ireland.

BT THB

• REV. JOHN O'HANLON, M.R.I A.

iKfa Volume will contain, on an areraf e, Ten Parts, or MO elegantly and flosely-priatcd pagMi
tnm a new font of medisTal and Irish type, impressed on fine-toned paper. The Parts will Bot iflsiM*
•AcMT than once a fortnight

Futo 60 cents each. Address

The Catliolic Publication Society,
LAWBENCB KEHOE, Gen. Agent,

No. WABBBN 8TBBET, N8W TOBK.

1^ F, FABBELL

(late U. 8. COK BUL AT CADIZ),

Attorney & Counsellor-at-La^v,

No. 7 Warren Street, New York.

ReferencM : THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY.
Smneia Maria Jmmaeuiaiat ora pro ppputOm

THE TWELVE MYSTERIES

or THB

HOLY CHILDHOOD.

TKANSLATED FROM THE '* RACCOLTA DBLLE iNDULGENlEr

BY THl

REV. HENRY FORMBY.
With Engrmvings 0/ each Mystery by Artists of the School of DOssekhrf
• SECOND EDITION.

Piper, • • 15 Cents. | Cloth, . • 50 Cents.

IkCitkiie i^UicilioD Soeietj, iiwresee lleboe, Geoerai Agent, Ma 9 Wami St, Ret Tort

M M Seasonal Mh oi tie Sacred Heart We.

Manual of tfie SodalUy of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. S«?cond Ef» lArgwl
• Edition. Just Publisbed. 33rao, cloth, 50 eta. ; cloth gilt, 75 eta.

Tbe 86dalitj of the Sacred Heart, a<* \ ere proposed, has been eelabHshed in neveral pari!«ha«k 9mM i
other* are de-^iroas to Introduce it. The Meamng^r of tfu Sacred Htart Imp rt:c«iimeo«ieil
8«KlaUty a« one of the be^t methode of practis^itig the dovoiioii to the Sacred Heart. To rendO'
second edition more worthy of the palronago of all the devout clients of the Sacred Urirt,
numbers of th" Sodality or not, It ha* been injide a. comp .etb manual op drv«tion to thk
Heart. i»o that all may And in it the mental or vocal pjajor* which they may de«ire, either
oee or for the occasionn ofsp'TJat devotions to iho Sacreil HeArt which cccar during the year.

The Paradise of Ood; or, Tiie Virtues of tike Sacretl Heart of *Wi

By a Father of the S<»ciety of Jesus. $1.
This work la the result of deep meditation on theGospele, and showB the Sirn-tl Ue.irt In II
and action hh a perfect model of our hearts. It explains what may and should bo ih^' practlciy
of devotion t(» the Sacred Heart on our own lives.

Devotion fo </*« Sacred Heart ofJesas, From the" Italian of Hey. 8. Fj

S.J. Cloth, $1 ; and Cheap Edition, paper, 30 eta. (50 C(»pies», $10; 100 ^ ^

*18.) ^ 4

This is the Second and much Improved Edition of an excellent and complete treatise on thmm^
ject, at unce doctrinal and practical, and full of unction.

Catechism of Devotion to the Sacred Heart. By Rev, F. R. Pierick, AJ;
Cloth, 40 ct8. ; paper, 35 cents ; per 100, $15 net.

Catechistn of the Apostleship of Prater, By a MiBaionafy Priest. Cl«ttp
40 cts. ; paper, 25 eta. ; per 100, $15 net. ^

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CATHOLIC WORLD.

, ■ • VOL. XX., No. 117.— DECEMBER, 1874.

PERSECUTION OF THE CHURCH

EMPIRE.

IN THE GERMAN

■ T>m Catholics are. suffering to-
mjffisi the very heart of Europe, a
filiecution which, if less bloody, is
Wtt less cruel or unjust, than that
^Mch afflicted the Christian Church
■CmIm beginning of the IVth century,
Wder the reign of the brutal old
MipeTor, Diocletian. The prisons
flC Germany are filled with confes-
fln of the faith, who, in the midst
Cf tvery indignity and outrage, bear
AtMselves with a constancy and
tkfOBm not unworthy of the early

Styrs. And it is strange, too, that
itniggle should be only a renew-
lloFthe old conflict between Christ
al Cesar, between the Son of
Mm and the prince of this world.
ftl bcty anti-Christian Europe is
VriOg every exertion to re-create
•Iritty on the model of Grecian
f™ Koman paganism. This ten-
i qr is manifest in all the various
i \t of thought andfpction.
'■ > perceive it — and we speak

iaorc particularly of Germany —
eratnre, in science, in the man-

ner of dealing with all the great
problems which concern man in his
relations with both the visible and
the unseen world ; and it looms up
before us, in palpable form and gi-
gantic proportions, in the whole at-
titude of the state toward the church.
There has never lived on this earth
a more thorough pagan than Goethe,
the great idol of German litera-
ture, to whom the very sign of the
cross was so hateful that in his no-
torious Venetian Epigram he put
it side by side with garlic and ver-
min. The thought of self-sacrifice
and self-denial was so odious to his
lustful and all-indulgent nature that
he turned from its great emblem
with uncontrollable disgust, and
openly proclaimed himself a *' deci-
dirter Nichtchrist." " Das Ewig
Weibliche " — sensualism and sexu-
alism — were the gods of his heart, in
whose praise alone he attuned his
lyre. And Schiller, in his Gor/s of
Greece^ complained sorrowingly that
all the fair world of gods and god-

ordiof to Act of Con(n%ss, in the year 1874, by Rev. I. T. Ubckbr, ia the Office of
the LibinrUm of CoogresB, at Washington, D. C.

290 The Persecution of the Church in tfte German Empire.

desses should have vanished, that
one (the God of the Christian)
might be enriched ; and with ten-
der longing he prayed that "na-
ture's sweet morn " might again
return.

Both the religion and the philoso-
phy of paganism were based upon
the deification of nature, and were
consequently pantheistic. Now,
this pagan pantheism recrudescent
is the one permanent type amid
the endless variations of modern
German sophistry. It underlies
the theorizing of Schelling, Fichte,
and Hegel, as well as that of
Feuerbach, BUchner, and Strauss.
They all assume the non-exist-
ence of a personal God, and trans-
fer his attributes to nature, which
is, in their eyes, the mother of all,
the sole existence, and the supreme
good. This pantheism, which con-
fuses all things in extricable chaos,
spirit with matter, thought with
sensation, the infinite with the finite,
destroying the very elements of
reason, and taking from Lui-^iu-l^
its essential meaning, has infected
all non-Catholic thought in Ger-
many. When we descend from the
misty heights of speculation^ wc liod
pantheistic paganism in the idola-
try of science and culture, which
have taken the place of dogma and
morality. It is held to be an axiom
that man is simply a product of
nature, who knows herself in him
as she feels herself in the animal.

The formulas in which the thought
is clothed are of minor importance.
In the ultimate analysis we find in
all the conflicting schools of Ger-
man infidelity this sentiment, how-
ever widely its expression may vary :
that nature is supreme, and there
is no God beside. The cosmos, in-
stead of a personal God, is the ulti-
mate fact beyond which science
professes to be unable to proceed ;

and therefore the duality of ends,
aims, and results which underlies
the Christian conception of the
universe must necessarily disappear.
There is no longer God and the
world, spirit and matter, good and
evil, heaven and hell ; there is not
even man and the brute. There is
only the cosmos, which is one ; and
from this it necessarily follows that
the distinction between the spirit-
ual and the temporal power is un-
real and should cease to be recog-
nized.

Now, here we have discovered
the very germ from which the whole
Prussian persecution has sprung.
In the last analysis it rests upon the
assumption that the spiritual power
has no right to exist, since the
truths upon which it was supposed
to be based — as Cod, the soul, and a
future life — are proven to be myths.
Hence the state is the only auto-
nomy, and to claim authority not
derived from it is treason. Thus
the struggle now going on in Prussia
is for life or death. It rages around
the very central citadel of the soul
and of all religion. The Catholics
ofyGermany are to-day contending
for what the Christians of the first
centuries died — the right to live.
To understand this better it will be
well to consider for a moment the
attributes of the state in pagan
Greece and Rome.

Hellenic religion, in its distinc-
tive forms, had its origin in the
deification of nature and of man
as her crowning work, and both
were identified with the state.
Hence religron was hero-worship;
the good man was the good citizen,
the saint wa^the successful warrior
who struck terror into the enemies
of his country, and thus the reli-
gious feeling was confounded with
the patriotic spirit. To be a true
citizen of the state, it was neces-

Th€ Pers€€Utum of the Church in the German Empire, 291

sary to profess the national reli-
gion ; and to be loyal to the state
was to be true to its protecting
gods. The highest act of religion
H'as to beat back the invader or to
die gloriously on the battle-field.
Indeed, in paganism we find no
idea of a non-national religion.
The pagan state, whether imperial,
monarchical, or republican, was es-
sentially tyrannical, wholly incom-
patible with freedom as understood
in Christian society. To be free
was to be, soul and body, the slave
of the state. Plato gives to his
ideal Republic unlimited power to
control the will of the individual,
to direct all his thoughts and ac-
tions, to model and shape his whole
life. He merges the family and its
privileges into the state and its
rights, gives the government abso-
Inte authority in the education of
its subjects, and even places the
propagation of the race under state
supervision.

The pagan state was ako es-
sentially military; recognising no
rights except those which it had
not the power ^o viohue. Novr^ I he
preaching of Christ was in direct
contradiction to this whole theory
of government. He declared that
God and the soul have rights as
well as Caesar, and proclaimed the
higher law which affirms that man
has a destiny superior to that of
being a citizen of any state, how-
ever glorious ; which imposes upon
him duties that transcend the
sphere of all human authority.
Thus religion became the supreme
law of life, and the recognition of
the indefeasible rights of con-
science gave to mamcitizenship in
a kingdom not of this world. It,
in consequence, became his duty
as well as his privilege to obey first
the laws of this supernatural king-
dom, and to insist upon this divine

obligation, even though the whole
world should oppose him.

This teaching of Christ at once
lifted religion above the control of
the state, and, cutting loose the
bonds of servitude which had made
it national and narrow, declared it
catholic, of the whole earth and
for all men. He sent his apostles,
not to the Jew, or the Greek, or
the Gentile, but to all the nations,
and in his church he recognized no
distinction of race or social condi-
tion — the slave was like the free-
man, the beggar like the king.

This doctrine, the most benefi-
cent and humanitarian that the
world has ever heard, brought forth
from the oblivion of ages the all-
forgotten truth of the brotherhood
of the race, and raised man to a
level on which paganism was not
able even to contemplate him ; pro-
claiming that man, for being simply
man, irrespective of race, nation-
ality, or condition, is worthy of
lionrjr arid reverence. Now, it was
precisely this catholic and non-na-
tional rharacter of the religion of
Christ which brought it into con-
flict with the pagan state. The
Christians, it was held, could not
be loyal citizens of the empire, be-
cause they did not profess the reli-
gion of the empire, and refused to
sacrifice to the divinity of Caesar.
They were traitors, because in those
things which concerned faith they
were resolved not to recognize on
the part of the state any right to
interfere; and therefore were they
cast into prison, thrown to the wild
beasts in the Amphitheatre, and de-
voured under the approving eyes
of the worshippers of the emperor's
divinity. This history is repeating
itself in Prussia to-day.

Many causes have, within the
present century, helped to strength-
en the national feeling in Germany.

292 The Persecution of the Church in the German Empire.

The terrible outrages and humilia-
tions inflicted upon her by the piti-
less soldiers of the first Napoleon
made it evident that the common
safety required that the bonds of
brotherhood among the peoples of
tlie different German states should
l>e drawn tighter. The develop-
ment of a national literature also
helped to foster a longing for na-
tional unity. In the XVIIth, and
even down to nearly the end of the
XVIilth, century, French influence,
extending from the courts of prin-
ces to the closets of the learned,
gave tone to both literature and
politics.

Leibnitz wrote in French or Latin,
and Frederick the Great strove to
forget his own tongue, that he might
learn to speak French with idiomatic
purity — an accomplishment which
he never acquired.

As there was no German litera-
ture, the. national feeling lacked one
of its most powerful stimulants.
But in the latter half of the XVIIIth
century, and during the first half
of the XlXth, a literature rich, pro-
found, thoroughly German, the crea-
tion of some of the highest names
in the world of letters, came into
existence, and was both a cause
and an effect of the national awak-
ening. Goethe especially did much,
by the absolute ascendency which
he acquired in the literature of his
country, to unify and harmonize the
national mind.

Still, a thousand interests and
jealousies, local and dynastic, old
prescriptive rights, and a constitu-
tional slowness and sFliggishness in
the Germanic temperament, stood
in the way of a united fatherland,
and had to be got rid of or over-
come by force before the dream of
the nationalists could become a
reality.

Prussia, founded by rapine^ built

up and strengthened by war and
conquest, has always been a heart-
less, self-seeking state- The young-
est of the great European states,
and for a long time one of the most
inconsiderable, she has gradually
grown to be the first military power
of the world. Already, in the time
of Frederick the Great, she was the
formidable rival of Austria in the
contest for the hegemony of the
other German states. This strug-
gle ended, in 1866, in the utter de-
feat of Austria on the field of Sa-
dowa. Hanover, Saxony, Hesse-
Cassel, and other minor principa-
lities were at once absorbed by
Prussia, who, besides greatly in-
creasing her strength, thus became
the champion of German unity.
But German unity was a menace
to France, who could not possibly
maintain her preponderance in
European affairs in the presence of
a united Germany. Hence the ir-
repressible conflict between France
and Prussia, which ended in the
catastrophe of Sedan.

The King of Prussia became the
Emperor of Germany, and German
national pride and enthusiasm
reached a degree bordering on
frenzy.

By a remarkable coincidence the
Franco-Prussian war broke out at
the very moment when the dogma
of Papal infallibility was defined,
and immediately after the capitula-
tion of Sedan, Victor Emanuel took
possession of Rome. The Pope
was without temporal power— a
prisoner indeed. The feeling against
the newly-defined dogma was es-
pecially strong in Germany, where
the systematic warfare carried on
by the Janus party against the
Vatican Council had warped the
public mind. France, the eldest
daughter of the church, was lying,
bleeding and crushed, at the feet of

The Persecution of the Church in the German Empire. 293

ihc conqueror. The time seemed
CO have arrived when the bond
which united the Catholics of Ger-
many with the Pope, and through
him with the church universal,
might easily be broken.

The defection of Dollinger and
other rationalistic professors, as
well as the attitude of many of the
German bishops in the council, and
the views which they had expressed
with regard to the probable results
of a definition of the infallibility of
the Pope, tended to confirm those
who controlled the policy of the
new empire in the opinion that there
would be no great difficulty in form-
ing the Catholics of Germany into
a kind of national religious body
wholly subject to the state, even in
matters of faith. If we add to this
the fact that the infidels of our day
bave a kind of superstition which
leads them to think that all religious
faith has grown weak, and that those
who believe are for the most part
hypocritical, insincere, and by no
means anxious to suffer for con-
science* sake, we shall be able to
understand how Bismarck, who is
utterly indifferent to all religion,
and who believes in nothing ex-
cept the omnipotence of the state,
should have persuaded himself to
destroy the religious freedom which
had come to be considered the
common property of Christendom.
Already, in the month of August
immediately following the close of
the war with France, we find the
Xorthern German press, which ob-
^uiously obeys his orders, begin-
ning to throw out hints that Rome
had always been the enemy of Ger-
nuny ; that her claim.s,were incom-
patible with the rights of the state
And hurtful to the national develop-
ojcnt ; and that, in presence of the
ncwly-dcfincd dogma of Papal in-
Whbility, the necessity of resist-

ing her ever-increasing encroach-
ments upon the domain of the civil
authority had become imperative.
The watchword given by the official
press was everywhere re-echoed by
the organs of both infidel and Pro-
testant opinion, and it at once be-
came evident that the German Em-
pire intended to make war on the
Catholic Church.

There was yet another end to be
subserved by the persecution of the
church. Bismarck made no secret
of his fears of a democratic move-
ment in Germany after the excite-
ment of the French campaign had
died away, and he hoped to avert
this danger by inflaming the religi-
ous prejudices of the infidel and
Protestant population.

On the 8th of July, 1871, the
Catholic department in the Ministry
of Public Worship was abolished,
and the government openly lent its
influence to the Old Catholic move-
ment.

According to the Prussian consti-
tution, religious instruction in the
gymnasia is obligatory; but where
a portion or all of the students were
Catholics, the state recognized that
their religious instructors should
not be appointed until they had
received the approbation of the
bishop. Dr. Wollmann, who had for
a long time held the oftice of
teacher of religion in the Catholic
gymnasium of Braunsberg, aposta-
tized after the Vatican Council, and
was, in consequence, suspended
from the exercise of the priestly
office by his bishop, who declared
that, since Wollmann had left the
church, he could no longer be con-
sidered a suitable religious instruc-
tor of Catholic youth. Von Mahler,
the Minister of Public Worship,
refused to remove Wollmann ; and
since religious instruction is com-
pulsory, the pupils who could not in

294 I'f^ Persecution of the Chuuh in the German Empire.

conscience attend his classes were
forced to leave the school.

This act of Von Miihler was in
open violation of the Prussian con-
stitution, which expressly recogniz-
ed in the Catholic Church the right
of directing the religious instruction
of its members.

To require that Catholics should
send their children to the lessons
of an excommunicated priest was
to trample upon the most sacred
rights of conscience. By declaring,
as in this case, that those who re-
jected the dogma of infallibility
were true Catholics, the German
government plainly showed that it
intended to assume the competency
of deciding in all matters of faith,
and consequently to wholly ignore
the existence of any religious au-
thority distinct from that of the
state.

Bismarck's next move was not
less arbitrary or tyrannical. He
proposed to the Federal Council
and Reichstag a law against what
was termed the abuse of the pulpit,
by which the office of preaching
should be placed under the super-
vision of the police.

This law, which was passed by a
feeble majority, was simply a re-
newal of the attempt to suppress
Christianity made by the Jewish
Council in Jerusalem when the
apostles first began to preach in
the name of Jesus, without asking
permission of the rulers of the peo-
ple : **But that it may be no fur-
ther spread among the people, let
us threaten them, that they speak
no more in this name to any man.
And calling them, they charged
them not to speak at all, nor teach
in the name of Jesus " (Acts iv.

The injustice of this law was
very well shown by the Saxon
member of the Federal Council,

who pointed out the fact that, whilst
liberty of speech was denied to
Catholic priests, socialists and in-
fidels were permitted every day to
attack the very foundations of all
government and civilization.

This, however, is but the neces-
sary consequence of the theory of
the state-God. To preach in the
name of any other God is treason;
whereas atheism is the correlative
of the omnipotence of the govern-
ment. That the present tendency
in Germany is to put the nation
in the place of God is expressly
recognized by the Aligemeine Evang^
Luth, Kirchenseitung^ which is the
organ of orthodox Lutheranism.
These are its words : . " For the
dogmatic teaching of Christianity
they hope to substitute the nation-
al element. The national idea will
form the germ of the new religion
of the empire. We have already
seen the emblems which foresha-
dow the manner in which this new
worship is to be organized. In-
stead of the Christian festivals, they
will celebrate the national memo-
ries, and will call to the churches
the masses to whom the road is no
longer known. Have we not seen,
on the anniversary of Sedan, the
eidolon of the emperor placed upon
the altar, whilst the pulpit was
surrounded with the busts of the
heroes of the war }

" During eight days they wove
crowns of oak-leaveS and the church
was filled ; whilst out of ten thou-
sand parishioners, scarcely a dozen
can be got together to listen to the
word of God. Such is the religion
of the future church of the empire.
Little more i» needed to revive the
ancient worship of the Romaa em-
perors ; and if the history of Ger-
many is to be reduced to this duel
between the church of the emperor
and that of the Pope> we must see

The Persecution of tJte Church in the German Empire, 295

cm which side the Lutherans will
stand/'

The next attack on the church
was made under cover of an enact-
ment on the inspection of public
schools. A project of law was pre-
sented to the House of Deputies,
excluding all priests from the in-
spection of schools, and at the same
time obliging them to undertake
this office whenever asked to do so
by the state authorities. This latter
clause was, however, so openly unjust
that it was rejected by the House.
But the law, even as it stands, is
a virtual denial that Catholic schools
have any right to exist at all, and is
an evidence that the German Em-
pire intends to destroy Christian
faith by establishing an atheistic
system of popular education.

And now war was declared against
ihcje^ts. Tlie Congress of the Old
Catholics, which met at Munich in
September, 187 1, had passed violent
resolutions against the order; and
later the Old Catholic Committee at
Cologne presented a petition against
the Jesuits to the imperial Parlia-
ment.

The debate was opened in the
month of May, 1872. A project
of law, restricting the liberties of
religious orders, and especially di-
rected against the Society of Jesus,
was brought before the Federal
Council and accepted by a large
majority. When it came before
the imperial Parliament, amend-
ments were added rendering it still
wore harsh and tyrannical. The
order was to be shut out from the
empire, its houses to be closed,
foreign Jesuits were to be expelled,
«d the German members of the
society were to be confined to cer-
^*'n districts ; and the execution of
^hese measures was to be entrusted
to the Federal Council.
On the 4th of July the law receiv-

ed the approval of the emperor, and
on the 5tli it was promulgated.

Thus in the most arbitrary man-
ner, without any legal proceedings,
hundreds of German citizens, against
whom there was not the slightest
proof of guilt, were deprived of all
rights and expelled from their coun-
try. Besides, the measure was bas-
ed upon the most ignorant miscon-
ception of the real condition of the
church, and was therefore neces-
sarily ineffective. The religious
orders and the secular priesthood
do not represent opposite tendencies
in the church ; their aims are iden-
tical, and, in our day at least, the
secular priests are as zealous, as ac-
tive, and as efficient as the members
of the religious orders.

What end, then, was 10 be gained
by expelling the Jesuits, whilst de-
voted and faithful priests were left
to minister to the Catholic people,
whose faith had been roused by this
scandalous persecution of men whom
they knew to be guilty of no crime
except that of loving Jesus Christ
and his church? The blow struck
at the Jesuits was, in truth, aimed at
the church, and this the bishops,
priests, and entire Catholic people
of Germany at once recognized.
They saw now, since even the possi-
bility of doubting was no longer
left to them, that the German Em-
pire had declared open war against
the church; and Bismarck, seeing
that his half-way measures had de-
ceived no one, resolved to adopt a
policy of open violence. With this
view a new minister of Public Wor-
ship was appointed in the person
of Dr. Falk, who drew up the plan
of the famous Four Church Laws to
which he has given his name, and
which was adopted on the nth of
May, 1873.

In virtue of these laws — which
it is unnecessary to transcribe in.

296 Tlu Persecution of the Church in the Gertnan Empire,

full — the state arrogates the right
of appointing to all ecclesiastical of-
fices, since the government claims
authority to approve or annul all
nominations made by the bishops ;
and the President of the Province
{Oberpraesideni) is bound to inter-
diet the exercise of any religious
function to ecclesiastics appointed
without his consent. The bishop
who makes an appointment to the
cure of souls without the consent
of the civil authority is fined from
two hundred to one thousand tha-
Jers ; and the priest who, appoint-
<ed in this way, exercises spiritual
functions, is visited with a propor-
tionate fine. This is an attempt
to change the very nature of the
church; it is a denial of its righ.t
to exist At ^11. •

The third of these laws creates
the ** Royal Court of Justice for Ec-
clesiastical Affairs," which claims
and possesses by act of Parliament
the right to reform all disciplinary
decisions made by the bishops in
relation to the ecclesiastics under
their jurisdiction. This same court
has by law the right to depose any
ecclesiastic whose conduct the gov-
ernment may see fit to consider in-
compatible with public order.

The Pope is interdicted from the
exercise of disciplinary power with-
in the territory of the Prussian
monarchy.

The state takes control of the edu-
cation of the young men destined to
the priesthood. It requires them to
pass the arbiturienten-examen in a
German gymnasium, and then to
devote three years to the study of
theology in a German university,
during which time they are not to
be permitted to live in an episco-
pal seminary; and thereafter they
are to pass a public examination be-
fore the state officials. All educa-
tional establishments for the clergy,

especially all kinds of seminariesi
are placed under the superintend-
ence of the government, and those
which refuse to submit to this su-
pervision are to be closed. The
education of priests, the fitness of
candidates for holy orders, ap-
pointments to the cure of souls,
the infliction of ecclesiastical cen-
sures, the soundness of the faith of
the clergy, are, in the new German
Empire, matters to be regulated by
the police.

This is not a struggle between
Catholicity and Protestantism; it
is a battle between the Atheist Slate
and the Kingdom of God. The
Protestant Church in Germany
does not alarm Bismarck, because
it is feeble and has no independent
organization, since its ministers
are appointed and ruled by the em-
peror, and it is also well under-
stood that very few of them have
any faith in positive religion.

But the orthodox Protestants
of Germany thoroughly understand
that the attempt to crush the Ca-
tholic Church is meant to be a fatal
blow at the vital principle of all re-
ligion. This is recognized by the
Allgemeine Evang. Luth. Kirchen-
zeitung in the article from which
we have already quoted. **It is
a common remark," says this
organ of orthodox Lutheranisra,
**that the blows struck at the
Church of Rome will tell with re-
doubled force against the evangeli-
cal church. But what is meant to
injure, only helps the Roman
Church. There she stands, more
compact than ever, and the world is
amazed at beholding her strength.
Once the word of the Monk of Wit-
tenberg made her tremble, but to-day
the blows of power make her stron-
ger. Let us beware of illusion ; it is
certain that in the Protestant North
of Germany there has grown up a

The Veil Withdrawn.

297

public opinion on the Church of
Rome which provokes the respect
even of the liberals. We have

enough to do, they say, to fight the
socialists; it is time to Veave the
Catholic bishops in peace.'*

TO BB COKCLUDBD NEXT MONTH.

THE VEIL WITHDRAWN.

tftAJfSLATID, BY PKRMISSION, PSOll THB PBBMCH OF MMB. CKAVBN, AUTHOR OF

** FLEUEANCB," ETC.

*A 8ISTB1t*S story/*

XXVI.

Among the amusements of the
Carnival, there was one in which I
was not in the least tempted to take
part — that of the bal masqud^ or, as
it was called, the Festino di San
Carlo. I ought to remark here,
however, that it was with respect
to this amusement, above all, Na-
pics differed from Paris. There
was no resemblance between the
hth masques at San Carlo and those
given at the opera in Paris. No
virtuous or even prudent woman, I
imagine, would think of venturing
to attend the latter; whereas at San
Carlo it was not only common to
find married women of rank, but
even young ladies under their mo-
thers' protection as at any other
hall. They wore their masks awhile,
amusing themselves, if they had the
turn, with mystifying their friends ;
then, at a certain hour, several
rooms having been formed by
uniting a number of boxes, and illu-
minated, they all laid aside their
masks, and the various coteries, in
groups of ten, fifteen, or twenty
persons, took supper together I
<"crtainly do not pretend to deny
(my story itself would forbid it)
that the opportunity of profiting by
ttiis disguise, in order to pass the
evening in a less inoffensive manner,
*as not made use of by more than

one of the company. It could not
be otherwise, perhaps, in a place
where this kind of folly reigns, even
in a mitigated form. I only wish
to describe its general character at
•that time.

I had not, however, the least
inclination to attend. The very
thought of wearing a mask was re-
pugnant tome, and to see anybody
else with one on caused me a kind
of fear. Besides, I never could un-
derstand what pleasure was to be
found in a mystery of this kind,
which always seemed childish and
trivial, if not culpable and danger-
Qiis. I had neither the faculty of
disguising my voice nor of making
use of the jargon that constitutes
the spirit of a bal masquL I there-
fore flatly refused to join^a party
of twenty persons who were to at-
tend the Festino on Jcudi-Gras^ and,
after participating for awhile in the
amusements of the ball-room, were
to take supper together.

Stella had neither my repugnance
nor my incapacity. She knew how
to play the part of another with
grace and skill, and had been urged,
as well as I, to join this merry par-
ty ; but she denied herself the plea-
sure in order to attend a family
supper with her aged relatives and
their friencjs, and we decided with

298

The Veil Withdrawn.

mutual accord that our amusement
for the day should be confined to
that which awaited us on my aunt's
balcony on the Toledo.

The hour came at last, and found
us under arms — that is to say, our
faces protected by a kind of visor
of wire netting, and all of us, ex-
cept my aunt, dressed in such a
way as not to fear the clouds of
flour we were to face, as well as the
missiles which, under the name of
confetti, were fearful to encounter,
and had nothing sweet about them
but the name. Some carried their
precaution so far as to prepare a
costume de bataille expressly for the
occasion. Of this number were
Teresina and Mariuccia, who, at
Lando's suggestion, had provided
themselves with dresses of white*
cotton ornamented with bows of
rose-colored ribbon, which enabled
them to encounter the showers of
missiles," and were so becoming that
they looked like two of Watteau's
shepherdesses. But my aunt dis-
dained this mixture of elegance and
economy. She did not give a
thought to what was to take place
in the street ; her whole mind Avas
absorbed in what was to occur in
her drawing-room. Regardless of
danger, she put on a dress of yellow
silk of the brightest shade, and set
off her chignon and false braids with
a cap adorned with poppies and
corn-flowers, above which was fas-
tened a bow of red ribbon, which
streamed like a flag from the sum-
mit of a tower. This display was
intended to do honor to the visitors
who merely came for their own
convenience. For the most part,
they only entered her house with
an eye to her balcony : but in order
to obtain access to it, they were
obliged to pass through the draw-
ing-room, where Donna Clelia her-
self was stationed to arrest the pas-

sers-by and exact a tribute of polite-
ness no one could refuse, and which,
brought to such close terms, every
one liberally paid. Never had she,
therefore, in a single day reaped a
like harvest of new and distinguish-
ed acquaintances ; never had she
received at once so great a number
of desirable invitations, for could
they do otherwise than requite hos-
pitality with hospitality } .My aunt
thus had at the beginning of the
day one hour of happiness without
alloy !

At length the battle began in
earnest. To those who have taken
part in such combats it is useless
to describe the enthusiasm and mad-
ness which every one ends by mani-
festing; to those who have not had
the experience it is equally useless
to try to give an idea of it. It must
be acknowledged, however, that the
first volley of confetti is by no
means very amusing to the recipi-
ent, and he is tempted to withdraw
ill-humoredly from what seems at
first mere rough, childish sport. •
Then he endeavors to defend him-
self by retaliating. By degrees the
ardor of combat is awakened; he
yields to it, he grows furious, and
for hours sometimes he persists in
returning volley for volley, nnmind-
ful of fatigue, and regardless of the
blows he receives. One thing is
hurled after another — hard confet-
ti^ fragile eggs, flour, sugar-plums,
flowers, and immense bouquets. . . .
If the ammunition fails, he throws
out of the window whatever comes
to hand. He would rather throw
himself out than ^ve up the con-
test !

This sport had been going on for
an hour, and we were still in full
glee, when the Venetian gondola
made its appearance in the street.
It was welcomed with shouts and
cries of applause from the crowd.

The Veil Withdrawn.

299

In fact, nothing so splendid of this
kind had ever been seen before. It
came slowly alpng, stopping under
every balcony. When it arrived
before ours, it remained a long time,
and a furious combat took place.
Notwithstanding the visor that con-
cealed Lorenzo's face, I easily re-
cognized him by his slender, stately
form. Lando and Mario looked
very well also, but Lorenzo surpass-
ed them all by the grace and ease
with which he wore his costume, as
well as the skill with which he threw
his bouquets to the precise spot he
limed at. He soon recognized me
likewise, and threw me a bunch of
roses! . . .

Alas ! those withered roses. I pre-
served them a long time in memory
of a day that was to end in so
strange a manner ! . . .

After the gondola had gone en-
tirely but of sight, I concluded to
leave the balcony, in order to take
some rest while awaiting the return
of the brilliant masquerade. This
would not be till nightfall, when
the gondola was to be illuminated
throughout. I had therefore nearly
an hour before me in which to
repair my strength. But when I
entered the drawing-room, I was
frightened at the sight which met
my eyes. My poor aunt's brilliant
toilet had undergone the most dis-
astrous consequences possible to
imagine, and I found her so cov-
ered with flour and blood that I
scarcely recognized her!

In this kind of war, as in all others,
nothing is more dangerous than to
attract the attention of the enemy.
A hat, a ribbon, any dress whatever
the least remarkable in its color, in-
stantly becomes the object of uni-
versal aim. It seems Donna Clelia,
after Welcoming her company in the
drawing-room, was tempted to go
and see in her turn what was taking

place on the battle-field ; but no soon-
er had she stepped her foot on the
balcony, no sooner were her poppies
visible, and her red ribbons began
to wave in the air, than from every
balcony, every window, in the neigh-
borhood, there fell on her head such
a hail-storm of missiles of all kinds
that, in a second, not only had her
flowers, ribbons, and chignon disap-
peared under a thick layer of flour,
but, having neglected to provide her-
self with a visor, she had been struck
in the very middle of the face by
some of the confttti I have spoken
of, which are merely hard balls of
plaster in the centre. No one per-
ceived this in the ardor of the com-
bat, no one left the nt^lU to go to
her assistance, and she was still in
•the arm-chair where she had thrown
herself, stunned by the violence of
the attack ! . . .

I sprang towards hor, and hasten-
ed to bathe her face with cold water.
I then saw it was only her nose
(a somewhat prominent feature in
her face) that had suffered a slight
contusion, though sufficient to in-
undate her laces and yellow dress
with blood, so that the damage they
sustained, as well as her head-dress,
was irreparable ! . . .

But in the midst of all this my
aunt remained cool and courageous.
Like a general wounded on the day
of victory, she smiled at the result
of her rashness, and, while I was
ministering to her wants, she ex-
claimed :

"It is nothing; no matter! Thanks,
Gine vrina m ia ! Che bel divertimento!
I never passed such a day in my
life ! ... Do you know, the Duch-

essa di L has invited me to play

lapignaia * at her house a week from
Sunday. And then the gentleman

* A childish amusement resorted to the evening
of the first Sunday in Lent, as a kind of supplement
to the CarnivaL

300

The Veil Witlidrawn.

with H.R.H., the Count of Syra-
cuse, has promised to get me
an invitation to one of the amateur
comedies. And the gondola — what
do you say to that? Didn't your
husband look handsome enough for
you? . . . How xi////a//V^ that Lor-
enzo is! . . . Ah! figlia mia^ the
Madonna has done well for you ! . . .
I hope she will think of us some
day! ..."

My aunt rambled on in this way
while I was trying to repair her
disordered attire, after dressing her
wounds. This took some time ;
but I still hesitated about leaving
her, though she begged me to re-
turn to the balcony and not trouble
myself any more about her. I
obeyed her at last ; but this inter-
ruption had put an end to my en- '
thusiastic gayety, and, when I re-
turned to my place, I no longer
felt any disposition to resume the
sport I found so amusing only a
short time before. Besides, it was
growing dusk and the combat was
slackening, though the noise and
confusion in the street increased as
the time approached for the return
of the gondola. While I was thus
standing motionless in the obscu-
rity of one corner of the balcony
where we were assembled, I sud-
denly heard some words from the
adjoining balcony of the next
house that attracted my attention :

" Valenzano must be fabulously
rich, but he is going to ruin at full
speed, the dear duke."

** In the first place, he is really
very wealthy," was the reply; " and
when he gains his lawsuit in Sicily,
he will be the richest man in this
part of Italy. I do not consider
ins entertaining company, however
ilistini:;uished it may be, or giving
his pretty wife a new set of orna-
inontH now and then, or throwing
a way a few hundred dollars as he

has done to-day, as an extrava-
gance that will ruin a man of his
means."

" No, of course not, if that were
all."

"What else is there? ... He
used to play high, but they say he
never touches a card now."

The other speaker burst into a
loud laugh, and, afler a moment's
silence, resumed in a lower tone :

" He no longer plays in conapany,
but I assure you Qui a hu Mra
and Qui a JouS jouera. I should
be satisfied with an income equal
to what he spends in one evening
at lansquenet or baccara since he
stopped playing whist and /earii in
the drawing-rooms to which he ac-
companies the duchess."

Their voices grew still lower, and
the few words I heard were so in-
distinct that I only caught the fol-
lowing :

" But as there is no doubt as to
the result of the lawsuit in Sicily,
there is no danger of a catastro-
phe."

At that moment the uproar in the
street became deafening. Shouts
and wild applause announced the
approach of the gondola, and re-
doubled in proportion to its near-
ness. It really presented a fairy-
like appearance. It was lit up
with a thousand lamps of all colors,
and from time to time brilliant
rockets were sent up, casting a mo-
mentary gleam over the crowd, and
then vanishing, leaving everything
in obscurity except the dazzling gon-
dola, which proceeded slowly along
without stopping this time beneath
the balconies. No confetti or flow-
ers were thrown ; the combat was
over. It was now merely a magni-
ficent picturesque spectacle. I saw
Lorenzo again, and more distinctly
than before, for he had taken off
his visor; but he could not see me

The Veil Withdrawn.

301

in the obscurity of our balcony.
He was standing in a group on the
deck of the gondola as it went by.
They were all dressed in Venetian
costumes, which produced an ex-
tTcmely picturesque effect. It was
like a living representation of one
of Paul Veronese's paintings. I
could not take my eyes off so bril-
liant and extraordinary a spectacle,
and the gondola had gone some
distance when I suddenly saw Lo-
renzo (it was really he ; I should
have known him, even if his face
had not at that moment been turn-
ed towards the bright light) rapid-
ly ascend the light staging at one
end of the gondola, holding in his
band a small bunch of jasmine tied
with a white ribbon, which, when
he arrived at the top, he threw to-
wards a window in which gleamed
a little light. ... It reached its
destination. The window imme-
diately closed, the light disappeared,
and Lorenzo descended and was
lost in the crowd that thronged the
gondola. All this took place so
quickly that I could hardly account
for the attention with which I
watched this little evolution and
the degree of vexation it caused me.
Lorenzo, in the course of the day,
had thrown more than a hundred
bouquets of the same kind. Why

was I more curious to know the
destination of this one than I had
been of the rest ? But fatigue and
the deafening noise rendered me
incapable of reflecting any length
of time on what I had just witness-
ed and what I had heard on the
balcony. There was almost im-
mediately a general confusion, for
the return of the gondola was the
signal for dispersing. I remained
till the last to ascertain the condi-
tion of my aunt after her accident,
and did not leave her till she had
promised to go to bed and let the
baroness, who willingly accepted
the charge, accompany her daugh-
ters to the Festino at midnight.

Having returned home, 1 likewise
returned to my room, where I threw
myself on a sofa, exhausted with fa-
tigue. Lorenzo returned at a later
hour. He came up to my room,
spoke affectionately, advised me to
take some repose, and inquired if
I had absolutely decided not to go
to San Carlo. I replied that, even
if I had intended going, I should be
obliged to give it up now. He did
not insist, and my eyes were already
beginning to close when he embraced
me, as he was going away, and said :
"Till to-morrow, Ginevra; for the
Fesiitio will not be over till daylight,
you know."

xxvii.

I slept as the young do when suf-
fering from unusual fatigue — that is
to say, with a sleep so profound that,
when I awoke, I had no idea of the,
lateness of the hour or where I was,
and 1 felt as completely rested as if
I had slept the entire night. The
sound of carriage- wheels on the gra-
vel of the avenue facing my room
bad roused me from my slumbers,
and I now heard steps and the sound
of voices in a subdued tone in the

chamber adjoining mine. My door
soon opened, and Ottavia entered,
moving cautiously, as if she suppos-
ed me asleep. But as soon as I
spoke, I heard a silvery laugh be-
hind her, and, to my great surprise,
Stella made her appearance. She
had on a black domino with the
hood thrown back, and in her hand
she held two masks and another
domino like her own.
" You see I was right, Ottavia," she

302

The VeU Withdrawn.

exclaimed. ** I was sure we should
find her awake, and, what is still bet-
ter, she is dressed ! That is fortu-
nate ! Now, Ginevra, you must ab-
solutely consent to indulge in the
pleasure of spending an hour with me
at San Carlo — only an hour ! Here,
look at the clock ; it is half-past
twelve. I promise to bring you back
before two to continue the fine nap
I have disturbed."

I rubbed my eyes and looked at
her, without comprehending a thing
she proposed.

** Come, come, Ginevra ! " she
continued, "wake up, I tell you,
and listen to what I say. In the
first place, you must know we have
had no supper or company at our
house to-night. My uncle had an
attack of the gout and went to bed
at nine o'clock, and I played cards
with my aunt till midnight. But
just as we were both going to our
rooms, she all at once remembered —
perhaps touched by my good-humor
— how much she used to enjoy going
to the Festinij and told me, of her
own accord, it was not too late to
go, if I knew of any friend to accom-
pany me. It occurred to me at once,
Ginevra, it would be very amusing
for you to go and quiz /'/ Signor
Duca a little. He is absolutely
sure you are in bed fast asleep.
You can tell him a thousand things
nobody knows but yourselves, which
will set him wild with amazement
and curiosity. You can acknow-
ledge everything to-morrow, and he
will be the first to declare it an ex-
cellent joke. As for me, I am not
sorry to have an opportunity of tell-
ing your august brother a few truths
in return for certain remarks about
ray exuberant gayety and levity not
quite to my liking. . . . Come,
come, Ginevra, we must not lose
any time. Consent, and I will tell
you the rest on the way."

It is useless to enumerate the ad-
ditional arguments she used. The
result was, she not only triumphed
over my repugnance, but she suc-
ceeded in exciting a lively desire to
meet Lorenzo in disguise. It seem-
ed to me I could say many things I
should not dare breathe a word of
to his face, and I could thus relieve
my mind of the two or three inci-
dents that had troubled it within
twenty-four hours.

Stella saw I was ready to yield.

" Quick ! quick ! Ottavia, help me
to put on her domino, and above
all, put back her hair so it cannot
be seen. The least curl peeping
out of her hood would be sufficient
to betray her. Now, let us see ; as
we shall have to separate on enter-
ing the hall, we must wear some-
thing not too conspicuous which
will enable us to find each other in
the crowd of black dominos. Let
me hunt for something.*'

She looked around, and soon dis-
covered a large basket, in which
remained a number of small bou-
quets tied with ribbons of all colors,
prepared for the contests that morn-
ing.

" The very thing," said she. And
while Ottavia was executing her
orders and concealing my hair,
Stella selected two small bunches
of flowers, one tied with red, and
the other with white, ribbon.

** Nothing could be better," said
she. " The flowers are alike ; the
ribbons alone different. Look ! see
where I have put my badge. Here
is yours. Put it in the same place,
on the left side near the shoulder."

But when I saw that the little
bouquet she gave me wasof yojwr/V
tied with a white ribbon, the emotion
I felt was extreme. I did not mani-
fest it, however, for I knew if I
told Stella the reason, she would
burst into laughter, and ask if I was

The Veil Withdrawn.

303

going to worry myself about all the
boaquets my husband had thrown
l>y the dozen that day upon all the
balconies on the Toledo, and if I
intended to bring him to an account
for them. I therefore made no
comment on this singular coinci-
dence ; but while I was fastening
the bouquet on, as Stella had di-
rected, I suddenly recollected, I
know not why, it was by giving Lo-
renzo a sprig of jasmine I pledged
myself to be his for life !

Having completed my prepara-
tions, with the exception of my
mas»k, which I carried in my hand
to put on at the last moment, I
drew up my hood and followed
Stella, escorted to the foot of the
staircase by my good old Ottayia,
who, though accustomed to the
follies of the Carnival, shook her
head as she saw me depart, and
looked at me with a more anxious
expression than usual. Was she
thinking of the evening when she
saw me set out for my first ball — of
fearful memory? Did she recall
my mother's anxiety? And did
she remember to beg her to watch
over her child and pray for her,
as she did then ? . . .

As we approached San Carlo, I
was again seized with fear, and re-
gretted having yielded to Stella's
entreaties.

"What will become of us alone
in the crowd with no one to protect
us?" said I.

" Our masks are a sufficient pro-
tection, especially to-night. There
will be so large a number of ladies
of rank at the 'Fcstinh that no one
will venture to say a word to us
that surpasses the bounds of plea-
*iintry. There would be too much
danger of addressing some one who
would resent it. As to our masks,
yoi need not be anxious. The
niics of the bah masques absolutely

forbid any one's touching them, and
these rules are respected even by
those who do not respect any other.
But, apropos of masks, it is time to
put yours on.**

I still hesitated. But at last, as
I was on the point of descending
from the carriage, I decided to
fasten my mask on, and I trem-
blingly followed Stella, or rather,
she took my arm and drew me
along.

My first feeling, on finding my-
self in such a crowd, was one of
inexpressible terror. I was seized
with an invincible embarrassment
and a sensation of suffocation so
painful that it was with all the diffi-
culty in the world I kept myself
from tearing off the mask that
seemed to hinder me from breath-
ing. But Stella laughingly encour-
aged me in a whisper, and by de-
grees I became accustomed to the
deafening sound of the music, the
exclamations and resonant voices
on every side, as well as the sight
of the dominos and masks of all
colors in circulation around us.
She led me on some distance, cau-
tioning me in a low tone to make
no reply, and making none herself,
to the observations here and there
addressed the two " fair masks *'
who were gliding through the
crowd. At length we came to a
pillar, against which we leaned,
and she whispered :

" Let this place be our rendez-
vous. You will certainly see Lo-
renzo pass by in a few moments.
As for me, I do not see your brother
anywhere, but yonder is Landolfo.
I will amuse myself by talking
nonsense with him. Do not be
afraid, and, above all, do not lose
your badge, or I shall be unable to
find you. I will be careful of mine
also. If I arrive here first, I will wail
for you. You must do the same.*'

304

The Veil Withdrawn.

She disappeared as she uttered
these words, and I stood still for
some minutes, looking around with
uneasiness and terror caused by
the impossibility of persuading my-
self I was not seen and recognized
by everybody. But after three or
four gentlemen of my acquaintance
passed by with a mere glance of in-
difference, I began to take courage,
and finally became sufficiently cool
to consider what I should do and
the means of attaining my object.

I began by looking around on all
sides, but for some time it was in
vain. I could not see Lorenzo
anywhere, and had decided to leave
my post in order to search for him
in some other part of the hall, when
all at once I saw him some distance
off, coming in my direction. He
was walking slowly along, looking
around with a certain attention, as
if he was also in search of some
one. We were separated by the
crowd, and it was not easy to reach
him. I advanced a few steps, how-
ever, and at that instant, but only
for an instant, there was an opening
in the crowd which enabled hinj, in
his turn, to see me. I saw a flash
of joy on his face. He recognized
me, it was evident ; by what means
I did not ask. I no longer remem-
bered my intention of mystifying
him. I sprang towards him, and he
towards me. I passed my arm
through his, still too much excited
by my previous fears and my joy
at finding him to utter a word. . . .

A moment passed — a single mo-
ment, brief and terrible, ... for he
spoke — yes, at once, and with vehe-
mence, with passion ! . . . But . . .
it was not to me ! . . . No, it was
to her he expected to meet. I
heard his lips murmur the detested
name that had not met my ear since
I left Paris ! . . .

I was so astounded that I gave

him time to say w.iat I o
to have heard, what I did
to hear! . . . Then . . .
not what impulse I yielded
lost the power of reflectioi
ruptly withdrew my arm f
and fell back with so qi
violent a movement that tl
opened a moment to make
me, and then closed, co
separating me from hino
tore off the flowers and :
wore, and threw them on th<
I could not now be disti
from the other black
around me. But I was n
afraid. I cared for noth
but to get away — to fly a
possible from so horrible
I hurried along in such
rapid way that every one 1
me with surprise, and sto
for me to pass. I thus si
in leaving the hall and rea<
passage, where I was ol
stop to take breath. The
by addressed me, but I h
thing but the words that
sounded in my ears. I ^
scious of nothing but a fe
guish and the rapid beatii
heart.

While standing there, al
. . . O merciful heavens
saw a lady pass only a i
off. . . . She was of my hei
like me, wore a black dom
a sprig of jasmine tied witl
ribbon, similar to the one I
torn off, and doubtless the
eyes had followed a few \
fore ! I recognized her at c
imagined I saw through her
sinister gleam of two la
eyes! She traversed the
and entered the hall, w
disappeared. I trembled
from head to foot, my si|
dim, my strength began to
I felt as if I should die on

The Veil Withdrawn.

30s

if I did not take off the mask that
was suffocating me, and yet I was
still conscious I ought to keep it on
St all hazards. I threw around a
^aoce of despair, hoping to see
Stella, and forgetting she would
not be able to recognize me, even
if she thought of looking for roe so
1st from the spot where she left
mt^ \Vhat torture! Great God! . . .
My strength was gone, my voice
failed me, I felt my knees give way,
when, O unlooked-for happiness!
I saw Mario pass by. The stifled
cry I uttered died away on my lips
before it could reach his ear, but
he saw the effort I made, he felt my
hand on his arm, and stopped. He
began to address me in the cus-
tomary way on such occasions, but
I made no reply. I had recovered
strength enough, however, to draw
him towards the door, and he un-
resistingly followed my lead ; but, as
we were going out, he stopped me
with an air of surprise, and said :

** I am ready to follow you wher-
ever you wish, fair mask, but do
you know yourself where you wish
to go?"

I was only able to incline my
head as a sign of affirmation, and
he suffered me to lead him into the
street. As soon as we were out
of doors, I tore off my mask, and
found strength enough to say :

" It is I, Mario. Help me to get
away from this detestable place !"

"Ginevra!** exclaimed he, draw-
ing me along several steps to look
at my face by the light of the torches
not far off. He seemed frightened
at ray looks. My face was convuls-
ed and lividly pale.

"Good heavens, sister !" said he
gravely, " what has happened ?
How is it you are alone in this
place at such an hour .^ AVhere is
Lorenzo ? Shall I go for him ?"
** No, no ! Oh ! no," I exclaim-
voL.xx. — 20

ed with anguish. " For pity's sake,
Mario, be silent. Help me to get
away, I say. That is all I ask.
Do this, and ask me no questions."

His face darkened. He silently
took hold of my arm, and led me to
the place where he had left his car-
riage. I entered it, and was on the
pofnt of going away without an-
other word ?/hen I bethought myself
of Stella. I hesitated, however, to
expose her to his sarcastic com-
ments, and perhaps to the suspi-
cions I saw were already excited in
my brother's distrustful mind, and
said in a supplicating tone :

" One favor more, Mario, which
I am sure you will no more refuse
your sister than any other lady. I
did not come here alone."

At these words his face assumed
an expression which I answered
with a smile of disdain.

"Do you suppose, Mario, if I
did not come here with Lorenzo,.
I would accept the escort of any^
other gentleman ?" I stopped ai
moment, at once irritated and im-
patient, but finally continued :

" The fact is, Mario, if you must
know it, it was he, it was Lorenzo
himself, I came to see. I wished
to play a joke on him and mystify
him a little, by way of amusing my-
self."

I think my smile must have been
frightful as I said this, for my bro-
ther look anxiously at me, though
he seemed satisfied with my expla-
nation.

" But I have been punished," I
continued, "terribly punished. . . .1
failed in my object, . . . and thought
I should die in the crowd."

I could say no more. The tears
I could not repress choked me.
Mario at once softened.

" I understand, sister — the noise,
heat, and so forth were overpower-
ing. Those who go to a bal mas*

3o6

The Veil Withdrawn.

^u/ for the first time often experi-
ence this, but another time it will
not happen."

" God preserve me from ever go-
ing to another!'* said I in a low
tone. " But I was about to say,
Mario, that the person, the lady,
who came with me is probably
looking for me by this time.
Search fqr her. Her domino is
like mine, and you will know her
by a sprig of jasmine tied with a
red ribbon.**

" I saw such a domino not long
ago on Lando*s arm.*'

" It was she. Find her, and tell
her not to be anxious; that I was
ill, and could not wait for her.
That is all. Thanks, Mario. One

word more, however. As I did
not succeed with regard to Lorenzo. ^
I do not wish him to know any-
thing about it.**

He made a sign that he under-
stood me, and closed the door
of the carriage, which soon took me
home. Ottavia, who alone sat up
for me, was alarmed at seeing me
return in such a condition. I re-
peated the account I had given
Mario, and had no difficulty in
convincing her I was ill. The
change in my face was sufficient to
prove it; but what was this pale-
ness, great God ! in comparison
with the change that had come
over my life within the hour that
had scarcely elapsed ?

xxvni.

This time the thunderbolt had
really fallen on my head! Many
times had I heard it rumbling afar
off, and once I thought myself fa-
tally injured ; but after a few stormy
days, calmness was restored, the
blue sky became visible, and the
sun once more diffused the light
and warmth of renewed confidence
and happiness. The desire of be-
ing happy seconded my effort to
become so. And, as I have re-
marked, the liveliness, buoyancy,
and love of pleasure natural to the
young, as well as the beauty of
Naples and the influence of its
climate, all tended to surround me
with an atmosphere at once ener-
vating and intoxicating. But now,
in an instant, without any warning,
all my hopes were crushed, annihil-
ated, for ever at an end !

" Should Lorenzo become treach-
erous, unfaithful, and untrue to his
word, could I continue to love
him } What would become of me
in such a case V* Such were the
•questions I once asked myself, and

they were the sincere cry of my
heart.

Now all this was realized. A
person more treacherous, more de-
ceitful, more untrue than he it
seemed impossible to find. Every-
thing now became clear. The
words I heard, so plainly interpret-
ed by the instinct they awakened
and that had already warned me so
strangely, enabled me to compre-
hend everything. Whether there
was any good reason or not for his
frequent absence, it was evident he
had always met her. It was there-
fore from these interviews he had
derived the cheerfulness and good-
humor that apparently made him
enjoy so much the comfort and
splendor he afterwards came to par-
ticipate in with me. Once — who
can tell for what reason } — he had
delayed going. It was then, pro-
bably, she came herself to meet him,
not foreseeing, or he either, it would
be before my very eyes ! . . .

Even at the present time it
would perhaps agitate me and dis-

Tlu Veil Withdrawn.

307

turb the tranquillity of my soul,
should I dwell too long on the
thoughts which then overwhelmed
me, and from which I derived the
conviction that I no longer loved
I^renzo. But I suffered from the
deadly chill his treachery had
, struck to my heart. I would ra-
ther have experienced the torment
of jealousy than the chill of indif-
ference. To suffer from that would
still have been life. To suffer as I
did was like being paralyzed, pet-
rified, dead.

Women more generous, more
courageous, and more devoted
than I, had, I was aware, won back
such inconstant hearts, and found
happiness once more in the sweet-
est of victories ; but their example
occurred to me without producing
any impression. I was not in a
condition to be influenced by it.
My aimless life had resulted in the
almost complete prostration of my
strength of volition. In this con-
dition I could neither suffer with
courage, nor act with wisdom, nor
resist temptation with any energy
of will. . . .

O my God ! it is with my face
prostrate in the dust I desire to
write the pages that are to follow.
It is not without hesitation I con-
tinue my account. But the re-
membrance of thy mercy prevails
over everything, and effaces the
very recollection of the faults and
follies that serve to make it mani-
fest! Like our divine poet wan-
dering in the mazes of that gloomy
forest which is the image of life,
\ in my turn, attempt

** To <BMOune of what there good befell ;
AB cIm will I relate discovered there." *

Mario, Stella, and Ottavia were
^i sole confidants of my secret,
and they kept it faithfully. Lo-

*Carey*tZ>aM/#.

renzo had the less reason for sus-
pecting I had been to the ball
when, returning home at six o'clock
in the morning, he learned I had
had a violent attack of fever in the
night, and was not able to rise.
There was no deception in this.
It was not a mere pretext for keep-
ing my chamber, but the too na-
tural consequence of the terrible
excitement of the night I had
passed.

Lorenzo came several times to
know how I was, and manifested
more apparent affection than usual ;
and yet once or twice, though per-
haps my imagination deceived me,
I thought I saw something like em-
barrassment or uneasiness in his
face. I was, however, too ill all
the morning to observe him close-
ly or make any reply to what he
said.

Towards evening I felt better,
and, though still weak, I got up.
Lorenzo came to see if anything
serious was likely to result from
my indisposition, and^ being reas-
sured on this point, he went out as
usual, leaving me alone with Stella,
who had spent part of the day at
my bedside, though I had not been
able to talk with her any more than
with him. Her face was as grave
that day as it was usually smil-
ing. Stella's cheerfulness resulted
from her complete lack of egotism
She regarded the happiness of
others as a treasure from which she
took all she needed for herself; and
was happy, therefore, through sym-
pathy. It was, so to speak, a re-
flected happiness. Admirable dis-
position ! Incapable of exacting
anything in view of her own lot, of
of envying that of others, she was a
delightful friend in times of pros-
perity, and, at the same time, a de-
voted adherent in misfortune, and
the sweet, compassionate confidant

3o8

The Veil Witlidrawn.

of others' sorrows. My disappear-
ance the evening before, the condi-
tion in which she found me in the
morning, the incoherent words I ut-
tered, prepared her for something
serious, and she knew beforehand I,
of all people in the world, would
not hesitate to tell her the truth. In
fact, as soon as we were left alone in
a small sitting-room next my cham-
ber, I gave her for the first time a
full account of all that had taken
place at Paris, as well as the night
before. She listened wjthout in-
terrupting me, and, after I ended,
remained silent for some time.

"This is indeed a good lesson
for me,*' said she at length. "I
am cured for life, I hope, of a folly
like that I committed last night."

"What folly do you allude to?''

" Why, that of coming here and
persuading you to go to a place
where you learned what you might
forever have remained ignorant of.*'

"And continue to be taken in,
deceived, and blinded, to live in an
atmosphere of deception, hypocrisy,
and lies, to love what no longer
merits affection ? No, Stella, no ; do
not regret that, thanks to you, it is
no longer the case. Were I to suf-
fer even a thousand times more,
were I to die of anguish, as I thought
I should on the spot when I saw
that woman pass by, I should be
glad the veil had been torn from my
eyes. I can no longer be happy, it
is true. My happiness is ruined be-
yond repair, but I love truth better
than happiness."

" And do you think," said Stella
after a fresh pause, *' that you can
never forgive Lorenzo?"

" He must, at least, desire it, as
you will acknowledge, and this is
prcrisely what will never happen."

"Why not?"

" Because I know Lorenzo. If I
utter a reproach, it is he who thinks

he has something to forgive. He
really obeys no law but the impulse
that happens to predominate. It is
not in his nature, doubtless, to show
me openly any ill treatment, but he
would break my heart without any
scruple in order to gratify his incli-
nations. I have no doubt he thinks
he has acted with great delicacy, be-
cause he has taken pains to conceal
the base course he has pursued;
and when he finds out I have dis-
covered it, it is he who will think
he has a right to be angry. That
will be the result. AVhat room is
there for forgiveness in such a tis-
sue of falseness?"

" What can I say to you ? It will
be no consolation to hear there are
many women who have husbands
like him. It is sad to feel there is
nothing in the world so rare as hap-
piness. Nevertheless, it is true, and,
for my part, it has often consoled
me for having had so little in my
life. And had I been happy in the
beginning, who could tell what the
future had in reserve for me ?"

" And you have never thought of
marrying again,? You can content
yourself with a life devoid of happi-
ness, as well as of suffering?"

She smiled.

** My life is not so exempt from
suffering as you may suppose. Nei»
ther is it devoid of happiness while
I have my Angiolina. As for mar-
rying again, I have never happened
to meet a person who inspired me
with the least desire of that kind,
and I imagine I never shall."

"It is certain, however, if you
wish to marry, you would only have
the trouble of choosing. "

" Perhaps among men not one
of whom pleases me. Who knows
how it would be if I took it into ray
head to fancy some one ? But let
us leave my affairs and return to you.
Tell me, are you sure Lorenzo has

The VeU Withdrawn.

309

not discovered you were at the
ball?"

"Yes, I am certain he has not.
If he had any suspicion, he would
not conceal it from me. Besides,
he found me too ill at his return
to conceive such an idea. And
yet . . ."

"Well, goon."

"Well, I noticed sometliing that
seemed to indicate he is not so sure
as he was yesterday of my utter ig-
norance of all he has thought pro-
per to hide from me."

" I agree with you, Ginevra. And
shall I tell you what I think ?"

"Tell me."

" That he supposes me to be the
mask he addressed by mistake, and
does me the honor of supposing I
have denounced him."

"What an idea! . .. . Why should
he suppose it was you ?"

"Oh ! by that aberration of mind
common to gentlemen who frequent
masked balls and persist in thinking
they are right every time they are
mistaken."

"But once more: Why should
he suppose you were at the ball?
Your secret has been as well kept
as mine, I imagine."

"Not quite. In the first place, I
spoke to several persons. And
when Mario came to deliver your
message, I could not repress an ex-
clamation of surprise, which betray-
ed me, not only to your brother,
but to Lando, on whose arm I was
then leaning. I do not know wheth-
er it was he or not who spread the
report, but it has certainly been
whispered around that I attended
the/Vj/iw. Lorenzo has taken the
idea I have mentioned into his head,
and of course supposes what I know
has been communicated to you, or
will be. This is what I have been
wishing to say to you."
My faithful Ottavia now made her

appearance to warn me it was time
to retire. Stella left me, and, after
her departure, I began to reflect on
her conjecture and consider what
reply I should make, should Loren-
zo question me on the subject. I
was far from suspecting the means
he would adopt to anticipate the
scene he foresaw.

I was alone the following morn-
ing when I saw him enter, calm,
smiling, and self-possessed, as if there
was no actual or possible cloud be-
tween us. He spoke of my health,
and, satisfied that I was really bet-
ter, proceeded to more indifferent
subjects, and then suddenly, with an
assurance the recollection of which
still astonishes me, he said :

"Apropos, Ginevra, the Mar-
chesa di Villanera has been in
Naples several days."

I turned pale.

" Oh ! do not be alarmed," said
he. " I have not the slightest inten-
tion of asking you to receive her. I
remember too well the sentiments
you expressed on this point at Pa-
ris. No, I wish instead to let you
know I am going to escort her to
Milan myself, and shall remain there
till after the Carnavalone."*

My heart gave a violent bound.
I could not utter a word, but the
surprise that rendered me dumb
enabled me to be calm, and, when I
finally recovered my voice, I said :

" You are at liberty to go where
you please, Lorenzo. It is a liber-
ty, moreover, you have always had,
and have already made use of, and
I cannot conceive why this time (I
emphasized these words) you feel
obliged to tell me the precise object
of your journey."

" Because I wish to be frank with
you this time, and I should have
been so before had I not remem-

* A prolongation of the Carnival pectiUar to MQon,
where it huts four days longer than elsewhere.

3IO

The Veil Withdrawn.

be red your reproaches* and wished
to spare you the occasion of renew-
ing them. Besides, I no longer
have it in my power to prevent
your jealousy, or forbid the con-
jectures you think proper to indulge
in/'

" Lorenzo 1" I said almost in a
scream, and I was on the point of
giving utterance to all that filled my
heart to overflowing when, with
the stern, imperious accent he knew
how to assume, though without rude-
ness or the least violence, he stop-
ped me.

" Not another word, Ginevra ;
not one, I beg, out of love for your-
self. Do not destroy your future
happiness in a moment of anger!
There are some things I will not
listen to, and which, for your own
interest as well as mine, I forbid
your saying!*'

I had no chance to reply, for he
took my hand before I could pre-
vent it, and said ;

** Au revoity Ginevra. I hope, at
my return, to find you as calm and
reasonable as I desire."

He kissed my hand and left ihe
room.

The state in which he left me
cannot be described. I need not
say how incapable I was of reflec-
tion, of eff'ort, or any struggle what-
ever against the feelings it was natu-
ral I should have. I felt outraged
as it seemed to me no woman had
ever been. My mind lost its clear-
ness, my judgment was impaired,
and for some hours I was wild.

After Lorenzo's departure, it
seemed impossible to remain alone.
1 could not endure inaction and re-
pose for an instant. I ordered my
carriage for a drive — not, as usual,
with Stella and in a direction where
1 should find solitude, but, on the
contrary, where I was most sure of
meeting a crowd. I smilingly re-

turned the numerous salutations I
received, and, instead of appearing
troubled or downcasf, I looked
around with eager interest, as if
hoping to find some means of es-
caping from myself and leaving my
troubles forever behind me.

I returned home as late as possi-
ble, and found Stella awaiting me.
She had been disappointed at my
not calling for her, and had come
to ascertain the reason. Finding I
had gone out, she was surprised I
had forgotten her, but was still more
so when I told her I should go to
the ball at the French ambassador's
that evening. I seldom went any-
where alone, and it was only the
day before I had told her decided-
ly I should never attend another
ball. Her eyes were fastened on
me with a look of sympathy, as she
said:

"Poor Ginevra!"

I begged her in a hasty, irritated
manner not to waste any pity on
me, and then added :

" To-morrow, if you like, we* will
talk about it ; but not to-day, 1 beg.
Let us give our whole thoughts to
the ball. You will go, I hope."

" Yes, if you have really decided
to go."

"That is right. Good-by till
this evening, then."

Thus dismissed, she left me, and
I summoned my waiting-maid to do
what I had never required before.
I ordered everything I was to v/ear
to be spread out before me. I ex-
amined my diamonds and pearls,
and gave the most minute direc-
tions about the way I intended to
wear them. I then began my toi-
let, though long before the time,
and was as long about it as possi-
ble. So many women, thought I,
seem to take infinite pleasure in
creating a sensation when they
enter a ball-room^ receiving compli-

The Veil Withdrawn.

ments and homage on all sides,
nrh/ should I not try this means of
diversion as well as other people ?
I am beautiful, there is no doubt ;
very beautiful, they say. Why
sfaoold I not endeavor to excite
admiration ? Why not become vain
and coquettish in my turn ?

In a word, the hour had arrived
spoken of in the first part of this
story, as the reader will recollect — '
the hour when, for the first and only
time after my mother's death and
the tragical end of Flavio Aldini,
the lively vanity of girlhood, roused
by irritation, jealousy, and grief,
broke through the restraint which an
ineffaceable remembrance and the
grace of God had imposed upon it,
and for once I saw what I should
doubtless have been without the
divine, mysterious influence that
warred within me against myself.
1 had corresponded to this grace, it
is trae, by my sincere, determined
win, but my volition had now be-
come feeble and uncertain, and I
set out for the ball after thus
carefully preparing in advance the
draught of vanity I wished to be-
come intoxicated with.

I had the satisfaction I desired
in all its plenitude. I was hand-
some, stylish, and elegantly dressed ;
and yet all this is not the chief
cause of a lady's success in society.
Let those who think so be persuad-
ed of their error. People accord
to these gifts a certain respectful
admiration, but such a success as
I obtained that evening — brilliant,
dcmonitrativc, and universal — does

not depend on the beauty a person
is endowed with, but on the wish
to please she manifests, and this is
why the victory is sometimes so
strangely awarded ! . . . I was
changed in no respect, except in
the disposition with which I attend-
ed the ball, and yet I did not seem
to be the same person. I was sur-
rounded as I had never been be-
fore. I excited a kind of enthusi-
asm. I received compliments that
evening I had never listened to be-
fore. And when, contrary to my
usual custom, I announced my in-
tention to dance, everybody con-
tended for my hand. But, as the
evening advanced, I grew weary
of it all, and began to feel my fac-
titious, feverish gayety subside.
When I rose to waltz for the last
time, it was with an effort, and, after
my partner led me back to my
seat, my smile vanished, and a
cold sense of my wretchedness
came over me with unpitying grasp.
" All is useless," a secret, sor-
rowful voice seemed to say ; " you
must awaken to the reality of your
sufferings. ..."

At that moment I heard beside
me a familiar, half-forgotten voice
— calm, sonorous, and sweet, but
now somewhat sarcastic :

" I cannot aspire to the honor of
dancing with the Duchessa di Valen-
zano, but I hope she will not refuse
to recognize me,"

I eagerly turned around, and
there beside me I saw the person
who uttered these words was Gil-
bert de Kergy.

XXIX.

looting the week following the
l>all a most unexpected change
took place in my feelings — a change
that at once afforded me so much
comfort that I did not hesitate to

think and say that heaven had, in
the hour of my greatest need, sent
me a friend.

It must be acknowledged, how-
ever, the hour when Gilbert de

312

The Veil Withdrawn.

Kergy so suddenly made his ap-
pearance was not exactly that in
which I should have expected an
extraordinary intervention of divine
Providence in my behalf. I ought
even to say that the first feeling I
experienced at seeing him again
was one of extreme confusion at
exhibiting myself under so different
an aspect from that he had seen me
\n before, and, in fact, so different
from that which was usually mine.
This confusion, added to my fa-
tigue and the painful reaction and
disgust which inevitably follow such
intoxication as I had voluntarily
indulged in, sent me home in a
totally different frame of mind from
that I was in when I left. Two
hours before, I beheld myself in the
mirror with great complacency ; but
when I now saw myself in this
same glass resplendent with jewels
and flowers, 1 turned away with
displeasure, and do not think I
should have felt the least regret
had I at that moment been told I
wore this brilliant array for the last
time.

I hastily took off my diamonds
and pearls, and changed my dress ;
and when at length I found myself
alone, face to face with the thoughts
I had vainly tried to escape from,
for the first time since my interview
with Lorenzo a flood of tears came
to my relief. The nature of the
distraction I had sought now ap-
peared in all its vanity, and the
shame I felt was increased by the
remembrance of Gilbert's smile and
the sarcastic accent of his words.
It was not in this way he had ad-
dressed me at Paris. This was not
the grave, respectful manner, so dif-
ferent from that of any other person,
which had so touched and flattered
me then. The contrast made me
blush, and I longed to meet him
again, that I might efface as com-

pletely as possible the impresskui

now left OA his mind.

I longed also to inquire about
his mother and Diana. In short, a
thousand recollections, as foreign
as possible to everything that sur-
rounded me now, came to my mind
and diverted it more effectually
than any amusement could have
done from the cause of my present
troubles. I slept more calmly
than I should have supposed after
so exciting a day, and the following
morning when I awoke, though my
first thoughts were of all I had suf-
fered the day before, I could not
forget the pleasant event that had
also occurred to lighten my bur-
den.

Gilbert had asked at what o'clock
he could see me, and, at the ap-
pointed hour, I was ready to receive
hipi. I anticipated his arrival with
pleasure, and felt no embarrass-
ment, except that which resulted
from the recollection of the previous
evening. He came punctually, and,
after an observant look and a few
minutes' conversation, he became
the same he once was ; which recon-
ciled me a little to myself. We
talked about Paris, the Hdtel de
Kergy, and a thousand other things,
and his conversation, as formerly,
absorbed my attention, diverted
my mind from my troubles, and
awoke an interest in a multitude of
things unconnected with him or
myself.

As he was on the point of leaving,
he smiled, as he said with something
of the sarcastic tone of the evening
before :

"I suppose, madame, I cannot
flatter myself with the hope of find-
ing you at home, at least as long as
the Carnival lasts."

"Allow me to undeceive you,"
I hasteneil to reply with a blush.
" Whatever you may have thought

The VeU Withdrawn.

313

ing, I am not fond of danc-
ery seldom go to a ball of
iccord, and am sure I shall
d another this year. This
1 every way an exceptional
r as I was concerned."
y ! I hope you will not
too bold if I acknowledge
you say affords me plea-

d this in so frank and
way that I was restored
e, and laughingly replied :
)rerer ray former manner .?
isieurde Kergy, I acknow-
i are right, and let me
\ it was my true one."
ras going away, I express-
)pe of seeing him again,
that time not a day pass-
ch I did not meet him.
tiad no engagement else-
isually spent my evenings
vhere I invariably receiv-
,in number of friends who
le habit of meeting in my
00m. These soirees were
upted when Lorenzo was
m home, but the number
who composed the little
more restricted. Stella,
, never failed to come,
ther habituh consisted of
d some of the foreigners
in Naples, or were there
[y, and preferred a quiet
[ayer society.

first story, to the right
^ere two long, lateral ter-
ted by a third which ex-
l along the front of the
rhese terraces surmount-
;k portico, whose colon-
Tounded a small square
* those of Pompeii, into
ked all the windows of
d floor. All that part of
, with the exception of
studio, was reserved for
ies, while the first story

was used for ordinary reunions.
We therefore generally assembled
in an upper drawing-room, which
opened on one of the lateral ter-
races; and from the day I allude
to Gilbert regularly formed a part
of the little coterie which met
there every evening. His influ-
ence was speedily felt, and the
atmosphere once more changed
around me as at Paris, and this
change seemed even more benefi-
cial than before. Every one felt
Gilbert's influence more or less.
He possessed the enviable faculty
of elevating the minds of others
above their usual level, and of
communicating to them the interest
he felt in whatever he was convers-
ing about. Not that he tried to intro-
duce subjects he had made a special
study of, or to advance theories or
opinions that first excited wonder
and afterwards wearied the minds
of those on whom he wished to im-
pose them. On the contrary, he
seemed to take an interest in every-
thing except what was low, repul-
sive, and absolutely trivial. But
subjects of this kind were rather
not thought of than avoided in-
tentionally in these conversations,
which were lively, natural, unre-
strained, and agreeable, and at the
same time different from those I
took a part in anywhere else.

It soon became evident that this
addition to our daily reunions
added singularly to their charm.
Never had the annual influx of for-
eigners been so favorable to us.
Stella, I observed, sometimes looked
pensive while listening to him, and
one day she remarked to me she
had never seen any one like M. de
Kergy. As for me, I felt the bene-
ficial influence of his society, and
welcomed it without analyzing the
enjoyment that had come so oppor-
tunely to divert me from my pre-

314

The Veil Witfidrawn.

sent trials and renew the influences
of the past, which seemed the best
in my life.

The lively indignation that filled
my heart every time I thought of
Ix)renzo's absence and its cause
continued to be felt. I bitterly com-
pared the world of perfidy and de-
ceit he had forced me to know, with
that to which Gilbert belonged. I
thought of the hopes I once had,
and how irreparably they had been
deceived, and these reflections Avere
my only danger at the time I am
speaking of.

The Carnival was now over, but
it excited no surprise that Lorenzo
wished to prolong it by remaining
at Milan during the Camavalone.
No one even seemed to think it
extraordinary he had gone there
with a beautiful woman who was
returning without any escort. Na-
ples, as I have said, was not a
place where evil reports were readi-
ly credited. People were not
much in the habit of discussing the
deeds and actions of others. Ra-
ther than give themselves up to
conjectures common elsewhere,
they would make a sign, by putting
the hand to the chin, to signify a
thing was nothing to them or con-
cerned them but little. But this
charitable indifference did not ex-
actly spring from love of their
neighbor, and sometimes went so
far, it must be confessed, as to be
scandalized at nothing.

I soon perceived, therefore, that
though the true cause of Lorenzo's
absence was known to almost
everybody, and though his course
inspired a universal sympathy and
compassion for me wl^ich wounded
my pride, it by no means excited
against him the indignation that at
least would have somewhat avenged
me.

Mario alone appeared grave and

anxious, but Lando, who was not
slow in discovering the real state
of the case, confined hinnself to
some characteristic remarks which
would have appeared insulting had
I not learned never to take any-
thing he said seriously, or attach
any importance to it. One eve-
ing, however, finding himself by
chance near me in the drawing-
room, he said in his incorrigible
way:

**If I were in your place^ I
would punish that dear Lorenzo in
the way he deserves. Unfortu-
nately, you are not the woman for
that, I know. And, after all, you
need not take the trouble, for I can
assure you the fair Milanese her-
self will be sure to avenge you."

I did not utter a word in reply
to this language, which wounded
all the pride and self-respect in my
nature, and, at the same time, ex-
cited a torrent of bitterness and
contempt for Lorenzo. I thought
at that moment of the fearful vow
Livia once spoke of, and asked my-
self if he, this perjured partner of
my life, did not make this vow as
well as I. By what law, then, was
I bound to it, when he had chosen
to be free ?

I abruptly turned away from
Lando as he said this, and left the
drawing-room, where we happened
to be alone.

The fineness of the weather and
some indications of activity in Mt.
Vesuvius had drawn all the com-
pany that evening out on the ter-
race. I went out as if intending to
join them, but I did nothing of the
kind. On the contrary, I sought a
place apart, where I could enjoy in
peace the serene brilliancy of the
heavens, and took a seat overlook-
ing the garden and commanding a
view of the Villa Reale, the bay,
and the long line of mountains be-

The Veil Withdrawn.

315

on<L It was one of those incom-
arable evenings in spring-time when
kll you see or hear, and the very
lir you breathe, at once softens, en-
hints, and predisposes the heart
melancholy. I had thrown over
ny white dress a large veil of
)bck lace, which I drew up over
ny head ; and, thus protected from
be scarcely perceptible dampness
^thc night, I gave myself up with-
wit restriction to my feelings of
uimiration, as well as the sadness,
EndigDation, and bitterness that fill-
td my heart. Afar off on the som-
bre azure of the cloudless heavens
btreamed a reddish flame whose
brilliancy formed a strong contrast
with the trembling, silvery light the
growing moon cast over the waters
of the sea. It was one of those
awakenings of Vesuvius, the fear-
ful but magnificent spectacle of
which is always regarded at Naples
with a pleasure that greatly sur-
passes the anxiety it would be na-
tural to feel at the probable conse-
quences of a new eruption.

All my guests were at that mo-
ment at the end of the terrace,
where they couid have a full view
of the flaming crater. But I was
br no means disposed to follow
their example. I remained in the
icat I had taken, my face uplifted
?nd my eyes gazing into the blue,
mysterious depths, which seemed
to direct ray thoughts to something
fir beyond the visible, starry hea-
vens. I know not how long I had
been in this attitude when I per-
<civcd Gilbert, who had been on
the other side of the terrace, now
standing before me.

'*May I have a seat here, mad-
imc/* said he, " or do you prefer
<oniinuing your reverie alone V*

**0h! no; remain. It is belter
for me to talk than to dream.'*

"And yet, to judge from your

looks while tlnis absorbed, your
dreams must have been delightful
I longed to participate in them."

" I know not whether they were
delightful or otherwise, but they
were commonplace and true. Alas !
I was thinking that the heavens are
as beautiful as the earth is sad."

" Sad .> . . . Yes, without doubt,
but likewise very beautiful at times,
something like the sky above our
heads, so glorious to-night, but
which does not always look as it
does now."

" But the clouds pass away, and
the sky again appears in its un-
changeable beauty; whereas . . ."

" Whereas, a single day is some-
times sufficient to render our lives
totally different from what they
were before. Yes, you are right,"
said he.

He was silent for an instant, and
then resumed with a smile :

"But these gloomy thoughts do
not always prevail. It was very
far from the case the evening I first
saw you in Naples."

" Oh ! never speak again of that
evening, Monsieur de Kergy, I
conjure you," I exclaimed with
a warmth I could not repress.
" Have I not already told you that
I was wretched, infatuated, desper-
ate ?. . ."

I stopped short, confused at what
had escaped me. I saw his ex-
pression of surprise, and noticed
again the look of sympathy and
emotion he had shown at Paris, as
I wept while listening to Diana's
music — a look that silently asked me
the cause of my tears. Alas ! the
day I last visited the Hotel de
Kergy was that on which the sad-
ness that now wholly surrounded
me first cast its shadow over my
path. But I did not wish to betray
what I felt now, any more than I
did then, and I instantly regretted

316

TAe Veil Withdrawn,

the words I had just uttered. I
think Gilbert perceived it.

" I assure you," said he after a
moment, as if I had never spoken,
** notwithstanding the brilliancy of
your attire, you were far less . im-
posing in my eyes than you are at
this moment ; and yet I am going to
show a boldness I certainly should
not have thought of manifesting
that evening, to which I shall never
allude again."

" What do you mean ?"

"You seemed that night to be-
long to a Avorld whose manners and
language I was ignorant of, and
where I felt more out of place and
uninitiated than a savage. I could
not have said such a word then.
I hardly dared look at you afar off;
whereas — but you will think me
presumptuous."

" No, say what you were going to."

" Well, then, you seem now, on
the contrary, as you did at Paris, a
member of the world I live in — an
inhabitant, a queen if you like, or a
sister, perhaps, whose language I
speak, as you can mine. That is
why . . ."

He hesitated an instant, and then
continued with an accent of truth
and simplicity that prevented his
manner from appearing singular :
** That is why I venture — and it is
showing myself very bold — yes, ven-
ture, madame, to consider myself
worthy of being your friend, and,
should you deign to accord me this

title, I think I can sa
never to show myself
it."

What reply I made I
but what I am only t
that these words were
heart at once crushed
tercd as mine then was
occasioned by Lorenzc
caused a su(Tering like tl
hunger. My dignity,
than my conscience,
alleviating this bungc
vent to my grievancei-
tempted to do so. E
any reason why I shou
self the solace of such
as Gilbert now ofleret
I any other duty now,
to Lorenzo, than to sh
he had not manifcste<
that united us ? Coulc
as he had just offered,
brother in heart and
he not difierent, as St
1 edged, from any one
met.? And was I n<
a position without pan

I pass over tiie rem.
reflections in silence,
marking here that if al
who believi: ihemselve^
exceptional posidonco
ed, they would be asto
agine, to find their nun
and would i>cihaps hav^
some of the privileges tl
to by virtue of the si
their destiny.

TO M C OMWWUBU .

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

317

CHURCH CHANT VEJiSUS CHURCH MUSIC.

CONCLUDED.

■Ah ! but it is sad to think," ob-
jerts a friend at our elbow, " that

Er rigid principles deprive the
rch of the use of the best music.
vfliink she ought to have the very
lest of all that this world can
Wetr

Wc have already given our friend
Ui answer, from one point of view,
ii a former article. We will en-
ieavor to give a fair interpretation
rf the answer which the church
lerself would make :

" It is not the best music, as such,
Ihat Iwant for my divine offices,
my more than I wish my priests
10 decorate the walls of my church-
tt with the chefS'ifosuvre of painting
•»d sculpture simply because they
ait masterpieces of art. I certain-
ly want, and rejoice to possess, the
kti thai is suitable in art, whether
rf melody, painting, or sculpture,
sbkI even of scientific discovery or
invention; but my canons of suita-
Mity would be a besom of destruc-
^tiott to gas-lighted altar-candles
■nd sanctuary lamps, fixed or port-
able opera-glasses for the use of dis-
Untly-placed worshippers, the man-
ofactured mimic rain, hail, and thun-
<i«r storms at the beck of organ
pedals, the statues of the Apollo
Bclvidere or the Greek Slave, valu-
»Uc paintings of first-class yachts,
^ast horses, or prize cattle, even if
they came from the pencil of a
f-andsccr or a Rosa Bonheur ; and
'^ I cared for melody of any style
for its own sake, my child, I would
Wrongly advise my American clergy
to engage the services of Theodore

Thomas or Patrick J. Gilmore,
whose orchestral performances are
truly delicious, and the best for their
purpose that can be procured in
my beloved dominions of the west-
ern hemisphere. But the puj-pose
of these delightful concerts is not a
part of my programme. The disci-
ples of the Grand Lama, I am told,
turn off their rosaries and other
prayers by means of a crank, as
music is often made by mechanical
organs ; but my prayers and melo-
dies are not made in this fashion.
Have your ^^j/ music, as you define
it, sung and performed where it
suits the best ; go and hear it, and
God bless you ; but please do not
let me hear of your inventing and
using a small patent steam-whistle
to replace the acolyte*s altar- bell,
nor a large one either in lieu of the
church-bell, for that would smack a
little too milch of the cotton-mill
or the iron-foundry ; and I do not
think I a/^tf/// tolerate that."

We must confess to having our
patience severely tried when the
question of " suitability " comes
under discussion, and we burn to
cry out. Where is the honest musi-
cian who is not so engrossed with,
and mastered by, his art as to be-
come, like it, deprived of ideas, or
at least of the power of expressing
them in one single logical affirma-
tion, and who has a principle which
he will fairly state and reason from
instead of taking us into the path-
less dreamland of sentiment, or en-
ticing us for ever off the track on to
side switches of individual tastes

3i8

Cknnh Chant vs. Church Music.

and special pleas that lead no-
where? Discussing the relative
suitability of music and plain chant
for the use of the Liturgy of the
church is, in our experience, only
equalled by the purgatory of suffer-
ing one's reason endures when talk-
ing " controversy ** with a Protest-
ant. Has art no first principles?
Is there no relation between art and
the nature and purpose of the ob-
ject to be expressed or illustrated
by it ? Do you dare define " suita-
bility " to be the harmony of the
subject with your present mood,
with the fashion of the hour, or
with the demands of ignorance and
prejudice, or presume to close all
discussion with your *' Sic voio,
sicjubeo ; sUt pro ratione voluntas *7

But this is a digression. Let us
return to our argument.

Thirdly, If we were to say that,
contrasted one with the other, the
expression of plain chant is unim-
passioned, and that of modern mu-
sic is impassioned — in other words,
that the former has not much, if
any, capacity for expressing human
passions, and that the latter has not
only a great capacity fgr expressing
them, but also for exciting them, we
think we are affirming what every
one who knows anything of the
philosophy of music, as well as
every one who has been subjected
to the influence of both, will readi-
ly acknowledge to be true. There
is martial music for soldiers, to
excite them to combat, or cheer
them in victory, or stir their enthu-
siasm on the triumphant return
from battle. There is music for the
dancers, and distinct kinds of dance
music which invite and sustain those
who may wish to waltz or polka,
thread the figures of the quadrille,
or indulge in the lascivious mazes
of other such-like enjoyments not
worthy of our mention or considera-

tion outside of our duty as confessoi
or preacher. There is funny rausii
to make us laugh, and there are fa
nereal dirges to keep us in fit mooj
as we march after a coffin. There i
music which we know will rouse thi
wrath of our enemy, and there i
amorous music which awakes tli
passion of love, pure and impure.

We have already signalized th
cause which gave to music its sen
suous character. Lest it may li
supposed that we are endeavorin
to create a theory without suffice
warrant. We quote from one
holds an undisputed post of hom
in the musical world :

" Very well ! that which muskl
doctrine had condemned, that whidi
ages had proscribed, a man oa
day dared to do. Guided by hi
instinct, he had more confidence id
what it counselled him than
what the rules commanded, and ii
spite of the cries of horror whidt
arose from a whole nation of
musicians, he had the courage t»
bring into relation the fourth note
of the gamut, the fifth, and the
seventh (the tritone). By this one
act he created the natural disso-
nances of harmony, a new tonality,
the kind of music called chromatu,
and, as a consequence, modulation.
What a world of things produced*
by one single harmonic aggregation!
The author of this wonderful dis-
covery is Monteverde.* He gives
himself the credit, in the preface of
one of his works, for the invention
of the modulated, animated, and ex-
pressive style of melody. In fact.
the impassioned accent (roicenl
passiotiHc) does not exist, and can-
not exist, except in the leading note
(la note sensible)^ and this cannot
itself be produced, except by ii^

* Claudio Monteverde, an Italian muaician» bon
at Cremona in 1565 ; died at Venice in 1649. THc
age of modem music can eanly \rt computed.

Church ChatU vs. Church Music.

319

idatioD with the fourth and fifth
degrees of the gamut — in other
words that any note placed in the
harmonic relation of augmented
fourth with another note produces
the sensation of a new tone, without
ihc necessity of hearing the tonic or
Buddog a cadence, and that by this
faculty of the augmented fourth to
create immediately a leading note,
iDodulation — that is to say, the
necessary succession of different
tones— is rendered easy. Admira-
ble coincidence of two fruitful
ideas ! The musical drama is born ;
but the drama lives on emotions,
and the tonality of plain chant,
grave, severe, and calm, could not
fomishit with impassioned accents;
for the harmony of its tonality does
not contain the elements of transi-
lion. Hence genius found inspira-
tion in the demand, and all that
could give life to the music of the
dxama was brought into existence
It one blow." *

We cannot refrain from adding
the reflections of another eminent
mosician — M. Jos. d'Ortigue :

**Is it not evident that a new
order of ideas, a new social element,
and a novel spirit, were introduced
b music by the fact alone of the
creation of a tonality, and that dis-
sonance, modulation, transition, the
leading or sensible note, the impas-
lioned accent (mark the words), were
but the material clothing, the means,
the outward expression, thanks to
which this new principle — namely,
the moi humain — which had already,
JO to speak, broken through the
upper strata of thought, made for
itself a vent by means of the art of
music? For just as the ancient
tonality, by the fact of its constitu-
tion, inspired the sentiment of re-
pose — that is to say, gave birth to

*Kitmmd Philotopkiqut dt CHist. dt la Afu-

the ideas of permanence, of immuta-
bility, of the infinite, which com-
port with the expression of divine
things — so also disturbance, agita-
tion, the febrile and tumultuous ex-
pression of the passions, which are
the essential characteristics of all
earthly things, are inherent in the
modern tonality precisely in virtue
of its constitution, which depends
upon dissonance 2LX\d transition.'* *

Those wise old Spartans who
made it a capital crime to add a
new cord to the lyre, lest the people
should be rendered effeminate, would
certainly despair of finding a man
living in our XlXth century who
was fit to be called a man, if they
were told that the chord of the
minor seventh was in such common
use that hardly one melody can be
found where its effeminate disso-
nance is not made to appear and to
be felt.f We pray to be understood
when we call the tonality of " im-
passioned accent " effeminate. A
few words from M. Victor de Lap-
rade will convey our meaning : ** I
dare to class music, and even women
themselves, in the order of feminin-
ity — that is to say, in that class in
which sentiment rules ideas, in
which the heart is more manifestly
active than reason. It is bold, 1
acknowledge. We are no longer
living in the age of the Book of
Wisdom, of the sacred lawgivers, of
the prophets, of the philosophers,
nor simply of Moli^re ; we are of
the age of 'Saint-Simon, of Fourier,
of Auguste Comte, and we have
changed all that. We have put the
heart on the right side. I am
obstinate enough to feel it beating
on the left."

• Dietionnaire de Plain Chanty art. Tonalit^.

t We were surprised to find that we had written
" diminhhtd^* seventh for the chord Sdy Si^
i?r, Fa^ in our last article. The accompanying ex-
ample, however, showed our nfeaning, and, for musi*
cians, corrected the error.

320

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

In his famous Instructions (we
beg our readers to recall our pro-
posed amendment of their title) the
cardinal vicar feels the necessity
of protesting against this emotional
tendency of music. " We forbid/*
he says, "too lively or exciting
movements/' and dreads lest some
composers may be led to express
" the unbridled liveliness of the
dance." He would not " deprive
the music of that grace and coloring
which art and good taste suggest/'
but thinks it necessary to add that
" an effeminate softness is to be
avoided."

Without question, the best music,
allied to words, as music, is in the
compositions for the opera. Those
eminent composers who have writ-
ten for the opera and for the
church have indisputably produced
works of a higher order of musical
merit for the former than they have
for the latter. * And is not oper-
atic music the most intensely im-
passioned of all melody, and is it
not, alas ! becoming a vehicle for
the expression of the most debased
and lascivious passions of the hu-
man heart.? Give to modern mu-
sic language and a stage, free it
from all the restraints of Catholic
morality, and who does not see,
after the experience of an operatic
season in one of our great cities,
that it would soon become the most
powerful and dangerous of all the
forces which are now threatening to
enervate and demoralize our mod-
ern society ? We must not be sur-
prised, therefore, nor should we
much regret, that *' modem compo-
sers have failed in their works to
meet the requirements of Catholic
devotion."

* We would also tike to know why ** church mu-
sic " introduced by compoaen into their operas is so
unUke the music they have composed for the
church.

Let us see what spirit marks the
ceremonies 6f the church when
considered as opportunities for ex-
hibiting, or as exciting causes of
awakening, the passions. It is not
possible to find one such occasion.
All gesture which might suggest
aught but the most perfect calm
and repose of the soul in the actors
is absolutely out of place. It is
very difficult in sudden, unlooked-
for instances of disturbance for the
priest not to show in his counte-
nance or by his manner symptoms
of alarm, disgust, or annoyance;
but he ought not to do so, and
would not fail to scandalize the
people, unless such distui1>ancc
happened to be extraordinary. To
betray by look, gesture, or intona-
tion of voice the slightest emotion
of sensual passion, however inno-
cent in itself, would disgust and
horrify all observers. Neither do
the rubrics permit him or his as-
sistants to excite any passion in
the hearts of others ; for the cere-
monial directs their most simple
movements, the position of the
body, the tenue of the eyes, the
hands, and the feet. That " eccle-
siastical modesty " which forms so
constant a theme of instruction to
candidates for the sacred ministry
here finds its perfect realization,
and is exacted in the highest de-
gree.

The sacred offices are essentially
unlike opera, and the church has
the good sense to dread the intro-
duction of anything in connection
with her divine ceremonies that
might be suggestive of it. We now
understand why the cardinal vicar
throughout the Instructions vehe-
mently proscribes, and over and
over again warns composers not to
write, operatic or theatrical music,
or anything like it, either in its
melodies or its character, nor bor

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

321

row from it, nor imitate it in the
use of ariettas, duets, trios, recita-
tive, finales^ or cabaletta. Truly,
" the best music " is pretty well
nikd out by his eminence. By his
cautious discrimination, and pru-
dent lopping off, and general ton-
ing down he has pretty closely
eloped the wings of the steed of
Helicon, and, after all, it must be
acknowledged, has made of him
rather a sorry and unreliable nag,
not worth half the old horse who
all his lifetime has never given out,
or baulked, or behaved in any un-
seemly manner.

We trust that a distinct disavowal
of any intent on our part to treat
vith flippancy and disrespect the
oft-quoted Instructions of his emi-
nence is not needed, for nothing
could be further from our thought ;
but that our readers will perceive
that the point of our lance is di-
rected against the endeavor to im-
l)Ose a restrictive and prohibitory
circular-letter of the cardinal vicar
as a brief in favor of modern music
^th apostolic sanction. We com-
plain^ also, that the words of Bene-
dict XIV. have been quoted by
the same writers in such a way as
to leave the impression en the mind
of the general reader that the
learned pope treated modern music
M unfait accompli^ and rather pre-
ferred it if composed according to
certain demands which he makes
uf musicians. Wherefore we quote
^Lgatn his words, by which we get at
iiis real sentiments : " The Grego-
rian chant is that song which excites
the minds of the faithful to piety and
devotion ; it is that music, therefore,
which, if sung in our churches with
care and decorum, is most willingly
beard by devout persons, and is
justly preferred to that which is
f^led figured or harmonized mu-
sic The titillation of figured mu-
VOL. XX. — a a

sic is held very cheaply by men of
religious mind in comparison with
the sweetness of the church chant,
and hence it is that the people
flock to the churches of the monks,
who, taking piety for their guide in
singing the praises of God, after
the counsel of the prince of psalm-
ists, skilfully sing to their Lord as
Lord, and serve God as God with
the utmost reverence."

The learned Suarez has also
been cited in favor of modern
church music — rather a strange
fact, as the great theologian was
dead and buried before the system
of modern music was invented!
S. Alphonsus — no mean theologian,
nor a rigorist either — says: "The
devil usually gets more by it than
God does. "

This attempt to argue a posi-
tive approval from prohibitory en-
actments reminds us of "a little
story."

" I had the honor this morning,"
boasted a vain soldier, " of holding
a conversation with his majesty
the king."

" You converse with his majesty ?"
exclaimed his companion. "And
what did you say to him ?"

" Oh ! / said nothing. His ma-
jesty alone conversed."

'* And pray, what did he say to
you r

" He said : * Fellow, stand out of
the way!'"

Who has ever thought of denying
that the old plain chant suits exact-
ly the ceremonies of the church }
There were never any " Instruc-
tions " promulgated, that we know
of, to curb its worldly, operatic, sen-
sual, or effeminate tendencies, sim-
ply because by its essential melo-
dic form it does not lend itself to any
such aberrations. By its short in-
tervals, its grave and unmeasured
movement, and its intellectual char-

322

Church Chant vs. Church Musk,

^cter, * it is freed from all sensuous-
ness. You can neither march to it,
dance to it, nor make love with it.
But you can appropriately accom-
pany any of the ceremonies of the
church with it, and pray with it ;
that is — to forestall the special
plea of a theological "distinction " —
you can adore with it, propitiate the
divine justice with it, supplicate with
it, praise and thank God with it ; and
doing all this, we respectfully ask,
what more do you want, and, if you
do want more, what right have you
to ask it ?

In the interests of art, do you say ?
Pshaw! You know well that the
church can offer but a very confined
field for the cultivation of music as
an arty and, compared with music
inspired by other wants and tastes,
the music written for her use is not
worth mentioning. It is only fit to
be consigned to the flames, as our
friend observes. Besides, the church
is not an Academy of Arts and Scien-
ces. Try again.

If being content with what the
church prescribes, refusing to ad-
mit what she has not distinctly com-
manded, and contending stoutly for
the fitness of that melody for the
expression of her divine prayer,
and as an accompaniment to her
sublime offices, and which she has
never declared to be unsuitable, be
to "censure the whole church, and
even the Pope himself," as it is in-
sinuated we do, then we offer our-
selves at once for safe conduct to
a lunatic asylum, for assuredly we
have lost our senses.

*A marked characteristic of Gregorian chant,
Rousseau, in his Essai sur fOriging des Lnngites^
examining the influence of music, observes : ** Thus
melody, beginning to be less adherent to speech^
to6k, insensibly, a separate existence, and music be-
came more independent of the words. As a conse-
quence, little by little those prodigies which it had
produced while it was only the accent and the har-
mony of poetry, and which gave to it that power to
subdue the passions which it would in the future ex-
-erdae only tipoo the reason, ceased."

FoHrthiy\ Wc hear much
coloring in the phraseology ol
em music. That it \% ^*sic
rhetorical is plain enough*
pretty ranch all made up of
of speech, musically cxprc^f
is especially amitlietical, full o
ing contrasts, and highly mel^i
cal. AVe used to hear frcqiie
our own church, when we
" mixed " choir and a gall
finale of the Gloria m Exci i
the unlearned \\\ musical %^
were accustomed to say sound
the men scampe ring after tb c *
and the women scAmp<rring al
men, and neither noming out
of the other. Tlii^ fhetoricaJ
acter of music, this dealing in
of musical speech, which Wi
affirm is not free in man^van in
from the faults of tautology, ba
and mixed mc I aphor, lucidly ej
the reason why the freqacnt
tion oUfwrcmuxdc musifuty w
anthems* raolets, ** gr^nd M
or "musiciU Vespen/' by an
brated composer whoms©c¥Ci
grows tiresome. The same ri
cal phrases and identical
of speech in the dist^oame^
preacher Sunday after Sunday
set all the people yawning, a
the sacrcdness of the place a
the speaker were not it him
to such emotional diffjayp '
ing and hissing as well

The metaphorical cha»
music is the result of r;
which may be, as wc have a
said, either pastoral, martial,
rous, saltatory, fvinereali oi
prayerful, etc.; but it is not
pastorah for there arc nn
fields to pipe in or any V
ing going on. It b iik^
musict and would be only loll
even in a conccrt-rooniii «
strength of the maitiin, **A
art's sake "• — aprtiiciple weoe

Church Chant vs. Church Music,

323

to be unphilosophical at best, and
absolutely intolerable when applied
to sacred ceremonies, and not
sanctioned by a single instance in
the rubrics. So, also, there are no
military evolutions, no love-mak-
ing or dancing, going on, for which
reason the music is not really mar-
tial, amorous, or saltatory, but
only like such music. But there
may be a funeral, and there cer-
tainly is prayer going on ; and
what objection can there be to
funereal and prayerful music ? We
have never heard any funereal mu-
sic that was fit to accompany a
Requiem Mass. We have heard
musical howling, wailing, sobbing,
groans and sighs of despair, and
even the spiteful cursing and gnash-
ing of teeth of the damned, as in
the confuiaiis maltdictis of Cheru-
bim's Requiem ; but let that pass
for the present. Yxviytxful music
there is of incomparable sweetness
and ravishing harmony, \iyxt prayer
music — />., music which is prayer —
is quite another thing. Music does
not lose its metaphorical character
because its theme is prayerful.
There is the greatest difference in
the world between first-class paste
and real diamond, or between ver-
meil and pure gold, although it is
possible that neither you nor we
tould distinguish them without the
appHcation of a scientific test.
The paste may have a perfect dia-
raond/(// glitter, if you will; but
that this glitter is the expression
of the substance of real diamond
needs no argument to disprove.

Let us again apply our test.
The official acts of the celebrant
and his assistants at the altar are
not figurative, but real. The priest
acts as a priest, and not like a priest.
The chorus rise, kneel, bow, pros-
trate, as a chorus sliould, and not
as a chorus might. All their acts

are real, finding their ratio in them-
selves, and not in something else
of which they are now a good and
admirable, or now a poor and far-
fetched, figure. Melody for such
performances should be a faithful
and ti-ue expression of these reali-
ties. That is to say, when you
hear the melody, you should hear
the prayer which is the form of the
corpus rubricaruniy as the soul is the
form of the human body. Subject-
ed to this test, the paste is easily
distinguished.

Now, will the diamond, as we
choose to typify the church chant, be
as readily known by the like test }
There is nothing corresponding or
similar to figures of speech in the
chant, neither is it based upon me-
taphorical themes. It has proper-
ly no theme, but only modes, with
their special intonations, mediations,
and cadences. Considered in its
melodic form, it is a rhythmic
combination of unities, the purest
artistic expression of communion
with the Infinite Unity — with God.
Sung in or out of the celebration
of the divine offices, if it be not
simple rehearsal, it is prayer, and
nothing else but prayer. It re-
joices in the ** perennial freshness "
of the Holy Mass and Divine Of-
fice, because, like these, it is not
metaphorical, but real ; and hence
we deduce at once the explana-
tion of its lasting character. Its
melodies do not wear out or^ be-
come tiresome. ^It would never oc-
cur to a child of the church, al-
though he were the most accom-
plished musician the world ever
knew, if his age surpassed that of
Mathusala, and he had heard
High Mass every day of his life,
that the Preface or the Pater
Noster (and wherefore any other
chant }) was a worn-out or tire-
some melody. There is a truth

324

Church Chant vs. Church Mmk,

for the lovers of church music to
digest.

The essential reason — to go to the
very bottom of the matter — of the
lasting character of the chant, lies
in the form of its phraseology,
which is purely didactic, consisting
of simple and therefore sublime af-
firmations ; this simplicity of its
phraseology being often reduced to
the utterance of pure substantives,
as if the soul were in rapture, medi-
tating upon God and his attributes,
the Alpha and Omega, the Begin-
ning and the End, the Being of be-
ings, the Eternal, the Omnipotent,
the Everlasting, the All in all, the
All wise, the All fair, and the All
good.

There is an instance of this sub-
lime simplicity of language in Holy
Scripture which is an apt example
to illustrate our meaning. It is
the twelfth verse of the viith chap-
ter of the Apocalypse : " Amen.
Benedictio, et claritas, et sapien-
tia, et gratiarum actio, honor, et
virtus, et fortitudo Deo nostro in
saecula saeculorum, amen" — Amen.
Benediction, and glory, and wis-
dom, and thanksgiving, honor and
power, and strength to our God,
for ever and ever, amen.

The test being applied, we think
we may affirm and certify the dia-
mond.

Fifthly, From what we have
already said, and to judge from the
extraordinary pretensions of its
capacity for expression put forth in
these later days, modern music is
essentially dramatic, mimetic, or
imitative. That it is especially
suitable as the melody to accom-»
pany and aid the expression of dra-
matic representation there is no
question. There appears also to
be hardly any limit of its capacity,
as musicians affirm, for word-paint-
ing and scene-painting. If the

musical critics nre not de
think that, with the full
some genius who may be
about to graduate in the
" the music of the future/'
or a Gil more might dis|
the actors on the stage i
and with the services of
painter as well. What i
of this power of wore
when employed to illu
sacred text of the churcl
we quote from the DuM
Oct., i86S :

" What is called word*j
music is, of course, very
but, as a rulej it cannot
so far in szicred as in scci
without detriment to the ^
the subje<:t. Indeed, evc
is not otherwise object i
sometimes becomes tirci
its conventionality. The
the notes of the scale a
scendit ik fof/isj and sue!
fects, do not bear much i
Indeed, the attempt at n
pression has oflen led lo
ders, such as in the passa
rectionem marfnarum^vifhf:
sic for the first word is usi
to have a joyftil eifcci, tl-
lugubrious one {and that,
times drawn out into mt
sages cut u IT from the prcv
as if it were a fresh sent
composer forgetting that 1
only comprelmnds one i
of the resurrection. So
passage remissimem pecc^
aitavit humiies^ and others
be named."

We have already mci
notable instance of this in
ing — the nmfutatis mai^ti
the Dies Itw of Cheruli
vividly descriptive and
dramatic pij\^ cr of that ]
well known ; and if it wc
heightened by a raec

Church Cfiani vs. Church Music.

32s

darkened church, with a flash or
two of stage-lightning and the
rambling of sheet-iron thunder, we
are sure the effect would be
quite as much as we could bear,
whether as celebrant or as near
relatives of the departed. Over-
powered with the emotions of hor-
ror and iear which we are sure we
would experience in thus having
hell opened to us, we would be think-
ing a great deal more of the devil
than of the God of mercy and com-
passion when the cry of fright broke
from our lips, " Libera me, Domine,
de morte aetema !** Certainly, de-
prived even of any stage effects, we
have never listened to it without a
shudder. And now comes the per-
tinent question, Is dramatic, theat-
rical effect what the church desires
to obtain from her melody, or, at
least, is she willing that there should
be anything of this kind at all em-
ployed to illustrate her liturgy ?
We refer to the Instructions of
his eminence the cardinal vicar.
He is "polarized," as we say in
America, on that subject. We also
quote from the late articles on
church music in this magazine :

"* Humana nefasmiscere 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."

Musicians themselves are not
wholly devoid of the sense of pro-
priety. Mme. de S^vigne relates
that Bapiiste — the celebrated Lulli
—hearing at Mass one day an air
which he had composed for the
theatre, cried out : " Lord, Lord, I
crave your pardon. I did not write
Wi^xyou!""

We wonder if the correspondent
of the Herald was aware of the sa-
tire contained in the following late
announcement : " Signor Verdi pro-

tests indignantly against his Re-
quiem being played in a circus at
Ferrara."

Yet let us see if our comparison
with the ceremonies of the liturgy
and the character of the actors
holds good as before.

There is no scenery, nor should
there be any for any occasion. No,
good reader, not even for the Re-
pository of Holy Thursday. Those
puppet-show " tombs," with paste-
board soldiers sleeping and watch-
ing before pasteboard rocks, are not
prescribed by the rubrics, or even
tolerated, and are therefore entirely
out of order and unmeaning. The
Holy Mass is a continuation of the
crucifixion and sacrificial death
of our Lord on Mount Calvary ; but
there is no dramatic representation
of that event, for the reason, among
others that we have alleged before,
that it is not a representation, but a
reality. We could readily under-
stand its propriety if the Episcopa-
lians or other sects of Protestants
were to have a stage erected with
scenery of the " upper room," and a
supper-table with living actors or
wax-figure ones, cila Mme. Tussaud
or Mrs. Jarley, in order to vividly
represent to their people the cele-
bration of the Last Supper, be- '
cause their " celebrations," high,
low, broad, or evangelical, expect to
have nothing more at best than a
representative sacrifice or comme-
morative supper ; but the Catholic
Mass is a perfect and real sacrifice
in itself, and mimics nothing.

Apart from the Mass, we have
a remarkable example in our own
day of a sacred drama, the Passion
Play of Ober-Ammergau, which is
not a real but an imitative crucifix-
ion, mechanical in the highest de-
gree, passional, figurative, and dra-
matic. Music for that, i la bonne
heure /

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

•X r-*-'^ fc, »- •%

t..

T-; :c ir"! -n

5 the chant into
a we say that it
* chan: of priests,
al:er Chris-
; ^f psalm-
c.-izi it as pre-
lie exrression
ierefjre t3 be

^ T • ..

::e II-:^

- T :.i -; "ve r::t

^ f:r a

^'"^ -^ >aNi-

- -«^r a

'S. ». ^ .^

.act-

long time, every one will say,
"How impressive, how touching!'*
meaning, " How saddening! Irio^r
depressing to the spirits !** 2d. TH^-t
the Gregorian chant Requiem »
most admirably suited to this p>«r—
pose, being a melody of such a sor-
rowful character and of so lugrx —
brious a tone.

On which we remark that tHe-y-
are most egregiously mistaken in
both suppositions. The ot>jecrt
which the church has in view o.t 3.
requiem is not to make people
weep and wail, but to console, con>-
fort, and soothe the bleeding hearts
of the bereaved mourners ; to ^rsiy
herself, and to excite them to pray-
earnestly, for the soul of the de-
parted. Nothing could be further
from her thought than to horrify
them with visions of the grave and
imaginations of the torments of the
damned. No, it is rest, etemaf
rest, the rapture of the soul's en-
joyment of the everlasting light of
glory in heaven, that forms the
burden of her funereal refrain,

^ Requiem etemam dona ei Donune, l ^

Et lux perpetua luceat ei I 1 W

Reqoiescat in pace l"- '

Those who love to indulge in the
laxur>- of woe, and who fancy that
plentiful tears and a thoroughly bro-
ken-hearted manner are the pro-
per accompaniments to a mouming
dress, highly approve of the anti-ru-
brical exhibition of painted or em-
broidered skulls and cross-bones,
heightened in effect by a diapermi;
ot gigantic tears, which the artist
:n funereal trappings has intnide(i
uron the altar or about the cata-
:::! :ue. The Requiem Masses o{ Mo
r-irt'and Cherubini would certainly
aiin-t of these imitative skeletons
a-vi mechanical grief; but not so
the Gregorian Requiem.

Hark! what are those strange
\rords which break the silence ^

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

327

the coffin is borne into the church ?
**Subvenite sancti Dei, occunrite
Angeli Domini, suscipientes animam
ejus, oflerentes earn in conspectu
AUissimi. Suscipiat te Christus qui
Yocavit te, et in sinu Abrahae an-
gch deducant te." *

And now the Introit begins, which
gives the keynote, so to speak, to
the whole Mass :

"Requiem aeternam dona eis
Domine; et lux perpetua luceat
eis." t

What a world of comfort in those
words ! How soothing and hope-
ful ; and chanted to such a smooth,
bweet melody, like oil poured out
upon the troubled waters, cahning
the agitated and fretted spirits of the
mourners, and gently turning all
hearts away from the thoughts of
the irreparable loss they have sus-
tained, and shutting out the memo-
ry of the scenes of anguish and
horror that marked the hours of the
agony and death, solicits them to
pray for the soul of the beloved
departed, and to cast all their sorrow
at the feet of God.

Doubtless you presume the chant
is very sorrowful ; and, like all Gre-
gorian chant, this is, of course, " in
the minor key." Not at all, how-
ever inexplicable it may appear to
you. Read over again what we
have just written above, and now
Icam one more astonishing fact.
The chant for this Introit is writ-
ten in the sixth mode, the only one
of all the Gregorian modes whose
scale is identical with the scale of
the modem major key!

There is not an invitation to weep
in the whole Requiem, neither in the

*Ceae to hit instance, all ye tidnts of God ;
■teihtai,an jreanfcbof God ; receive his soul, and
yttmaxx it before the Lord. May Jesus Christ, who
adfed thee, receiv* thee, aad may the angela coo-
doct thee to the bosom of Abraham.

t Eternal rest grant tmto them, O Lord ! and
hi pcfpetaal light abine upoo them.

words nor in the melody. It is
true the church takes care to im-
prove the occasion by preaching her
sermon on the Judgment in the
chant of the Dies Irce ; but she
soon returns to her keynote of com-
forting prayer, and at the Commumo
(which, of course, is not sung at
all at our concert requiems) she es-
says even a bright and cheerful
melody in the triumphant eighth
mode, to the old refrain,

" Lux flctema luceat eis,"

and, addressing the sweet mercy of
God, inspires hope and submission
to the divine will by the reminder
that he is ever kind and good —
"quia pius es."

Oh! what is this? It is the
sympathizing pressure of the hand
of the old, old friend who has al-
ways been true in sunshine and
storm, in our sins and our miseries;
it is her sheltering arm that folds
our drooping head upon her gentle
breast, and her cheery voice that
has so often gladdened us in days
gone by, soothing our broken heart
with the only words that have
power with us now — " God is
good," " It is his holy will."

When we were aforetime groping
in the darkness of heretical error,
and denied all privilege of stretch-
ing out our hands in prayer to
help our beloved dead through the
mysterious way that death had
opened to them, and sternly for-
bidden to hope for a deeper look
into the future than the yawning
chasm of corruption opened to our
gaze in the earth, we felt — alas!
how keenly — the appropriateness
of the only burial service we knew
of then, whose doleful burden —
" ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and
"We commit this body to the
ground'* — expressed well the faith
that was of the earth, earthy. But

328

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

now our voice is lifted up in praise,
and our heart-strings tuned to
strains of festive joy, when God has
spared our innocent loved ones the
dangers and sorrows of life, chant-
ing their translation to the skies in
robes of white, and in words of joy
that erst were sung by angels pro-
claiming " Glory to God in the high-
est, and peace on earth to men " ;
and at the borders of the tomb
which hides from our sight the
forms of those who for many a year
have grown with our growth, and
knit our very existence unto theirs,
the earth with its darkening clouds
is made to disappear, and heaven
itself is revealed as the herald who
precedes the soul to the gates of
everlasting light, chants in our
hearing its melodious welcome to
the home of rest and glory.

"In paradisum deducant te an-
geli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te
martyres, et perducant te in civita-
tem sanctam Jerusalem. Chorus
angelorum te suscipiat, et cum La-
zaro quondam paupere aetemam
habeas requiem."*

The Catholic Church calm in
the face of death, and triumphant
at the edge of the grave ! Why
does not the sight convert every
Protestant and unbeliever before
the setting of the sun? This is
our answer: Because you have
brought upon the true Israel the
calamity which Mardochai the just
prayed God to avert when "the
mouths of them that sing unto God
are shut,'* and by your music have
bedimmed one of the most sublime
manifestations of the church, and
by the banishment of her chant
have silenced her voice in that su-
preme, faith-inspiring hour !

* May the angels c<mduct thee to paradise ; in
thy coming may the martyrs receive thee and lead
thte into the holy city Jerusalem. May the chorus
of angels receive thee, and with Laianis, once
pooTf mayest thou obtain eternal ttsX,

Music at a funeral ! We would
as soon think of getting an Episco-
palian parson to read his gloomy
burial service, or of hiring a Metho-
dist preacher to declaim by the
hour, for the purpose of exhibiting
his own vanity and ministering to
ours.

The reason why the much-laud-
ed musical Masses, whether of re-
quiem or for other occasions, have
failed to meet the requirements
of Catholic devotion, is because
their composers have sought by
word-painting to illustrate the
words, as separately defined in a
dictionary, instead of grasping the
chief and leading ideas to whkh
the church strives to give expres-
sion ; pretty much as if a painter,
intending to paint a man, should
most carefully sketch apart every
separate bone, muscle, nerve, ar-
tery, and organ in the body. The
result obtained would be a series
of most excellently delineated ana-
tomical drawings, no doubt, but no
bodily form of a man, and no ex-
pression of what makes the body a
living body, which is the soul.

Hence we deduce a most impor-
tant conclusion. The form of
modern music is not prayer, but
recreation, the delectation of the
imaginative faculty. It aims at
producing the impressions which
material things excite by their con-
tact with the senses. It seeks to
imitate motion in direction or ve-
locity, light and darkness, cold and
heat, serenity or disturbance in na-
ture. The piano alone is supposed
to make us hear the booming of
cannon, the galloping and neighing
of horses (the tritone Si, Fa, which
in the palmy days of Gregorian
chant was called diabolus in musica,
and which is the essential chord in
the tonality of modern music, will
be found to give the exact notes of

Church Chant vs. Church Music.

329

an ass' braying), the dying moans
of the wounded in battle, the rising
asd setting of the sun, and a host
ol other equally curious things.
**I shouldn't wonder," exclaims a
wrtty writer, " if one day I might
see upon a piece of sheet music,
^ Dtmonsiraiion of the square of the
hyfofhenuse^*' or ' The theory of free
trader** Will not some composer
produce a ** work " which will give
the impressions produced on the
•euls of the people at Mass and
Vespers ? It might be found con-
▼enient for home use on rainy Sun-
days!

This suggestion quite tickles our
fiuacy. It has the smack of origi-
nality about it, and we feel like
pUying with it, as a cat plays with
a mouse. Who does not see at
once that it opens a vast field for
development of music as an art,
and precisely in the order in which
musicians are now striving to give it
es^essionf Yes, the glory of the
invention is ours.

" Patent Musical Impressions,
adapted to every want in church
and state. *'

** Save your fuel ! Summer Im-
fressionSj warranted for the coldest
climate."

" Watering - places superseded !
Refreshing Winter Impressions^ de-
liciously cool, flavored with hops,
serenades, moonlight excursions,
sea-views, Adirondack trips, etc.,
according to taste."

** Sermon Impressions, a great va-
riety. Parties ordering will please
state their religious views or the
particular branch of the Episco-
palian or other denomination to
which they belong." N,B. — Agents
and composers wanted.

If our readers think this to* be
nonsensical trifling, let them read a
few of those lucubrations styled
"musical criticisms."

Musical coloring has only been
equalled in its fantastic conceptions
by the so-called ocular harmony and
visual melody imagined by the Frencli
Jesuit, Father Castel, who lived
about the beginning of the last
century. Starting with a fancied
principle that colors are reducible
to a harmonic scale corresponding
to the scale of musical sounds, he
had manufactured what he called
his universal ribbon, on which were
graduated all colors and their most
minute shades. Of this ribbon he
made a little book, which he inge-
niously attached to a harpsichord
in such a manner that certain
leaves would open at the touch of
the difierent keys, thus presenting
to the sight a particular shade of
color at the same time that the
hearing perceived the musical note.
It is said that he spent large sums
of money on this hobby. He
wished also to have silks and other
stuffs woven after this principle and
" dcms ce goUt " of which the sacer-
dotal vestments ought to be made,
so that every feast and season
would be not only distinguished by
those parti-colored robes, but also,
according to his principle of the
harmonic proportions of color, that
by a scientific arrangement of the
colors derived from his graduated
ribbon one might, and, as he con-
tended, should, note upon the vest-
ments melodies, and even harmony,
so that a chasuble would sing the
Gloria in Excelsis or a cope the
Antiphons at Vespers ! We do not
find, however, in his works, any pro-
posal to sing, in colors, either at
Mass or Vespers, thunder and
lightning, landscapes and sunrises,
jigs and waltzes, serenades of love-
sick swains, the shrieks and gnash-
ing of teeth of devils and lost souls,
as our modern musicians have
done with their musical coloring.

330

Church Chant vs. Church Mustc.

Sixthly, One of the chief com-
plaints justly made against church
music is its liability to the abuse
of bringing certain singers of re-
markable talent into an undue and
often indecent prominence, and thus
ministering rather to personal van-
ity, to petty jealousies and envies,
and to the critical delectation of
the audience (?), than to the praise
and glory of God. That music can
be written so as to preclude such
an offensive result we are not pre-
pared to deny ; but that there is any
reasonable hope that it ever will be
we do not believe. The principle
upon which choice is made of it in
preference to chant, and which has
extorted the restricted and evident-
ly unwilling toleration of it, forbids
us to entertain such a hope. We
fancy that such a chastened style
of music, composed so as to meet
this requirement, would soon be
voted as " confessedly unequal to
the task of evoking and expressing
the feelings of Christian joy and
triumph," and, with plain chant
under the same ban, this world
would become indeed a vale of
tears and

** . , . plain of groans.
Whose arid wastes resound with moans
Of weepers over dead men's bones."

The style inherent in music cer-
tainly calls for more or less of per-
sonal display, and consequently
for some sign of appreciation from
the listeners, if it be nothing more
than that entranced silence which
is often the most flattering applause,
especially in church.

A little incident has just occur-
red in connection with our own
church choir — we hardly need say
that no women sing in it, or that
chant is its accepted melody — which
illustrates better than long argu-
ment the spirit that Gregorian
chant inspires in the hearts of the

singers. One of their number, &
little chorister, lies sick in a hospi-
tal. The members of the chorus
have made an 'Offering of all the
merit they gain in the sight of God,
on account of their singing, for hb
recovery. We imagine the look of
puzzled surprise if such an " act "
were proposed to the singers of a
musical chorus in one of our ordi-
nary gallery-choirs.

We would furthermore ask
whether music for the church could
be, or is at all likely to be, compos-
ed so as not to betray the hand
of the composer and elicit applause
for him } Ought the people, or
priest either, to suffer the distraction
of remarking interiorly, "We have
Mgr, Newsham's Mass to-day, but it
is not so pleasing as Mr. Richard-
son's revised Mozart that we had
last Sunday. I do hope the organ-
ist will soon give us one of those
Mechlin prize Masses ; but we can-
not have that, I suppose, until we
get a better tenor, for ours is rather
a poor voice, etc., etc., etc." }

We say that all such reflections
are out of order, and are a valid ar-
gument against the use of musical
compositions.

What ofpersonal display in church
ceremonies } It is not only in bad
taste, but irrational, stupid, and
contemptible, if it be not grievously
scandalous, as it might ver}' easily
become. Does any one ever dream
of applause to be either given or ac-
knowledged } Why does not the
church offer prizes for the composi-
tion of " Masses " which will vie
with each other in their literary
style, their devotional phraseolog),
and other characteristics, so that
the people may have the enjoyment
of hearing a Mass, now of the cele-
brated Dr. Brown, now of Dean
Jones, and now of Canon Robinson,
instead of being obliged to listen

Church Chant vs. Cfturch Music.

331

week after week to the same old,
tiresome Masses of the Feasts of
our Lord, the Blessed Virgin, and
the saints, the productions of the
simc '* barbarous " age which form-
ed the chant, and whose composers
are not known to one in a million ?
l>o not the exigencies of modem
progress, and the aspirations to see
themselves in print of more literati
than she can find room for in her
contracted temple of fame, demand
that the church shall take this mat-
ter into serious consideration ? We
advise the American daily press to
press this matter into the notice of
the hierarchy at once, *or at the re-
assembling of the Vatican Council
at furthest.

As to plain chant, it corresponds
exactly with this anonymous cha-
racter of the present liturgy of the
church, as every one can see — im-
mortal works, that immortalize only
ihe common faith which produced
them — and then that will be got
nd of, which is all we need or care
to say on this point. Verbum sap,

Smnihly (and lastly, for the
present). Modem music is essential-
ly national and secular. It is the
product of a natural and sensual
civilization (a question we have
not the space to fully discuss here),
and advances in a degree corre-
sponding to the cultivatipn of the
^tts for their own sake by this or
^at nation, besides receiving a
l^arkcd impress from the national
'labiis and tastes.

Art for art's sake ! What else
^'oold we expect from a civilization
which has ignored tlie supernatural
And placed scientific investigation
above the revelations of God,
^hose painters have abandoned the
'deal for ser\'ile copying of nature,
^nd whose highest type of beauty
for the sculptor's chisel is a naked
Venus?

The secular character of music —
by which we mean its variability
with succeeding centuries or still
shorter periods of time — is also un-
questionable. It is of this age or
of that; now "all the rage," and
now " old-fashioned " and " out of
date." Modern musical airs enjoy
a very short-lived popularity.
Fashion is the autocrat, almost the
divinity, of modem civilization. It
is the logical expression of cultivat-
ed sensualism, and the art of music
has basely given itself up to its ty-
rannical rule and whimsical lusts.
Church music has been forced to
bend its neck and go under the same
yoke, and we do not believe it has the
power to shake it off. Talk of mak-
ing the style of music " alia Pales-
trina " popular now ! We have
been offered Chevalier Pustet's
co^\\y Musica Divina for a song; and
Herr Franz may call the atten-
tion of church musicians to the
works of Durante until he is
hoarse. We tell you that such mu-
sic is "out of fashion"; and fash-
ion's ban in the kingdoms of this
world is as blasting as the ban of
the church's excommunication in
the kingdom of Christ.

There must be nothing national
or secular, nothing suggestive of the
petty partisanship and strifes of the
world, about the melody which ex-
presses the universal and everlast-
ing liturgy of the church. Kenelm
Dighy, whose judgment is of worth,
says : " Sooth, no tongue can be
adequate to give an idea of the
impression produced by the plain
song of the choir. It is full of
poetry, full of history, full of sanc-
tity. While the Gregorian chant
rises, you seem to hear the ivhole
Catholic Church behind you respond-
tng.

Music may do for religions that
are national or fashionable. Hymns

332

Assunta Howard.

in the German style may do .for
German Protestants; hymns and
anthems in the English style may
do for English Protestants; and
American music (if there be such)
may answer for all the requirements
of devotion among the fifty odd
sects that are struggling for exis-
tence amongst us — and we advise
them, if they wish to make their
churches ** pay," to keep their mu-
sic well up to the fashion — but the
Catholic Church, who knows no
present, past, or future in her eternal
faith, whose liturgy has never been
subjected to the genius of national
language, whose motto, " Quod ubi-
que, quod semper, quod ab omni-
bus," has defied the attacks of fash-

ion, as her rock-founded
fies the gates of hell, she
and, thank God, she has a
nation or age shall call
whose purity no so{-disan
tion " shall ever be abh
which her faithful chil
always recognize as th<
their true mother, and ki
from the voice of a fo:
dame or of a hireling hi
— a voice which, througl
terious link of divine \
will ever speak to the ct
Father, who is his thi
church, and whose Patt
passion is sure to be mo
tones of that song which
taught him to sing.

ASSUNTA HOWARD.

SIENNA.

It was on a beautiful evening in
June, just when spring was merg-
ing into summer, that Mr. Carlisle's
family arrived in Sienna, and found
a truly delightful home awaiting
them, thanks to Giovanni's energy
and thoughtful skill. The soft but
somewhat enervating air of Rome
had failed to restore Mr. Carlisle's
strength ; and the physician imper-
atively ordered that panacea which
seems, in the opinion of the faculty,
to be the last resource when other
prescriptions have failed — complete
change. An almost unaccountable
attraction had drawn their thoughts
towards Sienna, and Giovanni had
been despatched to Tuscany with
carte blanche as to preparations.
He had proved himself entirely

worthy of confidence; an
es bestowed upon him
family, as they inspected
of his efforts, were not
He had succeeded in en
the season, a pleasant,
about a mile beyond the
gate of that quaint, prou<
no expense had been spa
der it comfortable and
A small grove in front of
and a flower garden or
promised many a pleasan
ing those days when s
beauty afford relief and
mind from the power ol
summer sun. The logi
rear of the house, where
lisle, his sister, and ward
standing, commanded a n

Assunta Howard.

333

wrt and beautiful view. Directly
beneath them the land sloped down
into a graceful valley covered with
vioeyards. Beyond was a long
stictch of campagna ; and in the far
distancey like a giant sentinel, rose
lUdfcofani, on the summit of which
still lingered the glory of a sunset
wfcosc gorgeousness had already de-
parted. There is much in first im-
piessions — more, perhaps, than we
we willing to acknowledge — and it
may well be doubted whether any
after-sunshine would have secured
for Sienna the favor it now enjoyed
had Radicofani appeared for the first
time before the little group assem-
bled on the balcony, rising weird-
like from out a veil of mist and
rloud.

Mrs. Grey actually sighed, as, in-
■itanily spanning with a loving, wo-
manly thought the distance which
separated her from the lover she
had regretfully left in Leghorn, she
turned to her companions, saying :
" Oh ! I wish George were here.
1 think Sienna is lovely. There !
I have seen the new moon over my
left shoulder, and now I am sure
he will not come this month."

Mrs. Grey was evidently very
much in love. Mr. Sinclair's pre-
sence and absence formed the light
and shade of her life's picture ; and
i picture it was whose colors were
too glaring, its contrasts too striking,
•ind it lacked deep feeling in its
^*^ne. After a pause she continued :
** But then I have always noticed
that George does not like views."
And removing her pretty travelling-
hat, she went away to superintend
Amalie's unpacking.

"He certainly did not like my
>itws/* said Mr. Carlisle in a low
voice to Assunta, " when I express-
ed them to him rather freely the
other day. But neither did I like
his; so we were quits there."

But the attention of the traveller
was soon entirely engrossed in se-
curing the rest needful after so
fatiguing a journey ; and it was some
days before Mr. Carlisle was suffi-
ciently strong to explore the city,
whose walls and towers could be
seen, in all their mediaeval pictur-
esqueness, from the loggia.

At last, however, the change re-
commended began to tell upon the
invalid, and each day added its por-
tion of renewed strength, until Mr.
Carlisle threatened every possible
and impossible herculean labor, by
way of proving that he was, as he
said, "ready for anything."

The ladies had insisted upon
postponing any sight-seeing until
all could enjoy it together, though
Clara protested that complete stag-
nation was evidently her fate. One
could not find much excitement in a
grove and a mountain after the first
hour of novelty. Still, as long as the
mail brought her a daily letter from
Mr. Sinclair, and took in return the
dainty, perfumed envelope contain-
ing so many pretty, loving nothings,
she did not appear to be hopelessly
inconsolable.

Assunta had, without scruple,
made one exception to the gener-
ous resolution of waiting. But it
was because she knew that the ex-
pedition she wished particularly to
make alone would afford no plea-
sure to the others, while their pre-
sence might be the occasion of much
pain to herself Of course the in-
terest Sienna had for her was its
association with S. Catherine ; and
she longed to see the spot conse-
crated by the heroic sanctity of
one whose humility was as pro-
found as her influence on the world
was powerful. She took the op-
portunity on Sunday, after she and
Marie had assisted at Mass in a lit-
tle suburban church, to visit the

334

AssUHta Howard,

house of the dyer whose honor and
privilege it was to be the father of
a woman the life and character of
whom might well be studied by the
women of to-day. S. Catherine
possessed all that the most ambi-
tious of her sex in the present day
could desire — an immense public
influence. How did she gain it?
Only by seeking to lose herself in
the obscurity of an ignoble origin ;
in labors and privations for the
sake of a love whose consuming
fire many waters of tribulation
could not quench ; and in that tru-
ly hidden life in which God de-
lights to work his wonders. The
only right she claimed was that of
loving, and consequently of suffer-
ing, more than others. The only
insignia of rank she coveted was a
crown of thorns, and it was grant-
ed to her. by her Eternal Lover,
who could refuse her nothing.
Her power was in God's exaltation
of the humble, in his use of the
weak things of the world to con-
found the mighty. Well might
those hands, which -were privileged
to bear in them the marks of the
Lord Jesus — the sacred stigmata —
be made instrumental in leading
back to Rome its exiled pontiff-
king. Self-annihilation was the
secret of the influence of those
glorious women of the ages of faith
who have since been placed upon
the altars of the church. O rest-
less, self-seeking women of to-day !
striving for a power which will
curse and not bless you, where is
the sweet perfume of your humil-
ity ? Where are the fruits of mortifi-
cation ? Where the aureola of sanc-
tity ? Where are those grand works
for God, oflspring of a faith that
believes all and a love that dares
all ? For these are the virtues in
a S. Catherine or a S. Teresa
which all can imitate. Or, if these

standards are too high for modem
souls, where are the homely quali-
ties of those women commended
by S. Paul, who adorn themselves
with modesty, learn in silence, ac«
faithful in all things, having a can
of the house ? Thank God, tke
hand of the Lord is not shortened
and holy mother church cherkb*
es many a hidden gem of sanctity
which will one day adorn the bride
at the coming of her divine Spouse!
Yet these are but the exceptioDS,
unknown in the midst of the vast,
ever-moving multitude seeking ^
open arena of life, and desiring a
part in its contests, animated by
hopes as false as they are hamafi,
placing that almost insuperable bar-
rier of pride between their soots
and the Sacred Heart of our di-
vine Lord. S. James has given us
this simple rule of a holy life : " To
visit the fatherless and widows in
their tribulation, and to keep our-
selves unspotted from the world "—
in two words, charity and purity.
May the ever Blessed Mother oi
God and her glorious servant S.
Catherine intercede for the wo-
men of the church, that they may
never covet those empty baubles
for which the women of the world
are now spending their lives !

Assunta, simple child of the
faith, thought nothing of all this,
as she passed reverently over the
threshold of the house, whos^
rooms, retaining still something ol'
their original appearance, are now
converted into chapels. The sa-
cristan, perceiving in the young
girl an earnestness of piety to
which he was not accustomed in
most of the strangers who visited
this holy spot, showed to her,
without solicitation, the crucifix be-
fore which S. Catherine was kneel-
ing when she received the stigmata.
With kind attention the good man

Assunta Howard.

335

placed a prie-dieu before the pre-
cions object of veneration and, then
retiring, gave Assunta an opportu-
nity to satisfy her devotion. Mak-
ing a place for Marie beside her,
slie was soon absorbed in prayer.
Here, where the very atmosphere
was filled with a spirit of love and
sacrifice, where the crucifix before
her spoke so eloquently of the
closeness of the union between the
iaithfal soul and its suffering Lord,
bow easy it seemed to make aspira-
tions and resolutions which would
of necessity lose something of their
heat when exposed to the chilling
air of the world's indifference !
How far off now was Mr. Carlisle's
affection, of whose influence she
never ceased to feel something;
how near the divine love of the
Sacred Heart, that one sole object
of S. Catherine's desire and adora-
tion ! It had been the last request
of Father Du Pont, when he gave
Assunta his good-by and blessing,
that, while in Sienna, she would
often visit this holy house. He
jadgKl rightly that the evident
presence of the supernatural would
help to counteract the spirit of
woridliness which surrounded her
ia her daily life. She herself al-
ready felt thdt it was good for her
to be there ; and though, when she
relumed home, the sensible fervor of
the moment died away, the effects
remained in reanimated strength.
** Courage, my child, and perseve-
rance; God is with you," were the
last words she had heard from the
good priest's lips; and they kept
•inging on in her soul a sweet, low
hannony, like the music of sea-
shells, soothing her in many an
anxious hour.

When once Mr. Carlisle was able
to go out without danger of fatigue,
Mn. Grey could no longer complain
of stagnation. The cathedral, the

academy, and the numberless places
of interest within the city walls,
the drives, the walks through the
shady lanes near the villa, twilight
strolls through the vineyards, and
excursions into the surrounding
country, filled up the time through
all those pleasant weeks. Before
they could realize it Assunta's
birthday, her day of freedom, was
at hand. A week before the event-
ful occasion Mr. Sinclair had arriv-
ed in Sienna, making Mrs. Grey
superlatively happy. The joy he
imparted to the others must be ex-
pressed in something less than the
positive degree.

The sun rose brightly on the 15th
of August. Nature responded to
the joyous Benedicite, and " all the
works of the Lord " seemed to
" magnify him for ever " for the
great things he had done in giv-
ing to heaven a Queen, to earth an
Advocate. Nor was man silent.
The grave city of Sienna put off its
wonted dignity, and, by the unfurl-
ing of its gay flags, the spreading
of tapestries, and the ringing of
bells, testified its share in the com-
mon rejoicing of Christendom. It
was the Feast of the Assumption,
and Assunta Howard's twenty-first
birthday. Was it strange that the
young girl should have arisen with
a heavy heart but little in sympathy
with the glad sights and sounds
that greeted her in these first wak-
ing moments } Surely, to those
who understand the workings of
the human heart it was miost na-
tural. " On this day ended the rela-
tions between herself and her guar-
dian. However hard the tie which
bound her had made her duty to-
wards him, it was harder still to
nature to sever the bond. She was
free now to go where she would ;
and it would soon be right for her
to separate from him who was no

336

Assunta Howard.

longer her guardian, and was not
satisfied to be only her friend.
She had not realized before how
much happiness she had experienc-
ed in the relationship which exist-
ed no longer ; how she had rested
content in the very face of danger,
because the peril had in it so much
more of pleasure than of pain.
How sweet had been the intercourse
which duty had sanctioned, and
which duty must now interrupt !
The feeling was all wrong, and she
knew it, and she would not fail to
struggle against it. Her will was
resolute, but it was evident that
she was not to conquer in life's
battle by throwing aside her arms
and withdrawing from the contest.
The bearing of the cross must be
daily, and not only day after day,
but year after year. Only to-day
she seemed to feel its weight mare,
and she sank a little beneath it.
Was it her guardian angel that
whispered courage to her soul, or
was it the Blessed Mother, to whose
loving protection she had- been
specially confided, who reminded
her that our dear Lord fell three
times beneath the overwhelming
burden of his cross, and bade her
be comforted ? Yes, it was the feast
of that dear Mother, and no mere
human feeling should prevent her
joining in the church's exultation
and corresponding to her salutation
in the Introit : " Gaudeamus omnes
in Domino."

Assunta had ordered the carriage
to be in readiness to take her to
San Domenico for early Mass, and
Marie's knock at the door inform-
ed her that it was waiting. She
had before visited the church, but
only in the way of sight-seeing.
She had then been struck with its
many points of interest; she had
no idea until this morning how
devotional it was. After Mass, at

which she had received, in tke
Holy Communion, strength and
peace, she remained a long time be-
fore the chapel containing those
most beautiful frescos, by Razzi, oC
incidents in the life of the great
saint of Sienna. The finest of afi*
S. Catherine in Ecstasy, is a treasure
both of art and devotion. Apparent-
ly fainting, supported by two of her
nuns, the countenance of the saint
has that indescribable expression of
peace which we see in those whose
conversation is in heaven. But, more
than this, the evident absence oi all
sensation indicates that the soul is
rapt into an ineffable union with its
divine Lord, and has passed, for
the moment, beyond the confines
of earth. Seemingly dead, and yet
alive, the frail body, with its beauti-
ful, calm face, rests upon its knees
in the arms of the two Sisters, who,
with all the tranquillity of tiie
cloister, yet form a contrast to her
who is so wholly dead to the
world.

Assunta gazed upon the picture
until it seemed to impart resitoher
own soul; and yet the impression
was very different from that she
always received in looking at the
other S. . Catherine whom angels
are bearing to her sepulture. Marie
at last interrupted her, and, re-
minding her that she was the impor-
tant personage at the villa on that
day, suggested that she should re-
turn to breakfast. And Assunta
determined that no cloud should
disturb the serenity of the occasion,
which all intended should be joy-
ous.

Mr. Carlisle met her at the door
on her return, and assisted her to
alight. Then he took her hand in
both his, and his eyes spoke ^'ol-
umes, as he said :

" Let me look at you, child, and
see how you bear your honors*

Asstinta Howard.

357

Yoa are more of a heroine than I
tbooght ; for even at this distance
wc have heard the bells and have
seen the flags. What an important
little body you are ! No one
tbonghl it worth while to ring me
mio my majority."

** It is because you did not come
into the world under the same
■Bspices," replied Assunta.

** Auspice Maria — that is the se-
cret, then." And Mr. Carlisle lower-
ed his voice as he added : " Consid-
er me a Mariolater from this time,
my. devotion deriving an ever-in-
crcftsing fervor from the doctrine
of the Assumption. Well, you are
6ee, and I suppose I am expected
to congratulate you. How do you
enjoy the sensation of liberty V

**I do not think that I am yet
enough accustomed to the use of
my wings to feel the difference be-
tween what I was yesterday and
what I am to-day. But in one
point I am unchanged. I have an
excellent appetite for my break-
fcist,"

AiMita was determined to ward
off all approach to sentiment.

**And here is Clara, wondering,
no doubt, if I have been left behind
m Sienna."

Mrs. Grey came out into the
t;arden, looking very lovely in her
'^hitc morning dress, and followed
l»y Mr. Sinclair.

** Severn, you are the most selfish
«nan I ever saw," exclaimed the im-
petuous little lady. " Do you flat-
ter yourself that you have the mo-
nopoly of Assunta, and that no
^nc else is privileged to wish her
^tnto di questi giornij as Giovanni
siys?— though I am sure I should
not like to live a hundred years.
My beauty would be gone by that
time." And she looked archly at
^r lover standing beside her.
*^ I fancy that even relentless time

VOL. XX. — 22^

would * write no wrinkles on thine an ~
tique brow,* reluctant to spoil any-
thing so fair," said Mr. Sinclair ir>
his most gallant tone ; then extend--
ing his hand to Assunta, he contin-
ued :

" Miss Howard, allow me to con-
gratulate you, and to wish that your
life may be as cloudless as is this
wonderful sky. The day is like
yourself — exquisitely beautiful."

The color mounted into Assun-
ta's cheeks, but it was with dis-
pleasure at such uncalled-for flat-
tery. Mr. Carlisle turned away,
and walked into the house ; while
his sister, with that amiability
which often atoned for her want of
tact, exclaimed :

" Bravo ! George, you have said
quite enough for us both ; so I will
only ditto your speech, and add to
it my birthday kiss. Now, dear,
let us go to breakfast. Severn is
already impatient."

The table had been placed in a
large hall running the whole length
of the house ; and as the three were
about to enter, Assunta paused on
the threshold, m astonishment and
delight at the magical transforma-
tion. The walls were literally gar-
landed with flowers, and fresh
greens were festooned from the
ceiling, while in the centre of the
breakfast-table was a basket of the
rarest exotics. Not only Sienna,
but Florence, had been commission-
ed to fiimish its choicest flowers for
the occasion. Assunta's eyes filled
with tears, and for a moment she
could not speak. Mr. Carlisle, per-
ceiving her emotion, offered her his
arm, and led her towards a side-
table, saying :

" And here are our trifling birth-
day gifts, which you must not de-
spise because they fall so far short
of expressing all that we feel for
you."

338

Assuttta Howard.

There was a beautifully-framed
proof engraving of Titian's master-
piece, the Assumption, from Mr.
Carlisle. Clara had chosen as her
gift a set of pearls, " because they
looked so like the darling," she said.
Mr. Sinclair's offering was a bou-
quet of rare and exquisite flowers.
He had all the penetration of an
experienced man of the world, and
understood well that Miss Howard
would prefer not to accept from him
anything less perishable. Assunta
put her hand in Clara's, as she
said :

" I never can thank you, it is all
so beautiful." And then she paus-
ed, until Clara exclaimed :

" Why, Assunta love, what a
solemn birthday face ! To be sure,
the flight of time is a serious thing.
I begin to feel it myself, and shall
very soon dispense with birthdays
altogether — such disagreeable re-
minders as they are."

"What is \t, pettier asked Mr.
Carlisle. " You know that to-day
you have only to command us, and
we will prove your most obedient
subjects."

" Oh ! it was nothing of any con-
sequence ; only a thought that you
would consider very foolish cross-
ed my mind. I am sure my solem-
nity was quite unintentional."

" Well, a penny for that thought,
twice told."

Assunta, perceiving that Mr. Sin-
clair was out of hearing, explained :

" All this for my poor worthless
self and nothing for Her whom
God has delighted to honor. I
think I was feeling a little jealous
for my dear Mother. I did not
want my feast to be better than
hers."

" Is that all ?" said Mr. Carlisle.
** To hear is to obey." And with-
out another word' he quickly re-
moved from the table everything

but the picture, and, taking flowers
and candles from the mantel-piece
he improvised a really artistic
shrine. Giovanni, who was serving
breakfast, lighted the candles, and
surveyed the effect with satisfiic-
tion.

" Thank you," said Assunta, and
she would not even remember that
the love was wanting which would
give value to the offering. " I shall
hardly dare think a wish to-day, the
consequence is so magical."

" And now, Severn," said his sis-
ter, " if you have finished your
popery, you had better call Assun-
ta's attention to my ever-increasing
appetite. Giovanni, too, will not
like to have his efforts to iionor the
occasion slighted by a want of ap-
preciation."

Mr. Carlisle offered the young
girl his arm, and led her to the ta-
ble, saying :

" This is my first attempt at Ma-
riolatry. Quite a success, is it
not ?"

'* If it were only an outward sign
of inward grace," said Clara, laugh-
ing, " exterior piety would be quite
becoming to you, Severn. Yoa
really have an artistic taste. But
you are too absent-minded to-day '
Can you not see that we are ston-
ing?"

Assunta was so accustomed to
hear sacred things spoken of light-
ly, and often irreverently, that she
had learned to make a little soli-
tude in her heart, into which she
could retire from the strife, or even
the thoughtlessness, of tongues, and
many a short act of reparation was
there performed for those who
were unconscious of offence.

"I wonder," said Mrs. Grey, as
after breakfast the party were
standing on the loggia — " I wonder
if Giovanni has .succeeded in find-
ing a good balcony for the races

Assunta Howard.

339

to-morrow. I would not miss see-
ing them for the world. I dote on
horses."

" I very much doubt," replied her
brother, *• if the horses will excite
the least admiration, judging from
the specimens Sienna has ttius far
produced. But the races will be
interesting, because they are en-
tirely unique. I believe that Gio-
vanni has been very successful in
securing a balcony, and he intends
to have it surpass all others in
decoration ; so I hope that the la-
<Hps will do their part, not to dis-
grace his efforts. He will expect
the jewels to be set in a manner
worthy of the casket which con-
tains them."

"Never fear, Severn! Do you
think a lady ever failed to look her
best on such an occasion? An
open balcony and a crowds — surely,
she needs no other occasion for
vanity."

George Sinclair removed his ci-
gar to remark carelessly :

"And so the admiration of one
isr ster all, insufficient to satisfy
yott?"

"No, it is not, you dear, lazy,
old fellow, and you know it. It is
oaly because I like your taste to be
appreciated that I want others to
admire me. I do not think there
is a more delicious sensation than
to feel that you are pretty to begin
"fith, and then dressed so as to
show every point to the best ad-
vantage, and to know that every
eye is fixed upon you. One can be
so innocently unconscious of it all
the time."

"Clara, I am ashamed of you,"
"claimed her brother. " You are
* perfect mirror of your sex ; only,
iDfortunately, it is the weaknesses
that you reflect to the life, and
none of the virtues."

"Hush, impertinence!" replied

Clara, laughing merrily. " One can-
not always be* a well awfully deep
and reflecting only the stars.
Come, George, what will be most
becoming to me for to-morrow V

If it had been a few months after
marriage, instead of before, this de-
voted lover would probably have
replied, " A fool's cap and bells,
for all I care !" As it was, he con-
cealed his inward irritation, and no
one would have dtubted his sin-
cerity as he said: "You cannot
fail to be charming in anything ;
and 1 will not choose or suggest,
because I would like -to enjoy the
pleasure of a surprise, "i

Mr. Sinclair was sometimes fas-
cinated by Clara's piquancy and
brightness; but she did not suit all
moods, ^nd to-day Assunta's quiet
dignity and the antagonism that
Mr. Carlisle always excited more
or less, produced an interior dis-
turbance of which a wife would
surely have received the full bene-
fit. It is strange that an entirely
worldly man will often, from a sel-
fish motive, show a power of self-
control which Christians find it
difficult to practise, even for the
love of God. Alas ! that the devil
should receive many a sacrifice,
many an offering of suffering and
heroism, which, the intention be-
ing changed, would produce a
saint.

Mrs. Grey had not penetration
enough to see below the surface,
^nd she was entirely satisfied with
her lover, whom she considered the
best and handsomest man in the
world, not even excepting her bro-
ther. She could rush fearlessly
against a mood which would have
kept a more appreciative nature at
a distance ; and here, perhaps, she
had an advantage.

She was now about to answer Mr.
Sinclair's very gratifying speech

340

Assunta Howard.

when an interruption came in the
shape of Giovanni with a note for
herself, which she read hastily, and
then said : " Severn, it is from
Lady Gertrude. They were passing
through Sienna, and have remained
over a day expressly to see your
humble servant. They wish me to
dine with them this evening, ac-
companied by xay preux chevalier —
her own expression, George. But
I do not know about leaving As-
sunta alone on her birthday, even
for Lady pertrude."

" Oh ! I hope you will not disap-
point your friends on my account,"
said Assunta. **I have already
had my celebration this morning,
and it is quite proper that I should
devote this evening to reflections
upon my coming responsibilities.**

** Besides,*' said Mr. Carlisle, "I
beg to inform you that Assunta
will not be left alone. I flatter
myself that I count for one, at
least; and I will endeavor to act
as your substitute, Clara, in most
eflectually preventing those con-
templated reflections. Responsi-
bility and golden hair are an asso-
ciation of ideas quite incongritous,
in my opinion.**

"I see,*' said Clara, "that the
balance is in Lady Gertrude's favor.
What do you say, caro f

" If you mean me,'* said George
Sinclair in a slightly unamiable tone,
" I am always at your service."

"You bear!" replied the irre-
pressible Clara, " I will not allow
you to go if you are cross. Well,
Giovanni^ come to my room in ten
minutes for the answer; and re-
member to order the carriage for
half-past five.**

" Truly," said Mr. Carlisle, turn-
ing to Assunta after his sister had
left the hggia^ "I think I never
saw so sunshiny a person as Clara.
It is always high noon with her.**

While Assunta assented cordially.
Mr. Sinclair said to himself:

"Too much sunshine makes an
unpleasant glare, and noon is always
the most disagreeable part of the
day. I confess to liking a little of
the shadow of repose."

He was careful, however, to keep
his thoughts to himself. If the
lover could feel imperfections so
keenly, it argued but poorly for the
blindness of love on the part of the
husband. And yet this blindness,
false and unworthy as it is, seems
to be the only chance of peace for
worldly husbands and wives, the
only protection against the evil
tendencies of uncontrolled human
nature. All Clara's sunshine might
fail to make even a silver lining to
the cloud rising in the distant
future. ,

The sun shone brightly enough,
however, when Mrs. Grey and Mr,
Sinclair took their seats in the
barouche to drive into Sienna; and
the lady, who so much delighted in
the delicious sensation of undisguis-
ed admiration, must have* been
more than satisfied this afternoon.
Many eyes followed the handsome
pair, as they passed rapidly towards
the hotel. Clara knew that she was
looking uncommonly well, and she
was very proud of her companion's
distinguished air and manner; so,
altogether, she enjoyed quite a
little triumph.

Assunta and Mr. Carlisle dined
alone ; and, as they rcJse from the
table just at sunset, Mr. Carlisle
proposed a walk down into the
vineyards.

"It will soil that pretty white
dress of yours, I know; but the air
is so refreshing, and I want you to
occupy for a while the new rustic
seat I have had placed near the
brook, in that lovely spot we dis-
covered the other day. Take a

Assunta Howard.

341

shawl with you, petite ^ for it will be
cooler as soon as the sun sets."

They strolled along slowly down
through the narrow paths which
separated the vines heavy with the
fast-ripening fruit, pausing now
and then, as some new beauty in
the distant view or in their imme-
diate surroundings excited their
attention. At last, at the bottom
of the valley, close beside a brook,
and beneath a clump of trees, they
came upon one of those fairy spots
where nature seems to have arrang-
ed herself expressly to attract an
artist's eye.

"Giovanni is truly invaluable,"
said Mr. Carlisle. " I had only to
give him a suggestion, and see how
well he has carried out my ideas.
This is the very luxury of com-
fort." And seatinghimself, he light-
ed a cigar, advised Assunta to put
on her shawl, and was evidently
prepared for a pleasant hour.

As they sat there, almost in
silence, the Angelus sounded from*
a distant convent tower; and, as if
in ail^'er to its summons, Assunta
began to sing in a sweet, low voice
Schubert's Ave Maria. Mr. Car-
lisle did not say a word until it
was finished; then he begged for
just one more, and, knowing how
much he liked the simple Scotch
songs, she sang " Robin Adair."

"Assunta, your voice grows
sweeter every day. It is perfect
rest to me to hear you sing." Then,
after a pause, he threw away his ci-
gar, and turned towards her a very
earnest face.

"Z'^///^, listen to me patiently a
moment. I am a very proud man,
as you know, and one who is not
apt to sue, even where he greatly
desires. It seems " — and the pecu-
liar smile broke over his face —
"that you have exercised some
magic power, and with a touch of

your finger have thrown down the
barrier of pride against which an
army might beat in vain. My
child, you know what I am* going
to say, because I have not chang-
ed since that moonlight night in
the Colosseum, except, indeed, that
the feeling I then expressed has
strengthened and deepened every
day. I made you a promise that
night. I confess that it has been
poorly enough redeemed ; still, you
must judge me by my self-con-
quests rather than by my failures.
But to-day releases me : and hav-
ing ceased to be your guardian, 1
cannot give you up. I need not
repeat to you what I have already
said. You know that you are
dearer to me than the life you have
saved. I only ask, as before, the
right to devote that life to you.
May I .?"

" I had hoped, Mr. Carlisle, that
you would consider my former an-
swer as final," said Assunta; but,
though her words were cold, her
voice trembled. "I, too, am un-
changed since that night you speak
of. I am compelled to be so."

** Assunta, you are such a child ;
do you, then, think it nothing to
have won the love of a man who
has reached middle life and has
never loved before ?"

"Mr. Carlisle," said the young
girl sadly, " if I thought it nothing,
I should not feel the pain it costs
me to repeat to you, that it cannot
be. I am so unworthy of your
love ; you must not think I do not
value it. Your friendship has been
more to me than I dare tell you,
lest you should misunderstand me."

" Your heart pleads for me,
child."

" Then I must not listen to it ;
for the voice of God in my soul
pleads more loudly."

" Assunta," said Mr. Carlisle, " I

342

Assunta Howard.

think you did not understand me
before — you do not understand me
now. Do you suppose I should in-
terfere in your religion ? No more
than I have ever done. You do
not know me, child."

" I think I know you better than
you know yourself, presumptuous
as this sounds," said Assunta, forc-
ing a smile. " I am sure that,
were I to marry you, you would
not be satisfied to hold a place in
my heart second even to God.
But," she added, as the old ex-
pression of bitterness crossed her
guardian's face, " all this is useless.
Let me put a question to you, and
answer me candidly. Suppose I
had made a promise to you, who
love me — made it, we will grant, out
of love for you — and afterwards,
yielding to my own weakness, I
should break that promise. Would
you feel that I had done rightly —
that I was to be tnisted ?"

"Certainly not, child. You ask
strange questions."

"Well, I have, out of love for
our dear Lord, made him a pro-
mise which I believed his love re-
quired of me. He is a jealous
Lover, Mr. Carlisle. I dare to say
this reverently. Suppose, for the
sake of a human affection — for
your sake — I should fail to keep
my promise; would you not have
reason to doubt my fidelity to you,
when I could be unfaithful to my
God?"

" My child, I do not comprehend
such reasoning. You either do
not, cannot love me, or else you
have suffered religious fanaticism
to get the better of your judgment.
I hoped that the plea of love would
be sufficient to win my cause ; but
it is not all. Look your future
fairly in the face, Assunta. What
are you going to do? You are
young; I need not add, beautiful.

Surely, you understand that without
me you are unprotected. Have
you any plans, or have you al-
ready become so independent that
you prefer not to make me your con-
fidant ? My pride is gone indeed
when I put my suit in another
form. I ask only your hand. Let
me have the right to protect you
in the world you know so little. I
will wait to win your heart."

"Mr. Carlisle," interrupted As-
sunta with more emotion than he
had ever seen in her before, ** you
are cruel in your persistence. You
wilfully misunderstand roe. It
seems to give you pleasure to make
this trial as hard for me as possi-
ble. I have told you before that I
can never marry you; let that be
enough." And bursting into tears,
she rose hastily from her seat.

Her guardian was so taken by
surprise that for an instant he sat
motionless; then he followed the
excited girl, and joined her before
• she had proceeded far along the
vineyard path.

" Take my arm, petiit,'" hf said
gently, and they walked some dis-
tance in silence. At last Assunta
said with regained composure :

" Mr. Carlisle, you asked roe
about my plans, and you have a
right to know. I have thought*
much of the future, as you may be-
lieve. My desire is to return to
Baltimore with Clara after her mar-
riage, and pass the winter with
Mary Percival Further than this
I need not look. "

There was no immediate answer.
After a pause Mr. Carlisle said :

" You are your own mistress now.
I shall of course place no obsta-
cle in the way of your carrying out
any wish or design which will con-
duce to your welfare. As for my-
self, the time may come when I
shall cease to regret that I am in no

Assunta Howard.

343

wise necessary to your happiness.
Meanwhile, it shall be as you say.
Good heavens ! to think that a
mere girl should have the power to
more me so/* he went on, as if
speaking to himself.

And apparently his thoughts
were so full of Assunta that he
forgot her actual presence, for they
reached the house in silence, and
then Mr. Carlisle proceeded at once
to his own room ; and so ended the
birthday.

The Sienna races are a thorough-
ly unique spectacle — almost child-
ish, like many features of the Ro-
roan Carnival, to the over-cultivat-
ed and consequently over-fastidious
taste of this age. They take one
back to the days when men were
more simple, when hearts did not
grow old and faith was strong.
These childlike traits produced a
race of men who were but " chil-
dren of a larger growth," and, like
children, amused with even a small
amount of pomp and show, heroes
asthe^ere. And a strange con-
trast were the races of that i6th
of August to the usual occupations
of the Siennese. Mr. Carlisle's car-
riage passed beneath innumerable
flags and between gayly-tapestried
windows, as it drove to the amphi-
theatre-shaped piazza, the centre
of which was already filled, while
every seat placed against the
houses which bounded the square
was occupied. The bright colors
worn by the peasant women, with
their large Tuscan hats and the
more subdued dress of the men,
produced an effect at once very pe-
culiar and very picturesque. A
little cheer from the bystanders
greeted Mr. Carlisle's party, as they
appeared upon the balcony ; for no
other decorations in all that vast
piazza were so fine as those in

which Giovanni had shown so much
skill, and surely no other ladies
were as beautiful. There was no
appearance of heartache or disap-
pointment on any of the four faces
which now looked out upon the
crowd. We all, sooner or later,
learn to wear a mask before the
world, and the interior life of each
one of us is often a sealed book to
our nearest friends.

"Clara," said Assunta, as they
seated themselves after their survey,
" you seem to know more about the
races than the rest of us. Please
to enlighten my ignorance. "

" I heard about them at the ho-
tel last night," replied Mrs. Grey ;
" so you will find me very learned.
Sienna is divided into seventeen
wards; but only ten take part in
the race, and these are decided by
lot. The victor receives a prize
and a sort of diminutive triumph,
while the losers may think them-
selves lucky if they only get a scold-
ing from their respective wards.
The oracle has spoken, and further
than this she is not informed."

"The rest we shall now see for
ourselves," said Mr. Sinclair, "for
I hear the music which I suppose
accompanies the procession." And,
as he spoke, the band entered the
piazza from a side street. Then
followed, in turn, the representa-
tives of the different wards, each
representation consisting of two
flags — the colors of the ward — a
number of pages, the race-horse led
by an esquire, and the man who was
afterwards to ride the racer, on horse-
back as a knight. The flag-bearers,
as well as all in each division, wore
exactly the colors of the flag of the
ward, in costumes of the olden time ;
and, as these flags were of entirely
different combinations of colors, and
most of them very brilliant, the pro-
cession would have been very effec-

344

Assunta Howard.

tive without its peculiar charm.
The flag-bearers were men of grace
and skill, and from the moment of
entering the square the flags were
in contfnual motion — waved above
their heads, flung into the air, pass-
ed under their arms and legs/ and
all without once touching the
ground. It was a very poetical
combination of color and motion,
and Mrs. Grey impulsively clapped
her hands with delight — a perform-
ance which her dignified lover evi-
dently looked upon as childish.
After this part of the procession
came a large chariot drawn by four
horses, with postilions, and bearing
the ten different flags tastefully ar-
ranged. This was the model* of the
old Siennese battle-car, which bore
the standard, and was in conse-
quence the scene of the thickest of
the fight. Upon it, in time of bat-
tle, stood a priest, invoking by his
prayers protection and success.
There also was the trumpeter, in
readiness to give signals. A truly
mediaeval picture was this chariot,
with associations which carried one
back hundreds of years into the past.
A band of music closed the proces-
sion, which, after passing around the
piazza, entered the court-yard of the
Palazzo Pubblico. Here the knights
exchanged their helmets and plumes
for jockey-caps, and mounted their
racers. As they emerged from be-
neath the archway, and proceeded
slowly towards the starting-place,
across which a rope w^as drawn,
Mr. Carlisle exclaimed, with a laugh
in which there was more sarcasm
than merriment :

" Are you a judge of horses, Cla-
ra ? If so, you, who yesterday an-
nounced your jockey procliviiies,
must be greatly disappointed; for
truly a set of sorrier-looking steeds
I never beheld. The prize ought
to be given to the one that comes

in last ; for, where all are so slov,
there would really be no little cx-
* ercise of skill ^in moving more slow-
ly than a coach-horse going up-hill
and yet moving at all.*'

" I think, Severn," replied his
sister, "that your temper was not
improved by the fever. It is very
disagreeable in you to inform mc
that the horses are not Arabian
chargers, for I never should have
been the wiser."

" Most men are disagreeable,"
he retorted.

" George, you hear that, and do
not resent it.^" said Mrs. Grey in-
dignantly.

" I leave that for you to do when
you can, from experience of the
contrary, deny the charge. But
the horses are starting on their
three times round." And Mr. Sin-
clair leaned over the balcony with
an air of interest.

"Why do the men carry those
short sticks in their hands ?" asked
Assunta,

" I believe," said Mr. Sinclair—
for Mr. Carlisle became stfangely
inattentive — "that the riders are
allowed by rule to do all the dam-
age they can with the sticks, which
are short, so as to limit somewhat
their power; for their aim is to
knock each other off* the horses.*'

" The barbarians !" exclaimed
Clara. " Oh ! look, see how many
are falling'back on the third round.
It rests with the two now. I bet
on the sorrel."

" And he has won, Clara," said
Assunta,

The whole piazza was now in
motion. Shouts greeted the vic-
tor, and the defeated retired into
obscurity.

"The modem Olympics are fin-
ished," said Mr. Carlisle. ** Shall
we go.^"

As they drove towards home in

Assunta Hdward.

345

the red glow of the setting sun, Mr.
Cariisle said abruptly :

"Qara, when did you tell me
that you and Sinclair intend to
make each other miserable ?"

" I will not answer such a ques-
tion, Severn. You are a perfect
dog in the manger. You will not
«arry yourself or let any one
else."

"If you wish to know," said Mr.
Sinclair, " when your sister intends
to make me the happiest of men,
she has permitted me to hope that
the end of September will be the
term of my most impatient wait-
ing."

"Then," continued Mr. Carlisle
in the same abrupt tone, " we had
better be on our way to Paris. We
might start day after to-morrow, I
think."

Mrs. Grey gave a little scream.

** Severn, you must be out of
yoar mind. I thought you wished
never to leave Sienna."

** I am weary to death of it ; but
that is not all. I have business mat-
ters to arrange, and the prepara-
tion of your trousseau will no doubt
occupy weeks."

" But It will be so warm in Paris,"
persisted Mrs. Grey.

" Do people whose hearts are fill-
ed with love and their minds with
coming matrimony think of weath-
er, then ? I thought such sublu-
nary interests were left to those
whose hearts were still unthawed.
However, there are fans and ices
enough in Paris to cool you off.
I will write to-night to engage
rooms." And then Mr. Carlisletre-
lapsed into silence and abstraction.

Assunta understood well enough
the cause of this change in the
plans; but she was powerless to
act, and could only submit. It,
indeed, made little difference to her.

" George," said Clara to her lov-
er, as they were strolling down the
avenue in the moonlight, "can
you imagine what is the matter
with Severn ? I never saw him in
such a mood."

" Disappointed in love, I should
judge from appearances," he re-
plied indifferently.

** Nonsense ! He does not know
the meaning of the word," was
the not very intelligent reply of the
lady.

TO BB COXmCUBD.

346

Stvinburne and De Vert.

SWINBURNE AND DE VERK.-

The dramas Boihwell and Alex^
ander the Greaty which have so re-
cently come into the world side by
side to challenge the attention of
that portion of it that speaks, or is
supposed to speak, the language of
Shakespeare, offer all the contrasts
that might be expected from their
subjects, as well as from the
known thought, tone, and tendency
of their respective authors. One
writer has taken for his chief charac-
ter a great Christian woman whose
story, look at it as we may, is at
least of the saddest that was ever
told ; the other has chosen for his
subject the wonder of pagan history,
the exemplar of pagan greatness,
whose short career is the condensa-
tion of all earthly glory and tri-
umph.

It will be at once manifest that
to a modern writer, as far as the
materials for the construction of an
historical drama go, the life of
Mary, Queen of Scots, is beyond
measure richer than that of Alex-
ander. Her story is religiously
and politically one of the day.
She is still on trial, no longer be-
fore the narrow circles of York
and Fotheringay, but before Chris-
tendom. The question of her
innocence or guilt, and the con-
sequent justice or injustice of her
sentence, is debated as fiercely to-
day as when alone she faced the
sleuth-hounds of Elizabeth in de-
fence of her honor and her life.-

^Bothwell : A Tra^dy. By Algerooo Charles
Swinburne. London : Chatto & Windus. 1874.

Alexander the Grtat : A Dramatic Poem. By
Aubrey de Vcre. London : H. S. King^ & Co.
1874. New York : The CathoUc Publication Society.

The final judgment of Christendom
may be said already to be a fore-
gone conclusion in her favor, so
fast is the long- withheld evidence of
her innocence accumulating. Bat
her life-blood stains a nation and
a religion, or what called itself such,
and the verdict that declares her
" not guilty " lays a terrible and
indelible blot on them. Hence
every nook and cranny of history
is searched, every historical cobweb
disentangled, with a^ eagerness an^
minuteness so thoi*ough and com-
plete that the reader is better ac-
quainted often with the history of
Mary Stuart than with that of the
century in which he lives.

For a dramatist a most impor-
tant point is thus at once secured.
His audience is interested in ad-
vance ; and there is no further care
for him than to make a judicious
use of the wealth of material at his
disposal.

And surely to one with a soul in
his body never did a more fitting
subject for a tragedy offer itself
than Mary, Queen of Scots. The
only difficulty would seem to be
a right selection from a great abun-
dance. The scenes and characters,
the very speeches often, are ready
made. Time, place, circumstance,
are ripe with interest. The march
of events is terribly rapid. The
scene is ever shifting, and with it
the fortunes of the queen. All the
passions are there at strife. Plot
and counterplot, tragedy within
tragedy, love and hate, jealousy
and wrath, hope and fear, the basest
betrayal and the loftiest devotion,

Swinburne and De Vere.

347

wrge and make war around this
wie woman, and are borne along
mtlv her in a frenzied whirl to the
Itnrible end, when the curtain
dtops silently on that last dread
icene that stands, as it will for ever
itand, in startling relief, far out from
the dim background of history.

The name of Alexander the
Gfeat calls up no such interest as
tliis. His life would seem the least
BWy of subjects for a modem
ibamatist. Great captains, such
as t^c first Napoleon, may look to
liini as at once their model and their
tBvy ; but happily such great men
xst lew and far between. Alexan-
der might indeed have formed an
admirable theme for one of the
lesser lights of the English Augus-
tan era to celebrate in those sono-
nms heroics whose drowsy hum
might serve at need as an admir-
able soporific. But he and those
who lived and moved about him
tre out of our world ; and whether
he conquered ten empires or fifty,
*btther he defeated Darius or
Dirios him, whether he sighed for
«otc or fewer worlds to conquer,
»« now all one to us. The sands of
the desert have buried or wiped out
his empire ages ago ; the sands of
time have settled down on his
memory and half obliterated it ; and
the mighty Alexander serves to-day
for little more than to point a
mond

On the other hand, every scene
and incident in which Mary, Queen
of Scots, figured is intense with dra-
matic force. She entered on her
r^ign at what might be called the
^ij^Ti of modem history — a lurid
<lawn presaging the storm that was
^0 come and is not yet over. The
Reformation was convulsing Eu-
"yt. It had just entered Scotland
'»<fore her, and the raven that
<^roaked its fatal entrance was John

Knox. In the person of this girl
were centred the hopes of the Ca-
tholic party for Scotland and Eng-
land. Mingled with the strife of
creeds around her was the conflict
of the great Scottish families, whose
miserable contentions rent and
wrecked the kingdom. Any chief-
tain who chose and thought himself
strong enough drew the sword when
and for what purpose pleased him.
More than half of them — those of
any note, at least — were in Eliza-
beth's pay. Treason constituted
much of the political life of those
days, while under and over and
among the fierce strife of political
parties rang and resounded the
clangor and wrangle of the deli-
rious sects that had just apostatized
from Rome. Such was the period
when the helm of the most distract-
ed state in distracted Christendom
was set in the hand of a gentle girl,
who stood there alone to guide it
over unknown seas. All the tem-
pest gathered together its fury and
broke over her head. This is the
figure chosen by the author of Both-
well for the centre of his tragedy.
It was a time and a scene and a
tragedy worthy the philosophic
mind of a Shakespeare and the ter-
rible power of an ^Eschylus. Mr.
Swinburne's work scarcely gives
evidence of the combination of
these qualities.

A subject of this kind, when at-
tempted at all, suggests painful re-
flections if failure, emphatic failure,
is the result. A goose essaying an
eagle's flight would scarcely present
a more absurd figure. Mr. Swin-
burne has fallen immeasurably b^-
low the level of a subject whose
level is greatness. Not because he
has chosen to paint Mary, Queen
of Scots, as a fiend, is this judgment
passed on his work. Milton has
proved that Satan can be converted

348

Swinburne and De Vere.

by genius into the most powerful
dramatic villain that ever trod the
stage. Lady Macbeth may thrill
us with horror, but she never causes
us to yawn. The author of Both-
well was at liberty, by the license
allowed to poets, to make his he-
roine wicked enough even to satisfy
his fastidious taste, and still have
given us a drama that of its own
force and brilliancy and coherence
would have extorted the admiration
of the unfortunate queen's most
ardent defenders. But even her
heartiest haters could not resist the
tendency to nod over the cumbrous
wickedness, the very heavy villany,
of Bothwdly which is simply a dilu-
tion of Froude with a tincture of
Swinburne, well watered and ad-'
ministered in the largest possible
doses, or, in plain English, a few
scenes of the history of the period
stitched loosely together and set to
measured lines of blank verse.

Five hundred and thirty-two
pages, with thirty lines to the page,
in five acts and sixty scenes, make a
tragedy indeed. Such is BoihwelL
Yet, notwithstanding its alarming
proportions, it only extends from
the death of Rizzio to the battle of
Langside, thus omitting the scene
that of all others is the most thrill-
ing and effective — Mary's execu-
tion. This may have been done
with a purpose ; for even malevo-
lence falters there. Such an end,
preceded by her long captivity, so
patiently borne, were she even as
wicked as Mr. Swinburne would
make her, might almost expiate
any crime, as it sanctifies her inno-
cence.

The entire first act, entitled
" David Rizzio," is absorbed by the
murder of the character after which
it is named. As far as its necessa-
ry connection with the drama goes,
it might have been entirely and

very profitably omitted. It ser^
indeed, to introduce many of the
characters, but to no special pur-
pose that might not have been ^-
complished in any of the other act*.
The author forgets that he is not
writing history, but a drama. Wie
do not want the minutiae, everythinj
that everybody said at any time, ift
any place, and under any circuai*
stances while Mary, Queen of ScoCi^
was living, which Mr. Swinburne
seems to think he was bound ta
give us, and in blank verse too,ia
BoihwelL We want the situation^
the great facts. What led up tt.
them may be told or hinted at in a
few lines. Mr. Swinburne does
not seem to have realized this, and,
as a consequence, his drama k
crowded with scenes, incidents, and
personages that not only hinder, bot
are utterly irrelevant to, the main
action of the piece, if indeed the
piece can be truly said to possess
any main action. Thus it takes
the entire first act, consisting of fire
scenes and eighty-nine pages, to kiB
Rizzio. At last he is happily de-
spatched, to the relief, it must be
said, of the reader, who, already
wearied, finds the second act en-
tirely devoted to a similar sangui-
nary operation, performed on Dam-
ley this time. With a nice sense,
notwithstanding his pronounced
communistic sympathies, of what
is due even to second-hand royalty
of the Damley order, Mr. Sirin-
burne, regardless of the liberal al-
lowance of space allotted to the
stabbing of Rizzio, feels it incum-
bent on him to devote one hundred
and forty-seven pages and tweniy-
one scenes to the blowing up of
Mary's husband. Thus, although
two hundred and forty pages in all
are given over mainly to the killing
of these two characters, the tragedy
can be scarcely said to have begun,

Swinburne and De Vcre.

349

there being still three dreary acts
to face.

The question naturally suggests
itself here. What in the name of
common sense, if not of tragedy,
bos Mr. Swinburne been doing
wtSx \m space? Perhaps we have
nason to congratulate ourselves
iftcr all that he did not pursue
bk unhappy victim into England,
nd insist upon murdering her also;
for it is impossible, in the contem-

eition of such an event, to form
en a wild conception of when
pud where Mr. Swinburne's tragedy
Ms likely to terminate. The truth
is, he is DO dramatist at all ; he is
« writer of speeches, good, bad, or
mdi&rent, as may be, but no more.
Livy or Sallust have almost as just
t title to be styled dramatists as
Mr, Swinburne ; Homer far more
». Speeches form perhaps the
kast, certainly the easiest, portion of
a drama ; and the speeches in Both-
wdl are more or less ready made.
Mr. Swinburne cannot grasp a situ-
ation; he can only write about it.
He cannot picture it to us in a few
telling lines. He cannot hint a
fature ; he must foretell it in full,
or wait until it comes. He cannot
content himself with leaving well
akmc. The Earl of Leicester's his-
toric " nod " that meant so much
w of course a very amusing carica-
ture : but the point of a caricature
lies in the kernel of truth which it
covers. Perhaps the most neces-
sary of dramatic faculties is the
capability of saying much in a lit-
tle; and that faculty Mr. Swinburne
does not possess in the slightest de-
pee. If anything, his special ten-
dency lies in an opposite direction ;
he says remarkably little in a very
j^reat deal. Instead of mastering
his material, he has become hope-
lessly embarrassed by it, and, like
the miser in the story, perishes from

want in the midst of the treasures
piled up around him. His charac-
ters, instead of being moved at his
will, move him at theirs. When
one, no matter of how great or how
little importance, opens his or her
mouth, not even Mr. Swinburne
himself can say when it will close.
Speeches pages in length are thrown
into anybody's mouth on the slight-
est provocation, and all pitched
more or less in the same key. If
Mary curses — for Mr. Swinburne
is more liberal than discreet in his
distribution of strong language —
she is not content with one good,
round, blasphemous oath once in a
while, but must indulge in half a
dozen or so offhand. If Knox
argues or preaches, he does so at
as great length almost as when in
the flesh. One of his speeches fills
thirteen pages without a break. If
the inevitable " first, second, and
third citizen " enter — who, for the
manner of their speeches or the
matter of them, might with equal
propriety be dubbed " first citizen **
or "fifty-second citizen," or any-
thing else — they talk and talk and
talk until they talk themselves off,
as they would beyond all doubt
talk an audience out of their seats.
Almost two-thirds of the play is to
the reader simply wearisome jab-
ber, whose sense, like Gratiano's
"infinite deal of nothing," is as
" two grains of wheat hid in two
bushels of chaff.*'

The drama is so interminable
that we can only call attention to
the chief character, which is not
Bothwell, as the title would seem
to imply, but Mary, whose alleged
amours with Bothwell form the
groundwork of the piece. As this
article does not pretend to enter
into an historical investigation,
this is not the place to advance
reasons for disagreeing with Mr.

350

Szvinburne and De Vcre.

Swinburne's estimate of Mary. One
or two words, however, may be per-
mitted.

The story that forms the founda-
tion of this play has been torn to
shreds by writers of every shade of
opinion. Its truth, based mainly on
the " casket letters," was never ac-
cepted even at the English court.
Elizabeth herself was compelled to
adquit her cousin of all such scan-
dalous charges. Yet on this Mr.
Swinburne, with the chivalry of
a poet and the honesty of a man
who must have read history, builds
his nauseous drama. Again, Mary
was, by all concession, a lady. High
and royal spirit she had indeed, of
which in some notable instances
she gave ample proof; but she
has never been accused of indmg-
ing in language unworthy the royal
woman she was, or savoring in
any sense of coarseness. She was
also a consistent and practical
Catholic, who knew her religion
and hew to hold it, even against
that fierce Calvinistic wolf, John
Knox, to whom it were a happiness
had his insulted sovereign only
meted out the measure he ^persis-
tently advocated for all Catholics.
But she was too gentle-natured to
adopt means of enforcing silence
and obedience more congenial to
the spirit of her English cousin,
who had a very summary manner
of dealing with theological difficul-
ties. This much being premised,
let us now look at the Mary of Mr.
Swinburne.

Here we have her in the very first
scene of the first act. Rizzio is
pleading with her the recall of Mur-
ray :

QuBBN. " What name is his who shall so strength-
en me?"

Rozto. ** Vour father gave him half a hrother's
name.*'

QvBSN. ** I have no hrother ; a hloodkss traitor
heia,

Who was my Other's bastard-bom. By hmwp ) '
I had rather have his head loose at my Coot
Than his tongue's counsel rounded in nunc cacT

This is only her fourth speech is
the play. It does not seem to have
impressed Rizzio sufficiently; fin,
turning a page, we find her itifl
railing at the subject of her
in this vigorous style :

... *^ By my hand.
Too little and Ught to hold up hn dead
It was my hope to dip it in his file
Made me ride iron-mailed and soktierev.**

With occasional spurts of this na^
ture the queen enlivens her so«e*
what tedious colloquy of tfairtcca
pages with Rizzio concerning Mar*
ray. She is candid enough to mf
in one place of her half-brotbex^
whom the Mary of history redlf
believed in too long and too blindjf
for her own happiness :

** I am gay of heart, light as a tprng aondi via^
To feed my souTwith his foreta^ed death. . . .**

And again :

** Oh I I feel dancing motions in my feet
And lau^ter moving merrily at my lips,
Only to think him dead, or hearsed, or haapd
That were the better. I could dance down hsJfet
Sing my steps through, treading oa his dead accfc*
For love of his dead body and cast-out sooL**

Verily, a real Highland fling!
And lest there should be any possi-
ble doabt as to the meaning of** cast-
out soul," this gentle lady pursues
it to its place, and gloats over its
eternal torments in this Christian
fashion :

*^ He shall talk of me to the worm of heS,
Prate in death's ear and with a speechle* t«;je
Of my dead doings in days gone out. . . ."

It is surely punishment enough
to be condemned to carry on a con-
versation of any kind with lli;^
worm of hell and in the ear of dealh ;
but 10 compel even a cast-out soul
to perform this unpleasant duly
** with a speechless tongue " is pun-
ishment that passes ordinary com-
prehension. Doubtless, however,
matters are or will be altered for
Mr. Swinb\t*ne*s special conYe^^

Swinbunti and De Vite.

3SI

CBce in the lower regions. Aban-
dotking the wretched Murray to his
destiny, we look for other revela-
tions of Mary's character, although
something of her mettle may be
gsth^red from the passages already
I gireiH which have been taken al-
most at random from the fir^t twen-
ty-cight pages of the five hundred
and thirty-two. They are by no
means the liveliest specimens to be
ibund.

It would display a lamentable
; hck of knowledge of nature sup-
I posed to be human to imagine for
, a moment that the woman — if the
I expression is allowable — revealed
in these passages is likely to be at
I all squeamish or foolishly coy about
the profession of what Mr. Swin-
burne would probably call her
love for Bothwell. The insignifi-
cant facts that her own husband,
Damley, and BothwelFs wife, Jane
Gordon, were still living, would na-
turally weigh lightly as feathers in
thebalance against her desire. Most
of the scenes between the queen
and Bothwell might be shortly de-
Kiibed as ^'linked foulness long
drawn out." Were they even word
for word true, it would still be a
vender and a shame to honest man-
hood that they could be dwelt upon
and gloated over by any writer at
all. Horace boasted of belonging
to the " Epicurean herd." Were
he living now, he would, we honest-
ly believe, feel conscientious scru-
ples at admitting Mr. Swinburne
into the company. Only such pas-
sages are quoted here as are pre-
sentable and necessary to endorse
our judgment of this drama.

Without even an attempt at
disguise, Mary and Bothwell discuss
the best means of getting rid of
Darnlcy. As a wife, expecting
soon to be a mother, and as a
Christian woman, it is only natural

that she should urge on the not
unwilling Bothwell in this style :

^' Would r were Gad f
Tiiae should be quicker to kml help aad hand
To men that wait on biro. . . . Were I a man,
I had been by this a free man."

In the course of the second act
she falls sick, as she believes, to
death. She makes her dying con-
fession to the Bishop of Ross, who,
it is to be presumed, knew his re-
ligion. That being the case, it was
somewhat rash in Mr. Swinburne
to put into his mouth a gross error.
He assures the dying queen that

** The man that keeps faith sealed upon hb soul
Shall through the blood-shedding of Christ be

clean.
And in this time of cundng and flawed faith
Have you kept faith unflawed.
Have ao fear, therefore, but your uns(tf liCe

Shan fan from off you as a vesture changed.
And leave your soul for whiteness as a child's.*'

Of course there is a sense in
which this may be taken as correct.
The man that really keeps his " faiih
sealed upon his soul " and " unflaw-
ed," acts up to his faith and lives
its life. But this is not what Mr.
Swinburne means. In several pas-
sages he is at pains to show that it
is not. His meaning simply is that
because Mary held to the profes-
sion of the Catholic faith the bishop
assured her that her sins would be
remitted. That faith alone was suffi-
cient for salvation was the heresy of
Luther. We do not know whether
those useful little compendiums of
Christian doctrine commonly known
as catechisms were much in vogue
at the time. Had they been, Mary
would have found in hers the follow-
ing question and answer, which
would have shamed the Bishop of
Ross : ** Will faith alone save us ?**
" No ; it will not without good
works."

It must be remembered, howevei;,
that Mr. Swinburne, and not the
bishop, is the real father confessor
to his own penitent, and a very in-

352

Swinburne and De Vere.

dulgcnt one he makes. The queen
says:

'* I would have abaoludoo ere I die.
But of what sins I have not strength to ny
Nor hardly to remember."

After all that has gone before, that
reads remarkably like a wilful lie,
as Mr. Swinburne's bishop might
have hinted, particularly as she has
memory enough left to enumerate
her virtues, which conclude with
this :

^* I have held mine own laith fast, and with my Upt
Have bOTne him [God] witness if my heart were
whole."

Whereupon the worthy bishop
takes occasion to repeat his blun-
der. Glossing beautifully over her
sins in a graceful sentence or two,
the queen proceeds to " remit all
faults against her done," and ends
in this edifying strain :

** I will not take death's hand
With any sml of hate or wrath or wrong
About me, but, being friends with this past world,
Pass from it in the general peace of love."

Just at this happy moment, by
what would doubtless be consider-
ed "a stroke of genius," Murray
is made to enter and announce the
arrival of Darnley, the unfortunate
individual whose crime it is to
persist in being Mary's lawful hus-
band when she is in love with one
who, by her own command, was
somebody else's lawful husband. As
may be supposed from what we
know of her already, the contrite
queen greets the announcement as
contrite queens in similar situations
are wont to do, thus :

^* By heaven ! I had rather death had leave than
he.
What comes he for ? To vex me quick or dead
With his lewd eyes and sodden, sidelong face,
fhat I may die with loathing of him ?
By God, as God shall look upon my soul,
I win not see him."

After this there is clearly nothing
Jeft for the bishop to do but ad-
minister the last sacraments and
bid the Christian soul depart in
peace. Luckily, however, at this

critical juncture, and by another
" stroke of genius," the well-knowm
tramp of Bothwell's heel falls oa
the ear of the dying queen, wiio
immediately feels better, and bidi i
her attendants " bring him in.'* i

One more passage, and we bftw
done with Mr. Swinburne's Marf.
Darnley is not yet murdered ; Bo^
well is not yet divorced from Jaaft
Gordon; he who became James L
of England is about to be bom ; the
queen has in the preceding scene
made the " confession " /loticed
above ; the time, therefore, was ripe
for her to make the following de-
claration to Bothwell :

** I purge me ik>w and perfect my denre.
Which is to be no more your lover — no.
But even yourself, yea, more than body and sodla
One and not twain, one utter life, one fire.
One will, one doom, one deed, one spirit, erne Gtii
For we twain grown and molten each in eaikt
Surely ekeUl be as God is^ and n* mam,**

Were there such a thing as love
in delirium tremens ^ surely tlw
would be an instance ; only that
Mary is perfectly cool and col-
lected in making so plain and de-
finite a statement. And Bothwdl
is just the kind of man to under-
stand and appreciate the pleasant
prospect held out for them both.
He responds cheerily, hopefully,
and prayerfully withal :

** God speed ui, then, till we grow up to Cod ! **

The reader has probably seen
enough of Mr. Swinburne's Mar>'
Stuart. It will be clear to any im-
partial mind that beheading was
far too easy a fate for such a cha-
racter.

In one thing at least has the
author succeeded. He set out lo
paint a monster, and a monster
indeed he has painted in Mary.
The question for the reader to de-
termine is whether his very full-
armed Minerva be an emanation
from the brain of this modem Jove
or one who was a real, livioj

Swinburne and De Vere.

353

woman. A woman ravenous for
bloody lost to all shame, hating
cmi her unborn offspring, blasphe-
moos as Satan, cruel and pitiless as
facB, brawling as a drunkard, full
flf oaths and coarse expressions as
t trooper — ^if this be a true picture
•f Mary, Queen of Scots, of the
woman who in her day drew, as she
tiiQ continues to draw, the hearts
of an true men and honest women
la her side, then has the author
ibne his work well and literature
a service. But if she be t^ie opp(v
site of all this — a woman cruelly
murdered and systematically wrong-
ed, at mention of whose name the
heart of that chivalry which is
•ever dead, and will never die
rhile Christian manhood lives, leaps
op — one is at a loss to father the
writer's monster on any other than
himself- Viewed in this light, it can
only be looked upon as the pro-
doct of an imagination diseased,
an intellect debauched, and a mind
distorted — the work of a man whose
moral nature has gone astray, and
to whom consequently all that is
tnic, pure, womanly, manly, godly,
has lost its significance and value.

From the Christian heroine to
tlie pagan hero we turn with a feel-
ing of relief. The very title of Mr.
dc Vere's drama challenges criti-
cism. To write about Alexander the
(ireatisone thing ; to make Alexan-
der speak for hiipself is another. The
»'orld, fashionable as it is to abuse
lis taste, is discriminating in the con-
ferring of titles that are universal.
IxKal magnates of greater or less
magnitude are common enough;
but men whom all civilized nations
m all ages have agreed to crown
with greairuss are very ffew and
*cry far between. From the num-
l»er of these the son of Philip of
Maccdon probably stands out pre-
rminent In his brief career he
▼OL. XX. — 23.

accomplished more than any hu-
man conqueror ever accomplished,
and he succeeded in leaving more
after him. So complete and mar-
vellous was his success, and so gi-
gantic his projects, while his means
were proportionately limited, that,
beyond all possibility of doubt, the
man, young as he was, must have
been a marvellous genius. Being so,
he must not only have done great
deeds, but thought great thoughts.
He must have been fitted in every
way to be a leader of men. This,
perhaps the most marvellous cha-
racter in human history, is the one
of all others whom Mr. de Vere,
with a courage which, if not justi-
fied by the result, can only be look-
ed upon as either rashness or folly,
has undertaken to set living and
real before us, speaking the speech,
thinking the thoughts, scheming
the schemes, dreaming the dreams
of Alexander. Greatness thus be-
comes one of the necessary stan-
dards by which we must judge Mr.
de Vere's work. If his chief cha-
racter is not great in thought and
word, as we know him to have been
in deed, he is not Alexander, and
this work can only be regarded as
a more pretentious failure than the
other. If he is great in thought
and speech, where are the elements
of his greatness to be found ? In
the brain of the author, in the
conception of the poet — nowhere
else. For in this case the speech-
es are not, as they were in the other,
ready made and to hand. The
record of Alexander's deeds we
have ; but Alexander we must im-
agine for ourselves. What manner
of man, then, is this that Mr. de
Vere has given us ? is the first and
most natural question to be asked.
Friend and foe alike are busy
about him. At the opening of the
play Parmenio, the testy but honest-

3S4

Swinburfu and De Vere*

hearted veteran of Philip, before
Alexander has yet made his ap-
pearance, in words where the admi-
ration of the soldier and the irrita-
bility and jealousy of old age are
admirably blended, says :

** A realm his father owed me.
And knew it wcIL The son is reverent too,
But with a diflfcrence, sir. In Philip's time
My voice was Delphic on the battle-field.
This young maats^is the springs of my experience.
As though with water to allay his wine
* Of keener inspirations. * Sp^ik thy thought,
Parmenio !' Ere my words are half-way out
He nods approval ot hs smiles dissent.
Still, there is like him none ! I marveUM oft
To see him breast that tempest from the north,
Drowning revolt in the Danubian wave.
The foe in sight, instant he knew their numbers ;
If dbtant, gucss'd their whereabout— how lay
The intermediate tract — if fordable
The streams— the vales accessible to horse :
'Twas like the craA of beasts remote from man.'*

Antisthenes, the rhetorician, de-
scribes the man of action as a rhe-
torician might :

^* This king is vakied past his worth :
He nothing says that's sage, like Ptolemy,
Or keen-edged, like Cratcrus. This I grant him :
Sagacity supreme in obtervation :
He sees with eye inspired. Seeing with him
It Act and Thought, not sense."

Arsinoe, the daughter of Darius,
thinks that "he neither loves nor
hates." He is royal-faced, " albeit
too eager-eyed." And Hephestion,
the strong friend on whom alone
of all men Alexander leans, tells
her of him :

** He loves not many, and himself the least :
His purposes to him are voi/e and child.**

" Free him from that conceit,"
says. Parmenio later on, " that he's
a god,"

** Ths man of men were he :
None like him we have had since Marathon."
Philotas. ** I grant his greatness were his god-

ship sane,
But note his brow ; 'tis Thought's least earthly

temple
Then mark, beneath, that round, not human eye,
Stin giowiag like a panther's ! In his body
No passion dwells; but all his mind is passion^
Wiliy intellectual appetite^ and instinct
That works without a law."
Parmbnio. '^Uuthalf you know him.
There is a zigzag lightning in his brain
That flies in random flashes, yet not errs.
Chances his victories seem ; but link those chances.
And under them a science you shall find.
Though unauthentic, contraband, illicit,
Yes, contumelious oft to laws of war.

Fortune, that as a mistresi soules on otli CT« »
Serves him as duty-bound ; her bk>od is ke.
Bom an the purple of her royalties."

And so they go on describing
each in his own way; for,
felicitous art, the presence of Alex-^
ander is made to permeate ttci
drama, yet so unobtrusively 3uJi
unconsciously to all seeming tlnl!
the mind of the reader, though kell
fast on the chief character throu^k
out, never wearies of him. The e«»
tracts given, culled from here aat
there, point all in one direcdiML
They are consistent, however tiiey
may vary in expression, about tbe;
man they describe. He is not like;
other men ; he towers above thcin ;
he stands alone. But even th»;
only tells us what men say of bioL;
It may mean no more than anji
young>lady novelist's descriptioa
of her hero, whose biting sarcasai
and brilliant wit are gifts that it was
thought were buried with Sheridan-
All which we are willing to concede;
only that by some untoward acci-
dent the brilliant wit and bitii^
sarcasm never appear on the sur-
face. How does Alexander speak
for himself >

In literature, as in life, very much
depends on the impression a man
makes on his introduction. Alex-
ander's introduction is happy and
suggestive. He meets us first a:
Troy when setting out on his expe*
dition. Around him rise the tern*
pies of the memorable dead wh
died in the Ten Years' War. He il
in search of the fane of Achilles,
his ancestor, as he claims. Apbro*
dite and Helen have no attractioni
for him, upon whose mind "thii
wise Stagirite " had impressed thd
high code of pagan morals, that
the passions were "a yoke which
Action's strenuous sons should
scorn to bear." He stands om
ground where heroes fought and,

Swinbunu and De Vere.

355

trove for ten long years together,
nd the question comes at once to
lis earnest mind,

aor, what frnit thereof remains ?
„ : CBipifc lives, its witnessaod its crown ?
Wlatsh^ we say? That those were common

laige by mists of Time ? Or shall we rather
them reiU and our age a fraud ?"

His friend Hephestion is remind-
|d bj the fanes around, not of the
peatncss, but of the littleness, of
lAin and of the common ashes to
iHiich we come at last. In what,
bsd he the ear to hear it, had been
ior his leader a solemn warning, he
»ics out :

** Aba ! bov small an urn
Safices forthe earthVerstriding dust
Wbkh one time shook the world !*'

But Alexander cannot contem-
plate the end of men and things in
this calm fashion. To him, as to
Achilles, death is " malign and in-
tercepting.** It bears no thought
of peace or rest. He describes it
u "that frustrate, stagnant, in-
dSxtual bourn where substance
mrfts to shadow." Far away in
"the dimness of the dolorous realm '*
he sees, though sad, " the unvan-
qaishable youth ** of Achilles surviv-
ing and lamenting —

** Dopite the embalmM, purpurea! airs and gleam
Twairaturable of amaranthine meads,
The keen, reviWng, strenuous aits of earth,
Sati bUstf from battle-fields " —

that is the very breath of his nostrils
-^arth, life, action, with a pur-
pose in it, and the keen intoxi-
cation of occasional " blasts from
battle-fields."

But he is not a mere genius errant,
1 Don Quixote of conquerors, wast-
ing himself on windmills and flocks
of sheep. He has a clear, resolute
purpose before his mind, to which
be shapes all things. It is to make
the world one empire, which Grecian
intellect should rule. The Governor
of Sardis, wheij the Granicus is
won, he bids :

*' Tell those realm*
Betwixt the Euxine and Pamphylion SeM,
That Grecian galaxy of Lessor Asia,

. That Argive choir in eastern exile sad,
That Doric garland on hase Persia's brow.
We came not here to crush them, but exalt ;
This hand shall lift them to their first estate.
And lodge them mid the skyey heights of Greece.**

Such is his plan; and whatever
crosses him must break before or
bend to that. Kings, empires,
mighty cities, religion, customs and
traditions, commerce, all must yield
before his indomitable will. No-
thing is sacred to Alexander, save
what is sacred to Alexander's plan.
All things were fashioned to his
purpose, and existed only to be
made subservient to him. He gazes
from the sea-shore on Tyre of the
ships, with its wealth, its energies,
its possibilities, and the little it has
done with them, and bursts forth :

** Wings without body ! such— no more — is com-
merce
Which rests not upon empire t Commerce, ruling,
Dbperses man's chief energies, but^ ruled
By spirit heroic^ increase yields of thoughts
That give to greatness wider basis. Tyre I
How soon thy golden feathers forth shsdl fly
Upon the storm of War !"

Lacking the "spirit heroic,'* Tyre's
opportunities and life have hitherto
been thrown^away, as were thrown
away the letters that Phoenicia gave,
useless to the inventors. He goes
on :

" Men stumble thus on glorie* not for them ,
The rightful appanage of the capable.
The empire I shall found shall tread the earth,
Vet over it go flying. From its vans
The twin-b^ beams of Grecian Song and Science
Shall send perpetual dawn."

Mr. de Vere's verse is tempting
to quote; but we must hasten on.
Some idea of his Alexander may be
gathered from the passages given ;
but, as we said, he permeates the
book, and we must leave it to the
reader himself to trace the slow
growth and development of this
singularly-rounded yet most diffi-
cult conception. We do not believe
that the author in this instance has
fallen below the level of his subject,
•high and remote as that level was.

356

Swinburne and De Vere.

A strong, resolute, far-seeing charac-
ter, possessed with the very passion
of empire, speaks to us in every
line of Alexander, Many of his
sayings have almost the wisdom and
the brevity of proverbs. "Time
takes still the conqueror's side," he
tells Hephestion ; and when that
great-souled character puts the deep
and solemn question, **/j there
fofigiveness for conquerors?'' — his
answer is :

" Aye ; but forhalf-conqueron, none."

Here is his policy told in a line :

** StTOOf hand makes empire ; hand that heab re-
tains it."

When, in a light moment, he asks
his generals, were gods their slaves,
what fortunes would they choose,
and all cry out, "A kingdom!" he
says aside :

*' Note this, Hephestion :
Imagination b economist,
And vastest ends move less the appetite
Than small things near and easier of access."

Here is a truth for conquerors to
ponder. In the height of his con-
quest he is convinced that

** The vanquished must connive, or victory's self
Its own gnvre digs in the end."

All the littleness of greatness, all
those surroundings that to small
minds stamp, if they do not consti-
tute, greatness, are for him empti-
ness.

" To breathe applauses is to breathe that air
By breath of men defiled : I stand, and stood,
On the mountain-tops, breathing the breath of
gods."

There is another aspect to his
character at which we must glance.
We have called attention at the
beginning to his jealous hatred of
death. Life and death are to him
constant enigmas, to which he sees
no solution. The only, or at least
the groat, obstacle that he sees in
the way of accomplishing his dream
and passion of empire is death. No
human foe he fears ; but the fates.
Timci he passionately says, is no
liicnd of his. He has to build hiS

empire in few years. He is nut
ning a constant race with tiiiie, ao^
something seems to whisper to hia
ever that his years are few. In thii^
too, lies an humbling fact. He, like
others, is human and subject U
death. This inward struggle «ri
rebellion against his humanitf £{
constantly going on. The thoo^
What am I? What do I .^ Wk
am I ? W^hence come I ? Whefj
go I.^ — all these things for erei
trouble him. He would be a god;
but he finds his loftiest aspiratioaa
bounded by a wall of flesh, and
beyond that — a blank.

With keen dramatic instinct and
happy thought the author gittt
him the opportunity of answering
for himself these questionings. He
visits the temple at Jerusalem, and
converses with the high-priest
The truth is unfolded to him, and
the true God made known. He
hesitates, and finally rejects the
truth. It clashes with his purpose.

** 0*er all the earth my empire shafl be jaU;,
Godlike my nile,"

he promises the high-priest ; whose
answer is the solemn rebuke :

" Young man, beware ! God's i
Awards thee Persia's crown, but not the vcvfcTs:
He who wears that should be the Prince of Peace.
Thy portion lies in bounds. Limit and Texa
Gorem the world."

This revelation tells on his char-
acter throughout the rest of the
play. He has no longer that blind
confidence in himself, though his
mind like a vise holds to its reso-
lution of founding the empire he was
warned he could not found. His
iron will and indomitable energ}
overcome all obstacles ; but time
is creeping on, and he feels it. To
unite Persian and Greek together,
in order to win the Persian, he
must be proclaimed a god; and a
god he is proclaimed. But the
emptiness and mockery of the title
are shown with intepse force in the

Swinburne and De Vere.

357

rorkings of the king's mind up to
bis madness. He strives to argue
dmself up to godhead' only by ar-
jltng godhead do^^^l to him :

*'*■ A race of gods hath faHen :
Thtt Zem in turn may faD. I find for gods
li^thcoBca secure ; to m^n** advance ma limit :
$• certain tmth amid contending rites ;
yobaae for faith."

He remembers the warning about
bnit and term, only to say scorn-

** That's for others :
To gra^ a world for me is feasible ;
To keep a half-world, not."

He turns further and further
iway from faith of any kind ; his
treed resembles that of more mod-
tra conquerors :

*• The man that empire founds

an things by the needs of empi re."

And the final outcome of his
thoughts is this :

** This only know we—
Vc vaOc upon a world not knowable,
Stvc io those things which knowledge least deserve,
Tec capable, not liss, of task heroic.
My tnttt is in my work : on that I fling me,
TnapKi^ all questionings down."

And yet the next moment he cries

out :

'* I sometimes think
l)ut I am le« a person than a power,
ScBK eogioe in the right hand of the gods,
^«ne Citeful wheel that, round in darkness rolling,
'^aovs this—its work, but not that work's far scope.
Htttbcstioo, what is tife? My life, since boyhood,
Hath been an agony of means to ends ;
Aa okimate end 1 find net. For that cause,
()q reding in the oppression of a void.
At tiaws I welcome what 1 once scarce brdok'd—
Tht 0ppro^ium 0/ blank sleeky

There are many scenes of strong
dramatic power in this drama — the
<iealh of Darius, the quarrel with
Parraenio, the rebellion of the
^•rceks, the last scene with Philo-
[a^, and others ; but the power and
intensity deepen at the close, when
<ieath at last creeps into the veins
of the conqueror. He has lost
Hephestion earlier in the drama,
•wd this loss rends his heart.
There is much truth in his singu-
lar* almost selfish love for his great-
souled friend, who stood to Alexan-

der as a wife would stand to an-
other man. But he to whom "his
purposes were wife and child "
could not lean on a woman. It
must be a man, strong, brave, keen-
eyed as himself, but calmer, larger
hearted, humbler, greater souled.
Such was Hephestion, and his
strong yet sweet character is not
only admirably drawn, but affords
an excellent foil throughout to the
eager, impetuous, fiery nature and
fiery words of the king.

Omens thicken around him, and
the end comes at Babylon. The
fever that burns at his heart seizes
on his body while sailing on the
Lake of Pallacopas. As the royal
barge passes, a strain rises up from
the waters :

^ We sate beside the Babylonian river :

Within the conqueror's bound, weeping we sate:
We hung our harps upon the trees that quiver
Above the rushing waters desolate.

*■*' If I forget thee, Salem, in thy sadness,

May this right hand forget the harper's art !
If I forget thee, Salem, in my gladness,
My tongue dry up and wither, like my heart !"

It is a relic of the Babylonian cap-
tivity. The song forces from Alex-
ander the sad confession, signifi-
cant to all conquerors :

** The ages pass, like winds ;
The old wrong remains, rooted like tombs, and

moves not :
All may be done through Time ; yet Time does

natight.
Let kings look well to that.'*

The end is on him. Though
" maimed, and tamed, and shamed,"
he is resolute still, but impotent,
and the empire lacks completion,
he confesses, while

" The years, the months.
The hours, like ravening wolves that hunt a stag,
Come up upon my haunches."

Fighting time to the last, he suc-
cumbs ; but he will not even die as
other men. In his half-delirium
he tells Ptolemy :

" I have a secret— one for thee alone :

'Twas not tlie mists from that morass disastrous

Nor death of him that died, nor adverse gods,

358

Swinburne and De Vere.

Sor the Fates tbemwlres ; 'twas somethiqg imglit>

icryet,
And secreter in the great night, that slew me.**

And thus, surrounded by his war-
riors and his generals, with success
within his grasp, but that grasp
nerveless, his last moments troubled
with awful visions and ill dreams,
resentful to the last against what
slew him, in doubt and in fear, in
youth and glory and empire, in the
fatality of success, staring with
strained eyes into the dread void
beyond that no ray of faith illumines,
he whose nod was life or death to
nations, Alexander, M^ gody passes
away and dies — of a little slow fe-
ver that has entered and claimed for
its own the clay of which he was
made.

Mr. de Vere has written at once
a magnificent poem and a powerful
drama. We have devoted our
attention in both instances to the
chief characters, and thus many
scenes and personages in Alexander
the Great on which in reading we
have dwelt with much pleasure and
admiration must pass unnoticed.
The author, if we may say so, has
surprised us by the strength and
finish of this work. The action of the
piece is rapid ; the characters, small
and great, founded and full; the
scenes most varied and dramatically
set. The clew to the play we take
to be that old whisper which first
allured our parents from their alle-
giance, and tempts forever the race
of man : Ye shall be as gods- The
whisper runs through the piece from
the first line to the last, and lends
to it a purpose and a plan of its own.
The dramatist has taken the man
who in human history came the
nearest to exemplifying its truth to
prove its utter and miserable false-
hood, and to read with a new force
the old and eternal command that
alone can order the life of man wise-
ly and well : " Thou shalt love the

Lord thy God, and him only shA
thou serve."

When h^ died, Alexander i
nearly thirty-three. With him re*
ly, though remnants lingered after
him, his scheme and his empire pui'
ed away ; and when to-day we \A
for what is left of the world's cm^
queror, of Alexander the god, M
must search in musty tomes aal
grope in desert sands. Nothing ii
left of him, save some words and
histories ; and even were they lost
also, and his very memory blotta|
out with them, the world to-dif
would in reality be little or none
the loser.

Some centuries later there died
Another at the age of thirty-three
He came into life silently ; he weal
out of life ignominiously. He led
no army ; he had no following of aoy
note ; he was the son of a carpenter,
and bom of a despised race. He
was born, he lived, he died, in pov-
erty, sorrow, and suffering, a social
outcast even from his own people.
The last three years of his life he
spent in preaching in and about
Jerusalem. His doctrines were
strange and startling. They were
utterly subversive of all human
glory and greatness. Like Alexan-
der, he proclaimed himself divine,
and claimed to be the Son of God
Like Alexander, he too died, but a
death of ignominy. Before his name
had spread far beyond Jerusalem,
men rose up, Jew and Gentile, kin^:
and priest, church and state, to-
gether hanged him on a tree, naileu
him there, tortured and slew him,
and when he was dead sealed up
the tomb in which he was buried
And there, humanly speaking, was
an end to him and his.

To the world what had he left?
A memory — nothing more. Men
said that he had wrought wonders,
that virtues flowed out of him, that

Requies Mea.

359

bb hands rained mercies, that the
blind saw, the lame walked, the
lepers were cleansed, the very dead
lose again. Idle rumors! like that
tther of his bursting the tomb and
using again, walking in the flesh and
Moending into the heaven from
piiich he said he had come. And
t&i was " the Expected of the na-
iionSy" ** the Prince of Peace,** who
|V18 to accomplish what the high-
ftiest warned Alexander was not
wn him, with all his power, to ac-
complish — to unite all the nations
|lBder one yoke. A likely prospect
with the material he had left !

He left behind him no empire,
jDO record, not a line of writing. He
kfl a few words, a few maxims, a
few rules of life, a few prayers, a
few promises, a few men who timid-
ly believed in him, a few commands.
The world, its belief and non-belief
jdike, its customs, maxims, tenden-
cies, he condemned as wrong. He
commanded it to remodel itself ac-
cording to the few rules he had left —

rules singularly comprehensive, sim-
ple, and clear : to believe in him, to
obey him as the son of God and
God, to believe and obey those, and
those only, whom he sent forth in
his name, armed with the powers he
gave them, fighting with the weapon
of the cross. And what is the re-
sult ? Who is the conqueror of the
world now } Jesus Christ, in whose
name every knee shall bow, or Alex-
ander the Great } Here is a mystery
surely that men should ponder.
What shall explain the victory over
the world, over sin, and over death,
of Him whom they nailed to the tree
nineteen centuries ago.? Nothing
but the words of Peter — " Thou art
Christ, the Son of the living God.**
Thou art he that was to come, and
we look for no other. "And he
was clothed with a garment sprink-
led with blood : and his name is
called The Word of God. And he
hath on his garment and on his
thigh written King of kings and
Lord of lords.*'

REQUIES MEA.

Keep me, sweet love ! Thy keeping is my rest.

Not safer feels the eaglet from beneath
The wings that roof the inaccessible nest.
Than I when thou art with me, dearest, best,

Whose love my life is, yea, my very breath !

Thy Son to Egypt fled to prove our faith.
Not Herod's men had snatched him from thy breast,

Or changed his throned slumber into death.
How wonderful thy keeping, mighty Queen !

So close, so tender ; and as if thine eyes
Had only me to watch, thine arm to screen ;

And this inconstant heart were such a prize !

And thou the while, in beatific skies,
Art reigning imperturbably serene !

36o

Ontologism and PsycJiohgistn.

ONTOLOGISM AND PSYCHOLOGISM.

Our readers sometimes complain
that the philosophical articles of
The Catholic World are too hard
to be understood. Yet some of these
very readers make a great effort to
read these articles, and ask ques-
tions about metaphysical subjects —
among others, about the very topic
of the present article — showing a
great desire to gain some knowledge
about them. We are going to try
to make this article intelligible to
these readers, even to those who
are yet quite young persons, in
whose laudable efforts to improve
their minds and acquire knowledge
we are greatly interested.

We shall begin, therefore, by ex-
plaining some terms which need to
be well understood before they can
be used in a satisfactory manner,
and especially the two which make
up the title cf this article. Onto-
logy is the name given to one branch
of metaphysics, which is also call-
ed general metaphysics, in distinc-
tion from the two other principal
branches of that science — to wit,
logic 'and special metaphysics. It
is derived from two Greek words —
that is, the first two syllables from a
word which means being, and the
last two from one which means
reasoning. It is therefore a reason-
ing about being, or the scientific
exposition of the object of the idea
of real being, of metaphysical truth,
good and evil, beauty, substance,
accident, quantity, causality, the
finite and the infinite, the contin-
gent and the necessary, etc. Psy-
chology is also a Greek derivative
signifying a scientific exposition of
the rational soul of man, its powers

and operations, which is a sub-dii»<
sionof special metaphysics. ThdW
fore every philosopher must bem
ontologist and a psychologist, U
the proper sense of those termi^
Yet, there is a difference betwMi
ontology and ontologism, psydu)-'
logy and psychologism. Ontoich'
gism and psychologism are nanM
denoting opposite philosopbicd.,
systems which diverge in opp<^dfei
directions from the scholastic pli-
losophy, or that philosophy cwtt-
monly taught in the Catholic schoob
after the method and principles of
the Angelic Doctor, S. Thomas
Aquinas. Of the authority which this
philosophy possesses in the church
we cannot now treat at length. We
will, however, cite here the latest
utterance of the Sovereign Pontiff
which has come to our knowledge,
as a sample of a great number of
similar official expressions of appro-
bation from the Holy See. In a let-
ter to Dr. Travaligni, founder of the
Philosophico-Medical Society of
S. Thomas Aquinas, dated July 23,
1874, Pius IX. says: "With stiU
greater pleasure we perceive that,
faithful to your purpose, you have
determined to admit only such
members to your society as hold
and will defend the doctrines pro-
pounded by the sacred councils
and this Holy See, and in particu-
lar the principles of the Angelic
Doctor concerning the union of the
intellective soul with the human
body, and concerning substantial
form and primary matter {materia
primary We shall take for grant-
ed at present that in all its essen-
tial parts, as well as in those speci-

Ontologism and Psychologism.

361

fied in the above quotation, the phi-
losophy of S. Thomas has the high-
est sanction and authority in the
church which any system of phi-
losophy can have, and that it is the
onl^r true and sound philosophy.
The system of ontologism differs
ftom it by proposing a totally differ-
ent ontolog}', which is made the
basis of an essentially different phi-
loiophy. 'I'he advocates of that
t^em call themselves ontologists,
as claiming to be the only philoso-
phers who understand rightly real
being and the relation of intelli-
gence to it as the object of its in-
tuition and knowledge. They are
also called by that name by their
antagonists for the sake of conve-
nience and courtesy, as those who
believe in God, but not in revela-
tion, are called theists, although
neither party has an exclusive right
to the appellation given to it by
usage. Psychologism is a system
which makes the basis and starting-
point of philosophy to lie exclusive-
ly in the individual soul and its
modifications, like Des Cartes, whose
fim principle is, " I think, therefore
I am." The opponents of the
scholastic philosophy who pretend
to be ontologists give it the nick-
name of psychologism, because they
cither misunderstand or misinterpret
its ontological and psychological
doctrine. The scholastic philoso-
phy is also frequently called Aris-
totelian, because S. Thomas derived
a great part of his metaphysics
from the great philosopher of
Oiecce; and Peripatetic, which was
the name given to the school of
Aristotle, because the teachers and
pupils used to walk up and down
daring their lectures and discus-
sions. Those who diverge from
the philosophy of S. Thomas in the
umc direction with the ontologists
ire also frequently called Platonists,

because they follow, or are suppos-
ed to follow, Plato, in regard to cer-
tain opinions differing from those
maintained by Aristotle.

The philosophical disputes which
have been lately carried on with so
much vehemence about questions of
ontology are by no means of recent
origin. They have been waged both
within and without the limits of the
Catholic Church. Des Cartes, the
great modern master of psycho-
logism, always professed to be a loy-
al son of the church, and had many
disciples among Catholics. Male-
branche, the author of modern on-
tologism, was a devout priest of the
French Oratory ; and Cardinal Ger-
dil, who began as an earnest advo-
cate of the same doctrine, but grad-
ually approached toward the scho-
lastic philosophy in his maturer
years, was really the second man to
the Pope for a long time in autho-
rity and influence, as well as a most
illustrious modelof virtue and learn-
ing. More recently, the principal
advocates of ontologism have been
very devoted Catholics. The Lou-
vain professors, Hugonin, Branche-
reau ; for anything we know to the
contrary, Fabre, and many others,
have been most zealous and devot-
ed Catholics. Only Gioberti, who
was, however, the prince among
them all, and one of the most gifted
men of the century, among the
well-known leaders of that school,
was a disloyal Catholic. We have
heard on very good authority that
Gioberti continued to receive the
sacraments up to the time of his
death, and was buried with Catho-
lic rites. Nevertheless, as a num-
ber of priests were still in the ex-
ternal communion of the church
at the lime Gioberti was living in
Paris, who were really heretics and
have since apostatized, this fact
alone does not count for much as a

362

Ontologism and Psychologism,

proof that he died in the Catholic
faith. All his works were long be-
fore on the Index ; he was at least
suspended, if not ipso facto excom-
municated, as a contumacious rebel
against the Pope. Dr. Brownson
calls him "that Italian priest of
marvellous genius, and, we were
about to write, Satanic power."
And again he says : " Gioberti
died, we believe, excommunicated,
and his last book, published before
his death, contains a scurrilous at-
tack on Pius IX., and bears not a
trace of the Catholic believer, far
less of the Catholic priest." * For
a long time the Church did not
directly interfere with the philo-
sophical discussions which went on
among her children in regard to
ontology. Neither Des Cartesf nor
Malcbranche was condemned, nor
were any specific propositions in
the works of Gioberti censured.
The Holy See has never been in
the habit of using its supreme ma-
gisterial authority in deciding scien-
tific controversies considered mere-
ly as scientific. Science is left to
itself, to make its own way and
fight its own battles, unless the in-
terests of the faith become involved
with those of science. When these
interests demand the interference
of the supreme authority, it utters
its disciplinary edicts or its doc-
trinal decisions, as in its wisdom
it deems opportune and necessary.
For a considerable period of time
philosophy was left in the enjoy-
ment of the largest liberty, so long
as the doctrines of the church were
respected and maintained. But
when professed Catholics, especial-
ly in Germany, began to frame
systems of pliilosophy manifestly

• BrowtuoH*s Review^ July» ^874, pp. 301, 304.

t Some of Des Cartes' works were, however, re-
quired to be corrected, and placed on the Index with
that note.

dangerous to sound theology and
subversive of it, the Holy See be-
gan to exercise a more special vigi-
lance over the teaching of philo-
sophy in Catholic schools. Gre-
gory XVI. and Pius IX. have coa-
demned a number of works, of sys-
tems, or of distinct propositions in
which philosophical errors w»c
contained, because these were di-
rectly or indirectly subversive of
the Catholic faith. Among other
errors condemned, ontologism holds
a prominent position. After va-
rious means more mild and indirect
of correcting the evils which the
teaching of this system threatened
to produce had failed, the Holy See
pronounced (Sept. i8, 1861) its
condemnation of seven proposi-
tions embracing the fundamental
tenets common to the so-called on-
tologists, and some particular tenets
advanced by individual professon
or writers of the same school. The
professors of the Catholic Univer-
sity of Lou vain were required to
make a formal act of submission to
this decision of Rome, which they
did in the most exemplary manner
The Abb^ Hugonin, when nomi-
nated to an episcopal see in France,
was also required to make a formal
renunciation of ontologism, which
he had taught in his writings, as
a condition of receiving the con-
firmation of the pope, and com-
plied without hesitation. The Abbe
Branchereau, a distinguished French
Sulpitian and professor of philoso-
phy, voluntarily submitted a state-
ment of the doctrine contained in
his Prelections to the examination
and judgment of the Holy See,
and, when the judgment condemn-
ing his system was made knoiM) to
him, promptly submitted and sup-
pressed his work. In fact, there
has been everywhere a most ready
and edifying submission given to

Ontologism and Psychologism.

363

tbe jadgment of Rome on a system '
which was rapidly spreading and
gaining ground, and toward which
a great number of the finest minds
among Catholic scholars felt the
strongest attraction. The reason
of this may be found in the fact that
those who had embraced this system
or were inclined toward it were
generally good Catholics, holding
sound theological principles, and
imbued with the love of truth and
the love of the church, loyal to
conscience, and well grounded in
Christian humility and obedience.
Consequently, ontologism, as a
system, prevailing among Catholics
and in Catholic schools, is dead, and
rapidly passing into oblivion — ^a
great gain for science, as well as for
religion, since it removes a great
obstacle in the way of the revival
of the genuine and sound philoso-
phy which alone contains the real
and solid wisdom of the Grecian
sages, the fathers of the church,
and the gigantic masters of the
mcdiseval schools, combined, har-
monized, and reduced to method.

It is time now to explain jn what
the essence of ontologism consists.
In the words of M. Fabre, a pro-
fessor at the Sorbonne, "Ontolo-
gism is a system in which, after
having proved the objective reality
of general ideas, we establish that
these ideas are not forms or modi-
fications of our soul ; that they are
not anything created ; that they are
necessary, unchangeable, eternal,
absolute objects; that they are
roncentrated in the being to which
this name belongs in its simple
siffuification {Vitre simpUment dii)^
and that this infinite Being is the
first idea apprehended by our mind,
the first intelligible, the light in
which we see all the eternal, univer-
sal, and absolute truths. Ontolo-
gists say, then, that these eternal

truths cannot have any reality out-
side of the eternal essence, whence
they conclude that they do not
subsist except as united to the
divine substance, and consequently
that it can only be in this substance
that we see them." *

We will now give the first two,
the fourth, and the fifth of the pro-
positions condemned at Rome, and
which, with the other three, were
taken from the prelections of a
professor in a French seminary,
never published, but 'extensively
circulated in lithograph or MSS.,
and which, the reader will see, ex-
press the identical doctrine sum-
marized so concisely and ably by
M. Fabre :

I. The immediate cognition of
God, at least habitual, is essential
to the human intellect, so that with-
out this it cannot know anything,
since it is the intellectual light
itself

II. That being which we intel-
lectively perceive in all things, and
without which wc perceive nothing
intellectively {quod in omnibus et
skie quo nihil inUiiigimus)^ is the
divine being.

IV. The congenital knowledge
of God as simply being {ens sim-
pliciter) involves every other cog-
nition in an eminent manner, so
that by it we have implicit know-
ledge of every bein?, under what-
ever respect it is knowable.

V. All other ideas are only modi-
fications of the idea in which God
is intellectively perceived {inielligi-
iur) as simply being {ens simplici^

Similar propositions to these are
found in the fifteen submitted by
M. Branchereau to the judgment of
the Holy See, viz. :

1. In the act of thought two

* Di/tnst d* COntohgismty p. i.

3<54

Ontoiogism and Psychohgism.

things are to be essentially dis-
tinguished — the Eiibject thinking
and the object thought.

2. Again, the object thought is
distinguished into t\vo things — that
which is being simply, and that
which is being in a certain respect.

3, By that ^vhich is being simply
we understand real being, concrete
and infinitely perfect; ... in a
word, that which is being simply 15
God.

12. From the first instant of cx~
btence the mind enjoys ideal per-
cept ion » not indeed reflexively, but
directly.

13. Among the intelligible truths,
which we apprehend ideally, (iod
occupies the fir^t place, the intellec-
live perception of whom» although
essentially distinct from the intui-
tion of the beatiftcd, is terminated,
not at a representative image, but
at God himself.

The reader will now, we trust,
understand without difficully what
is the fundamental idea of ontolo-
gism— namely, that God \% the im-
medittie obj^d of the intellect, the
ideal object which faces it from tts
creation, is present to it as its light
and its luminous, intelligible term
of vision, In which all ideal, neces-
sary, self-evident, eternal ideas, veri-
lies, realities, are concentrated, be-
held, made hmiinous ; lighting up all
objects whatsoever which exist and
are perceived by sense and intellect,
so that the things that are made are
clearly seen by the invisible things
of God, even his eternal power and
Godhead ; as Makbranche express-
ed it| " in Deo," and Giobcrtij '* in
Deo et per Deum " — in God, and by
or through him, as clouds in a lu-
miniferous ethen For an cxpla-
n:ition of the scholastic doctrine of
the origin of universal ideas we re-
fer the reader to a former article
on Dr- Stdckl'ia Philosophy. In

brief, it is the reverse of the OB

just delineated, viz., the univcf
and transcendental ideas arc
rijed by abstraction from cr
things, and the knowledge of
is obtained by a discursive act I
reasoning, by which we
from the knowledge of cteaturefl
' the knowledge of the Creator, whc
invisible essence and attribuicsi
understood by the things that
made. That is, God is known
a mediate and not an iuuncdb^
apprehension, resulting in an int
lectual jud^'ment that he U, T4
mind terminates at a nrpreseTiiadi
and in adequate image of Gntl»
not at God himself or that wtitcb i
God, reah concrete, ncce>h , '
nite beingi which is the re;
reflected object of the inicik* i.

We are now* prepare<l to .in^fl
the question, What \% ibe harm ,
danger of ontologism on accc
of which tt has been crondewme
It has not beencondciL ' In
tical, for it docs not
rectly, and explicitly conuauict
doctrine of faith. The Holy Sec hi
simply ^decided that it eannof
safely taught— that is, tlut itcanu
be taught with a safe conscitDCC
without danger to the faithi and
consequently without gricvoM*^ii
It must therefore contain in it >
error which cannot be extensively
held and taught in Catholic schoctll
without a serious danger of indirect^
ly subverting Catholic faith
doctrine, especially in the mmd-i-of J
th*e young and inconsiderate. WhiU
this danger was only remote on
yet apparent, the error might
tolerated, and left to be oppojcd
and refuted by argument. Mote*
over, it might be held and advoot-
ed in good faith and wilhout stB-l
intelligent and pious men, wtoi
liable to error when left to iheirj
own reasonings about abstniieniaJ*

Ontologism and Psychologism.

36s

lers in theology and philosophy.
But when the danger was apparent
and proximate,' it was necessary to
al^peal to the supreme authority of
the Roman Church, that the whole
matter might be thoroughly exam-
ined . and adjudicated ; and, the
judgment being once rendered, the
cause is finished for all good Catho-
lics. Thenceforth all that remains
to be done is to study the import
of the decision, and to search into
the reasons by which the condemn-
ed errors may be proved false by
philosophical and theological argu-
ments, and the opposite truths
brought out into a clearer light for
the advancraent of sound and solid
science and the protection of the
faith.

That part of Catholic doctrine
which was endangered and indirect-
ly subverted by ontologism is the
one which relates to the distinction
between nature and grace, the ra-
tional knowledge of God attainable
by raan in this life, and the immedi-
ate intuition of God enjoyed by the
blessed in heaven. Ontologism
destroys the real distinction be-
tween the natural and the super-
natural orders, between the abstrac-
tive vision of God by reason and
faith, and the intuitive vision of
God without any medium, and
face to face. It is true that on-
tologists have never taught that
man has, or can have, a clear vision
of the divine essence, like that of
ihc blessed, by his unaided natural
}K)wers. This is a heresy con-
demned by the General Council of
Vienne. Moreover, it would be
too absurd for any sane person
to maintain that such a vision is
congenital and possessed by all men
from the first instant of creation.
Nor would any one who maintains
that the idea of God is impressed
on the soul at its creation be so

extravagant as to assert that the
clear and distinct conception of God
which can be obtained by reason
and faith is present to the minds
of all men from their birth. Onto-
logists are careful to state that there
is a difference between the immedi-
ate cognition of God in this life and
that of the life to come. And all
who maintain any kind of ideal cog-
nition which is congenital or innate,
understand by this something which
exists unconsciously in the soul un-
til its powers are developed. The
object is there, facing the intellect,
but the intellect has its eyes closed,
and cannot perceive it. When it
perceives it, it is first obscurely,
then clearly, then more or less dis-
tinctly. Its congenital cognition is
an unconscious, undeveloped act.
But all the principles of conscious,
developed cognition are in that act,
and are only evolved by the opera-
tion of the senses and the intellectu-
al faculties. The error condemned
is the assertion that this cognition
has God in his intelligibility as real
and necessary being as its immediate
object. And though it is not for-
mally a heresy, since it does not as-
sert that the immediate cognition
of God is identical with the beatific
vision, or deny the necessity of the
light of glory to make the soul capa-
ble of the beatific vision, it is erro-
neous, inasmuch as it removes that
which really makes the essential
difference of the vision of the bless-
ed, as distinct from the natural cog-
nition of any created intelligence.
This difi*erence is defined by Bene-
dict XIV., in the Const. Benedictus
Deus^ to be that the blessed see
God " without the mediation of any-
thing created which presents itself
as the object seen " — nulla medianie
creaiurd in ratione objecti visi se ha-
bente. Every other cognition of God
must therefore have some created

366

Ontologistn and Psyehologism.

object of intellectual vision as an
intermediary between the intellect
and God — that is, must be medi-
ate and not immediate cognition.
An immediate cognition, however
obscure and imperfect, must there-
fore be essentially the same with the
clear, beatific intuition of the es-
sence of God, and capable of being
expanded, extended, developed, in-
creased, made more penetrating or
powerful, without being essentially
changed, until it equals or sur*
passes the intuition of the highest
angel in heaven. The light of
faith or the light of glory can be
therefore only aids to the improve-
ment of the human intellect in its
own natural capacity and activity —
as if one should see the stars more
plainly by a telescope, and after-
wards receive a more perfect body
with a visual organ superior to any
telescope that was ever made.

A more elaborate similitude will
make the difference of immediate
and mediate cognition of God more
plain. Let us suppose a barbarian
lying asleep on the shore of his
lonely island in the Pacific, while a
large ship, the first which has ever
approached it, has just come within
the most distant range of vision.
There is an object, then on his ho-
rizon, which he has the power to
see, but does not perceive until he
awakes. He perceives it at first as
a very small and dimly-seen ob-
ject — as somethings he knows not
what. It may be a cloud, a bird, a
wave sparkling in the sun, a canoe.
It is a large man-of-war which is
the real object perceived, but he
does not know that it is a ship, or
know its contents, or even know
what a ship is. This is an obscure
perception. By-and-by he can see
that it is not a cloud, or bird, or
canoe, but a large, moving struc-
ture, whose principal parts are visi-

ble to him. This is a clear percep-
tion. When it has anchored, he
has been taken on board, has seen
its crew and armament, its cabins
and hold, and has learned what is
its purpose and the utility of iu
principal parts, he has a distinct
conception. After he has learned
the language of the sailors, and has
been instructed to a greater or less
extent, he acquires a more adequate
and perfect knowledge, like that
which the sailors themselves pos*
sess; he joins the crew, and be-
comes an expert seaman, and finds
himself^ to have become much su-
perior m knowledge and happiness
to what he was before the ship
came to his island.

• Let us also suppose that a bottle
is washed ashore at another island,
and picked up by a native. When
he opens it, he finds in it ^ drawing
representingalarge ship, and a paper
containing particular information
about the ship and its crew. This
bottle had been thrown overboard
after the ship had sprung a leak in
mid-ocean, and was about to foun-
der. After the bottle has been
found by the native, £uro{>eans ar-
rive at the island, by whom the
papers are examined, and their con-
tents explained to the native, who
learns also from the explanation of
the drawing to understand what
the ship is, its use, construction,
parts, etc. He thus gains substan-
tially the same knowledge of that
ship and its crew with that which
the other native gained about the
other ship, though in a different
way, without ever seeing the ship
itself, but only an image of it. One
has immediate, the other mediate
cognition. One sees the object in
itself, the other sees it in something
else. In the first case the native
saw something which was a sbip»
but while it was distant it was not

Ontologism and Psychologism.

367

visible as a ship, only as an object.
Afterwards it was visible in its
outward shape and appearance as a
ship, in clear, unmistakable con-
trast with every different object, but
not distinctly understood or closely
inspected, or made the principal
object of the occupation, the at-
tachment, the enjoyment, of the
native — in a. word, the home and
centre of his chief earthly good.
When he first saw something in the
distance, he really saw the ship, and
in that vision was virtually con-
tained all that he afterwards dis-
covered in respect to it ; whereas,
the other native never saw the other
ship, and never could see it by
means of drawings or verbal de-
scriptions, although he could learn
that it was a ship, and what ship it
was, where it sailed from, who
sailed it, and wKen and where it
foundered.

The above comparison is not
perfect, since every comparison
must limp at least a little; but we
think it is sufficient as an illustra-
tion of the process by which the
human intellect attains to the
knowledge of God and the beatific
vi»on of God, according to ontolo-
gism as differing from the doctrine
of sound Catholic theology. Ac-
cording to ontologism, God presents
himself to the intellect, when he
creates it, as its immediate Object,
objective Idea, or intelligible Term.
So soon as it is capable of appre-
hending eternal verities, it appre-
hends that which is God, although
not yet knowing explicitly that
what it apprehends is God — that is,
the one, living, most perfect Being
who is the creator and sovereign
lord of all things. By another step
it acquires a clear conception of
God, and makes the judgment that
God is, and that he is eternal, in-
finite, omniscient, omnipotent. This

judgment is an evolution from that
cognition which existed at the be-
ginning as a habit into an explicit
act, as the explicit act of faith is de-
duced from the habit of faith given
to the infant by baptism. That
God is, is known by what he is — that
is, by his essence, which is seen in
the eternal verities or divine ideas
as they are in reality, not distin-
guishable from the divine substance.
Faith gives an obscure perception
of the interior mysteries of the di-
vine substance which are beyond
the ken of the intellect unaided by
revelation, or, in other words, are
superintelligible verities; and the
light of glory increases the power
of intellectual vision so that it sees
clearly and distinctly the interior
essence of God, which completes
the beatification of the soul.

In this place we may cite the
third of the seven condemned pro-
positions, which expresses the afore-
mentioned theory, as taken in con-
nection with the fifth. This third
proposition is : " Universals, objec-
tively considered, a parte reiy are
not really distinguishable from
God"; and the fifth: "All other
ideas are only modifications of the
idea in which God is intellectively
perceived as simply being — tarn-
quam ens simpliciier inielligitury
Universals are general ideas, each
one of which is capable of being pre-
dicated of a multitude of subjects.
The logical universals are five —
genus, species, differentia, attribute,
accident. The ten categories of
Aristotle include all the supreme
genera, though some maintain that
a better division may be made.
The transcendental ideas are thosb
which transcend all generic clas-
sification, because they may be
predicated of every genus and
all its inferiors. They are the ideas
of being, unity, the good, the true,

368

Ontologism and Psychologism.

the beautiful. They belong, there-
fore, to the universals, although
predicated in analogous and not
identical senses of the diverse ge-
nera and their inferior subjects.
Take the supreme genus substance,
as an instance, and follow it down
to man — substance, corporeal sub-
stance, organized substance, ani-
mal, rational animal, />., man.
His proximate genus is animal, his
differentia rationality, which con-
stitute the species man. The con-
crete reality of the universals, sub-
stance, etc., terminating in the spe-
cies which is rational animal is
found only in individual men.
The direct universals, genus, spe-
cies, differentia, exist, a parte ret, in
each individual of the human spe-
cies. Each man is a substance,
corporeal, organized, animal, ra-
tional, and these universals can be
predicated of him as their subject.
The transcendental predicates, also,
are connected with individual men
as their subject. Individual men
have being, unity, verity, goodness,
beauty. But these may be predi-
cated in senses which are only
analogous to each other of the
composite essence, of its distinct
parts, soul and body, of the attri-
butes or essential qualities of man,
and of the accidents of individual
men. For instance, the human es-
sence is essentially good ; the soul
and body are good each in its own
order; rationality is good ; learning,
valor, amiability, moral virtue,
sanctity, are good; but there is
analogy only, not identity, in these
various kinds of good. The same
is true of being. It is absurd,
therefore, to speak, as Plato does,
of a universal good, true, beautiful,
or to speak of any universal idea,
such as being, or a modification of
being, as having any objective re-
ality as a universal, except as a

concept of the mind with a founda-
tion in that which is or may be an
actually existing thing. They are
metaphysical essences, with their
generic, specific, qualifying, and
transcendental predicates. All the
categories or supreme genera to*
gether make up what is called the
nature of things, considered meta-
physically ; considered in thdr
physical being in the sum of att
concrete existences, they make up
universal nature. The metaphysical
essences are necessary, immutable,
eternal, and potentially infinite
They are the eternal verities, the
necessary truths, which copy the
divine ideas upon nature or the
universe, where God has impressed
them, and are abstracted from the
works of the Creator by the intel-
lect of man. They are distinguish-
able from God, therefore they arc
not in the essence of God, or the
divine ideas subsisting in the di-
vine substance, and are not there
seen by the intellect. This was
long ago proved by philosophen
and theologians. It is now de-
clared by authority that it is un-
safe thus to identify them with God,
and thereby make him the imme-
diate object of the intellect. The
reason why it is unsafe is that it
destroys the differentia which makc5
our rational cognition of God spe-
cifically distinct from the intuitive
cognition of the blessed. There
are also other dangers to faith and
sound theology involved in the
doctrines or tendencies of ontolo-
gism, which we have not space to
notice.

Neither the absurdity nor the
heterodoxy of ontologism is avoid-
ed by the system of Gioberti. The
objection of Giobertians to pure
ontologism, that it furnishes no dia-
lectic principle uniting natural theo-
logy with other branches of special

Ontologism and Psyckologisnu

369

metaphysics and with ontology, is,
indeed, well taken. But this only
shows that pure ontologism is ab-
lurd and incoherent. It does not
liemove the absurdity of that which
• common to pure ontologism and
tfce ontologism of Gioberti. Nei-
ibcT does it remove its heterodoxy,
filing that we have immediate cog-
•faioQ of something which is not
God does not make it more ortho-
Awe to say that we have immediate
GDgnition of God. Moreover, Gio-
berti's doc trine, as taught by himself,
t&d understood by his European
dbciples and admirers, as well as
by his acutcst and most orthodox
Opponents, is far more heterodox
4an that of any other ontologist
who is also a Catholic. Evidence
iui$ been furnished Which has never
been rebutted that Gioberti was a
ptntheist even before he published
his Introduction to Philosophy. In
a letter to Mazzini, written before
Aat date, but only afterwards pub-
lished from a motive of pique
Ipmst him, he says explicitly that
he is a pantheist after the manner
of Giordano Bruno, though a Chris-
tian pantheist. What does this
mean, unless it means that he had
conceived a plan of combining pan-
theistic philosophy with the Catho-
lic dogmas, as a part of his grand
scheme of reconciling paganism
with Christianity, and the European
revolution with the Papacy? On
this supposition he must either
have acted the part of a deliberate
•iar and hypocrite — a baseness of
^' nich we believe him to have been
incapable — or he must have intend-
fi and in a subtile manner insinuat-
ed pantheism in the guise of his fam-
^*us ideal formula, j&wj creat existen-
'w. In this case whatever may
'^ar a pantheistic interpretation or
M^em to point to a pantheistic con-
''lusion must be pantheistically inter-
VOL. XX. — 24

preted, so far as the sense of the
author is concerned. It is not
strange, however, that many have
understood him in a sense not di-
rectly heretical, or even, perhaps,
quite compatible with Catholic
faith. For his works are filled with
passages which, taken in a Catholic
sense, are gems of the purest and
most precious sort. If the formula
Being creates existences be taken in
the orthodox sense, as equivalent
to God creates the world, it is obvi-
ously a directly contrary proposi-
tion to any one expressing panthe-
ism. To make it bear a panthe-
istic sense, definitions of being,
create, and existences must be sub-
introduced which vitiate its ortho-
dox meaning. But, leaving aside
this question, we have already
proved that a Catholic must hold
that the human intellect -cannot
have an immediate cognition of the
first extreme of the formula, viz.,
that real and necessary Being which
is God. Without this he cannot
have an immediate cognition of the
creative act, as the act of God, or
of created things in their ideas,
considered as the divine ideas
themselves in the divine mind, and
really identical with the divine es-
sence. It is certain that the Hofy
See did not intend to condemn pan-
theism in the decree respecting the
seven propositions, for it would
never have affixed such a mild cen-
sure if it had so intended. Onto-
logism, whether couched in Giober-
ti's formula or not, is condemned in
that sense which is not pantlieistic,
and under every formula which in-
cludes an affirmation of the imme-
diate cognition of God by the hu-
man intellect, as denned by M.
Fabre in the passage quoted at the
beginning of this article.

Before concluding we are oblig-
ed reluctantly to add a few words

370

Ontologism and rsjcfwhgism.

about a personal controversy with
Dr. Brownson, with whom we al-
ways regret to have a difference re-
specting any matter which belongs
to Catholic doctrine. We desire
to explain, therefore, that we made
no statement to the effect that the
ontologism condemned by the Holy
See had ever been formally and ex-
plicitly taught in philosophical arti-
cles, whether written by himself or
any one else, in this magazine.
Moreover, in the passage where his
name is mentioned there is no di-
rect statement that ^'/tiso^cm ontolo-
gism " falls under ecclesiastical
censure. The utmost implied or
asserted is that some educated
men might think that some of his
statements are " unsound," philoso-
phically or theologically, *and de-
mand a certain benignity of inter-
pretation in order to escape the
censure which a professed theolo-
gian would justly incur if he made
such statements in a book written
for school-boys or young pupils. Dr.
Brownson *s own defence of his doc-
trine, as based on his definition of
intuition : " Intuition is the act of the
object, not of the subject," was cited
as the precise distinction between his
own doctrine and the one condemn-
ed, upon which the question of the
theological soundness of his pecu-
liar ontologism turns. We called
it "a newly-invented distinction be-
tween ideal intuition and percep-
tion or cognition," and qualified
the definition above quoted as an
** assumption," which we tiiink is
quite correct. It is new in Catho-
lic philosophy, and has not been
proved. We think, therefore, that
the phraseology of Dr. Brownson
makes his doctrine liable to an in-
terpretation, even by educated men,
which makes it similar to that of
the condemned ontologism. That
it is sound and safe we are not

prepared to say. Neither

say posi lively that it ts not
is» we think Dr. Brown«
place it in a clearer light t
has yet done, *ind wc >hali !
rejoice to see hiin distiiicll)
ciale and vindicate hb fund^
doctrine, whether it docs c
not accord wilb ihnt wbicb
by the disciples of S. Tboma
his loyal intention to canfc
doctrine to the decisions
supreme authority in the
there can be no doubt. T
has so fiir succeeded in do
at least by an exact and i
expression of il^ wc u^nvko
doubting. We eannai sieif I
distinction between ideal in
and cognition, jfo far as we
hend it, suflicejs*

We understand hiia to
idL'al intuition as an act «
presenting himself to the it
as its object, and to call the
the intellect apprehending thi
object empirical tn lull ion. 1
d erst and him also to idcnii
immediate object on which 1
tivc intellect exercises its <
isive oi Iterations with real, iiec
being— />. God — aUHovigh il
not make the judgment th^t \
verities artr real being, and ill
l>eing is God, immediately, 1
means of rcfleciion and rcas
Now, we cannot see any eti
difference between this doctiii
that of ^I* BranchcrcAU and
ontologists. We do not
pofisibk to escaj*e the ccc'
censure on the doctrine of il
mediate cognilion of Gtxl,
something \% placed, r%iitVm
!/>/* between God and the im
making the cognition mediate*
ovtff, wc consider that the ten
niiion in the Rom;in decree i
intuition and simple apprcKc
even in their confused state, a

Ontologism and Psycfrohgism.

371

as distinct conceptions and judg-
ments. Dr. Brownson's peculiar
terminology and informal method of
arguing make it, however, more diffi-
cult to understand his real doctrine
asd compare it with that of standard
antfaors than if it were expressed in
Ac usual style and method.

Dr. Brownson has also further
duirgcd the author of Problems
0f the Age with having actually
tiaght in the opening chapters of
liiat essay, as first published in this
wgazine, the very ontologism con-
demned in the seven propositions.
That there are ambiguous expres-
:aonsand passages which taken apart
from the whole tenor of the argu-
»eiJt are liable to such an inter-
pfttation, we do not deny. But in
reality, it was the doctrine of Gerdil
wiiich was intended, and expressed
with sufficient distinctness for a
careful and critical reader. This
doctrine is expressed by the illus-
trious cardinal in these words :
*God, who contains eminently the
ideas of all things, impresses their
intellectual similitudes in us by his
action, which constitute the imme-
diate object of our perceptions."
Upon which Liberatore remarks :
**In these words Gerdil did not
modify the ontologism which he
professed in his youth, but retracted
it. And indeed, how can even the
shadow of ontologism be said to re-
Hiain, when the immediate object
of our perceptions is no longer said
to he God, or ideas existing in God,
but only their similitudes, which are
impressed by the divine action up-
on our minds." * A few quotations
from the Problems of the Age
vill prove the truth of our asser-
tion that it proposed a theory simi-
lar to the theory of Gerdil.

" It is evident that we have no di-

•ZV Orig, ItUmrnm^ art. v. dbj. 3.

rect intellectual vision or beholding
of Godi The soul is separated from
him by an infinite and impassable
abyss.'** "God affirms himself
originally to the reason by the crea-
tive act, which is first apprehend-
ed by the reason f through the medium
of the sensible, . . . Thus we know
God by creation, and creation
comes into the most immediate
contact with us on its sensible
side." X " The knowledge of God is
limited to that which he expresses by
the similitude of himself exhibited
in the creation. "§ " It is of the
essence of a created spirit that its
active intuition or intellective vis-
ion is limited to finite objects as
its immediate terminus, commensu-
rate to its finite, visual power. //.
sees God only mediately y as his being
and attributes are reflected and
imaged in finite things, and there-
fore its highest contemplation of
God is merely abstractive" ||

More passages might be quoted,
but these may suffice. The form
of expression is frequently Giober-
tian, especially in the early chap-
ters. But the author understood
Gioberti in an orthodox sense.
In our opinion Dr. Brownson, as
well as ourselves, failed to a very
great extent to understand his art-
fully-expressed meaning. We used
language similar to that of ontolo-
gism, but the sense in which we as-
serted the intuition of God was
that of an infused idea of necessary
and eternal truths; having their
foundation and eminent ^ but not en-
titatiife existence in God, as Father
Kleutgen teaches; by virtue of
which the miiid can rise by discur-
sive reasoning through the creation
to an explicit conception of what
God is, and make the judgment

• Catholic World, vol. iii. p. 094.

t Meaning the undtrstanding.

X lb. p. 519. I lb. p. 5M. I n>. voL iT. p. 660.

372

Ontologism and Psychologistn.

that he is. All that introductory
part of his work which treats of
ontology was, however, suppressed
by the author when the Problems
of the Age was published in book-
form, precisely on account of the
tincture of ideas and phraselogy,
which too nearly resembled those
of ontologists, and were too obscure
and ambiguous.

We do not suppose that the ideo-
logy of those Catholic philosophers
whom we may call Platonisers, for
want of a more specific term, has
been condemned; or the Peripa-
tetic ideology enjoined as the only
one which can safely be taught in
the schools; by any positive pre-
cept of the Holy See. Neverthe-
less, we think the former ideology,
in all its various shapes, has receiv-
ed a back-handed blow, by the
condemnation of ontologism, which
must prove fatal to it. We see no
logical alternative for those who re-
ject psychologism, except between
ontologism and the ideology' of S.
Thomas. The objective term of
intellective conceptions must be, if
it has real existence, either in God,
in created things outside the mind,
or in the mind itself. If it is the lat-
ter, a vague idealism which carries
philosophy into an abstract world,
separated by a chasm from the
real, seems unavoidable. There is
no real, concrete being, except in
God and that which God has creat-
ed. Unless the universals are
mere conceptions or ideas, and un-
less ideas are, not that by which the
intellect perceives, but that which
it perceives — and this is psycholo-
gism — they must have their entita-
tive existence in the essence of
God, and be indistinguishable from
it ; or they must have it in created
objects. The former cannot be
safely held and taught. Therefore
we must take the latter side of the

alternative, or fall into psycholo-
gism. There is no solid ratiooai
basis, except that of scholastic phi-
losophy, on which we can stand
The master in this school is the
Angelic Doctor. Our interpreti*
tion, or that of any greater disck
pie of S. Thomas, has no J
thority, except that which is iDt»'
sic to the evidence it furnishes tl
it is really his doctrine. The c«^
dcnce is clear enough, howevei^
any competent person who exaah
ines it, that we have stated his (k
trine correctly, and that all tbs
criticisms upon tlie ideology
vindicate fall upon S. Thomas, a
not upon us. Any one who vS
read the great works of Kleutgai
and Liberatore can see this prorcd
in the amplest manner from tbi
writings of S. Thomas and in hil
own distinct statements. And
any person of ordinary comoxxi
sense will conclude that a n
of the acute intelligence, con-
scientiousness, and patient appti*
cation which characterize Father
Liberatore, in a lifelong study of
the clearest and most lucid author
who ever wrote, carvnot have failed
to understand his philosophical
system. Liberatore avowedly con-
fines himself to an exposition of
the philosophy of S. Thomas pure
and simple. And in his great
work, Delia Conoscetisa Intelleiiuiks
he has given the most ample and
lucid exposition of that particular
part of it, with a solid refutation
of the other principal theories.
Kleutgen is more original, and not
less erudite, though perhaps not
equal to Liberatore in the thorough
mastery of the w^ritings of the An-
gelic Doctor ; and he has given "»
-most extensive and complete expo-
sition of scholastic philosophy, ac-
companied by an exhaustive appre-
ciation of modern systems, in hii

Ontologism and Psychologism.

373

PkU&sophie der Vorzcit, It is very
well for those who can do so to
study S. Thomas for themselves,
though even they cannot neglect his
commentators. But it is idle to re-
commend this study to the general-
ity of 'jtudents in philosophy and the-
ology, as a substitute for the study
of the minor approved authors.
Dogmatic and moral theology and
philosophy are real sciences, as they
0e taught in the Catholic schools,
and they can be and must be learn-
ed from text-books and the oral in-
struction of professors. The pre-
sumption is in favor of the books
ind teachers approved by ecclesi-
astical authority, that they teach
wund doctrine. There cannot be
anything more injurious to the in-
terests of ecclesiastical or secular
education than to depreciate and
undermine their legitimate authori-
ty, and thus awaken distrust in the
minds of those who must receive
their instruction from them, or else
undertake the task of instructing
themselves. Such an undertaking
usually results in a failure which
may have disastrous consequences.
The greater number follow self-
chosen and dangerous guides. The
few of superior intelligence and
activity of mind; who throw off re-
Jpcct for all authority except that

which they recognize as absolutely
infallible, or submit to through the
worship which they pay to genius
and to ideas which have captivated
their intellect and imagination ; are
apt to indulge the futile and dan-
gerous dream of remodelling phi-
losophy and theology. Such have
been the leaders of dissension, of
heresy, and of apostasy. De Lamen-
nais, St. Cyran, Gioberti, and Dol-
linger are examples. They began
to deviate by breaking away from
the common and present sense of
the great body of authors in actual
use and living teachers of theology.
Every one knows where they end-
ed. Similar tendencies and pro-
clivities can be effectually suppress-
ed only by a sound theology and a
sound philosophy, together with
that spirit called iht piety of faith,
which goes much beyond a mere
submission to absolute and catego-
rical decrees in regard to faith and
morals. In conclusion, we ven-
ture very earnestly to advise all
converts who have finished a
liberal education before entering
the church, not to study theology
without also going through a
careful course of philosophy, be-
ginning with text-books such as
those of Father Hill and Libera-
tore.

374

Raniniscences of a TiU^FieltL

REMINISCENCES OF A TILE-FIELD.

Once upon a time there lived a
king and a queen in a grand old
group of Gothic towers that was
called the Louvre. Nowadays
we should call their house a palace,
but in those good old times kings
built houses to fight in as well as to
live in, and their abodes had to do
duty at once as palace, fortress, and
prison. At the time we speak of
this mass of straggling roofs and
gables resembled a citadel mounting
guard over Paris from the western
side, as the Bastile did from the
east ; but when Francis I. came on
the scene, he denounced the bar-
baric-looking stronghold as a place
too like a dungeon for a king to live
in, though it did well enough for a
hunting-lodge. It was too venerable
to be thrown down, and too stern
in its original character to bend to
any architectural modifications, so
he decided to leave it as it was, and
build a palace after his own fancy
by the side it. He began, accord-
ingly, the florid Italian edifice
which now forms the western side
of the old Louvre. He did not
live to see the work completed ;
but it was continued by his son,
who died soon after it was finished,
and left his widow, Catherine de
M^dicis, in enjoyment of it. But
the wily queen, looking to the
future, saw that her son would one
of these days be reigning in the
Louvre, and that it might not suit
her to remain his guest ; so she set
about building a palace for herself,
where in due time she might plot
and scheme, distil poisons, and
light civil wars unmolested by the

king's presence or the prying eyes
of his court. West of the Louvre,
and in the then open country, was
a tile-field, which, from the fact
of iuiles being manufactured there,
was called Les Tuilerus. The
M^dicean sorceress touched the tiles
with her wand, and up rose under
that magic stroke the stately palace
which was to be the centre of y^
many high and wonderful desti-
nies, and which continued to bear
through all changes and vicissitudes
its first homely title of Les Tuik-
ries. One life could not suflSce
for the completion of such a monu-
ment, however, and Catherine left it
to her three king sons, successively
to finish. But already in her own
time the tile-field was baptized in
blood. From one of its Gothic
windows the mother pulled the
trigger in the trembling hand of the
son which gave the signal for the
massacre of S. Bartholomew. Thus
in its very cradle did the Tuileries
sign itself Haceldama, a field where
blood should flow, where princes
should sell and be sold, where a
king should wrestle w^th the powers
of darkness, and be dragged forth
in ignominy to death. The two
palaces, hitherto distinct and sepa-
rate, were united by Charles IX.,
who erected the long gallery by the
river's side. It was not entirely
finished when he died, leaving his
brothers to make it ready for
Henry IV., who is represented as
traversing the gallery, leaning on
De Guise, the day before Ravaillac's
dagger cut short the Beamais'
career.

Reminiscences of a Tile-Field.

375

The idea of turning it into a
museum was first suggested by
Louis XVI., who reverted to the
plan frequently, but was compell-
ed by financial difficulties to leave
the glory of its execution to Bona-
parte. Those who have seen the
beautiful old palace recently, before
its partial destruction, would hardly
recognize it as the same which
fifteen years ago was choked up to
its very windows by the rubbish of
the encroaching town ; the space
now cleared away between the two
palaces, the Louvre proper and^the
Tuileries, was filled with mean
hottses, for the most part shops.
Even the facade of the Tuileries was
cumbered and disfigured by a va-
riety of shabby buildings, barracks,
stables, and domestic offices, these
Utter being necessary for the con-
venience of its inmates — since royal-
ty must dine — the original plan of
the palace having made no provision
for those vulgar essentials for the
carrying on of daily life. It was an
unsafe abode for royalty when safety
needed to be thought of and the
hearts of the people had ceased to
be the king's best stronghold ; but
when the M^dicis reared the noble,
picturesque old pile, they were trou-
bled with no such considerations.
The ghosts of constitutionalism and
ians - culotiism were slumbering
quietly unsuspected in the womb
of the future, and no provision was
made for slaying or defying them.
For nearly a century^ the Tuileries
had been uninhabited, when, on the
wrathful day of the 6th of October,
the mob surged from Paris to Ver
failles, and dragged Louis Seize and
Marie Antoinette from their beds,
and installed them within its empty,
neglected walls.

''Buildings, like builders, have
their destiny." Ever since the
memorable morning when insur-

rection reared its hydra-head un-
der the windows of the Queen of
France, and battered in the chamber
door with clubs and tricolor-bediz-
ened pikes, and sent her flying in
terrified dkshabilU through secret
corridors and trap-tapestries into
the king's room for safety ; ever
since "rascality looked in the king's
face, and did not die," but seized
royalty by the beard, and led it,
amidst hootings of triumph, to lodge
where the people willed, the grand
chateau of Versailles has stood va-
cant of kings and queens, its polish-
ed floors reflecting the dead mon-
archs on the walls, a great hush
filling its broad galleries, grass grow-
ing in its courts, the silence of the
past brooding everywhere. Noisy
demagogues may scream and howl
in the theatre where the Grand Mon-
arch applauded the verses of Cor-
nellle and Racine, and their nimble
heels may tread down some of the
grass between the paving-stones of
the Cour du Roi, but they are but
jackdaws chattering in the deserted
temple. Versailles has lived its day,
and outlived its generation.

Neglected and uncomfortable as
the Tuileries was, the royal family
had no choice but to go there. The
Louvre was partly dilapidated and
quite unfurnished, while the sister
palace, though so long uninhabited,
was still furnished, and needed com-
paratively little to make it, even in
this sudden emergency, a suitable
domestic residence. The discom-
forts of the first few days were great,
but the royal captives were absorb-
ed in graver cares, and bestowed
no idle regrets on such small mat-
ters as personal accommodation.
Louis was satisfied with his truckle-
bed, hurriedly provided by the na-
tion in the tapestried room. " Where
will your majesty please to sleep ?"
inquired an obsequious municipal,

376

ReminiscetKes of a Tik-Field.

entering the presence ; and wiajesty,
with head bowed over his knees,
j^iswers, without deigning to look
around and choose, ** I am well
enough here ; let each lodge as he
may." So the truckle-bed is got
ready. Strange days followed this
strange beginning. Paris* for a
week was drunk with joy. The mob
had got the king in their possession.
Loyal subjects looked on, not know-
ing whether to weep or to rejoice.
The Orleanist faction chuckled
boldly over the degradation of the
crown, and over the fact that the
persons of the king and, above all,
of the queen were safe in a gilded
prison.

The queen was far too wise and
keen-eyed to be deceived by the
pale glimmer of popularity which,
during the early days of their
abode in Paris, shone upon them.
Louis took pleasure in the scanty
vivats that greeted him when he
sauntered out for a walk on the
terrace— his only place of exercise
now — and within doors amused
himself with carpentry and lock-
making. The Dauphin played at
soldiering, dressed in military uni-
form, and gave the word of com-
mand to his men, a regiment of
warriors from five to eight years
old. Marie Antoinette had her li-
brary brought from Versailles, and
sought refuge from thought in read-
ing. Mme. Elizabeth, meanwhile,
watches the signs of the coming
storm, prays, loves, and hopes.

The Assembly had followed the
king to Paris, and installed itself in
the Salle de Manege, formerly the
riding-school of the Tuileries, and
situated within sight of the palace
on the north terrace. This prox-
imity, whether accidental or de-
signed, was a source of danger and
humiliation to the king. The
members could see the royal prison-

house from the \vrndows of the
Manage, and tJie prospect served
to point many an insolent period ia
the tribute. Mirabeati iised k
with fine effect. " I see/* he cried,
" the window whence a king of
France, under the influence of
execrable advisers, fired the shot
which gave the signal of the massa-
cre of S. Bartholomew T*

But the Assembly did not content
kself with pointing the arrows of
its rhetoric at the doomed Louis;
it sought to give him more practi-
caf proofs of disrespect. The rid-
ing-school being situated on t)»e
Terrace des Feuillants, the mem-
bers declared that this terrace be-
longed to them, and not to the
king ; it was therefore thrown open
as a public thoroughfare, the palace
being thus exposed to the coming
and going of the populace, who
availed themselves of the opportu-
nity of flaunting their disloyalty
under the very windows of the sov-
ereign. There was no longer anr
barrier on the north side, and, \\\t
external posts being all senrinelled
by National Guards, the royal family
had no control over either the
courts or the gardens. This scan-
dalous violation of his privacy
roused even Louis to utter a mild
protest to the Assembly, but it was
met by one of the Girondists re-
torting that "the people lodged
Louis in the Tuileries, but it no-
wise followed that they gave up to
him the exclusive use of the gar-
dens." The unhappy king had no
resource henceforth but in digni-
fied patience, •fed by the hope o^
escaping to the freedom and seclu-
sion of St. Cloud at Easter. We
know how, just as he had entered
his carriage to start for that subur-
ban castle, it was surrounded by the
mob, and he himself only rescued
from personal violence by Lafay-

Retniniscenccs of a TiU-FUrd.

377

ettc and his troop, who were, how-
ever, unable to effect his release.
Louis re-entered the Tuileries
crashed and humbled, but inwardly
resolved on some desperate attempt
to escape from the insupportable
bondage of his position. The
ibortive attempt to leave the Tuile-
nes^even for his usual summer resi-
dence, roused a bitter feeling of
Kspicion against him, and more
especially against the queen, which
vas soon manifested by the in-
creasing insolence of the mob.
They dared no longer show them-
selves in public, and even their
afternoon walk on the terrace by
ihe river's side became impossible.
They tried to avoid the humiliation
and annoyance it provoked by ris-
ing at daybreak, and taking an hour's
exercise in the early dawn; but
this soon became known, and had
also to be abandoned. At last the
queen complained that she "could
not even open her windows on
these hot summer evenings without
l»eing subjected to the grossest in-
vectives and threats."

When things came to this point,
the king was forced to lend an ear
to the proposals which had up to
!his time met with a dogged and
somewhat contemptuous refusal.
i liere was but one way of remedy-
ing the miseries of their position,
and that was by flight. It was no
longer a question of flying from
humiliation, but from absolute and
imminent danger. The most sanguine
'*r the roost obtuse observer could
^'Jt but see that things were has-
tening to a fearful crisis, which,
tcrmiaate how it may, must work
^un to the royal family.

Many schemes were arranged, but
•or one reason or another they fell
iJirough. Finally, it was settled
tiiat the sovereign should escape
^fith his wife and children and sis-

ter to Montm^dy. Tliis was the
utmost that could be wrung from
Louis, even in this extremity. No
arguments could induce him to
consent to leave France, or even to
cross the frontier v.-ith the purpose
of re-entering France the next day,
though ^y so doing he would have
shortened the journey and lessened
its dangers. If even then he had
consented to fly speedily, separate-
ly, instead of losing the precious
days and weeks in preparations that
only awoke suspicion and proved
hindrances instead of helps! But
in the race of destiny, who wins ?
Not he who flies, but he who waits.
Louis waited too long, or not long
enough ; fled too late, if he should
have fled at all.

The story of the flight to Varen-
nes has been written by historians
of all shades and camps, but it is
generally tainted with such vehe-
ment partisanship that the simple,
underlying facts become obscured,
almost obliterated, by hysterical re-
proaches of this one and that ;
whereas the cause of the failure of
that memorable expedition is to be
sought rather in the attitude of the
entire population, the atmosphere
o( the times, or, let us say at once,
the mysterious leadings of the First
Great Cause which overrules hu-
man events, even while it leaves the
human instruments free to decide
the issue. It is easy for one histo-
rian* to lay the blame on Marie
Antoinette, who ** could not travel
without new clothes," showing us
how *^ Dame Campan whisks assidu-
ous to this mantua-maker and to
that; and there is clipping of frocks
and gowns, upper clothes and un-
der, great and small — such clipping
and sewing as might be dispensed
with. Moreover, majesty cannot go

• Carlyle, French Revpiuiion^ toI. L

378

Reminiscences of a Tile-FieU.

a step anywhere without her nices-
saircy dear nicessatre^ of inlaid ivory
and rosewood, cunningly devised,
which holds perfumes, toilet imple-
ments, infinite small, queenlike fur-
niture necessary to terrestrial life."
Poor Marie Antoinette! her grand,
queenlike soul was lifted Cir above
such silly " terrestrial life " by this
time, and it is not likely that> when
such tremendous stakes were im-
pending, her care dwelt with new
clothes or perfume bottles — so mis-
leading does prejudice make the
clearest mind, the most intentionally
sincere witness. The plain truth is
that the difficulty of the new clothes
existed, but from a very different
motive from that suggested by Mr.
Carlyle. It was necessary that
the queen and the royal children
should be disguised, and for this
purpose new clothes were essen-
tial, and it required all the in-
genuity of Mme. De Tourzel, and
Mme. Cam pan, and every one con-
nected with the affair to get
them made so as to fit the royal
fugitives, and then conveyed into
the palace without exciting the
keen lynx-eyes that were fixed on
every incomer and outgoer pass-
ing tJ.rough the queen's apartments.
As to the nicessaire over which the
Scotch philosopher breaks the vials
of his scorn so loftily, it was want-
ed. Some box was wanted to hold
the money, jewels, and certain indis-
pensable papers that were to be
taken on the journey, and the queen
suggested that her dressing-case
should be used, adding at the same
time that she was loath to leave it
behind her, as it was almost the first
present she had received from her
husband — no great subject for
philosophical sneers, as far as we
can see. Nor did either nuessaire
or new clothes — though the ob-
taining and smuggling in of the

Utter caused much delay — give ciif
to any of the accidents which work
ed the failure of the scheme.

Then there was the new beriin ti
be provided — a lamentable mistas«
but not one that deserves Mr. Cw-
lyle*s withering sarcasms any mad
than the nicessaire, " MiscraH]
new beriin ! " he cries. ** Why co«
not royalty go in an old beriin sa»
lar to that of other men ? Flyifl|
for life, one does not stickle abool
one*s vehicle." It was not for tk
newness or dignity of the vebicU
that the queen stickled, but for tk
capability of carrying "all h<f
treasures with her." She positivdf
refused to fiy at all, unless it could
be so contrived that she was nol
separated for an hour of the way
from her husband, her children, and
her beloved sister-in-law, the Prin-
cess Elizabeth. She insisted, more-
over, that the few faithful friends
who were to share her flight should
be with them also, and not exposed
to solitary risks in a separate con-
veyance. This was characteristic
enough of the queen's loyal heart
towards those she loved, but it
was unlike her practical sense and
intelligence. M. de Fersen, who
was taken into confidence from the
first, declared that no traveUing-
coach was to be found large enon^
to answer these requirements, and
that one must be built on purpose
It so happened that the previous-
year he had ordered a beriin, of
just such form and dimensions as
was now wanted, for a friend of "^i^
in Russia ; he therefore went to t'ne
coach-maker, and desired hira wit)
all possible speed to build another oo
the same model for a certain Bar-
onne de Korff, a cousin of his, who
was about to return to St. Peters-
burg with her family and suite
The beriin was built, and, to baffle
suspicion more effectually, was

Reminiscenc£S of a Tile-Field,

379

ilriTen through some of the most
pwblic streets in Paris, in order to
try it. The result was most satis-
factory, and M. de Fersen talked
dood to his friends of the perfect
DOftch he had ordered and partly
icsigned for his cousin, Mme. de
Kotft

I The journey was fixed for the
19th of J une. Everything was ready,
torcty precaution had been taken,
bvery possible obstacle anticipated.
STic Marquis de Bouill^, almost the
wly general whose devotion the
king could trust to the death, was
in command of the army of the
Meuse, and Montm^dy, a small but
velHortified town, was situated in
the midst of it. Here the royal fam-
ily were sure of a safe and loyal
asylum. The minor military ar-
rangements were entrusted to M.
At Goguelat, an officer of engineers,
who was on Bouill^'s staff, and per-
fonally devoted to the king and
queen. The Due de Choiseul, under
De Goguclat's orders, was to fur-
nish local detachments from his regi-
ment of Royal Dragoons along the
road, and to precede the royal -de-
parture by a few hours, so as to en-
sure all being in order at the va-
rious stations. M. de Goguelat
mide two experimental journeys
to Montm^dy himself, to ascertain
the exact hour of arrival at each
place. Unluckily, he forgot to cal-
culate the difference between a light
post-chaise and a heavily-built,
hearily-laden "new berlin." Re-
lays of horses were provided at
each stage, and a detachment of
cavalry from De Bouill^'s army
'fas to be there also, and, after a
short interval, to follow the new
Min, picking up each detachment
successively, and thus swelling the
force at every stage. The utmost
secrecy was observed with all ex-
ccpt the leaders of the expedition ;

the pretext alleged to the troops
for all this marching being that a
treasure was on its way to the
north for payment of the army.
All was waiting, when, at the last
moment, owing to some difficulty
about getting Mme. de Tourzel into
the ber]^, the king sent a counter-
order for the departure, saying it
must take place, not on the 19th, but
on the 2oth. It was a woful delay.
But at last, on the night of the 20th,
behold the travellers under way.
Mme. Royale's M^moires give us
the most authentic account of the
mode of starting: "At half-past
ten, on the 20th of June, 1791, my
brother was wakened up by my
mother. Mme. de Tourzel brought
him down to my mother's apart-
ment, where I also came. There we
found one of the gardes-du-^orps^
M. de Maiden, who was to assist
our departure. My mother came
in and out several times to see us.
They dressed my brother as a little
girl. He looked beautiful, but he
was so sleepy that he could not
stand, and did not know what we
were all about. I asked him what
he thought we were going to do.
He answered : * I suppose to act a
play, since we have all got these
odd dresses.* At half-past ten we
were ready. My mother herself
conducted us to -the carriage in the
middle of the court, which was ex-
posing herself to great risk.*'

The rdles were distributed as
follows: Mme. de Tourzel, gov-
erness of the children of France,
was Baronne de Korff ; Mme. Royale
and the Dauphin, her daughters.
The queen was their governess,
Mme. Rocher. The Princess Eliza-
beth was dame-de-compagniey under
the name of Rosalie. The king
was Durand, the valei'de-chambre.
The officers of the disbanded gar-
deS'dU'Corps went as couriers and

38o

Reminiscences of a Tile-Field.

servants. This was a grievous mis-
take amidst so many others. These
gentlemen were totally inexperienc-
ed in their assumed characters, and,
by their personal appearance and
ignorance of the duties they under-
took, proved a fatal addition to the
party. The preparations were
altogether too cumbrous and elab-
orate, but it is difficult to accuse
any special portion of them as super-
fluous in a time when the public
spirit was strained to such a pitch
of suspicion and hatred ; though
prudence might have hinted that
this heavy paraphernalia was far
more calculated to awake the jea-
lous mistrust of the people than to
bafile or allay it.

All being now ready, the fugi-
tives furtively left the Tuileries,
and proceeded to enter the hackney-
coach that stood in wait for them
outside the palace. " Mme. de
Tourzel, my brother, and I got into
the coach first," says Mme. Royale.
" M. de Fersen was coachman. To
deceive any one who might follow
us we drove about several streets.
At last we returned to the Petit
Carrousel, which is close to the
Tuileries. My brother was fast
asleep in the bottom of the car-
riage."

And now another traveller steals
softly out of the palace, her face
shrouded by a gypsy-hat. As she
steps on the pavement a carriage,
escorted by torch-bearers, dashes
past. An unaccountable impulse
moves her to touch the wheel with
the end of her parasol. The occu-
pant of the carriage is Lafayette,
on his way to the king's couchce.
He is late, having been delayed by
urgent matters. They tell him the
king has already retired for the
night. Meantime the lady in the
gypsy-hat, leaning on M. de Maiden,
one of the amateur couriers, loses

her way in the dark street,
keeps the occupants and driver
the hackney-coach half an ho
waiting in an agony of suspen
At last, after crossing and recr
the river, they make their way
the coach, and start. Anotl
presently follows them. So th
jog on through the dark night ^
the spot where the new berlin
waiting; but, lo! they arrive,
no berlin is there. The king hin
self alights, and prowls about
search of it. M. de Fersen at
finds it, overturns the hackne
coach into a ditch, mounts
berlin, and drives on to Bondf
There the travellers find a reh
waiting in a wood. The chivab
Swede stands bareheaded in tl|
dewy dawn-light, and bows
loyal farewell to the king and Ma
Antoinette. They press hanl
in silent thanks, and the chevalijl
goes his way — to Stockholm, wKel
that same day, nineteen years hen<j
he will meet a more brutal end th|
that which awaits the royal pair I
has befriended — beaten to de
with sticks by a savage mob, wh
on the impulse of the mome|
accuse him of having been acce
to the death of Prince Charli
Augustus. But now he breatbl
with 2^ glad sense of victory
security, and stands with bright,
moistened eye watching the huge
berlin lurching on its way, the onlv
thing that broke the stillness of the
wood, sleeping yet under the fading
stars.

All went smoothly as far as Cha-
lons-sur-Marne, about a hundred
miles beyond Bondy, and here the
programme as arranged by the queen
and De Fersen ceased, to be taken
up by the Due de Choiseul and M.
de Bouill^*s detachments. The
berlin rumbled on through Chilons
at four in the afternoon, and reach-

Reminiscences of a Tile-Field.

381

ed the next stage, Pont de Somme-
Vdle at sijf, where M. de Goguelat's
escort was to meet it. But no es-
cort was to be seen. M. de Choi-
lenl had been there at the appoint-
ed time, but owing to the slow pace
;4tf the berlin and the time lost in
Ike early stages — one accident to a
Ivbeel causing two hours' delay —
I ifcey were four hours behind time,
•nd M. de Choiseul, taking for
I gnated something had occurred to
I i^nge the plan altogether, drew off
I his dragoons, without leaving even
' ft vediiie to say where he was going.
' Everywhere these unlucky troops
I tnmed out a hindrance and a dan-
ger. The soldiers accepted without
mrrikre pensh the plausible story of
tbcir being on duty to protect the
transport of pay for the army of the
Meuse ; but the municipal authori-
ties looked on them with suspicion,
and, long before the idea of the real
cause of their presence got wind,
the soldiers were eyed askance in
the towns they passed through. At
this very place, Somme-Velle, one
detachment caused a panic. It so
fell out, by one of those disastrous
coincidences which pursued the
berlin on its adventurous way, that
loroc few days before there had been
an affray amongst the peasants of a
neighboring estate, they having re-
fused to pay certain rates, in conse-
Tjuence of which the tax-gatherers
bad threatened to enforce payment
by bringing down the troops. When
therefore tJie population beheld De
Choiseul and his cavalry they fan-
cied they had been summoned for
the above purpose, and a spirit of
ingry defiance was roused against
ihcm. The municipality sent the
Ttfuiarmerie to parley with the troops
^vii^ compel them to withdraw ; but
they failed in this overture, and
words began to run dangerously
high on all sides. Meanwhile De

Choiseul was straining eyes and ears
for the approach of the berlin, in
mortal dread of seeing it arrive in
the midst of the popular excitement.
When, however, four hours passed,
and there was no sign of it, he said
to an officer, loud enough to be
heard by those near, " I will draw
off my men ; the treasure I expected
must have already passed."

The accounts of this particular
hitch in the itinerary of the flight
are so conflicting — some envenom-
ed by bitter reproach, others equally
hot with recrimination from the ac-
cused — that it is difficult to see who
really was in fault. The time. lost
in the first instance appears to be
the main cause of all the mishaps.
Goguelat is blamed for not having
taken better measures for ensuring
the relays being found at once at
every stage; but he throws the
blame on De Choiseul, under whose
orders he was, and who was at any
rate guilty of strange thoughtless-
ness in drawing off from the point
of rendezvous without leaving word
where he could be found.

Little time, however, was lost at
Sommc-Velle when the berlin at
last arrived there. It changed
horses at once, and away to Sainte-
M^n^hould, which it reached at
half-past seven. But here the in-
capacity of the soi'disant couriers
caused fresh delay and danger. M.
de Valory, one of them, not know-
ing where the post-house was, went
about inquiring for it, exciting cu-
riosity and some suspicion by his
manner and uncourier-like appear-
ance. He was stiil looking for it
when a special escort of troops
rode up — a circumstance which was
very unfortunate, as the angry feel-
ing excited in the neighboring vil-
lage by De Choiseul's huzzars the
day before had not yet subsided.
The captain of the detachment,

382

Reminiscences 0/ a Tile^FiebsL

the Marquis d'Andoins, sees the
berlin, and tries to telegraph by
glances to Goguelat which way lies
the post-house ; but Goguelat can-
not read the signals, and goes up to
him and asks in words, keeping up
the sham of his yellow livery by
touching his hat respectfully to the
aristocrat officer. The king, im-
patient and nervous, puts his head
out of the carriage-window, and
calls to Valory for explanations;
the marquis advances and tenders
them respectfully, but with seem-
ing indifference, as to ordinary
travellers asking information on
their way. Unlucky Louis! Im-
prudent M. d*Andoins! Patriots'
eyes are sharp, and there are hun-
dreds of them fixed on your two
faces now. These sharp eyes are
suggesting some vague memory, a
likeness to some forgotten and yet
dimly-remembered features. Whose
can they be? And the lady with
the gypsy-hat who bends forward to
thank the gracious gentleman, bow-
ing in silence, but with a grace of
majesty unmistakable, a something
in her air and carriage that startles
even these heavy-souled provincials
into wondering " who can she be ?*'
The lady falls back in an instant,
and is hidden from further gaze;
but tliat fat vaUt'de-chambre keeps
his head protruded for several
minutes. The post-house is- found
at last, and the horses are coming.
The postmaster and his son are
busy at their service. The son has
lately been to Paris, and has seen
that head somewhere. He whis-
pers suspicion to his father, old
Drouet, one of Condi's dragoons
in by-gone days, and the two come
closer, and steal a long, sharp,
look. Yes, it is the same as the
head on the coins and the assign-
ats; there is no mistaking it.
What is Drouet to do.^ He is a

staunch patriot; is he to connive
at the king's treachery to the na-
tion, and let him fly to the foreigner
unimpeded } Never was the ready
wit of patriotism more severdf
tested. No need now to wonte
at all this marching and conntei*
marching, this flying of pickets la
and fro, this moving of troops aioff
the road to the frontier. Treasmc
to be transported ! Ay, truly, a
greater treasure than gold or silver
But what was to be done 1 How wis
it to be stopped } There were Ac
soldiers and chivalrous aristociK
officers, ready to cut all the patriok
postmasters in France to piecc!^
and then be cut to pieces then^i
selves, rather than let a hair of <me
of those royal heads be touched
A word, and the village would be
in a blaze ; but only so long as it
would take those glittering swords
to quench the flame in patriot blood
Drouet is a prudent man. He holdi
his tongue until the new berlin is
fairly on its way, with the village
gaping after it, the military escort
lounging about yet a little longer
in careless indifference. M. dc Da-
mas was in command of the troops.
Presently, after the appointed inter-
val, he orders them to move on in
the wake of the berlin. But short
as the time was, it had sufficed to
stir up the town to terrified and re-
solute opposition. The people had
flocked into the streets in angry ex-
citement, and would not suffer the
cavalry to advance. M. de Damas
at first took a high tone of com-
mand, but it was of no use: his
weapon broke in his hand. The
troops turned round on him and
joined the mob, and after a despe-
rate struggle he was obliged to es-
cape for his life, unconscious, evai
at this crisis, of the danger that
threatened his master. Drouet,
meanwhile, was flying after his prej*

Reminiscences of a Tile-Field,

383

to Germonty the next stage to St.
Utnehould, and which by a fatal
^nce he never reached ; if he had,
ibe final catastrophe would, in hu*
pan probability, have been averted.
pn the road there he met his own
jKMtilions coming back, and they
bionned him that the berlin had
NK gone on to Verdon — the next
bage beyond Clermont; that they
pd overheard the courier on the
teat say to the fresh postilions,
I* A Varennes !'* Drouet, who knew
^ery stone of the roads, saw at
ynce what a chance this gave him.
fLt turned off the main road, and
purted by a short cut across the
cooatry to Varennes. Varennes was
ft snail town, a village rather, where
tbcre was no post-house, but where
}i, de Bouill^ had a relay waiting
for the travellers, who, having ar-
med before Drouet, and without
any suspicion that he was pursuing
them, might have congratulated
themselves on being at last safe
over the Rubicon. Yet it was here
Ibat danger was to overtake and
overwhelm them. In this secluded
little dell, near midnight, when every
anc was asleep, hushed by the lul-
laby of the river hurrying on its
way beneath the silent stars, no
PO'iog eyes to peer at them, no
patriots to take offence or fright,
«ilh fresh horses waiting in the
quiet wood, and young De Bouill^,
the general's loyal son, to superin-
tend the relays, with a guard of
^ixty staunch huzzars lodged in an
old convent of the upper town, at
iand in case of now seemingly im-
l»ossible accident — it was here that
the thunderbolt fell, and, as the king
expressed it, " the earth opened to
swallow him." Valory, the clumsy
courier in the gaudy gold livery,
hat been blamed for it all ; but let
us remember at least that a man
«^bo has ridden one hundred and

fifty miles without breathing-space
in twenty-three hours is entitled to
mercy if, at the end of the ride, his
mind wanders and his thoughts be-
come confused. It was past eleven
when he reached Varennes, and
went looking about for the relays,
where he had been told he should
find them, at the entrance of the
faubourg ; but no relays were to be
seen. He pushed on through the
faubourg to the town, which had
gone to bed, and could find no
sign of the missing horses. After
wandering about for nearly an hour,
he hears a sound of rumbling of
wheels coming along the Paris road.
Can it be the berlin 1 And where,
oh ! where are the fresh horses } He
hurries back in the direction of the
sound, and finds the fugitives at
the entrance of the suburb, looking
about for the relays. There was no-
thing for it but to wake up the vil-
lage and make enquiries. TJie king
and queen themselves got out, and
went, with the couriers, knocking
at doors, and calling to the inhabi-
tants to know if they had seen
horses waiting in the neighborhood.
Drouet, meantime, was not asleep;
he was up with his game now, and
flashed past the berlin, like a man
riding, not for life, but against life
for death, just as the king alighted.
He shouted something as he pass-
ed, but Louis did not hear it. It
was an order to the postilions not
to stir from the spot. The relays
all this time were ready waiting not
at the entrance of the suburb on
the Paris side, as had been specified
to the king in M. de Goguelat's pro-
gramme, but at the entrance of the
faubourg beyond the town — a safer
and to all appearances more advan-
tageous position, as the change of
horses would be sure to attract less
notice out of the town than within
it. The grievous mistake on De

584

Reminiscences of a Tile- Field.

Goguelat's part was in not having
told the courier the exact place
where the relays were to be found.
But where were the officers com-
manding the sixty huzzars all this
time ? Fast asleep, it is said, though
it is almost impossible to believe it.
Certain it is that they and their
huzzars, as well as the detachment
of dragoons which, under command
of M. Rohrig, was told off to keep
watch over " the treasure," kept out
of the way while all this commotion
was going on, and never appeared
until the entire village was on foot,
lights gleaming in every window,
and the streets filled with the in-
habitants, lately snoring in their
beds. Drouet had managed his
mission with a coolness and clever*
ness worthy of a nobler cause. He
made no row, but went quietly to
the houses of some half-dozen good
patriots, told them what was abroad,
and directed them how to act.
Their first move was to hurry off
to the bridge, and throw up a loose
barricade which would prevent the
berlin passing ; they then flew- to
the other end of the town, and over-
turned some carts that happened to
be close by, and thus barricaded
the exit by the road. They were
but "eight patriots of good-will,"
Drouet proudly asserts, in these
momentous preliminaries, so saga-
ciously and quickly executed.

The mob were by this time
thoroughly roused. They surround-
ed the carriage, and forced the
travellers to alight. Mme. Royale
thus describes the scene : " After a
great deal of trouble the postilions
were persuaded that the horses
were waiting at the castle (at the
other side of the town and river),
and they proceeded that way, but
slowly. When we got into the vil-
lage, we heard alarming shouts of
Stop ! stop ! The postilions were

seized, and in a moment the car-
riage was surrounded by a great
crowd, some with arms and sooit
with lights. They asked who «c
were; wc answered, 'Mme. de
Korff and her family.' Thqr
thrust lights into the carriage, cl(W
to my father's face, and insi^ed
upon our alighting. We answeroi
that we would not; that we iw*
common travellers, and had a ri^
to go on. They repeated their (3
ders to alight on pain of being pot,
to death, and at that moment «l
their guns were levelled. We tbA
alighted, and, in crossing the stred^,
six mounted dragoons passed itf^.
but unfortunately they had noofficflf.
with them ; if there had been, as
resolute men would have intiaip:
dated them all, and might halt
saved the king. There wc;re six^
close at hand, but the two officea
who commanded them were asleep;
and when at last the noise of the
riot awoke them, they coolly rode
away to tell tl>e Marquis de BouiW
that the king had been stopped, and
all was over; while M. Rohrig
who commanded the treasure es-
cort, rode off likewise, leaving his
men under a disaffected non-com-
missioned officer." M. de Raige*
court, in his account of this event-
ful " Night of Spurs," tells us hoir
he and his brother officer, Dc
Bouill^, "at half-past eleven re-
turned to their bed-rooms," after
strolling about the town, in hot>ei
of seeing the travellers arrive. ** U'c
extinguished our lights," he says,
" but opened our windows and
kept a profound silence. About
twelve we heard many persons
passing and repassing, but without
tumult; some even stopped under
our windows, but we could ntn
distinguish what they were say-
ing." They remained quietly in
their rooms, " wondering what wa^

Reminiscences of a Tile-Field.

38S

tke matter," until about half-past
tvdTf, when they were enlight-
ened by signals which even their
^Bssspicious minds could not mis-

E" The tocsin was rung, the
beat to arms, the lumult be-
very great. Terror seemed
prevail. I believe that at that
It ten, or even fewer, deter-
men would have routed that
populace. A general cry

ed us that the king was in
cs, betrayed and a prisoner."
of now, at least, hastening
IftCdH out their men (who, we said,
^iwe lodged above the town in an
Hd dibey), the two officers " took
br Jointed that the huzzars had
liid down their arms, as otherwise
■cy would have come to the res-
btt find liberated the king," and so
ftey simply rode away to report
ihe lamentable issue to De Bouill^.
ft was about a quarter to one when
Iky left Varennes.

At this juncture M. de Damas,
Irto bad escaped with a few faithful
ben from the fray at Clermont,
teached Varennes — not with the
blet of succoring the traveller^, but
of rejoining them. He believed that
ilie uproar which so suddenly ex-
ploded at Clermont had been
Vierely against the troops, and that
(be royal fugitives were now in
lecurity, past all further dangers
or hradrances. His consternation
»u therefore great when, on ap-
proaching the village of Varennes,
D< beheld a barricade across the
High-road, held by a band of pea-
ttnls, who made an attempt to stop
him. M. de Damas, however, leap-
ed the barricade, and dashed past
them into the town. But the
chivalrous soldier was no war-god
dcKe&ding on fire-wings to save
ihe royal prisoners. He saw the huz-
"rs walking about the streets, and
tn answer to his question, " What
VOL. XX.— 25

were they doing. >" they replied,
"Nothing; we have no orders."
Those who should have given the
orders had fled. M. de Choiseul
was there with his drawn sword at
the head of forty men ; and there
was a detachment just arrived from
another direction under M. Deslons.
There was therefore, even at this
point of the disaster, no lack of
armed force to clear the way, if
there had been but one vigorous
will to use it. But everybody
seemed too bewildered to act. No
one had the courage or the pre-
sence of mind to take the-initiative.
As to Louis himself, he was like one
paralyzed ; not with personal cow-
ardice — that odious charge his sub-
sequent conduct amply disproved —
but with a sort of dazed, mental
stupor. When Deslons went the
length of asking him for orders, he
replied, " I am a prisoner, and
have no orders to give !** Deslons
might have taken the hint, and act-
ed without orders ; but the two
officers present were his superiors,
and he lacked the genius or the
desperation to seize the opportunity
at the cost of a breach of military
discipline. Even the queen's impe-
rial spirit seems to have abandoned
her in this critical extremity, and
she sat passive and dumb in Sausse
the grocer's bed-room, clasping her
children to her heart, and taking
with silent, humble thanlcs the
sympathy of Mme. Sausse, who
forgets the queen in her pity for the
mother, and stands over the group
weeping womanly, unavailing tears.
Tears even of " warlike men " can-
not help now, for the soldiers have
fraternized with the mob, as their
wont is in France ; and even if
Louis could be electrified by the
shock of despair to arise and assert
himself, remembering that he is a
king, it is too late.

386

Reminiscences of a Tile-FieUL

The journey so wisely planned,
so deeply thought over, dreaded,
and at last attempted, had come to
an end, and stopped at the first
stage along the road whose goal
was the scaffold. The return to
Paris resembled the capture of a
runaway malefactor. Every species
of insult was poured out on the un-
happy victims of the popular fury.
The brave men who stood by them
in their hour of humiliation, MM.
de Choiseul, de Damas, and de Go-
guelat, were disarmed and sent to
prison ; the three gardes-du-corps^
who faithfully but clumsily played
their part as servants to the last,
were bound with ropes on the front
seat of the berlin, and hooted at in
their glaring yellow liveries by the
mob ; the National Guard of Va-
rennes claimed the glory of escort-
ing the fugitives back to the capi-
tal, and the National Guard of all
the towns the berlin had passed
through on its ill-starred journey
fell in with the coriSge one after
another, swelling it to ten thousand
strong as it advanced. As these
men were on foot, the journey
homewards lasted four days. When
the king arrived at Sainte-M^n^-
hould, M. de Dampierre came out
to salute him, and paid for the loyal
act by being massacred on the spot.
A little further on the prisoners
were met by Bamave, Petion, and
Latour-Maubourg, members of the
Assembly sent by Lafayette to con-
duct them back .to Paris. Bar-
nave and Petion entered the berlin,
Mme. de Tourzel leaving to make
room for them, and following in
another carriage. From this strange
meeting grew the quasi-friendship
of Barnave and the queen, which
led to his honorable though futile ef-
forts to save her and all of them. At
iirst the proud Austrian lady sat in
sullen silence, turned to stone, deaf

to Petion 's coarse sneers, as be sal
opposite in ill-suppressed joculari^
of triumph ; but Barnave's interfep-"
ence to save a priest from b^|g
butchered, like loyal Dampiert^ftl
saluting the king, tnoved her la
speech, and soon to confidence i|
the young representative of the Riq
tion. Barnave was surprised bC;
yond measure to discover in Mad
Antoinette's conversation sucbdoi
and strong intelligence, and so tilt
rough a comprehension of theeX&l
ing state of things. He was ca^
vated by her grace, as wellasf f»
pressed by the serenity and eOttP
age that stamped her whole 4b<
meanor throughout that terrMi
journey ; while his prejudices m
ceived nearly an equal blow intk^
person of the king. There wasofl
approaching Louis XVI. witboil
being convinced of his single-mis(
ed honesty and good sense.

In this sorry guise did the Q
berlin re-enter Paris. It had die-
parted on Monday night, and bebotf
it returning on Saturday towardi
sundown, a huge, jolting, capture!
whale whom no miracle will compel
to disgorge its prey. In order n
prolong the people's jubilee and dw
king's shame, it was brought
league out of its direct way, so as to
make an entry down the Clump*
Elys^es, and bear its occupants back
to their gilded prison with due porap
and emphasis by the front gate of
the Tuileries gardens. So with ser-
ried ranks of bayonets pointed at it
on every side, it reappears in Paris,
and jogs on to deposit its Durden
on the old M^dicean tile-field, aa
ignominious procession, royalty de-
graded and fettered, a spectacle of
joy to the king-hating citizens.
The royal family enter the Tuileries.
now a prison in the most cruel and
literal sense. The queen and Mme.
Elizabeth are henceforth watched.

The Ingenious Device.

387

eren in their chambers — so watched
iiut, as it is recorded, the queen
, being one night unable to sleep, the
iHational Guard on duty at her open
I door offered to come in and con-
I verse with he^ majesty awhile, con-
versation being sometimes condu-
dve to sleep.

Even at this distance, when we
Had the history of the flight to
Tuennes, it has the exciting effect
flfa fresh tale. We hold our breath,
and fancy that still at the last some
ie&rerer will arrive just as all is
bit; ^ome accident will prevent
Drouet from reaching the scene in
time; the fugitives will clear the
ikridge, and the mob be prevented
by the soldiers from pursuing them.
jKever, even in the history of those
|B>ost unfortunate of princes, the
I Stuarts, was there a series of mis-
I btps, blunders, and accidents such
as make up the chapter of the

to Varennes. It is idle to
conjecture what would have hap-
pened if it had ended differently.
I( when the berlin was first sur-

rounded and the travellers ordered
to alight, Louis had proudly defied
the insolent command, and bade
the soldiers fire, how quickly the
" pale paralysis " of baffled rage
would have seized Drouet and his
eight patriots of good-will ; how the
froth of rufl&anism they had evoked
would have melted away before that
imperial word, and slunk out of
sight, while the monarch fared on
his way along the high-road, the
troops sweeping back all possible
pursuers, and landing the destinies
of France safe beyond the reach of
regicidal hands ! All this was so
much more likely to be than that
which was ! The reason why it
was not is so mysterious ! Enough
that it was not ; that the bloody
deed of January the 2Gth was to
tK)nsummate the outrages and suf-
ferings of the Night of Spurs ; and
that the fate of France wa> not
shaped to a different issue, as we,
in our short-sighted philosophy,
fancy might so easily have been
done.

THE INGENIOUS DEVICE.

*^ Doth no man condemn thee ? And she answered, No man, Lord.*'

" Woman ! thou'rt over-confident and sure
To answer thus the Infinitely Pure !
How knowest thou that He does not condemn.
And will not cast at thee th* avenging stone ? "
" The pure are merciful. His stratagem
Has left me to be judged by such alone."

388

The Rigi.

THE RIGI.

The Golden Lion of Weggis can
scarcely be said to resemble its now
tamed namesake of Granp^re. It
shows neither coach-house, stable,
farmyard, nor bustling village life
around it, and yet there is the one
point of a certain homeliness in
common which suggests that it too
may have seen many a simple ro-
mance acted out beneath its roof,
and have had its share in many a
life's hearc-story. It is difficult to
imagine sentiment of any kind in
connection with the monster hotels,
or rather caravansaries, of modem
Switzerland. But this is a true inn,
in the olden acceptation of the
word ; modest and sedate enough
to feel elated at the arrival of new
guests, who are welcomed by the
landlord himself, and instinctively
made to understand that he will
personally see to their comfort and
proper attendance. At first sight
it appears to be overshadowed by a
new and larger neighbor ; but the
Golden Lion does not care, for he
enjoys the advantage of mature age
and well-established fame, and just-
ly prides himself, on his old custo-
mers, whose constancy is a good
tribute to his honesty and civility.
Some who knew him in the quieter
times of Rigi history still come and
spend two or three days here when
going to, or returning from, the
mountain, and it was one of these
faithful friends who had recom-
mended us to choose it in prefer-
ence to the larger establishment of
more modern date. Truly, no spot
seems more suitable for a romance.
Situated on the lake, surrounded

by the most lovely views of laod
and water, removed from the raA
and bustle which somewhat jar m i
the sentimental traveller at Vitj*
nau, and even at Gersau, still wWi
the pleasant splash of the stearam i
as they halt alongside the shadf
pier, only making just sufficietf
noise to remind him that, thouj^
not of the world, he can still be » '
it whenever, or fly whithersoevtt,
his fancy may impel him. Yc»;
every steamer, backwards and ^
wards, stops at Weggis, though gar
erally merely to crop a stray trav-
eller — a man with alpenstock airf
knapsack, or two ladies with thdr
waterproofs neatly strapped across
their shoulders, thereby betraying
their recent arrival from " father-
land beyond the Rhine." Aad
every one walks leisurely and witi
consequent dignity on shore, a*
though life and plenty of time to
enjoy it in were still at their com-
mand. No feverish train is in the
background ; indeed, it cannot be
even seen on the mountain sky-line
from Weggis, so that strangers may
pause and dine at ease up-stairs in
the clean, airy table-iThdie room of
the Golden Lion, sip their coffee
on its wide balcony facing the
Uri-Rothstock and Rigi-Nasen, or
lunch i la carte in the leafy arbor
of the garden, which is more trim
and inviting than its counterpart at
Granpere.

It was overpoweringly hot when
wc landed from the Helvetia^ the
sun bearing down with that full
force which so often follows a
heavy shower ; and the leafy arb<>r

The Rigi.

385

in question irresistibly attracted us
by Its deep shade and cool, refresh-
ing shelter. Here we resolved to
dine, in order to strengthen the
"inner being " and let the noonday
hours of heat glide by before at-
tempting the ascent to Kaltbad,

j which promised to be a matter of
l»o and a half hours at the least.

I The landlord was loud in praise of
lis horses and men — " well known
before that Vitznau railway ex-
fated, " he said in a tone rather
contemptuous of such an up-
Mrt ** The price of each only six
ftttcs to Kaltbad, fixed according
Ift the tariff." And here an ejacu-
htion in praise of this tariff system,
penetrating even to the heart of
Ae mountain, may perhaps be al-
faired to us. None but those who
Jbw benefited by it can under-

I stftod the advantage of being able
Ihcts to calculate beforehand the
expense of every excursion, nor the
mmpeakable comfort it brings when,
011 reaching the hotel at night,
tiffed and sleepy, you know that the

\ gnde cannot cheat you, and he
fcels you cannot cheat him. No
one thing contributes more to en-
iurc peace or conduces to happy
wsnderings. Nor does any man
wore surely ** deserve well of his
country ** than that Swiss, whoever
be may have been, who first pro-
posed this arrangement; and after
him we must be grateful to those
tnthorities who have so well car-
ried it out. The dinner was the
next matter for consultation be-
tween Mr. C and mine host,

which ultimately ended in the lat-
ter promising to do his best, and to
hairc it ready in three-quarters of
an hour or thereabouts.

Besides the arbor, the Golden
Lion boasts of a tea-house and a
swimming or bath house projecting
into the lake, and also many a

well-placed seat inviting to a most
enjoyable dolce far niente close by
the pellucid waters, without sound
to disturb poetic musings; bright
coloring and full foliage forming a
framework to the exquisite land-
scape which extends beyond. No-
thing could be more romantic, rural,
or tranquillizing to soul and body;
but before long, prompted by my
" natural female curiosity," as Mr.
C ungallantly styled it, I pro-
posed a saunter through the vil-
lage. " There is nothing whatever
to see," he retorted. Still, with
much good-nature, he immediately
offered to accompany his wife and
me in our rambles. It certainly
was true in the ordinary sense of
the term. There was nothing very-
remarkable to behold; still, the
Swiss villages are always pleasant
to look at, especially in these forest
cantons, and of this class Weggis is
an excellent specimen. It has
probably seen its palmiest days,
and is at present thrust asidr by
the hitherto despised sister, Vitz-
nau, now in the spring-tide of her
charms, who seems to toss her head
at her elderly zn^passee rival with
the conceit of young life and energy.
Yet there no signs of decay. Far
from it. It has a steady, old- fash-
ioned commune life of its own, quite
independent of the tourist element,
which only comes in — very oppor-
tunely, no doubt — to help it on its
way. As at Gersau and many of
these places, the population is
much smaller than appearances
warrant, owing chiefly to the sub-
stantial size of the houses and the
straggling, independent manner in
which they are placed. Sometimes
a dwelling stands endwise or side-
wise to the road, just as the whim
of the ancestral great- great-grand-
father who built it centuries ago
dictated. The walls are now man-

390

The Rigi.

tied with vines, bright blue eyes
peep through casements embosom-
ed in leaves, gardens of glowing
sun-flowers and fig-trees laden with
fruit surround the cottages, while
here and there a noble Spanish
chestnut throws its deep shade on
all around. The street-road was
almost deserted as We passed along,
on account of the strong sun ; but
many buxom, pleasant-faced ma-
trons sat working at their doors,
while chubby children played be-
neath the trees hard by. Though
innocent of manufactories, and far
more rural in its general aspect
and atmosphere than Gersau, the
whole place breathes of prosperity
and comfort. It gives the impres-
sion, too, of greater space ; for it is
not shut in on all sides, and the
open slopes extend much further
back before they reach the precipi-
tous motintain-side.

And in accordance with this cha-
racter is the church, which stands
on a slight eminence at the end of
the village. The cemetery too,
though large and thoroughly well
cared for, is more simple, and has
none of those pretty monuments
that lend such poetry and beauty
to the Camenzind-Ktittel resting-
place. But, if not, it possesses a
very handsome stone crucifix in
one angle — evidently a recent erec-
tion, and of which Weggis may
well be proud — with the following
inscriptions on the base : " Praise
be to Jesus Christ in all eternity";
on the front facing the entrance :
" See, is there any sorrow like unto
my sorrow ?" and " In the cross is
salvation and benediction" on ei-
ther side ; whilst on the back, close
to the Mortuary Chapel, the words
run thus: "Gentle Jesus, grant
eternal rest to all departed souls."
The children's quarter, too, was re-
markable for its fresh flowers and

superabundance of white ribbon;
but not until quite near did we
notice a poor disconsolate mother
decorating the grave of her child—
her little engd^ or angel, as they are
so often styled on the tiny head-
stones or crosses. 'She did im*
mind the sun, nor our presence
either, but went on with her woil;
while large tears rolled unchecked'
down her cheeks. And this partv*
in a striking spot, right under tbe
northern angle of the Rigi, file
straight rocks of which rise perpen-
dicularly from a green slope of pas-
ture-land behind the village chaick»
covered with large boulders and
debris that seem to corroborated
the stories of land-slips and stone*
rolling so common in this region.
Standing here, it was easy tonn*
derstand the most noted of these
events — the mud -slide of 1795.
which threatened Weggis with de»
struction. Thirty-one houses and
eighty acres of land were buried
beneath the creeping mass. It oc-
curred, like the fall of the Ross-
berg, after a peculiarly rainy sea*
son. Though the story says that
the slide was preceded by ominous
symptoms, the earth so much re-
sembles rich garden-mould, and
looks so loose and friable, that, re-
collecting yesterday's rain, it made
me quite nervous to look at it.
Had I stayed gazing upwards much
longer, I felt that I would certainly
have fancied it was beginning to
move downwards. " What an idea !"

exclaimed Mr. C , laughing—

" the effect of nerves and sun combin-
ed ! The church-door is open, and
the sanctuary lamp burning; so it
would be much wiser and better
for you to enter in !" Saying which,
he preceded me into the sacred
building.

Large, clean, and simple, as a
rural church should be, it had three

The Rigi.

39f

distinguishing points : first, an altar

' ro S, Justus, ODu of tlie

iron saint§ of Weggis, who was

are h bishop of Lyons in the first

iiiries of its Chrisli unity, tluis

irding, as. id the crtsc of S. Leo-

_nr, atiaUiCT proof of the early

i^tical connection between

...rtAnd and the Frank Enijnre,

\%x a targ<^ processional banner

i» rrj near I he altar, and comi>os-

' J •jtiqily of the national standard

■ iL" I^Liuitful white cross on the

. i^sdiisiLl— whose position m thisi

it it pu2z.led us to explain,

f^ the model of a boat suspend-

. I I he cei ling, w i t h i wo s a i 1 o r s

. whilst a bishoi> in full can-

siood erect in the steriii

ict of giving tiiem hrs bene-

: I TK It 1 oo k td 1 i k e a n ex- r v?A;,

I our commtinicative landlord

' T informed us that il was the

rbkm of the Guild of S- Nicholas,

pition of all who navigate upon

tlic lake/' Every Weggis man

who haf anything to do u ith the

•rater belongs to the confraternity.

B<lori; steamers existed they nuin-

•red many hundreds, and, though

Uie the Village occupations liave

loen turned into other channel";,

^he numbers are still ninueruus

^ougb ; for boats and smaller

-'.dl arc even now much used on

Ihc lake. The confraternity is

^l full of life and vigor. The

^GOk of S. Nicholas is relii^iously

icfH in the village- The memliers

of llic Cfuild often assemble, but on

tliit day they go in a body to

cluirtlif accompanied by their wive.^

md families, to offer thanks fur the

fast and implore [vrotection fur

U»« coming year.

Who ^kall describe our charminj^
liUk dinner in the deep-sliadi^d
afbor, with the glowing stm-colur
U|bUng up the nioii mains, seen
t^tOTigh its kaf- framed openin^t^ ?

Such a clean Kellnerinn waited up-
on us, and the Gastherr himself
all smiles and conversation ! Tlie
beautiful trout too, "fresh from
the Muotta-Thal, just brought by
the steamer from Brunnen." The
Muotta valley !

" But what's in a name ?** said
Mrs. C .

" A great deal more than we ac-
knowledge," I answered.

This one struck again the chord
of Schwytz and the ** Urschweiz " in
our minds, but perhaps much more
that of Soovorof and the hard fight-
ing on the surrounding crags of the
Muotta between his Russians and

the French. Mr. C knew the

locality, and waxed eloquent on the
subject, until interrupted by an army
of-^wasps! attracted by some de-
licious cream with which our land-
lord wound up the dinner. It be-
came a regular battle, and a doubt-
ful one at first, waged in self-defence.
" Never had there been such a year
for wasps," said our host, slaying a
couple so dexterously with his nap-
kin that it betrayed considerable
practice in the art. " But it had alto-
gether been a prosperous season '* —
two more knocked down by Mrs.

C . "So no one had a right to

complain" — three or four more tim-
idly but effectually killed by Mrs.

C and myself. " The villagers

had made a great deal of money by
their fruit and flowers carried up the
mountain by their children," he con-
tinued; until at last, counting our
victims by tens and twenties during
this running dialogue, we Were left
in peaceful possession of the scene,
and ready to hear wonderful re-
ports of Weggis prosperity. The
Golden Lion evidently would have
been pleased to keep us longer,
but the horses were waiting and
the afternoon advancing; so, de-
spite the attractions — minus the

392

The Rigi.

wasps — we were obliged to de-
part.

Our path led at first up behind
the hotel, through lanes, and mea-
dows enamelled with wild flowers^
and dotted here and there with pic-
turesque cottages under magnificent
chestnuts and walnut-trees. The
whole of this portion is on the site
of the former land-slip, now the rich-
est and most highly-cultivated dis-
trict of the mountain. On every
side the views were enchanting;
Mount Pilatus standing forth in all
his grandeur just opposite, display-
ing folds and tracts of pasture-
ground we had not attributed to
his rugged form. Lost in admira-
tion, we rode on in comparative
silence, until we halted, to refresh
the men and horses, at a cafS^ind^x
a splendid tree, and soon after
reached a chapel sheltered by a
rock, called in our hand-book the
Heiligenkreuz, or Church of the
Holy Cross. " The beginning of
the Stations to Kaltbad," said my
guide, a dark-eyed, refined-looking
man, who had spoken but little
hitherto. "Stations to the Wall-
fa/irtoriy or place of pilgrimage at
Kaltbad," he repeated, noticing
my perplexed countenance. " Kalt-
bad is a Gnadenorty or * place of
grace,* to us, madam," he con-
tinued, " although you perhaps only
know it as a Curort.'' And such was
the sober truth. I had never heard
it spoken of as anything but a huge
hotel with salubrious air. So now
I entered into conversation with my
guide, and found that he constantly
made the Stations, in common with
all the Wcggis population, up this
rugged ascent, until they reach the
church at Kaltbad. " Would I not
go to see the church V* he asked.
** It was indeed a Gnadenori. But
the feast of the year I could not see,
for it takes place in the middle of

May, just before the flocks are ledt
up to the summer pastures. Thet
there is a procession up the mo«B-
tain, with the banner we had notkei
in the parish church — the while
cross on the red ground."

So here was the eiLplanatJoa of
its place of honor inside the saafr
tuary — one more reason why dit
Weggis folks should hold it dor
and we strangers regard it will
reverence. Nay more : should «e
not love and cherish a flag whidi
not only symbolizes, but is practi-
cally used by, a modem free peofilc
in connection with their higbal
and noblest feelings ? " In this pw»-
cession, headed by the priest," wf
informant continued, ** we, thepeo»
pie, make the Stations with hyui
and prayers as we go up, and. aftcf
first visiting the Kaltbad chuidw
all ends by the priest blessing tin
pastures on all sides before thecals
tie are permitted to be brought 19
to them for the summer seasofl."
The higher we ascended, the steeper
became the road under a strai^
face of rock, and we could readily
fancy how picturesque, even from
an artist's point of view, such a
procession must be, headed by the
red flag, winding its way up this
rugged mountain-road; but, com-
bined with the spirit and faith which
animate it, it is impossible to cca-
ceive anything more beautiful.

This peasant was a native of
Weggis, and soon grew communica-
tive. " Oh ! yes, he had often
been to Einsiedeln ; every one in
that country had many, many tiroes
made the pilgrimage there." And in
fervent language he described tht
place to me. He had also been 10
Tell's Chapel often, but not yet to
Teirs Platform. That was the
great object of his ambition, what
he most wished to accomplish, with
a visit to Sachslen to see " Brudei

The Rigi.

393

KitQS," as so many of his neighbors
kid done ; but another year should
not pass without his carrying out
Us intentions. Amidst conversa-
tioA of this kind we climbed up
tbc straight wall of rock, which
iRned to have no issue, until sud-
denly we reached a curious group
ftded the Felsenthor, composed of
tege fragments fallen from above
anctly in the semblance of a
*l0eky gate/' as the name implies,
kid whence the view is magnificent.
I The afternoon was lovely. At
^Kh turn one snowy peak after
MdKr had been coming into view.
IHhs air, though warm, was fresher
md brisker than at Weggis, while
tkeTegetation had sensibly changed
Imi the luxuriant chestnuts to the
ffatot and fir-trees of the Alpine
Wgbts. Nothing could be more
poetk and tranquil than our half-
!hOHr*s repose at this beautiful point,
Mking the approach of sunset-
^Ason the mountain-wall just op-
posite which overhangs Vitznau;
Itttching the pretty steamers look-
■gtike dragon-flies hovering over
the lake two thousand feet below;
ad then rejecting on the faith and
piety of our humble attendants,
•Wch shed a vivifying atmosphere
iwtr the whole scene. Our minds
were still full of these thoughts as
we set forth again for our last as-
cent to Kaltbad, about three-quar-
ters of an hour distant, through a
pwtty dell of fallen rocks and fresh
wrdare. We had quite forgotten
the existence of the railway or its
feverish life, when all at once a
fwn in the road gave a rude shock
toour peaceful meditations. There
were the trains laboring up a barren,
«ep hill beside us — one that would
I* loo steep for any horse without
tHree or four zigzag turns and wind-
»|s. Three separate trains were
coming up at certain distances in

succession, the engines puffing and
snorting, panting and laboring, in
the effort to push the one carriage
before each, as though the struggle
were too much for their fast- failing
strength. It made one tremble to
watch thefli, and it seemed impossi-
ble to comprehend how the passen-
gers looked so quiet and uncon-
cerned. How Mrs. C and I

congratulated ourselves on having
kept old-fashioned ways and de-
spised " progress," at least for once
in our travels ! And when I also
thought of the varied charms of
our ride, and all that I had seen of
the population and their ways, I
felt that no one who rushes through
a country at high-pressure railway
speed can ever hope to understand
its people half as well as those who
come into closer contact with them.

Before we had time to recover
from the impressions of the rail-
way, Kaltbad itself appeared in
sight, high above our heads, like a
green-jalousied monster of some
German watering-place lifted bo-
dily up from the depths below.
Anything more unpoetic than its
first view is not to be found ; though
it must at once be admitted that
first impressions are not to be trust-
ed in this particular case. It was
a cruel shock, however, to our vi-
sions of pious pilgrimages and pro-
cessions ; a return to the prose of
life we had never contemplated at
four thousand four hundred and
thirty-nine feet above the level of
the sea.

Our young friendi were anxious-
ly awaiting us on the long terrace
in front of the hotel with such sen-
sational accounts of their railway
journey as might well have oblite-
rated all remembrance of the Wall-
fahriori^ or " place of piljjrimage,**
but for the parting reminder of my
guide, that ^^ the church was behind

39+

The Rigi.

the house, and he hoped I would be

sure to see it." But the C s' only

thought now was of the sunset about
to take place, and they hurried us
off, without a moment's delay, to a
beautiful spot, called the Kauzli,
ten minutes' distance from the hotel.
Certainly no view could be more
glorious ! Before us spread half
the northern portion of Switzerland
— Mount Pilatus right opposite, Lu-
cerne at our feet, Sempach, the
great lake, just beyond, bathed in a
flood of crimson, as though in har-
mony with its memories, and bring-
ing back to our minds at one glance
Arnold von Winkelried and all the
grand history related to us so re-
cently by Herr H . The seven

great peaks of the Oberland, includ-
ing the Wetterhorn, Monk, and Ei-
ger, towered above the clouds to
our right, while the summits on the
south, half facing the sunset, were
lit up by the same kaleidoscopic
coloring that we had witnessed on
the first evening of our arrival at
Lucerne. Spell-bound by this fairy-
like scene, we lingered here till
nearly dark, and it seemingly be-
came too late to seek out the little
church. But young C had dis-
covered it that afternoon, and led
me by an intricate back pathway to
its very door. Even at that late
hour it was open, the lamp burning
before the altar, and many figures
could be distinguished devoutly
praying in the twilight. These, as
I afterwards learned, were servants
of the hotel — the laundresses, bath-
women, and porters, who came to pay
their visit to the Blessed Sacra-
ment before retiring to rest after
their busy day's work. Mass was
celebrated every morning at half-
past seven o'clock, they said. My
own devotions over, I was again
led back to the hotel, where the
brilliantly-lighted rooms and crowd

of fashionably-dressed ladies— al-
though the material comforts are bj
no means to be despised — were still
in harsh discord with our ideas o(
mountain life.

Next morning, as if we had bwa
in the plain, the chucch-bell toUfli
at the stated hour, and found m
ready to sally forth in answer ti;
its call. In the hotel all was \mif\
tie and clatter; but what wonder? i
Three hundred guests and ojr*
wards have, on an average, to Iiei
provided for daily during the sci*-
son. In the middle ot July four
hundred and twenty were at oat
time under this roof, but, hap{)pf
for us, the numbers had now sensif'
bly decreased. No church, how-
ever, was visible, and it was oit^
on inquiry that I found a pathwfl
in the rear of the house leading 1* ;
hind two rocks — a true Fehcnths^^
or " rocky gate," they made — hidiimi
away their little treasure. Once
past them, there stood the chuici,
with the sun shining on its root
small and simple, but perfect ift
all its proportions, nestling amongst
the encircling crags and overhang-
ing trees, from amidst which, op-
posite the door, trickled a stream
of the clearest water. Ma»
had just commenced at the centre
altar, over which stood a statae
of the Blessed Virgin and Chili
surrounded by a garland of flowers,
and two bouquets were laid, evi-
dently as a pious offering, on the
two side altars, which were also
adorned by excellent paintings. A
handsome silver lamp hung in tbe
sanctuary, and there was a confes-
sional, besides benches cai>able of
accommodating a couple of hun-
dred people, all neatly painted and
very clean. To-day the congrega-
tion was small, for the senants
could not be spared, we were loI«i.
at that hour from their work, and

ThiRigu

395

there were few Catholic yisitors in
the house ; but we noticed that the
derk rang the church-bell at the
Gospel and the Elevation, so that
the shepherds and others scattered
ibout on the mountain might join
icir intentidn with the priest at
liie altar. Nothing could exceed
ihe quiet of the spot. It might
^art been miles away from the
Boisy world hard by, no sound au-
fibte but the trickling of the
ttitam outside, heard through the
open door, and enhancing the deep
kRmquillity of the scene. A most
perfect haven of rest it made for
MS17 souls or pious pilgrims, and
I worthy aim, with the constant
piresence of the Blessed Sacrament,
far any procession toiling up the
ptedpitous mountain-side. When
Mass was over, we lingered awhile,
ind, looking round, a large, illumi-
vated tablet caught our attention.
IHuit was our delight to find it

Sve the whole history of the place
the following words :

" Kaltbad on the Rigi.

•Amongst the venerated spots which
At goodness of God seems to have espe-
ctalfy chosen for the distribution of rich
•pMitnal and temporal gifts, Kaltbad on
Ae Rigi has for centuries enjoyed a well-
foonded repuution. The natural opera-
tWk of the remarkably cold water has in
ftfdf given life and health to thousands.
Bat iar more effect has been produced by
tnwful prayers, joined with the contrite
»d devout reception of the holy sacra-
aents, and aided by the powerful inter-
oetsioa of the pure Virgin-Mother of
God and of other saints. Remarkable and
often perfectly miraculous cures of count-
leM Christian's, in the most different cir-
comstances of body and soul, have here
taken place, which have partly been re-
conicd in writing, and partly live on in
gnteftil remembrance.

** In former times this place was called
Ike * Schwesterborn/ or * Spring of the
Siiters*; for the legend relates that in
tbe reign of the Emperor Albert of Aus-

iria— in the beginning cf the XlVih cen-

Xxxxy — three pious sisters retired to this
wilderness in order to escape from pow-
erful governors, or Vogts, and here led
holy and saintly lives. The first miracu-
lous cure on record is that of a devout
Landsassen of Weggis, named Bahhasnr
Tolen, in the year 1540. From year to
year the reputation of this spring in-
creased. In the year 1585, on the 20th of
May, the first small chapel was consecrat-
ed in honor of God, of the holy Archan-
gel Michael and the other angels, and ok
the holy shepherd Wendelin,by Balthasar,
Bishop of Ascalon. It proved, however,
insufficient for the number of Alpine in-
habitants and pilgrims. Even after those
belonging to the canton Schw}*tz built
themselves a chapel, a hundred years
later, at Mary in the Snow, or * Maria
zum Schnee,* the want of a larger church
was still felt. The present one, with
three altars, the middle one of which
possesses the image of the ever Blessed
Mother of God, and the two side ones the
pictures of the holy martyr S. Lawrence
and the father of the church, S. Jerome,
was built in the year 1779, ^'^^ consider-
ably renovated in the year 1861, when
the two new side altars and their paint-
ings by Theodore von Deschwanden
were added.

" On the 20th of July, 1782, His Holi-
ness Pius VI. granted a plenary indul-
gence to all the faithful, on any day what-
soever, on the condition that after ap-
proaching the holy sacraments of Con-
fession and Communion, with contrite
and worthy dispositions, they here de-
voutly pray for the union of all Christian
princes, the extirpation of heresy, and
the increase of the Holy Catholic Church
— an indulgence which can be applied to
the souls in purgatory.

** In order to afford the opportunity of
assisting at divine service on Sundays
and holidays to the shepherds as well as
to the pilgrims, and also of approaching
the holy sacraments, a special priest is
here appointed during the whole summer
season."

So here again, even here, the
Austrians and imperial Vogts were
at the root of all things — in this
instance, however, and unconscious-
ly, the source of good to many poor
sufferers; for numberless ex-votos
filling the end of the little church
eloquently told that it had proved

396

The Rigi.

to them a true " place of grace/* as
my guide of yesterday had so
beautifully called it. And the little
stream outside was the real " Kalt-
bad,'* whose wonder-working effects
had first given the place its name.
Quaint and rude were all the paint-
ings, but full of life and feeling,
mostly from the neighborhood —
from Weggis, Vitznau, and Gersau.
Yes, there was a man in a boat in
danger on the lake, just as we had
seen from the Gersau hotel two
evenings ago ; but this one is pray-
ing fervently with clasped hands,
and we longed to know if those
who were saved the other day had
done likewise.

Then here is a family of boys and
girls kneeling in rows, the father
and mother behind, all with their
pink, and blue, artd green rosaries
twined round their hands, in the
selfsame manner that the Gersau
children had theirs during Mass !
Above, a child of two years old,
kneeling beside its mother, has a
rosary hanging on its arm ; quaint
little things in caps like those of
their elders, or infants tied on
pillows with quantities of red bows.
Red was so much the prevailing
color that it seemed as if it must
have some reference to their belov-
ed national flag. And then there
were small waxen hearts, and ears,
and a wooden hand with a fearful
gash, the offering, no doubt, of a
grateful wood-cutter. Some of
these are upwards of a. hundred or
a hundred and fifty years old, with
inscriptions in the native dialect,
full of pathos and local color.
But most striking of all is a large
painting of the very wall of rock up
which we had climbed from Weggis
yesterday, bearing the following
simple-worded inscription :

" Be it known to all, that by the
breaking up of the dangerous Rigi-

rocks on the Wegg
some of the inhabitant!
ened with the complet
of all their possessio
extremity and distress
to heaven, and, with fin
in the gracious Moth<
angels, they here sougl
help; for instantly tl
of the rocks ceased, an
quiet again. Therefo
petual memorial of
thanksgiving to God ai
er of Mercy, they have
and hung up this tablel
This was clearly fo
before the fatal mud
destroyed so much, s
be most interesting to 1
the later victims tume
for succor ; but of this
ists in the church. I
painting the Blessed I
mg the divine Infant
is represented stanc
centre of the rock-v
Michael on one side
rence on the other, ji
had been visible. K
beheld this tablet befo
different eyes should v
ed at this face of ro
from the cemetery b
during our ascent!
proof such a picture
tion give of the strong
Weggis population in
world under whose bh
tion they live in peac
dence ! Whilst we tai
after peasant came ir
old woman, took out
and told her beads k
other, younger and bus
her basket, prayed for 5
with recollection, anc
on to her work ; but
struck us was a little \
twelve, who also had
full of fruit and flow

The Rigi.

397

been there before we arrived for
Hiss. She waited until we left,
aid then evidently thought that we
kd finally departed. Unexpect>
tffly, however, I returned to look
It the tablet, /again, and I beheld
pit little maiden in the act of drop-

Ksome money into the poor
blushing modestly when her
Iqrcs caught mine. I asked, and
^bmid that she was a Weggis child —
ICM of the number that climb the
bKMBtain like antelopes up to this
potd daily to sell their " fresh figs,"
Impeaches," and " flowers " — for they
jfliri them in good English — the
|Bt|ority of whom first pay their
Itilit to the Blessed Sacrament in
Iftii church, and leave some little
fiiamg for themselves or their
ilOfmts, She was a blue-eyed,
iMdIigent girl — one who had made
kcr first communion two years
pwtiously, and approached the
Holy Sac ramen t manchmal — many
time^ she said, during the course
rftbe year.

As time went on, experience
taught us that the children of the
Ugi are one of its most distinctive
tbaracteristics. Intelligent, bright-
conmenanced, and yet modest, they
«« the most attractive race of juve-
niles to be met with in Switzerland,
and, as yet, are unspoiled by con-
tact with the stranger crowd. They
form the most remarkable con*
irast to those of the Bernese Ober-
land, where the grandeur of Grin-
delwald and other spots is so much
ttuncd by the swarms of sickly
*»€ggar.children that there flock
rottnd one from all quarters. Here,
on the contrary, they are brimful
of health and intelligence, and never
once during all our wanderings in
tbe forest cantons did a beggar,
old or young, ever cross our path.
So much for the popular fallacy, or
uthcr calumny, which says that

prosperity, comfort, and thrift are
alone to be found in the Protestant
cantons, and that beggary, want,
and uncleanliness mark the entrance
into the Catholic districts. Like
many such sayings, it does not bear
investigation ; but when even the
most just-minded start on. their
travels with prejudiced minds, it is
astonishing how readily they accept
the opinions of men whose want of
observation they despise at home.
Above all, should the question be
anything concerning Catholicity,
their wilfbl blindness surpasses all
belief. Some * exceptions to this
rule there certainly are, increasing,
too, each year, like the celebrated
Dr. Arnold, for instance, who frank-
ly admitted that he had found no-
thing in Switzerland to justify such a
verdict being passed on its Catho-
lic population, and was generous
enough to acknowledge this.

Nor are the children who cover
the Rigi, selling fruit and flowers,
idlers in any way. The law re-
quires their attendance at school
up to the age of eight all the year
round, but from eight to twelve
only during the winter months.
This arrangement has been made
in order that they may accompany
their parents to the upland chdleiSy
or, as often happens, mind the cat-
tle alone on the higher pastures. A
most interesting class they are, and
one must ardently pray that no-
thing may ever change or modernize
them, according to the present ideas
of so-called " civilization " !

For several days we took up our
abode at Kaltbad, and never had
cause for one moment's regret.
The hotel is in itself a marvel of
material comfort and luxury at such
an altitude ; the air brisk, invigorat-
ing, and yet balmy, and the views
simply lovely. Who can forget the
terrace facing the Uri-Rothstock,

398

The Rigu

Tittlis, and many another peak and
pass, and overhanging Vitznau,
whence we could even distinguish
my favorite red standard floating
over its hotel, as the steamers came
and went to Lucerne or Fluelen, and
the light smoke of the engines told
that the trains were creeping up to-
wards us ? Sometimes, it is true, the
lake and all below were hidden by the
clouds that settled in thick masses
over the water or floated beneath us
in light, vapory forms, while the
heights and summits opposite shone,
like Kaltbad, in brilliant sunlight;
making us more f^Uy realize the
great elevation we were inhabiting
in such tranquillity.

Then, the mornings spent in the
" Wilderness,*' which is represented
nowadays by fir-trees, descendants
of those the three sisters knew,
but at present embedded in vel-
vety turf on the hillside, with seats
and tables carefully placed at the
best points of view ! And the dear
little church to turn into at all
times and hours, with the lamp ever
burning, and never quite empty !
The afternoons we devoted to lon-
ger excursions, ascents and de-
scents in all directions. That to the
Kulniy or Summit, was made by rail,
despite its terrors and perils. The
young people insisted on our mak-
ing the experiment, but they could
not succeed in persuading us ciders
to return, except on foot ! The
Kaltbad world seems to go through
the ordeal unconcernedly; but ner-
vous and uncomfortable work it
must always be, no matter how cus-
tom may familiarize them with it.
One spot especially is most alarm-
ing, where the precipice seems to
go straight down from the railroad
to the plain many thousand feet
below. As a matter of course, the
•VI n set at the Kulm is the great
$i*tnt on the Rigi — one, however,

which altogether depends upon the
weather. We were most fortunate
in catching a clear atmosphen^
and consequently distinct horuoOi
Then, sleeping at the large hotd it
the top, we included ^he famed sut"
rise in the same excursion. (A!^
for the pen of poet to descxw'
either of these sights pro]
They are among those grand
which nature holds so com;
ly in her own keeping that no
of commonplace humanity can
lower or vulgarize them. Croud
from all countries were present, yd
we saw nothing save the glorioai
panorama before us — the sun aofe*
ing grandly behind the Jura MoiS'
tains in the west, or riiing mj|erj
tically from behind the Sentk ill$
away in Appenzell, after having fiat!
heralded his approach by colorisf^
with the light touch of " rosy-Jhh
gered morn " the Finster-AarhdiSk
Wetterhorn, Monk, and JungfiitUik
as they stand in gradual successkn^
facing the east, in the Bernese CM>«*
land.

Here, too, were all the scenes of
that famous Swiss history wbick .
we had been studying within die '
last few days — the town of Scbwytt
in the Urschweiz, bright and cheer
ful on its fresh, green meadows;
Lomerz, where Stauff*acher cooh
menced the great revolution ; the
small lake of Egeri, the site of the
battle of Morgarten ; Kappel, oa
this side of the Zurich line of hilk
— the Albis — witli its monument to
Zwingle, who was killed here in
battle against the Schwytzers; Ko-
nigsfelden, further north, the scene
of Albrecht's murder, and, later,
the site of the sanguinary Agnes*
convent; KUssnacht at our feet,
with Teirs Chapel close by, the ob-
ject of my guide's pilgrimages, and
where the fatal arrow is said to
have entered Gessler's heart; ibc

The Rigi.

399

Lake of Sempach, and Lucerne to-
vards the northwest — every spot,
in short, hallowed by some memory
lacred to Swiss patriotism or piety.
A circumference of three hun-
ted miles i^ said to be included
in this panorama, dotted here and
Ifliere with thirteen lakes, distin-
gBishable in clear weather. But it
seeds a mountaineer's eye to detect
; this tiumber, for, though they cer-
jtainly do exist, as proved by the
jBiap^ even the youthful sight of

George C and his sister failed

to count more than eleven. The
rthcr two had " to be taken on
trmEt,'* on the word of the guides,
who declared that particular gleams
of sanlight rested on distant waters.
Bat it is not the number of lakes
or the extent of view which gives
soch renown to this favorite spot.
It tt the grand poetry of its nature,
ihc interest of its associations, and
that great, indescribable influence
whfch the poet addresses as

** Spliit of Beauty, that dost coasecratt
Ifilti thine own hoes all thou dott thine upon."

Amongst the pleasantest of many
pleasant memories, that of Sunday
It Kaltbad stands forth pre-emi-
nent. The weather was brilliant,
and high and low appeared in cor-
responding costume. It cannot be
said that in the hotel proper the
day was altogether sanctified or
ccjifying ; for, except the Catholics,
the English Protestants, and a rare
fcv others, the foreigners show lit-
tle outward sign of remembering
the day. Indeed, one lady ingenu-
ously confessed her surprise that
we should be so careful about at-
tending church, considering that
the never thought of it whilst " tak-
ingthe waters," as she liked to fancy
she was doing at Kaltbad. " Who
did ?*' she asked ; and certainly it
looked as if the majority were of
her way of thinking. Not the pea-

sants, however, arid let us hope that
their example may yet influence the
strangers. Alas ! alas ! how one
trembles, lest the reverse may be
the result of this inroad of "civiliz-
ed " multitudes to their midst ! But
so far no harm seems to have come
of the contact. As the hour for
Mass drew near, men and women
were to be seen coming from va-
rious points, and when we reached
the church it was so full that a
large overflow of the congregation
had taken up their position in the
little porch outside. It seemed as
though the history of the past cen-
tury would repeat itself over again ;
that a new church would become
necessary, and another new tablet
be put up, telling future generations
that the present one had " proved
insufficient for the number of Al-
pine inhabitants and pilgrims." No
sight could be prettier, considering
the locality, the bright sun, and all
these people in their Sunday dress.
In the latter particular, however,
one peculiarity had a singular ef-
fect, namely, that on the Rigi '* full
dress " for the men seems to consist
in the absence of their outer coats,
and the Sunday distinction is shown
only by the snow-white linen of their
shirt-sleeves and collars. All had
their alpenstocks and their prayer-
books, which they read devoutly
during the whole time. Anna and
I also remained outside, as there
was no room within ; but we heard
every word distinctly, and could
see the altar through the open door
and windows. The service began
by an oblation of the Mass and the
Acts of Faith, Hope, and Charity
in German, in the very manner and
words used in so many other coun-
tries, but notably in all the church-
es of Ireland. This was followed
by a good sermon, in which the
preacher chiefly urged the neces-

400

The RigL

sity of " keeping holy the* Sabbath
day," of living in peace and con-
cord, but likewise of holding fast to
the principles of religion, " like their
forefathers of old," of whose vir-
tues and steadfastness he spoke in
glowing language. It was the first
sermon we had had an opportunity
of listening to in these parts, and
it was very curious to hear, even in
a small out-of-the-way place of this
kind, such allusions thus brought
in as a matter of course, and so tho-
roughly in accordance with Herr
H 's predictions. At its termina-
tion we were surprised to see half a
dozen of the hotel guests rise and
leave; but these, we later learnt, were
Lutherans, who, having no chaplain
of their own, find no difficulty in
coming to the preliminary part of
the Catholic service, though they
consider it their duty to leave be-
fore Mass commences. It was a curi-
ous instance of liberalism, and of
the little essential antagonism Ger-
man Protestants entertain towards
the Catholic Church. At the end
of Mass a prayer was said in Ger-
man in honor of the Five Sacred
Wounds, joined in by all, after
which the congregation dispersed,
some to the front of the hotel, and
others in various directions. On
these days alone a few picturesque
costumes appear, but they are gen-
erally from other parts, as the
Rigi boasts of nothing special of
tdiis kind. To-day two women in
bright bodices covered by silver
buttons and crosses, and with sil-
vered head-dresses, enlivened the
group of women — relations of the
clerk coming, they said, to visit
this spot from Biirglen, a long dis-
tance on the other side oi the lake,
and beyond Sachslen, the sanctua-
ry of **Bruder Klaus."

Not wishing to disturb our An-
glican friends, who were singing

hymns and performing their i
in one of the driiwitrg-room* of
housei Anna and 1 saunr«?red
the *MVilderness/' until ire reac
the KauxU- The atmosphere
most clear, and the landscape ••
enchanting that a rest here setfuAel
a fitting and heavenly portion mI
oar morning worship. \\ T

below ; its church and ;
dren's corner, where 1 had Stood
lately gazing upwards in this direr-
tion, were at our feet, and Lycetncv
with \ts girdle of batttenient<Mf
walla at the upper end of the lako
further north, its houses and boalf
distinctly visible m the transpmfioii
atmosphere. The peasants CDttM
be seen here and there returning to
their gray-roofed ihdlctf^ but* -save
the tinkling bells of the hgUt^
limbed cattle browsing in our nciijil'
borliood, no sound broke the ^/&^
feet stillness of the scene. AH ll
once the peal of Lucerne Cathcdiil
rame booming to us acrosti tlir
waters ! It was eleven oVInck,
which in those cantons is the Angp*
lus hour, and in a moment the deep>
toned bell of Weggis sent its su
up to our very resting-place,
swiftly the echo was caught tip 1
I lie cliurches of all the numbe
|)retty villages that here covcf A
land, until the whole coiin
seemed tu sound as with bitl
]ioic. A more ihrijling instance of
faiih and i>ractice it ivere impnvkT^
lile to imagine, vind, looking tl^^*' -
at sLuh a moment at this fn
jsrosperous dish ict^ one feltasi
Lord had alrcndy heard its praVe
and in his mercy blessed it,

t III r afternoon walk was th'i? dif
direrted to the other Rigi sanct«**
arv, " Maria ix\\w Schnee," or M«T
of llio Snow, the same menlionfi
in tlie Kiillbad tal^let, and whirK
tTtim Wurdsworth's beautiful porn^
lia^ obtained a mure world -tndc

Tlie Rigi.

4DI

same than its pretty neighbor;
tbtmgh in the locality itself no dif-
iefence in celebrity is admitted be-
iwwttlhe two. The only striking
dottnction is that whilst Kaltbad
ikasbttt the one simple appellation,
|*]brj of the Snow '* rejoices in a
! Jk(/«ftme, by which it is more gen-
iWilTl known on the Rigi, where
jDarterii, or " the little convent,*' is
Ifel familiar and every-day title. It
!fe deep in a southern fold of the
Minita{n, unseen from Kaltbad,
I tat 00)7 a couple of miles distant;
i*9 that it is a favorite walk with
tboie visitors whose strength is un-
icfl^ to the longer excursions.
Wtyear the charms of the moun-
iMiMOatd have been sadly inter-
'fcttd^th by the blasting of rocks
laecoeary to the making of the rail-
ing branch to the Scheideck, and
itaotter line up from Arth to the
SidU, besides the building of an
tddfebnal hotel, all which modern
mteiial improvements make one
h©k forward with trepidation to
Actf future effect on the old in-
habitants. In a few years more
tkae heights will be one vast moun-
tWHnty — a new phase of life, which
I Blty have its own poetic side, it is
Itnie, and bring health and advan-
tage to humanity in general, but
*liich, during two or three months
of the year, so completely changes
the oM character of the beautiful
MHmntain that its friends of twenty
•nd thirty years* standing say they
caa no longer recognize its former
Wftplicity. Hence our musings
•at somewhat melancholy, as we
hindered on above the new rail-
vay^lin^ until, from a bend in the
MD, wc unexpectedly came in sight
<>f a completely new scene, the cu-
riotti Mythtn rocks rising above
Schwytz, in the distance, and Klo-
•terii itself lying peacefully below
Wi as if shcltefed from all harm in
VOL. XX. — 26

a dell beneath the Kubn! It
seemed a spot exactly made for
snow, and one could almost fancy
it buried at times under the soft
embrace of some snow-white drift.
Whether the name first came from
this circumstance of its position,
or from its connection with the
Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore
at Rome, we had no opportunity
of ascertaining; but, whatever the
cause, the name and connection
seemed most appropriate. Certain
it is that the .painting which is the
chief ornament of S. Maria zum
Schnee is a copy of the one at the
great basilica, and, moreover, that
the church at Klosterli has been, as
is fitting, affiliated to the one in
Rome. The festival is kept on
the same day, the 5th of August,
and the Rigi church was conse-
crated by a Papal Nuhcio in
1700, and endowed since then with
many privileges by Pope Clement
XII., so that the link in interest
and connection has never been

wanting. Mr. C knew all the

particulars, and as we descended
the steep pathway to Klosterli he
recalled to us the beautiful tradi-
tion about the foundation of Santa
Maria Maggiore. He reminded us
how a Roman senator and his wife
having been converted to Chris-
tianity, the latter had a dream which
made her believe they ought to
build a church in honor of the
Blessed Virgin. Her husband, how-
ever, dismissed the idea as a fancy
of her brain, until, having had the
same dream for three successive
nights, his wife on the last occasion
understood that she ought to choose
the site which should be covered
with snow on the following morning.
Her husband, still unwilling, accom-
panied her in the search, when, not
far from the house, they found the
top of the Esquiline Mount com-

402

The Rigi.

pletely covered with a fine crust of
snow ! This occurred on the 5th of
August, and, bringing conviction to
the husband's mind, lie at once con-
sented to give UD his fortune for
the purpose, and uuilt on the spot
the Basilica, which now covers the
extent of ground marked out by
the fall of snow. Another version
states that it was the result of a
vision which the pope, S. Liberius,
and John, the patrician, had on the
same night, and which was confirm-
ed the following morning, the 5th of
August, by a miraculous fall of snow,
which extended over the space the
church was to occupy. Certain it
is that the fall of snow occurred,
on this very spot too, and that the
recollection of this wonderful ori-
gin is still kept alive in Rome. On
the Feast of Santa Maria ad Nives,
on the" 5th of the hot month of
August, a shower of white leaves is
made to fall on the congregation
attending High Mass at the great
Basilica. What affiliation, therefore,
could be more fitting for a moun-
tain chapel } With renewed inte-
rest we hurried to the spot. The
village consists entirely of a few
inns, the convent — where live the
Capuchin fathers who have care
of the church — and of the church
itself, much larger than that ■ at
Kaltbad, and which forms the cen-
tre of the whole place. The old
character is maintained up to the
present time, these inns being still
most homely — very different from
the luxurious abodes elsewhere on
the mountain — and the convent in
reality an hospice for pilgrims,
wliich at once gives the impression
of a higher aim than mere pleasure-
seeking. The Capuchin fathers,
wlio glide about with serious mien
in their brown habits, add to the
solemnity, further increased by the
d*:pth of the valley " making sun-

set," as the sailors say, to the plaa
long before it happens on the sor*
rounding heights. It has nothii|
cheerful or peculiarly attractive to
the general public, so one m^
hope that it would escape the a
tagion of a worldly spirit. Tlwi
year the gloom has been added M;
by a dreadful accident connectei
with the unwelcome railway, Jti
one heard of little else on tlic spot
A young lady who was sitting wtfi
her father outside the Sonne Hotel
writing at one of the small tableSi
was suddenly struck by a large
stone, thrown by the blasting of a
rock close by, and died in less thai
half an hour. She was to baw
gone away from Klosterli on tJie
previous day with the rest of her
family, but had remained a whik
longer merely to take care of hia.
His grief, consequently, was over-
whelming. It was a melanchoif
inauguration of the " iron road/
and for the moment made a deep
impression on all concerned. But
it is much to be dreaded that it will
not be a lasting one. The father,
to whom we spoke, shook his bead
gravely, as he pointed to the rail-
way works, expressing his fears thai
from g. place of pilgrimage thci
would soon convert his dearly-loved
Klosterli into a simple Curort^ or, in
modern parlance, a Sanatorium. He
complained of its baneful influence
already ; for, though the peasants
are thoroughly good and piouss the
immense' influx of tourists give-
them little time for devotions dur-
ing the summer season, especiaih
in the month of August, when ik
church festival occurs. They, the
monks, belong to the large Capj-
chin convent at Arth, from wiiic:!
two or three have been sent here ai
the special request of the commune
ever since the foundation, to take
care of this church and attend to

The Rigi.

403

he wants of the pilgrims. But the
■Mrf)ers of the latter are diminish-
in from the above causes, and
Isapkality has this year been chiefly
iMHred on invalid priest s^ who
bir seek change of air for weeks
I « time. The procession similar
pdMft from Weggis, which used to
MM up from Arth for the 5th of
taigttSt, making the Stations on the
nqTtdki not take place this time.

trbad the people leisure, either,
tlieir old games, which followed
R church services as a matter of
lostse. Sad and melancholy, he
fearful of this inroad of ma-
and the many temptations
^vhich the poorer classes may be
iispoi^. The tranquillity of the

rwin doubtless be ruined by
fuffing engine and obtrusive
itthrtf, and we could not but re-
hk« doubly that the "haven of
int'*at Kaltbad lies safely hidden
ivaj behind its rocks out of reach

Eroch disturbance. But so many
« been the prayers answered
1 hearts cured within the last
l»o centuries by the intercession
If holy " Mary of the Snow " that
d is hard to believe so favored a
MBCtaary, though this may perhaps
kc a moment of transition, will be
Ibogether swept away or lose its
toy influence on so essentially
pints a population. The church
b crowded with cx-voios^ many of
tikcmthe same seen by Wordsworth
bi iSk), when he sang in the fol-
W»ing strain of

•Otni LADY OF THE SNOW.

**llctk Virgin Mother, oiore benign
Than fairest f tar upon the height
Of thy ovn mountain set to keep
Lone vigils thro' the hours of sleep,
What eye can look upon thy shrine
TJmroufaled at the sight ?

*Tkeae cnnrded offerings, as they hai^
la sign of misery relieved,
Ivea these, without intent of theirs,
Report of confortleta de^tairs,
Of otaay a deep and curdeas pang
Aad ooafidcnoe decttred.

" To thee, in t^s a(hial deft.
As to » common centre, tend
All snflferings that no longer rest
On mortal succor, aH dbtrest
That pine of human hope bereft.
Nor wuh for earthly friend.

** And hence, O Virgin Mother mild !
Though plenteoA flowers around thee blow
Not only from the dreary strife
Of winter, but the storms of life,
Thee have thy votaries aptly styled
Our Lady of the Snow.

*' Even for the man who stops not here.
But down the irriguous valley hies.
Thy very name, O Lady ! flings,
O'er blooming fields and gushing springs.
A holy shadow soft and dear
Of chastening sympathies !

*^ Nor falls that intermingling shade
To summer gladsomcness unkind ;
It chastens only to requite
With gleams of fresher, purer light ;
While o'er the flower-enamelled glade
More sweetly breathes the wind.

*' But on ! — a tempting downward way,
A verdant path, before us lies ;
Clear shines the glorious sun above ;
Then give free course to joy and love.
Deeming the evil <^ the day
Sufficient for the wise."

In our walk hither along the brow
of the hill we had talked to some
pretty, bright-eyed children running
about to call in their father's cattle,
asking their names and other ques-
tions; but, returning the same way,
all our thoughts and attention were
given to the distant sound of ava-
lanches, which the C s declared

came to us across the mountain-tops
from the region of the great Ober-
land range. Anything more sublime
it were difficult to conceive in the
fading light and soft hues of the sun-
set twilight. We had quite forgotten
the children, but they had been
thinking of us, and, passing on by
their chdUt^ little Aloysius (a fair-
haired boy of three years old) was
seen skipping down the green slope
with a paper in his hand. It was a
mysterious proceeding, especially
when he came and eagerly presented
it to me. But my surprise was greater
on reading it to find that it consist-
ed of prayers printed at Einsiedeln :
the first teaching how to offer up
one's intention with the Masses that

404

Church Song,

are being said all over the world ;
another to be said when present
during the offertory of the Mass;
and a third, when unable to attend
in person, for daily recital at home
in union with the "priest at the altar.
The little fellow evidently prized it,
as taught by his mother, and it was
fortunate that I was able to promise
him it should hold a place amongst

my treasures, and that I would \
the beautiful prayers daily, whw
have never failed to do. But |
could not altogether know
much happiness his act caused i
chasing away the gloonay fears]
the Capuchin father, and
bright hope that a true spirit]
piety will grow up with the
generation.

CHURCH SONG.

* And when they had said an hymn, they went forth to the Mount of OEvo
^.Hynmum cecinit, ut et nos similiter faciamus."— S. Cukysostom.

THE DISCIPLE.

A WORLD rd give to hear thee sing
That song !
Too long
Is life until it bring
The breaking of the bonds that cling
About this deadly flesh.
Sweet Lord, refresh
My weary, longing soul ;
And this sad banishment condole
With one faint echo of that strain
Of melody divine, which must remain
Yet murmuring through space
Of all creation's bound ;
And so controls
The harmony that rolls
In floods of majesty and* grace
Throughout thy dwelling-place,
From tuneful lyres
Of angel choirs.
From ceaseless rapturous songs
Of shining saintly throngs.

That every sound
Heaven hears doth merely seem
Made to accompany thy theme.
Wondrous Singer, O my Lord and King I
Tell me, who taught thee how tp sing
So sweet a strain ?

A Discussion wit A an InfideL

405

THE MASTER.

I heard my Mother's voice one morn,
Whilst yet in womb unborn,
Chanting the canticle of praise
She still in heaven doth raise ;
And when a boy, oft at her knee.
She did the tuneful mystery
Unfold to me.

Wouldst hear me sing ?

*Tis no hard thing.
Go, hearken to the singing of my Bride
With whom my Presence ever doth abide;
Who is a Mother unto thee,
Like as the Virgin, full of grace, to me.
Her voice, in melody her own,
If thou wilt mark its heavenly tone,

Hath cunning art

To make thy heart

Hear mine again.

A DISCUSSION WITH AN INFIDEL,

xviii.

PERSONAL CONTINUANCE.

kmdtr. The next question you
>wi, doctor, regards the immor-
ilily of the human soul, or, as you
Wl it," personal continuance. " In
Our opinion the spirit and the
*dyt the soul and the brain, are
ft intimately and inseparably con-
tacted that a soul witliout a body,
• "force without matter," can
ever exist. I remember having
Iready answered some of the
loands of this opinion ; but as
^ make " personal continuance "
subject of a special chapter, I
^umethat it is in this chapter
* you have condensed the
^gth and substance of all your
wncnis. How do you, then,
iblish your position }
Biuhfur. "A spirit without a
^y i* as unimaginable as elec-

tricity or magnetism without metal-
lic or other substances " (p. 196).

Reader. Unimaginable! Of course,
a spiritual substance is not the
object of imagination. Perhaps,
you mean that it is unthinkable, in-
conceivable, or unintelligible ; which
I deny.

Buchner, " Unprejudiced phi-
losophy is compelled to reject the
idea of an individual immortality
and of a personal continuance after
death. With the decay and disso-
lution of its material substratum,
through which alone it has acquir-
ed a conscious existence and
become a person, and upon whichi
it was dependent, the spirit must
cease to exist " (ibid.)

Reader. Beware of fallacies, doc-
tor. You have not yet proved that,
the human soul needs a material
substratum. Again, you merely
assume that it is through the body^

4o6

A Discussion with an Infidel.

that the soul has acquired a con-
scious existence, whilst the fact is
that the soul through itself is con-
scious of its own existence in the
body. Moreover, the soul does
not become a person through the
body it informs, but, on the contrary,
confers on the body the privilege
of being a part of the person.
Lastly, the spirit is not dependent
upon the body, except for the sensi*
tive operations; and you cannot
assume that the soul depends upon
the body for its own being. Hence
your conclusion is yet unproved.

Bilchner. " All the knowledge
which this spirit has acquired
relates to earthly things; it has
become conscious of itself in, with,
and by these things; it has become
a person by its being opposed
against earthly, limited individuali-
ties. How can we imagine it to be
possible that, torn away from these
necessary conditions, this being
should continue to exist with self-
consciousness and as the same
person ? It is not reflection, but
obstinacy, not science, but faith,
which supports the idea «f a per-
sonal continuance " (ppt*i 96, 197).

Reader. I am rather amused than
embarrassed at your identifying re-
flection with science and obstinacy
with faith, as 1 know that you are
absolutely incapable of accounting
for such a nonsensical ranting. It
is not true that ** all the knowledge
acquired by our soul relates to
earthly things." We have already
discussed this point, and shown that
our knowledge of earthly things is
only the alphabet of human know-
ledge. Nor is it true that our soul
**has become conscious of itself by
such things." Consciousness is,
even objectively, an immanent act,
and the soul cannot be conscious of
its own self, except by looking upon
itself. No one can say / perceive

without a knowledge of the / ; ani
therefore the soul knows its owi
self independently of the perceptioi
of other earthly things. But, «
there are philosophers who accoaMt
for self-consciousness by the priol*
tive accidental sensations ex perieftc^
ed by the child, 1 will suppose irfAj
you that our soul becomes
scions of its own existence by
of such sensations. Does it foAov
from this that the union with Al
body is "a necessary conditioit*
for the existence of the soul } S«d
a conclusion would be absurd. Rl
it latently assumes that the sof
must lose its consciousness of sd
by losing the instrument of its fed
sensation. Now, to assume t!itsfi|
at least as absurd as to assume Ai^
by losing any of your senses y0«
lose all the knowledge already «fi«
quired through them, or that bf
going out of Germany you cease ti
know everything that is German.

But your greatest mistake reganhi
the notion of personality. Tte
spirit, you say, "has become a pcK
son by its being opposed agaiost
earthly,, limited individualities.*
What does this mean } First of all^
the spirit does not become a persofW
but is itself the source of hnmaii
personality. Secondly, to be a pc^
son, there is no need of other eartlt*
ly, limited individualities, agaiitS
which the spirit should be opposed
Any intelligent being, left to itsdi.
with the free disposal of its own
self, is a person. Persona^ says Boe-
thius, est raiionalis naturee ttidivUtts
substantia; and this celebrated de-
finition, adopted by all the rneu-
physicians of the old school, is fcr
from becoming obsolete. It woii^il
seem, then, that you speak of per-
sonality without knowing in wIki*
it consists. To prove that thes<rjl
cannot enjoy personal continuan**
in a state of separation, you shcuIJ

A Discussion zvith an Infidel,

40;

prove that the soul separated from
Site body is not an intelligent being
Iming a free use of its faculties,
Whatever else you raay prove, if
lJOu do not prove this, will amount
10 nothing.

I Buchnrr, " Physiology,** says Vogt,
I* decides definitely and categorical-
!lf against individual immortality, as
jljaiiist any special existence of the
KHd*' (p. 197).

! Reader, Tell the physiologists to
t«q> to their own business. The
fusion of the immortality of the
iio«l is not one of those which can
be solved from the knowledge of
loOTDrgans and their functions. All
|Ae physiologist can do is to show
jthe existence in the organs of a prin-
|dpie which animates them, and
I which at death ceases to show its
presence. What becomes of it the
, physiologist, as such, has no means
of deciding. Hence your Vogt is
sopremely rash in affirming that
I " physiology decides definitely and
cttegorically against individual im-
iBwnality."

I SUchner. " Experience and daily
observation teach us that the spirit
peri^es with its material substra-
tum" {ibiii.)

I Reader. Indeed? Let us hear how
experience and daily observation
leach what you assert. It is ex-
tremely curious that mankind
thould be ignorant of a fact which
fills under daily observation.

BiUhner, " There never has been,
Aod never will be, a real apparition
which could make us believe or as-
wme that the soul of a deceased
individual continues to exist ; it is
dead, never to return " (p. 198).

Reader. Allow me to remark, doc-
tor, that you change the question.
You had to show that experience
and daily observation teach that the
spirit perishes with the body. To
wy that there are no'apparitions is

not to adduce experience and daily
observation, but to argue from non-
experience and non-observation.
Not to see a thing is not an argu-
ment a^inst its existence, especially
if that thing be not the object of
sight; and therefore to infer the
non-existence of souls from their
non-apparition is a logical blunder.
But, secondly, is it true that " there
never has been, and never will be, a
real apparition ".^

Biichner, *' That the soul of a
deceased person,'* says Burmeister,
" does not reappear after death, is
not contested by rational people.
Spirits and ghosts are only seen by
diseased or superstitious indivi-
duals '\ibid.)

Reader. I do not say that souls,
as a rule, reappear, or that we
must believe all the tales of old
women about apparitions. Yet it
is a fact that Samuel's ghost appear-
ed to Saul and spoke to him ; and
it is a fact that the witch of Endor,
whom Saul had consulted, was
already famous for her power of
conjuring up spirits, as it appears
from th^ Bible, where we are in-
formed thjit there were many other
persons in the kingdom of Israel
possessing a similar power, whom
Saul himself had ordered to be
slain. If you happen to meet with
Martin us Del Rio's Magic Disquisi-
tions^ you will learn that in all cen-
turies there have been apparitions
from the spiritual world. Devils
have often appeared, saints have
appeared, and, to make the reality
of the apparitions incontrovertible,
have left visible signs of their pre-
sence, or done things which no
mortal, man has power to do. I
need not descend to particulars ;
yet I niviy remind you of the great
recent apparition of Lourdes, and
of ihe numberless miracles by which
it was accompanied and followed,

408

A Discussion with an InfidcL

in the eyes of all classes of persons,
including infidels and Freemasons,
who left no means untried to dis-
credit the facts, but they only suc-
ceeded in enhancing the value of
the evidence on which such facts
had been previously admitted.
Come, now, and tell us that all the
witnesses of such public facts are
*• diseased or superstitious indivi-
duals " !

It is therefore proved, by ex-
perience and observation, that there
are apparitions, and that the hu-
man soul remains in existence after
its separation from the body. But,
although this proof suffices to con-
vince all reasonable persons, phi-
losophers furnish us with other ex-
cellent proofs of the immortality of
the soul. Are you able to show that
all such proofs are inconclusive .^

Biichner, " There is something
suspicious in the great zeal and the
waste of arguments with which this
question has at all times been de-
fended, which yet, for obvious
reasons, has rarely experienced
serious scientific attacks. This
zeal appears to show that the ad-
vocates of this theory are rather
anxious about their own conscience,
since plain reason and daily expe-
rience are but little in favor of an
assumption which can only be sup-
ported on theoretical grounds. It
may also appear singular that at all
times those individuals were the
most zealous for a personal continu-
ance after death whose souls were
scarcely worthy of such a careful
preservation" (p. 198).

Reader, This is vile language,
doctor. Our zeal in defending the
immortality of the soul arises from
the moral importance of the point
at issue ; and there is nothing ** sus-
picious " about it. Our " waste of
arguments " is not yet certified ;
whereas your waste of words is

already fully demonstrated. The
immortality of the soul ** has rard^
experienced serious scientific at-
tacks," or rather, it has never expe-
rienced them, because real science
does not attack truth, and therefoie
all attacks against the souls in*
mortality have been, are, and wffl
always be unscientific in the highaC
degree. "Plain reason," without
the least need of** daily experience^"
convinces every thoughtful nuu
that a truth based on good *' theo-
retical grounds " cannot be rejected
as a gratuitous " assumption," e^
pecially when it is also supported
by undeniable facts. Your closing
utterance deserves no answer. Every
sensible man will qualify it as
downright insolence. Meanwhile,
where are your proofs }

Buchner, " Attempts were made
to deduce from the immortality of
matter the immortality of the soul "
(ibid:)

Reader. This is simply ridiculous.
Who ever admitted the immortality
of matter .^

Buchner, " There being, it was
said, no absolute annihilation, it b
neither possible nor imaginable that
the human soul, once existing,
should be annihilated ; which would
be opposed to reason " (p. 199)-

Reader. Natural reason docs no!
show the impossibility of annihila-
tion ; and therefore it was impossi-
ble for philosophets to argue a>
you affirm that they did. But, since
you think that annihilation is quite
impossible, how can you evade the
argument 1

Biichner. " There is no analog)
between the indestructibility of
matter and that of spirit. Whilst
the visible and tangible matter sen-
sually exhibits its indestructibility,
the same cannot be asserted of
spirit or soul, which is not matter,
but merely an ideal product of a

A Discussion tuiih an Infidel.

409

INUtkular combination of force-en-
dOHcd materials " (ibid.)

Meader, You merely rehash the
old blunder already refuted in one
if oor past conversations. If the
were nothing but a product of
lUiliiil coApbinations, it would
OKUinly perish when those combi-
are destroyed, and there
be no need of annihilation to
■Mkie it vanish. But if the soul is
■Ijftctive principle, as you must ad-
■k* it cannot be a result of mate-
Mi CDeabinat ions And consequently
k k ft special substance, and cannot
pcnA except by annihilation, just
Ir. Ike same manner as matter also
OBUWl perish but by annihilation.
Ymr ground for denying the ana-
k|f between the destructibility of
I matter and that of the spirit is
I Iheiefere a false supposition. It is
I ihin that there is not only analo-
\ p, but absolute parity, and that,
if matter were really indestructible,
the iudestructibility of the soul
: would thereby be sufficiently estab-
I Kkhed. But we do not avail our-
! idvet of such argument ; for we
I know that matter is destructible.
! YoQ say that '* the visible and tan-
pbk matter sensually exhibits its
iadettnictibility " ; but a little re-
flection would have sufficed to con-
vJACC jou that the possible and the
ioponible are not objects of sen.si-
Uc perception, but of intellectual
uktuilion. Then you say that the
, io«l U an " ideal product of a par-
tictdar combination of force-endow-
ed naterials *' ; which is the veriest
noMense. For, were it true that a
particular combination of materials
ptodoces the soul, such a product
vovtd be realy not ideal. Thus you
have succeeded in condensing no
less than three blunders into a few
Ibet. But let this pass. Have you
anything to add in connection with
tl»is pretended argument }

Buchner, " Experience teaches
that the personal soul was, in spite
of its pretended indestructibility,
annihilated ; />., it was non-exist-
ing during an eternity. Were the
spirit indestructible, like matter, it
must not only, like it, last for ever,
but have ever existed. But where
was the soul before the body to
which it belongs was formed? It
was not ; it gave not the least sign
of an existence ; and to assume an
existence is an arbitrary hypothe-
sis ** (pp. 199, 200).

Reader, You grow eloquent, doc-
tor, but without cause. We all ad-
mit that the soul did not exist be-
fore the body was formed. And,
pray, how could the soul be anni-
hilated if it did not exist .^ Are
you doomed to utter nothing but
blunders .^

Buchner, " It is in the very na-
ture of things that all that arises
should necessarily perish " (p. 200).

Reader. By no means.

Buchner. " In the eternal cycle
of matter and force nothing is de-
structible ; but this only applies to
the whole, while its parts undergo
a constant change of birth and de-
cay " {ibid.)

Reader. Try to be reasonable,
dear doctor, and lay aside "the
eternal cycle," which has no exis-
tence but in your imagination. You
promised to argue from experience
and observation. Keep your pro-
mise.

Buchner, I will. "There is a
state which might enable us to pro-
duce a direct and empirical argu-
ment in favor of the annihilation of
the individual soul — the state of
sleep. Inconsequence of corporeal
changes, the function of the organ
of thought is suspended, and the
soul, in a certain sense, annihilated.
The spiritual function is gone, and
the body exists or vegetates with-

410

A Discussion with an Infidel,

out consciousness in a state similar
to that of the animals in which
Flourens had removed the hemi-
spheres. On awakening, the soul
is exactly in the state it was before
sleep. The interval of time had no
existence for the soul, which was
spiritually dead. This peculiar con-
dition is so striking that sleep and
death have been termed brothers "
(p. 200).

Reader, This " direct and empi-
rical argument '* may be turned
against you. For sleep is not real
death; and the animal, when asleep,
continues to be animated. If, there-
fore, the soul remains in the body,
even when the organs are in a con-
dition which excludes the possibil-
ity of their concurrence to the
work of the soul, does it not follow
that the soul enjoys an existence
independent of the organs ? It is
true that, while the organs are in
such a condition, the soul cannot
utilize them for any special work ;
but it does not follow that " the
soul is, in a certain sense, annihi-
lated," nor that "the spiritual func-
tion is gone." You yourself admit
that, " on awakening, the soul is ex-
actly in the state it was before
sleep." I do not care to examine
whether the state of the soul is ex^
acily the same ; I rather incline to
say that it is much better; but,
waiving- this, it is still necessary to
concede that the soul cannot keep
its state without preserving its ex-
istence, attributes, and faculties,
and a direct consciousness of its
own being, which can be recollect-
ed after sleep, when it has been ac-
companied, as in dreams, by a cer-
tain degree of reflection.

Biichncr. I expected, sir, that you
would appeal to dreams ; for " the
phenomena of dreaming have been
used as arguments against the sup-
posed annihilation of the soul dur-

ing sleep, by their proving that the
soiil is also active in that state.
This objection is founded upon t\-
ror, it being well known that dream-
ing does not constitute the staLc
properly called sleep, but that it is
merely a transition between slcqi-
ing and waking" (p. 201).

Reader. I have not appvealed to
dreams. I simply mentioned the
fact that in certain dreamsi, where
a certain degree of reflection ac-
companies the acts of the soul, wc
have the possibility of remembenDg
that we were conscious of our own
being. Take away all dreams; ycm
will not thereby lessen the certainty
of our direct consciousness of oar
own being ; you will only suppress
an experimental subsidiary prooC
of which we are in no special need.
Moreover, remark, doctor, thit
"against the supposed annihilation
of the soul during sleep " we are by
no means bound to bring arguments.
It is necessary only to say Negoas-
sumptumy and it will be your duty to
prove your supposition. I obser\e,
in the third place, that you cannot
consistently maintain that dream-
ing is a state intermediate between
sleeping and waking. For, as you af-
firm that the soul exists in the latter
state, and does not exist in the
former, you are constrained to af-
firm that in the middle state the
soul cannot be said to exist, and
cannot be said not to exist, bur
partakes of existence and non-exist- .
ence at the same time. Now,
though you are so thoroughly ac-
customed to blundering, I am con-
fident that you cannot but shrin*:
from the idea of a non-existent ex-
istence., And thus your definition
of dreaming destroys your suppos-
ed annihilation of the soul duriu'^
sleep.

Biichner. ** Certain morbid con-
ditions are still more calculated to

A Discussion with an InfideL

411

piove the annihilation of our spirit.
There are affections of the brain,
1!^., concussions, lesions, etc.,
»liich so much influence its func-
: lions that consciousness is suspend-
! ed. Such perfectly unconscious
, ^Ktes may continue for months to-
I lather. On recovery, it is found
I tliat the patients have no recoUec-
! dott whatever of the period which
hm passed, but connect their men-
tal life with the period when con-
! vcioosness ceased. This whole time
W ftw them a deep sleep, sleep or
, % mental death ; they in a sense
&dv and were bom again. Should
' doUh.take place during that period,
it ii perfectly immaterial to the in-
dividiial, who, considered as a spir-
I ftsal being, was already dead at the
iDOiBent when consciousness left
him. Those who believe in a per-
sonal immortality might find it
lomewhat difficult, or rather impos-
tlMc, to explain these processes, or
to give some clue as to the where-
abouts of the soul during these pe-
riods" (p. 202).

Reader. It is neither impossible
nor difficult to ascertain where the
soul is during such periods ; for it
is in the body all the while. Only
the actual conditions of its exist-
ence in the body preclude, by their
abnormity, the exercise of some fac-
ulties. The soul is, in such cases,
like the organist, who is unable to
elicit the wonted sounds from the
organ so long as the pipes are not
properly supplied with wind. The
patients you allude to are not
corpses ; and although you affirm
that ** they /// a sense died and were
bom again," it is evident that they
did not die at all, but only lost the
proximate power of performing cer-
tain operations. The soul and the
body, so long as they are together,
muM work together. Even the pure-
ly intellectual operations, in which

the body has no part, are always
naturally associated with the
imaginative operations, in which
the body has a considerable part ;
and when these latter, through the
abnormal condition of the brain,
are suspended, the former also
are suspended, so far at least as
there, is -question of reflex acts.
And this fully accounts for the phe-
nomena accompanying certain mor-
bid states, without resorting to your
pretended annihilation of the spirit.
Accordingly, if you wish to argue
against personal continuance, you
must draw your objections from
some other source.

Buchner, " The annihilation of a
personal soul has been protested
against upon moral grounds. It
was, in the first place, asserted that
the idea of an eternal annihilation
is so revolting to the innermost
feeling of man that it must be un-
true. Although an appeal to feel-
ings is not a scientific method of
proceeding, it must certainly be ad-
mitted that the thought of an eter-
nal life is more terrifying than the
idea of eternal annihilation. The
latter is by no means repugnant to
a philosophical thinker. Annihi-
lation, non-existence, is perfect rest,
painlessness, freedom from all tor-
menting impressions, and therefore
not to be feared " (pp. 204, 205).

Reader. This way of reasoning,
doctor, is most extraordinary. First,
you assume that the moral grounds
on which our knowledge of the
immortality of the soul is based
consist of mere feelings. This is
false. Secondly, you do not con-
sider that there are rational ten-
dencies which, whether you call
them feelings or not, ought to be
taken into account in a philosophic
discussion, as they are of such a
character that their fulfilment can-
not be a matter of doubt. Thirdly,

4T2

A Discussion wiih an InfidtL

you exhibit eternal life as a syno-
nyme oi perpetual torments j for you
suppose that the idea of eternal life
is terrific, and that, to be free " from
all tormenting impressions," anni-
hilation is necessary. Thus you
conceive that after this life there
can be nothing but the torments
of hell. This is most certainly true
with regard to unrepenting Free-
masons ; they have nothing else to
expect, not even annihilation ; and
it would truly be better for them if
they were annihilated or had never
been born^ as we know from the
Gospel. But why should you take
for granted that there is no heaven ?
It is plain that your argument in
favor of annihilation is nothing but
a miserable sophism. Lastly, I
wish to remark, though it is of little
importance to the question of im-
mortality, that annihilation, or non-
existence, is not perfect rest, as you
imagine. For who is it that rests }
Can you have the subject after its
annihilation, or the rest without
the subject.^ You see, I hope, that
your logic here, too, is at fault.

Biichner. '* Philosophers, perceiv
ing the loose ground upon which
they stand in regard to this
question, have, in their endeavors
to reconcile philosophy and faith,
tried to help themselves by very
singular expedients " (p. 205).

Reader, Loose ground and sin-
gular expedients indeed ! Who
will believe you ?

Biichner. " The desire of our na-
ture," says Carri^re, "to solve so
many problems requires immortal-
ity, and the many sorrows of this
earth would be such a shocking
dissonance in the world if it were
not to find its solution in a higher
harmony, namely, in the purification
and development of personal indi-
viduality. This and other consider-
ations render immortality, from our

point of view, a subjective ttx*
tainty — a conviction of the heart '*
(p, 206).

Reader. Do you consider these
words as a very singular cxpedinir
to reconcile phih:»sopby aad "^iiihf
What can you object to the thougJjt
they express ?

Biickmr. ** Every one may, rtr-
tam])% have convictions of the kta^U
but to mix them up with pliiio-
saphical questions is unscicfttifit
Either something accords with rt*-
son :uid experience — it k tlitt
true ; or it does not accord — then if
\% untrue, and can find no pUce iu
philosophical systems" {ibid*)

Reader. I see your irick, doctor,
Tlicrc are two kinds of convictions
of the heart. Some of these comif-
tions are accidental^ transitory, nal
universal, and not invincible ; olhen
universal^ permanent, and unch*^lg^
able. The first kind originates in ac-
cidental affections of part iciikr per-
sons in particular circumstiincei;
and this kind of convictions sbotiltl
not ]je mixed u|> with philosophical
questions. But the second kind
owes not!: ing to accidental circttw-
stanccs, and tihows in its univers^tHli*
and invini ibilily its universal atiil
unconquerable cause* which canoot
be other than our rational naturr;
and this kind of convictions tnitsi
be taken into account in the pbili>*
.sophical questions concerning mt
rational soid; for it is from the 112*
lure nf the effects that we discover
the nature of the causes. Now*
'' the conviction " which Carrih?
mentions belongs to this second
kind ; fur it is common to all ra-
ti on a I beings, and cannot be shikOT
ofi' even by those who» like yoti, try
10 con \i nee iheni selves of a futHUe
anniliilaiion. We therefore eil
and must take into account sucb a
L on V i c t i n w h^n we es amine philo-
sophic;illy the nature of the soal*

A Discussion with an Infidel.

413

Accordingly, it is absurd, on your
pafi, to pretend ilut an nppcal lo
\nch a conviction is ** unscientific/'
thing is niore unscientific than
iM lay aside the elfecLs while one
irrahes to in%-c\stigate the causes.

As to your aphorism, ** either
somcthmg accords with reason and
cipcricncc — tt is then true; or it
''"tefiiot ^rrofd— then it is untrue,"

.:a not think that it can help you
riiucb^ A thoughtless reader may
tsdeed be dazzled by its fine glit-
tCTingr *nd candidly believe that
jon are n most resolute champion
ind acute investigator of truth ;
I Hi he who reflects on your reck-
'i dhregard of logic, tergiversa-
Tion, and intellectual perversity
will only wonder at your audacity
in ap|vealtng lo a principle which
you trample upon in e%^ery page of
yoQf production. Yes, sir ; what
accordt with reason and experi-
mcc ts true ; but how can this be

Pjpic^ for denying immortality?
£4ichnfr, " It may be that it
would be very fine if in he.iven, as
m the last act of a heart- stirring
Mm a, everything would resolve in
touching harmony or in general
'tv; but science has nothing to do
iih what may bi^^ but with what is^
td is accordingly compelled to
infer from cjcperience the finitcness
of human existence. Indeed, a
perfect solution of the enigmas of
the universe, as Carriure desires,
iQtivt be considered as impassible
ht the human mind* The mo-
ment wc arrive at this point we
aft aeators and capable of shap-
tng matter according to pleasure.
Sttch a knowledge would be equiva-
lent to dissolution— annihilation—
mA there exists no being which
can posstess it- Where there is no
litriving there can be no life; per-
fect truth would be a sentence of
deilh for him who has acquired il,

and he must perish in apathy and
inactivity " (p. 206).

Reader. It is of no use, doctor,
to heap up assertions of this kind.
They are all groundless. When you
say that science has notliing to do
with what may be, but with what
is, you latently assume that between
what may be* and what is there
must be opposition ; whereas it is
plain that nothing is but what could
be. And again, when you mention
science^ what do you mean } Phy-
sics, chemistry, astronomy, geology,
and the like have certainly nothing
to do with the immortality of the
soul ; but philosophy has something
to do with it, and philosophy, the
highest of sciences, decides that the
human soul not only viay be^ but
must bey immortal. In the third
place, it is ludicrous to affirm that
" experience shows the finitencss
of human existence**; for our ex-
perience is limited to human life
upon earth, whereas our discussion
refers to after-life. In the fourth
place, you pretend that a full know-
ledge of truth is impossible to the
human mind, for the wonderful
reason that we would then be
"creators and capable of shaping
matter according to pleasure.** In
this you commit two blunders ; for,
first, the knowledge of natural truths
does not necessarily entail a physi-
cal power of shaping matter accord-
ing to pleasure ; and, secondly, were
our souls to acquire such a power,
we would not yet be creators, as
creation is infinitely above the shap-
ing of matter. You are never
at a loss to find false reasons
when needed to give plausibility
to false assertions. Thus you in-
vent the prodigious nonsense that
a perfect knowledge of natural
things " would be equivalent to an-
nihilation,'* and to support this
strange notion you argue that

414

A Discussion with an InfideL

"where there is no striving there
can be no life," as if a human soul,
when in full possession of truth,
could not find in its contemplation
a sufficient exercise of intellectual
life. Yet it is clear that striving
for a good must end in a peaceful
enjoyment of the same good ; or
else all our striving would be pur-
poseless. On the other hand, if
** perfect truth were a sentence of
death for him who has acquired it,"
would it not follow that the more
we know, the less we live ? But to
conclude. How can you conciliate
these two things : " The moment
we possess full knowledge we are
creators," and "the moment we
possess full knowledge we are an-
nihilated " .^ or these two things:
*' We become capable of shaping mat-
ter according to pleasure," and " we
perish in apathy and inactivity".^
Answer, old fox 1

Buchner, " It may be that we are
surrounded by many riddles " (p.
206). " In doubtful questions we
must apply human knowledge, and
examine whether we can arrive at
any solution by experience, reason,
and the aid of natural sciences. . . .
Some believe they can give scien-
tific reasons for the doctrine of in-
dividual immortality. Thus Mr.
Drossbach discovered that every
body contains a limited number of
monads capable of self-conscious-
ness ..." (p. 208).

Reader. There is no need of dis-
cussing such absurdities. We know,
that monads are not self-conscious.

Buchner, In fact, *' Drossbach 's
monads are too intangible to con-
cern ourselves about them. We
may, however, take this opportu-
nity of alluding to the unconquer-
able difficulties which must arise
from the eternal congregation of in-
numerable swarms of souls which
belonged to men who, in their so-

journ upon earth, have acquired so
extremely different a degree of de-
velopment " {ibid)

Reader, What unconquerable dif-
ficulties do you apprehend ?

Buchner. " Eternal life is said to
be a perfection in g, a further devel-
opment, of earthly life, from wbkfa
it would 'follow that every sosl
should have arrived at a certain de-
gree of culture, which is to be pw^*
fected. Let us think, now, of the
souls of those who died in earliest
childhood, of savage nations, of
the lower classes of our popat^
tions ! Is this defective develop-
ment or education to be remedied
beyond } * I am weary of sittijjg
on school-benches,* says Dantoa.
And what is to be done with the
souls of animals ? " (pp. 208, 209).

Reader, Indeed, doctor, the ig-
norance of the unbeliever is as-
tounding ! Our children and the
lower classes of our populatioBS
are not half as ignorant as you are.
They would tell you that the light of
the beatific vision dispels with eq««l
facility all degrees of darkness
which may remain in our souls in
consequence of imperfect educa-
tion, without any need of your
" school-benches " or other imagin*
ary devices. They would tell you
also " what is to be done with the
souls of animals," on which you
most stupidly confer " the same
rights " as are possessed by the
human soul. If beasts have the
same rights as men, it is a crime to
kill them ; or, if this is no crime, it
must be as lawful to kill and de-
vour men ! Are you ready to ac-
cept this doctrine }

Biichner. " There is no essential
and natural distinction between man
and animal, and the human aod
animal soul are fundamentally the
same " (p. 209).

Reader, Do you understand what

A Discussion tviih ^n InfideL

415

I |oa say ? What do you mean by
i 'fondamen tally "?
, Buchner, I mean that the animal
I vooltsonly distinguished from the
koman soul ** in quantity, not in
ipuUity " (ilfiii.)

Rtader. Then you yourself must

hftfC the qualities of an ass, and

ihefe will be no difference between

190 md the ass, except in this : that

Ac asinine qualities are greater in

jmthan in the ass* Your efforts

Id prove that beasts are endowed

•itb intellect, reason, and freedom

f«evcry amusing, but lack a foun-

Mtion. It would be idle to exam-

hm minutely your chapter on the

WtK/Ok of brutes ; it will suffice to

flale that your reasoning in that

duster is based on a perpetual

i coofusion of the sensitive with the

I iatellectual faculties. Sense and

I intellect do not differ in quantity,

I hut in quality. No sensation can

I be so intensified as to become an

' TDCeHectual concept or a universal

I BOtian. Hence no intellect can

j anaefroraany amount of sensibility.

I BnUes feel; but, although their

I leimtive operations bear a certain

I Mology to the higher operations

of the intellectual soul, nothing

gives you the right to assume that

I brutes can reason. So long as you

do not show that asses understand

the rules and the principles of logic,

tt is useless to speak of the intellect

ftf beasts. Their cognitions and

^Sections are altogether sensitive ;

reaioning, morality, and freedom

traoicend their nature as much as

your living person transcends your

inanimate portrait in the frontispiece

"fyour book.

Bat reverting to the immortality
f>J the human soul, I wish you to
understand that in the course of
your argumentation you have never
luuched the substantial points of
the question. You not only have

not refuted, but not even mentioned,
our philo.sophical proofs of immor-
tality. You have been prating,
not reasoning. To crown your
evil work a couple of historical
blunders were needed, and you did
not hesitate to commit them. The
first consists in asserting that " the
chief religious sects of the Jews
knew nothing of personal continu-
ance," while it is well known that
the chief religious sect of the Jews
was that of the Pharisees, who held
not only the immortality of the soul,
but also the resurrection of the
body. The second consists in
asserting that "among the enlight-
ened of all nations and times the
dogma of the immortality of the
soul has had ever but few partisans '*
(p. 213), while the very reverse is
the truth.

Biichner, " Mirabeau said on his
death-bed, * I shall now enter intb
nothingness,' and the celebrated
Danton, being interrogated before
the revolutionary tribunal as to his
residence, said, * My residence will
soon be in nothingness !' Frederick
the Great, one of the greatest
geniuses Germany has produced,
candidly confessed his disbelief in
the immortality of the soul '* (p.

213).

Reader. You might as well cite
Moleschott, Feuerbach, yourself,
and a score or two of modern
thinkers, all enlightened by Masonic
light, celebrated by Masonic pens
and tongues, and great gemuses of
revolution. But neither you nor
your friends are "among the en-
lightened of all nations and times."
Before you can aspire to this glory
you must study your logic, and, 1
dare say, the Christian doctrine too.

Biichncr, If the soul survives the
body, " we cannot explain the fear
of death, despite all the consolations
religion affords " (p. 214).

4i6

A Discussion with an Infidel.

Reader. You cannot; but we can.

Buchtiei\ Men would not fear
death, " if death were not consider-
ed as putting an end to all the
pleasures of the world " (ibid.)

Reader. I too, doctor, acknow-
ledge that death puts an end to all
the pleasures of this world; but
this does not show that our soul
will not survive in another world.
We fear death for many reasons,
and especially because we are sin-
ners, and are afraid of the punish-
ment that a just Judge shall inflict
on our wickedness. We would
scarcely fear death, if we knew that
our soul were to be annihilated.
And therefore our fear of death is a
proof that the belief in the immor-
tality of the soul is more universal
than you imagine.

Buchner. ** Pomponatius, an Ital-
ian philosopher of the XVIth
century, says: * In assuming the
continuance of the individual we
must first show how the soul can
live without requiring the body as
the subject and object of its activity.
We are incapable of thought with-
out intuitions; but these depend
upon the body and its organs.
Thought in itself is eternal and im-
material; but human thought is
connected with the senses, and
perceptions succeed each other.
Our soul is, therefore, mortal, as
neither consciousness nor recollec-
tion remains ' " (p. 214). Can you
answer this argument }

Redder. Very easily. That the
soul can live without the body is
proved by all psychologists from its
spirituality — that is, from its being
a substance performing operations
in which the body can have no
part whatever. Such operations
are those which regard objects
ranging above the reach of the
senses altogether ; which, therefore,
cannot proceed from an organic

faculty, nor from any combinatioi
of organic parts. Now, if the sool
performs operations in which tte
organs have no part, it is evident
that the soul has an existence iMt-
pendent of the organs, and can Sw
without them. Accordinglyt th*
body is twt the ** subject and object*
of the activity of the soul.

That "we are incapable it
thought without intuitions " is tlO^
in the same 'sense as it is tnC-
that we are incapable of digesd^f
without eating. But would yoi
admit that therefore no digestion ir
possible when you have cesaei
eating? Or would you mniaftat
that I cannot think to-day of dw
object I have seen yesterdqrl
Certainly not. Yet it is eviiini
that I have to-day no sensil^ «•
tuition of that object. That thoagU
in itself is " eternal " is a piwRSi
without meaning. Thought is nev«C
in itself; it is always in the tfakdS'
ing subject. That " human thoogbt
is connected with the senses " inib*
present life is true, not, howcwiv
because of any intrinsic depend-
ence of the intellect on the senses^
but only because our present mode
of thinking implies both the intd-^
lectual and the sensible represen-
tation. The consequence, **oirf
soul is therefore mortal," is evident*
ly false, as well as the reason adde4
that " neither consciousness nor
recollection remains." Pompona-
tius was a bad philosopher, but still
a philosopher. His objection n
vain, but still deserves an answer.
His reasoning is sophistical, bot
there is still some meaning in the
sophism itself. Not so with yoo»
After three centuries oi progressiva
have not been able to find a singie
objection really worth answering,
either in a scientific or in a philo-
sophical point of view.

Pomponatius brings in another

A Discussion with an Infidel.

417

ttgumcnt against immortality by
laying that virtue is much purer
when it is "practised for itself
wiUiout hope of reward." You
qoote these words (p. 214), but
^tithout gaining much advantage
bom them. You might have argu-
ed tkaC "as the hope of reward
Bftkes virtue less pure, it would be
Ignmt reason to suppose that
Eiod can offer us a reward, the
^peof which must thus blast our
ifane." In your next edition of
Arr/ and Matter you may develop
tl» new argument, if you wish.
foor future adversaries, however,
fA adate it, as I fancy, with the
piat«tt facility, by observing, first,
Hit Ike hope of a reward may ac-
DMnpany the practice of virtue
Akoot interfering with its purity ;
Ibr we can love virtue for itself with-
BVtieikouncing the reward of virtue.
Dw yoo not expect your fees from
JfOBX ]>atients as a compensation for
foorservices ? And yet I presume
Atf you would take it as an insult
VMoyone pretended that you prac-
|iK medicine for the love of money.
itwugbt be observed, secondly, that
>• sin deserves punishment, so vir-
tee deserves reward ; hence a wise
uA jttst Providence, which we
■WH recognize as an attribute of
Dwimty, cannot leave the virtuous
"WwMit a reward, nor the sinner
*rtkout a punishment. And, since
ttwpkin that neither the reward
•or the punishment is adequately
■tted out in this world, it remains
tlwt it should be given in the next.
I<hall not enter into any develop-
"•wt of this argument, which is the
tt»it intelligible among those usual-
ly nade use of by philosophers to
JWott the immortality of the human
wol. It suffices for me to have
'l^own the utter falsity of your rea-
sons against this philosophical and
Ecological truth.

VOL. XX. — 27

XIX.

FREE-WILL.

Reader, Do you admit free-will }

Buchner. "A free-will," says
Moleschott,"an act of the will which
should be independent of the sum
of influences which determine man
at every moment and set limits to
the most powerful, does not exist "
(P* 239).

Reader. Do you adopt this view }

Buchner, Of course. " Man is a
product of nature in body and
mind. Hence not only what he is,
but also what he does, wills, feels,
and thinks, depends upon the same
natural necessity as the whole
structure of the world " (ibid)

Reatier. Then free-will, according
to you, would be a mere dream ;
political and religious freedom
would ber delusions ; //r«f-thinkers
could never exist; and, what may
perhaps srrike you most of ally Free-
masons wortld be actual impossibili-
ties.

Buchner, "The connection of
nature is so essential and necessary
that free-will, if it exists, can only
have a very limited range " {ibid.)

Reader, What ! Do you mean
that free-will can exist, if "what
man does, wills, feels, and thinks,
depends upon the same natural ne-
cessity as the whole structure of
the world ".> Can you reconcile
necessity and freedom ?

Buchner, " Human liberty, of
which all boast," says Spinoza, " con-
sists solely in this, that man is con-
scious of his will, and unconscious
of the causes by which it is deter-
mined ** (ibid.)

Reader, This answer does not
show that liberty and necessity can
be reconciled. It would rather
show, if it were true, that there is
no liberty ; for if the human will is
determined by any cause distinct

41 8

A Discussion with an Infidel.

from itself, its volition cannot be
free. Accordingly, your assertion
that " free*will, if it exists can only
have a very limited range," is in-
consistent with your principle of.
natural, essential, and universal ne-
cessity, and should be changed into
this : ** Free-will cannot exist, even
within the most limited range."
If you admit the principle, you
must not be afraid of admitting the
consequence ; or if you shrink from
the consequence, it is your duty to
abandon the principle from which
it descends.

Buchner. " The view I have ex-
pressed is no longer theoretical, but
sufficiently established by facts,
owing to that interesting new sci-
ence, statistics, which exhibits fixed
laws in a mass of phenomena that
until now were considered to be
arbitrary ar)d accidental. The data
for this truth are frequently lost in
investigating individual phenome-
na, but, taken collectively, they ex-
hibit a strict order inexorably rul-
ing man and humanity. It may
without exaggeration be stated that
at present most physicians and
practical psychologists incline to
the view in relation to free-will that
human actions are, in the last in-
stance, dependent upon a fixed ne-
cessity, so that in every individual
case free choice has only an ex-
tremely limited, if any, sphere of
action " (p. 240).

Reader. " Limited, if any " ! It
is strange that you hesitate to say
which of the two you mean to ad-
vocate. Why do you not say clear-
ly, either that free-will has a cer-
tain sphere of action, or that it has
no existence at all ? Instead of ex-
plaining your opinion on this point,
you try to obscure the question.
Individual free-will is to be ascer-
tained by the statistics of the indi-
vidual, not by that of the collection.

When a crowd moves towards a d(k
terminate spot, individuals are car*
ried on to the same spot, be they w3t
ing or unwilling, by the irresistiUl
wave that presses onward- So lim
when any collection o( men, from ft.;
nation to a family, lives under tte
same laws, experiences the
wants, enjoys the same rights, «rfj
holds the same practical pniic^ld|J
the general movement of tbc
carries in the same direction cve^i
individual member of the GQB«»a
tion, by creating such coi
all around him as will moraltf
pel his following the general
ment. But this is only m&rA MK
cessity, against which man cas
in the same manner as he caa
against the divine or the
law ; whereas our question -,.^„-
the existence or non-existenoejrft
physical necessity, physically birfi'
ing the human will, and detenniliH
ing every one of its actions. HeBCOb
even were it true that " a strict Ofr-
der inexorably rules humanity**—^
that is, the collection of humaate*
ings — it would not follow tbaS Ab '
individual will is inexorably wkl
by a physical necessity.

BiUhner, " The conduct and m>
tions of ever>' individual are dq>«-
dent upon the character, mannas
and modes of thought of the
to which he belongs. These,
are, to a certain extent, the neccssi*
ry product of external circumsttnMi
under which they live and lii*t
grown up. Galton says : * The<ft
ference of the moral and physicii
character of the various tribel rf
South Africa depends on tbc foo*
the soil, and the vegetation of iIk
parts they inhabit.* . . . *Itisab«it
two hundred and thirty years,' s^
Desor, * since the first colonists, ia
every respect true EnglishmeBi
came to New England. In tias
short time they have undergone c<»-

A Discussion with an Infidel.

419

ridcrable changes. A peculiar
iaerican type has been developed,
UUefly, it appears, by the influence
^fl» chmate. An American is
Himguished by his long neck, his
figure, and by something ir-
and feverish in his charac-
• . . It has been observed
during the prevalence of east-
vinds, the irritability of the
ins is considerably increas-
Tfcc rapidity of the American
development, which surprises
hi^wqr thus, to a considerable ex-
m be ascribed to the climate.'
Mfa America, so have the English
ifaeto a new type in Australia,
in New South Wales ..."

Bmkr, Has all this anything to
jbvblk the question of free-will }
[ Bmimr, Certainly. " If the na-
MS arc thus in the aggregate, in
to character and history, de-
it upon external circumstan-
lihe individual is no less the
:t of external and internal
actions, not merely in rela-
i to his physical and moral nature,
in his actions. These actions
iepend necessarily, in the first in-
ftace, upon his intellectual indi-
riikdity. But what is this intel-
hectiutl individuality, which deter-
Hoes man, and prescribes to him,
fi every individual case, his mode
ofactkMi with such force that there
tattans for him but a minute space
6f ftee choice ? What else is it but
llwttecessary product of congenital
^hflkll and mental dispositions in
mnection with education, example,
MUt, property, sex, nationality, cli-
■rte, loil, and other circumstances }
Mia it subject to the same laws as
jhati and animals " (pp. 242, 243).
^ioder. I do not see any ground
fcc this conclusion. Our " intel-
fcctna! individuality " is, I surmise,
Wt individual soul, or our individu-

al intellect. Now, our intellect may
speculatively prescribe, in individu-
al cases, some mode of action, but
even then it lets our will free to
obey the prescription. Moreover,
it is not true that our intellect pre-
scribes, in every individual case, a
determinate mode of action. How
often do we not hesitate, even after
long intellectual examination, what
line of action we should adopt ! How
often do we not entertain distress-
ing doubts, and have no means of
emerging from our state of perplexi-
ty ! It is therefore false that our
" intellectual individuality " pre-
scribes to us, in every individual
case, our mode of action. Hence
your other assertion, that the same
intellectual individuality urges us
"with such a force that there re*
mains for us but a minute space for
free choice," needs no further dis-
cussion, as being contrary to con-
stant experience and observation.
It is curious that a man who pro-
fesses, as you do, to argue from
nothing but facts, should coolly
assume as true what is contradicted
by universal experience ; but you
have already accustomed us to such
proceedings. What strikes me is
that your blunder cannot here be
excused by the plea of ignorance,
as you cannot be ignorant of your
own mode of action ; whence your
reader must infer that your direct
intention in writing is to cheat him
to the best of your power.

As to education, example, rank,
climate, soil, and other circumstan-
ces, I admit that they are calculated
to favor the development of par-
ticular mental and physical dispo-
sitions ; but I deny, first, that such
dispositions are the " intellectual
individuality,*' and, secondly, that
the existence of such dispositions
is incompatible with the exercise of
free-will. Of course, we experience

420

A Discussion with an Infidel.

a greater attraction towards those
things which we are accustomed to
look upon as more conducive to
our well-being, and towards those
actions of which we may have ac-
quired the habit ; but this attraction
is an invitation, not a compulsion,
and we can freely do or choose the
contrary, and are responsible for
our choice.

Buchfier, " Natural dispositions,
developed by education, example,
etc., are so powerful in human na-
ture that neither deliberation nor
religion can effectually neutralize
them, and it is constantly observed
that man rather follows his inclina-
tions. How frequently does it occur
that a oian, knowing his intellectual
character and the error of His ways,
is yet unable to struggle successfully
against his inclinations !'* (p. 244.)

Reader, I do not deny the power
of natural or acquired dispositions,
and I admit that men usually fol-
low their inclinations ; but this is
not the question. The question
is, " Do men follow their inclina-
tions freely or necessarily .5* " The
assertion that " neither deliberation
nor religion can effectually neutral-
ize " such inclinations is ambigu-
ous. If you mean that, in spite of
all deliberation, we continue to feel
those inclinations, the thing is ob-
viously true, but proves nothing
against free-will ; if, on the contrary,
you mean that, after deliberation,
we cannot act against such inclina-
tions, the assertion is evidently
false ; for we very often do things
most repugnant to our habitual in-
clinations.

That a man, knowing the error
of his ways, "is unable to struggle
successfully against his inclina-
tions," is a wicked and scandalous
proposition. As long as he re-
mains in possession of his reaso/i,
man is able to struggle successfully.

not only against his own inclina-
tions, but also against his predomi-
nant passions. The struggle may
indeed be hard, for it is a struggle;
but its success is in the hands of
man. How could criminals ht ;
struck by the sword 6f justice, iJi
when committing crime, they bad 1
been unable to check the tempti*
tion } Your doctrine would, if
adopted, soon put an end to Ae -
existence of civil society, and trans-
form mankind into a herd of bnttdL
If we cannot successfully struggle
against our bad inclinations, thctt
theft, murder, adultery, drunken-
ness, and all kinds of vice and ifli*
quity are lawful, or at least justit
able, and nothing but tyranny caft
undertake to suppress them or to
inflict punishment for them. Is it
necessary to prove that a theory
which leads to such results is a Bbd
against humanity 1

Biichner, " The most dreadM
crimes have, independently of tiw
will of the agent, been committed
under the influence of abnonnid
corporeal conditions. It was re*
served for modem science closely
to examine such cases, and to es-
tablish disease as the cause rf
crimes which formerly were consid-
ered as the result of deliberate
choice "(p. 245).

Reader, Modern science pre-
tends, of course, to have established
a great many things. But how
can you explain the fact that, when
" the most dreadful crimes " arc
committed by common criminals,
science still considers and con-
demns them as a result of deliber-
ate choice, whilst, if such crimes
are committed by members of
secret societies, science attribute*
them to abnormal corporeal con-
ditions.^ Can we trust a science
which so nicely discriminates be-
tween the Freemason and the Chris-

A Discussion with an bifideL

421

dan ? Yet even your modern sci-

OJce, not to become ridiculous,

a obliged, in order to absolve

criminals, to put forward a plea of

iim^rary insaniiyy thus acknow-

kdgmg that a man who enjoys the

I me of his reason is always respon-

I Ale, as a free agent, for his ac-

1 tbos. Hence, even according to

yoor modern science, our actions,

1 10 long as we are not struck with

i tnsa^ty, are the result of our de-

I liberate choice. It is only when

I joa lose your brain that you are

I "mder the influence of those ab-

; notmal corporeal conditions '* which

j prevent all deliberate choice.

BUehur. Yet man's freedom
I '^mast, in theory and practice, be
i itstricted within the narrowest
' compass. Man is free, but his
! lands are bound ; he cannot cross
tie Kmit placed by nature. For
what is called free-will, says Cotta,
it notliing but the result of the
I llnmgcst motives " (pp. 245, 246).
I Reader. It is difficult, doctor, to
I IwW a discussion with you. Your
views are contradictory, and your
argnmentation consists of asscr-
tkmi or quotations for which no
good reason is, or can be, adduced.
ff man is free, his hands are not
botmd; and although he cannot
cross the limits of nature by which
he is surrounded, he has yet a
gtcat latitude for the exercise of
fecdom ^nthin said limits. We
arc not free to attain the end with-
out using the means, to live on air,
10 fly 10 the moon, to add an inch
to oar stature ; but these are limits
of physical power, not limits of free
▼ofition. Our will is moved by
objects through the intellect; and
no object which is apprehended as
'cinccessary to our intellectual na-
ture can necessitate the will. To
Admit that what is presented to the
will as unnecessary can produce ne-

cessity, is to admit an effect greater
than its cause. Hence the range
of free-will is as wide as creation
itself; for no created object can be
considered by the intellect as ne-
cessary to our rational nature.
One object alone may be so con-
sidered — that is, God, whose posses-
sion alone is sufficient, and there-
fore necessary, to fill the cravihgs
of our heart. Thus man*s freedom
is not to be restricted " within the
narrowest compass," as you pre-
tend, but is to be stretched to the
very limits of creation.

But " what is called free-will,"
you say, " is nothing but the result
of the strongest motives." I an-
swer that the stronger the motive
is, the intenser is the movement of
the will, since the effect must be
proportionate to its cause. But
the movement of the will is not a
reflex act ; it is merely an indis-
pensable condition for it, and its
existence does not necessarily en-
tail the existence of the rational
volition. The first movements of
our appetitive faculty are not for-
mally free ; for they are not origi-
nated by the will, but by the ob-
jects. It is only when we reflect
upon ourselves and our move-
ments that we become capable of
rationally approving or reprobat-
ing that towards which or against
which we feel moved ; and conse-
quently it is only after such a re-
flection that our will makes its
choice. Now, it is impossible that
the rational soul, reflecting upon it-
self and its first movements towards
a finite good, should consider its
possession as a necessity of its own
nature ; for all good that is finite is .
deficient, and if the rational soul
considered finite good as necessary
to its happiness, it would in fact
consider its deficiency also as
necessary to its happiness; which

422

A Discussiofi with an Infidel.

cannot be. Hence, whatever the
strength of the motives by which
we are impelled, no movement ex-
cited by finite good interferes with
the freedom of the volition.

And now, is it true that our choice
always answers to the strongest mo-
tives.^ This question may be un-
derstood in two ways, according
as the motives are considered ob-
jectively or subjectively. The mo-
tives which are the strongest ob-
jectively may become the weakest
subjectively, and vice versa. It is
with our will moved by different
motives as with the lever loaded
with different weights. The heavier
weight absolutely prevails over the
lighter ; but if the arms of the lever
be suitably determined, the lighter
will prevail over the heavier. Thus
the lightest motives may prevail
over the strongest ones, when our
soul adapts itself to them, by shift-
ing, so to say, its own fulcrum, and
thus altering the momenta of the
opposite forces. The motives which
prevail are therefore the strongest
in this sense only : that the will has
made them such ; and, properly
speaking, we should not even say
that they are the strongest, but only
that they are the most enhanced
by the will.

These explanations may be new
to you, but they are the result of
experience and observation. I ab-
stain from developing them further,
as it is no part of my duty to vindi-
cate them by positive arguments.
No truth is so universally and un-
avoidably recognized as the exist-
ence of free-will. A man of com-
mon sense must be satisfied of this
truth by simply reflecting upon his
own acts. Criminals may pretend
that they have not the power to
avoid crime ; but doctors should
not countenance sucli a pretension
contrary to evidence. To excuse

crime on such a miserable plea is
to encourage the triumph of villaiiy
and the overthrow of human so-
ciety.

Buchner, Indeed, it has been
said that ** the partisans of this doc-
trine denied the discernment of
crime, and that they desired the
acquittal of every criminal, by which
the state and society would be
thrown into a state of anarchy. . * ,
What is true is that the partisau
of these modem ideas hold differ-
ent opinions as regards crime, smd
would banish that cowardly and ir-
reconcilable hatred which the state
and society have hitherto cherished
with so much hypocrisy as regards
the malefactor " (p. 247).

Reader, To denounce the state
and society as hypocritical is scarce-
ly a good method of exculpttiag
yourself. Yet your denunciation
is false, so far at least as regards
Christian states and Christian so-
ciety ; for as regards an ti- Christian
societies connected with Freema-
sonry, and states fallen under their
degrading influence and tyranny, I
fully admit that they cannot, with-
out hypocrisy, hate malefactors.
Those who plunder whole nations,
who corrupt public education, who
persecute religion, who sow every-
where the seeds of atheism, mate-
rialism, and utilitarianism, have no
right to hate malefactors. As to
those who teach that " neither de-
liberation nor religion can effec-
tually neutralize the dispositions of
man,** and that " man, knowing the
error of his ways, is yet unable to
struggle successfully against his in-
clinations," what right have thet
to speak of crime or of malefactors*
Can there be crime and malefactors
without free-will } You see, doc-
tor, that your materialistic doc-
trines do away with all morality,
and that a society imbued with

A Discussion with an Infidel,

423

dien cannot be moral. Hence it
ai bad taste in you to declaim
igUDSt modem society, as you
do (p. 247), on account of vices
wluch are nothing but the result
of materialism. " We are aston-
Mied," you say, "that our so-
ciety is so ticklish as regards* cer-
tata truths taught by science — a
sodety whose social virtue is no-
tfaiAg but hypocrisy covered by a
wiff morality. Just cast a glance
at ftis society, and tell us whether
% acts from virtuous, divine, or
evBft moral motives! Is it not, in
Cud; % bdlum omnium contra omnes /
Bott it not resemble a race-course,
vbcse every one does all he can to
outrun or even to destroy the other ?
- . . Every one does what he be-
finEes he can do without incurring
pMeridunent. He cheats and abuses
^Iken as much as possible, being
I CBKvioced that they would do the
to him. Any one who acts
tly is treated as an idiot.
bilBOt the most refined egotism
vhieh is the spring of this so-
lid mechanism ? And distinguish-
ed authors who best know human
ttciety, do they not constantly de-
lict in their narrations the cow-
tpfice, disloyalty, and hypocrisy
tf diif European society? A so-
de^f which permits human beings
lo ^ of starvation on the steps of
botties filled with victuals; a so-
tietjr whose force is directed to op-
pCtts the weak by the strong, has
ifcO tight to complain that the na-
tntri sciences subvert the founda-
tiOBOof its morality." These last
votvb should be slightly modified ;
fi>r the truth is that such a society
tl flic victim of your modern theo-
ries which you dignify with the
WBW of natural sciences, and which
We already subverted the foun-p
iitkms of social morality. The
••Cicty you describe in this pas-

sage is not the old Christian so-
ciety formed on the doctrine of the
Gospel, but the materialistic so-
ciety formed on modern thought.
The moral distemper of modern
society is the most irrefragable con-
demnation of all your doctrines.
By its fruits we know the tree.

CONCLUSION.

We ask the indulgence of our
readers for having led them through
so many disgusting details of pes-
tilential philosophy. Without such
details it was impossible to give
a clear idea of the futility and
perversity which characterize the
teaching of one of the greatest lu-
minaries of modern infidelity. We
have shown that Dr. BUchner's
Force and Matter y in spite of all its
pretensions, is, in a philosophical
point of view, a complete failure.
We have omitted many of the au-
thor's passages, which we thought
too profane to be inserted in these
pages, and which, as consisting of
vain declamation, arrogance, and
assumption, had no need of refuta-
tion. As to our mode of deal-
ing with our adversary, we have
been pained to hear that some
consider it harsh. We beg to say
that a man who employs his talents
to war against his Creator has no
right to expect much regard from
any of God's creatures. Men of
this type are frequently treated
with too much forbearance, owing
to the false idea that every literary
character should be treated as a
gentleman. Blasphemers are not
gentlemen, nor should they be dealt
.with as gentlemen. They should
be made to feel the disgrace which
attaches to their moral degrada-
tion. Such was the practice in the
good old times; and we may jus-
tify it by the example of One who
did not hesitate, in his infinite wis-

424

The Ice-Wigwam of Minne/taha.

dom, publicly to rebuke the Scribes
and Pharisees in terms not at all
complimentary, and certainly much

stronger than those which we han
used in censuring the author of
Force and Matter*

THE ICE-WIGWAM OF MINNEHAHA.

The winter of 1855-56, memor-
able for its excessive and prolonged
cold, while it brought suffering to
many a household throughout the
land, and is recalled by that fact
almost solely, is fixed in my memory
by its verification of an old Indian
legend of the ice-wigwam of Minne-
haha. Longfellow has made this
name familiar to the English-speak-
ing world, and beyond. Alittlewater-
fall, whose silvery voice is for ever
singing a love-song to the mighty
Father of Waters, and into whose
bosom it hastens to cast itself,
bears the name and personates the
Indian maiden.

On the right bank of the Mis-
sissippi, between the Falls of St.
Anthony and the mouth of the
Minnesota, is a broad, level prairie,
startiftg from the high bluffs of the
Mississippi, and running far out in
the direction of sundown. In the
month of June this prairie is pro-
fusely decked with bright flowers,
forming a carpet which the looms
of the world will never rival.
Stretching far into the west is a
tortuous ribbon of rich, dark green,
marking the path of a stream which
stealthily glides beneath the sha-
dows of the long grass. As it nears
the eastern border of the prairie,
this .stream becomes more bold.
Its expanded surface glistens in the
noon-day sun. Here it passes
slowly under a rustic bridge, upon
an almost seamless bed of rock.

Then its motion quickens, as if a
haste to reach the ledge whkk
overhangs the broad valley of tic
Mississippi, when, with one boai4 '
it plunges into its basin sixty felt
below. This is Minnehaha, tiie
little hoiden who throws hetscH
upon the outstretched arm of liic
great Father of Waters with «
merry laugh that wins the heart of
every comer. Beautiful child of
the plain ! How many have sought
you in your flower-decked hom^
and loved you ! Hoiden you majr
be ; but coquette, never. YourlXr
is freely given to be absorbed in the
life of him you seek.

But Minnehaha is at times the
ward of another — an old man whose
white locks are so often the sport
of the winds, whose very presence
makes the limbs of mortals trernhk^
and their teeth chatter at his ap>
proach. Yet he is wondrous kind
to his beautiful ward — touching
kind is the Ice-King of the North,
When the blasts from his realmSr
freighted with the chill of death,
scourge the lands over which they
pass, and a silence awe-inspiring
and complete falls on all; when
the flowers are being buried beneath
the snow, and the mighty river
bound with ice, then it is the ice-
king exhausts his powers to buiW
for Minnehaha a palace worthy of
her. The summer through (and
spring and autumn scarce arc known
where Minnehaha dwells) the maid

The Ice-Wigwam of Minnehaha.

425

las worn about her, as a veil, a
tfcmd of mist and spray. O won-
drous architect ! Of mist and spray
yim build a palace even Angelo
night not conceive in wildest dreams,
were marbles, opals, pearls, all gems
tnd stones and precious metals,
cut and fashioned ready to his
land! Thy breath, O ice-king!
fnluons mist and spray into grand
temples, palaces, more chaste and
<Hd than any stuff Italian quarries
ridd! Behold the ice-king build I
Be breathes upon the mist, and on
d sides strong-based foundations
is ibout the space he would en-
close. The walls on these rise up,
kl llist and spray are gathered
fbere and set with his chill breath.
'B^it on height they rise, until the
ndlis sprung ; and then the dome
Ji Ipthered in to meet the solid
ndc above, and all the outer work is
tee. Within, the decorations form
ttrdotfie stalactites within the caves.
Vka these are covered with the dia-
■Bod frost, such as December's
ibiubs and trees so oft put on to

Ethe rising sun. And Minne-
so the legend says, sings here
te winter through. This is the
VMterpiece of the great ice-king.
Selanon in all his glory possessed
10 temple to compare with this, nor
QjBecQ of Sheba ever saw its coun-
terpirt

A party of four started from St.

Fanl in the latter part of March,

t8s<» to visit this wonder of the

Korth« For many years the win-

i tcniiad not been protracted enough

I to permit the planting of a May-

I pole upon the ice of Lake Pepin,

oor bad eye seen the ice-wigwam of

Minnehaha. Marquette, Hennepin,

I^weur, and the early Catholic

loisaonaries had carried with them

tkir love for the month of Mary

iaio that cold region, and settlers

>nd Christian Indians made the

opening day of this month one of
joyful festivity. To plant a May-
pole upon the ice of Lake Pepin
(which is always the last point on
the Upper Mississippi where the ice
breaks up, as no current helps to
cut or break it) was quite an
event. The May-pole, decked with
garlands of green and dotted with
the many-colored crocuses that
spring up and bloom at the very
edge of the melting snow, and long
before the drifts and packs have
disappeared, if planted on the ice,
permitted dancing on its smooth
surface, and pleasanter footing than
the loose, moistened soil. May-day
can seldom be pleasantly celebrat-
ed in that region out-of-doors, ex-
cept upon the ice. Ice on Lake
Pepin, then, is to the young folk of
that latitude as important an event
as a bright, sunny day in latitudes
below.

During the month of March, 1856,
a bright, warm sun melted the snows
to such an extent as to cover the
level prairies with several inches
of water, confined within banks of
melting snow. Wheels were taking
the place of runners. Our party
drove over the undulating prairie
to St. Anthony, crossed the Mis-
sissippi by the first suspension
bridge which spanned its waters
just above the Falls of St. Anthony,
and from Minneapolis, on the west
bank, moved out into the dead
level which extends south and west
toward the Minnesota River. A
splashing drive of four miles brought
us to the bridge above the Falls of
Minnehaha, from which we could
see on our left a cone of dirty ice,
disfigured here and there with
sticks and stones and clods of earth ;
its base far down within an ice-
lined gorge, its top close pressed
upon an overhanging ledge. Was
this the wonder we had come to

426

The Ice^Wigwam of Minnehaha.

sec? A wonder, then, we came.
But we did not turn back at this
unsightly scene. There was a
charm about this legend of Minne-
haha's' ice-wigwam that surely did
not have its source in the charmless
thing before us. Nor could we
believe the imagination of the red
man capable of drawing so poetic
an inspiration from so prosaic a
source. We therefore set to work
to discover the hidden things, if
such there were. With large stones
we broke away the ice about
the top of the cone, hoping to
peer through the opening by which
the water of the stream entered.
We failed in this, but let in the
western sun through the opening
we had made. Then we descended
to the bottom of the gorge, oyer
ice and snow, to seek a new point
of observation. Here, to the east,
lay the broad, snow-covered valley
of the Mississippi; before us, at
the west, rose the cone of ice full
sixty feet in height, its wrinkled
surface all discolored and defaced,
inspiring naught of poetry, stifling
imagination. Moving northward
around the ungainly mass, and part
way up the north side of the gorge,
we reached a terrace which led be-
hind the cone and underneath the
overhanging ledge. We enter from
the north (by broad steps of ice,
each rising three or four inches
above the other) a hall twelve by
twenty feet, floored, columned, cur-
tained, arched, and walled with ice.
At somewhat regular intervals ellip-
tical columns of ice rose from floor
to spring of arch. Between these
columns curtains hung, with con-
volutes and folds and borders, fill-
ing all the space — and all of ice.
Above us was the ledge of rock
overhanging the basin of the fall,
behind us the bluff", and under our
feet the terrace of earth midway

the cone ; and all was paved aai
curtained and ceiled with ice. Be*
fore us stood the upper half of the
cone, meeting the ledge above.

While giving play to admiratiai
of the architectural beauties of tke
place, our ears were greeted wix%
sound muffled or distant, as of Iril*
ing water, WTience could tt
come } Could there be life or B
tion within that frozen mass? Il
the chill of that drear winter i
not the laughing voice of Miaifr^
haha hushed ?

The sun was dropping down Al
western sky, and a shadow leii^:
ened in the gorge below. Til
broken edges of the ice which of»-'
hung the quiet stream gave bade
the borrowed rays of sunlight wm.
brilliant than they came.

One of the party had, sluag l»<
his side, the customary long-'Imife!
of those days. With it in hand k
started in search of the creatsff
whose voice lured him on, not, a*
the siren, to destruction, but to «
scene of beauty, brilliance, ^kjif,
with which the fabled cave of Sti*
lacta was but as shadow. BetweeB
him and the voice he sought a wi8
of ice imposed. The knife atoaoe
was called to play its part. Be-
tween two columns this wall W
cut away, a window opened, threof^
which we saw the glories of tie
wigwam. Our eyes were dauled
and our senses mazed. The car-
tain rent exposed to view the tonei
surface of a dome high-arched aod
perfect in its curves. From base,
through all its height, it was hong
with myriad stalactites of ice, wkich
seemed to point us to the laughiog
voice still rippling on the waters for
below. These stalactites were cor-
ered thick with richest frost-work;
and from ten thousand upon thou-
sand points the glinting light fell of
in floods. Near to the centre of the

The Ice-Wigwam of Minnehaha.

427

upper dome the waters of the
ftream pour in in one broad sheet.
Aa instxmt only is such form pre-
serred. The sheet of water breaks,
od countless globes, from rain-
imps to a sphere the hand would
{•omely grasp with ease, comedown,
ittd break still more in passing
JArotgh the air, until within the basin
I Aiiniist and spray. These globes
tt fint arrange themselves in sys-
9nnv not unlike the planetariums
of te schools, where sun and pla-
ne^ with their satellites, are shown
jAe fOuths, to aid such minds as
iwdt to learn the grander works of
tSad in space. These systems, as
|kliey fidl, are countless ; and by com-
jtBOn impulse, which means law, the
maflct range themselves about a
pMer central orb. And so they
IfttS trough space, to fall upon
the bottom of the pool in mist. Is
tbcie no emblem here of life and
ftod?

Aftd as we look, behold! the
wiBs and dome are striped and
iVfaabedwith silver and with gold;
' Aca barred ; and then again are
' ptOilled with this silver sheen and
fstd. The gold and silver inter-
thtoge positions, fade, return, as the
Koitbem Lights dissolve of chase
etek other here and there. The
■•Jrtery of this party-colored scene
««* ioon resolved. The ice we
bfoiee away with stones had let the
Wn riiine through the opening, and
tfce waters, flowing in, disputed pas-
•igi with the light. There is an
*b and flow in running water so
^ to pulse-beats that it may not
«««ii strange to those who stop to
tittok^ that ruder men have wor-
*Wppcd streams as gods. This ebb
•ud tow upon the ledge so chang-
ed fte depth of water there that
tbe sunlight, as it struggled through

these different deptTis (for ever
changing), cast the light in silver
or in gold upon the walls and.dome.

And now the sun bows down still
more, and shines still more within
the dome; its rays are kissed^ by
countless water-drops, and chang-
ed by that caress from white to all
the colors of the bow or prism. But,
strange, no bow is formed ; but in
its stead a circle of the varied hues
is poised within the midst of all
this splendor, as though the sun
and flood had come to crown the
Indian maid, and vie with the ice-
king in doing fullest homage to his
ward.

Such is the legend realized. The
time, the accidents, and every im-
pediment we overcame seemed but
steps so prearranged that we might
see complete the efforts of the cold,
the light, the water, all combined to
create The Beautiful. It was the
meeting of extremes . in harmony
for common end, instead of con-
flict. Here was a grand display of
powers without jealousy. The cold
took irresistible possession of the
water, mist, and spray, and reared
a work that art can scarcely copy.
But all was cold and chaste and
while. The light possessed itself
of the water also, but with a touch
so delicate and warm that color
mantled the coldest, chastest, whit-
es^ ice.

Do you, dear reader, imagine
this a fancy sketch } Be unde-
ceived. Three of the " four " still
verify its truth. The fourth has
fallen upon the outstretched arm of
the great Father of mankind. It is
in tribute to his memory that I
write ; for never soul more chaste,
or heart more warm, or life more
full of love for all the beautiful,
made up a man.

428

A Russian Sister of Charity.

A RUSSIAN SISTER OF CHARITY.

BY TBK RKT. C. TONSIXI, BAKMABITB

On the fifth of August died in
Paris Sister Nathalie Narishkin, a
Russian by birth, and descended
from the same family from which
sprang the mother of Peter the
Great. Bom on the ^^th of May,
1820, Sister Nathalie Narishkin ab-
jured the Greek Church August the
15th, 1844. This first step had cost
her a fearful struggle — that struggle
of heart for which Jesus Christ pre-
pared us when he said, " I came to
set a man at variance against his
father, and a daughter against her
mother " (S. Matt. x. 35). We mean
that endurance which is perhaps
the hardest of martyrdoms, at least
when God requires it of a soul whose
love of him is combated by an un-
usual tenderness of affection towards
the authors of her being. Such was
Nathalie Narishkin.

But as any sacrifice we offer to
God enables us, by strengthening
our will, to ni^ke fresh sacrifices for
his love, she had not yet attained
the age of twenty-eight when she
resolved to follow more closely the
footsteps of our Lord, and in March,
1848, she entered the novitiate of
the Sisters of Charity in Paris. A
few years afterwards she was named
superioress of the convent in the
Rue St. Guillaume, where she died.

Foreigners who visit Catholic
countries often imagine themselves
acquainted with Catholicity when
they have hastily glanced through
the streets of our capitals, visited
the museums, the public buildings,
and theatres, and inspected the
Catholics in the churches at some

mid-day or one o'clock Mass
Sundays. Hence it follows tlmt
reality they have nothing to
concerning the influence o£
Catholic faith in the sanctj
of souls. What would have
their edification, and perhaps
prise, had they visited that
vent of the Rue St. Guillauroe,
had the good-fortune to convcoc
with Sister Nathalie ! No one
approached her could help feelini
that he was ia presence of a soul at
continual union with God, and
whom self-abnegation and the pr»*
foundeSt humility had grown, as ir
were, into a second nature. Witfc
these qualities, which at ontf
struck the beholders, she combo*
ed the most refined gentleness of
manners and- language — a gcntfe-.
ness which, let us remark, was in bcr
the same when soliciting from the
Emperor Alexander II., at the Hf-
s6e, in 1867, permission to ewer
Russia for the purpose of nurang
the sick attacked with cholera, as
when answering the meanest b^
gar asking at her hands a moi^
of bread. " Every one who had to
deal with Sister Narishkin depart-
ed satisfied " — this is the gcDfial
testimony of all who ever had oc-
casion to speak with her.

It is needless to add that, wiih
regard to charity — that virtue whick
is the special vocation of the daugh-
ters of S. Vincent de Paul, and tht
surest token of true Christianity, u
pointed out by Christ himself—
Sister Nathalie was second to no
one ; and this was made manifest on

New Publications.

429

ihe day of her funeral by the mul-
atode of poor who accompanied her
nemains to the cemetery, and the
:cais they shed on their way to the
{Fare. SVhat is the pomp of the
lepukore of kings and the great
Ms of the nations when compar-
|d to this tribute to the memory
ff a Catholic Sister?
[ ViHfter Gagarin, S J., himself a
convert, though scarcely
•DOtered from an illness, and in
of his age and physical suffer-
hich did not permit him to
lAt; without difficulty, and leaning
K a stick — would not fail to follow

the funeral on foot. The body was
deposited in the Cemetery of Mont
Parnasse — in that same cemetery
where for fifteen years past have re-
posed the remains of that other
Russian convert and Barnabite fa-
ther, Schouvaloff, who, speaking of
those among his countrymen who
had become Catholics, said : " Fear
not, little flock ; we are the first-
fruits of that union which every
Christian should desire, and which
we know will take place. Fear not ;
our sufferings and our prayers will
find grace before God. Russia will
be Catholic y

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

itai ItXUSTRATED CATHOLIC FAMILY AL-
j niHAC FOR THE UNITED STATES, FOR

I na Year of our Lord 1875. Cal-
1 cafaUed for Different Parallels ofLati-

IsAe, and Adapted for Use through-
I ntf the Country. New York: The

d^lic Publication Society.

lUs annual is already known in al-
lAOH mftxy Catholic home in the land.
lis dbttipoess places it within the reach
'flfiil, whilst its literary and artistic ex-
renders it acceptable even to the
fatddious. The issue for 1875 even
t its predecessors in the variety
oftnfejects treated and in the beauty of its
nioitDtions,

PwUications of this kind undoubtedly
^vtrjrmuch to awaken a truly Catholic
temmin the contemporary history of the
Omich, and therefore tend to enlarge the
views and iriden the sympathies of our
paoflc The life-current of the universal
dwfdl is borne through the whole earth,
airf whatever anywhere concerns her
wtlCuv is of importance to Catholics
•^s^whete.

The opening sketch in the Almanac for
(he year iHiich even now " waiteth at the
door ** carries as to Rome, in a biographi-
ol aotice of Cardinal Baroabo, whose

name will long be held in grateful re-
membrance in the United States.

There are also sketches of the lives of
the late Archbishop Kenrick, Archbishop
Blanc of New Orleans, Bishop Whelan.
Bishop McFarland — brief, but sufficiently
comprehensive to give one an insight
into the character and labors of these
apostolic men. Col. Meline and Dr.
Huntington, who strove so faithfully and
so successfully, as men of letters, to de-
fend and adorn Catholic truth, receive
due tribiAe, and are held up as examples
for those of our Catholic young men to
whom God has given talent and oppor-
tunity of education.

Cardinal Mezzofanti, the greatest of lin-
guists ; Cardinal Allen, who was the first
president, and we may say founder, of the
Douay College, which, during the dark-
est pe^od of the history of the Catholic
Churdi in England, gave so many noble
confessors of the faith to Great Britain ;
Archbishop Ledochowski, who is to-day
suffering for Christ in the dungeons of
Ostrowo, all pass before us in the pages
of the Catholic Almanac for 1875.

Then we have sketches of John O'Don-
ovan, the famous Irish antiquarian ; of
Father Gahao, the great Irish preacher; of

430

New Publications.

Father Clavigero, the historian of Mexico
and California, and of Joan of Arc, whose
name may yet be inscribed by the church
among those of her saints. The miscel-
laneous matter with which the present
issue of the Catholic Almanac is filled
has been chosen with admirable tact and
with a special view to the wants of our
own people.

If the standard of excellence which
this publication has now reached be
maintained, it cannot fail to command a
steadily increasing patronage, and to be-
come in yet wider circles an instrument
for good.

Notes on the Second Plenary Coun-
cil OF Baltimore. By Rev. S. Smith,
D.D., formerly Professor of Sacred
Scripture, Canon Law, and Ecclesias-
tical History at Seton Hall Seminary.
New York : P. O'Shea. 1874.
The author of these NoUs makes his
observations on a considerable number
of very practical questions, some of which
are of the greatest moment and of no
small difficulty, with great modesty and
moderation of language. Evidently, he
seeks to promote piety, discipline, and
the well-being of the church in an orderly
manner, and with due respect to authority
and established usage. Tht Decrees of
the Second Plenary CovaiAl of Baltimore
is intended as a text-book of instruction
for the clergy and seminarists on what we
may call " pastoral theology " — that is, on
the whole range of subjects relating to
the conduct, preaching, and administra-
tion of those who are invested to a lesser
or greater degree with the pastoral office.
The author makes the Acts of the* Council
therefore the basis of his Notes^ or familiar
disquisitions on practical topics of canon
law, giving also a general exposition of
certain fundamental canonical principles
and laws, chiefly derived from the stan-
dard authors Soglia and Tarquini. Some
valuable documents are also contained
in the appendix. Such a work as this is
evidently one that, if it can be made com-
plete, and also carry with it sufficient
intrinsic and extrinsic authority to give
its statements and opinions due weight,
will be one of great utility. Due respect
to the author, who has given us the results
of careful and conscientious labor, as well
as the great importance of the topics he
discusses, demand that we should not
attempt to express a jud^rment upon his
work or the opinions contained in it with-

out a minute and detailed exarolnaMtl
and discussion of every point, s&pponc4 1
by reasons and authorities. We are act:
prepared to do this at present. We Mf |
say, however, that, in our opinion, %-mait
of this kind cannot, easily be broagjht li
completion by a first and single dblt
It is, in many respects, tentative fn iv^
character. As such, we regard it «• a
promising effort, creditable to its
and in many ways likely to prove «
viceable manual for the clergy and
who are engaged in teaching canon \m
in seminaries.

The Mistress of the Manse. Bf \
G. Holland. New York: SciHaMii
Armstrong & Co. 1874.
We never pardon the reviewer viV
praises a novel by telling us its pM.'
Therefore we shall not spoil the pli ■fim
of the reader by revealing the stoiy 0C1U1
poem. We will only say that the iMlOtal
is the wife of a " country parson,* Ca4
that their conjugal life is beautUsfly
drawn. A Catholic will not find u^
thing to move his righteous indignatioit
as he did in the au thorns MarhU Prtfktif
though here and there he will come spot
something which

** In the light of deeper ejres
Is matter for a flying s

For instance, a poet who can write sack
Tennysonian verse does not blufli ID
place in the same "evangelical" ISiii^
"Augustine" and " Ansel '* (we supposi
he means S. Anselm) by the side of

" Great Luther, with fats great diaiMitei,
And Calvin with his finidied K^iexDe**^

After the flood of light which even Prot-
estant research has poured on the char-
acters of Luther and Calvin, how eta a
poet (of all men) dare to hold them op to
admiration ?

Maria Monk's Daughter. An Attioci-
ography. By Mrs. L. St. John Edjet
New York : Published for the Aotbor
by the United States Publishing Co..
13 University Place. 1874.
The writer of this notice well remcnH
bers reading, when a boy of fifteen, tbtj
Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, and
5jjr Months in a Omvent, by Rcbeca
Reed. With great satisfaction he recalls
the fact that his own father, who was >
Presbyterian minister of Connecticut, to-
gether with a very large number of odier
most respectable Protestants, condeouied'

New Publications.

431

lepudiated this calumnies of Maria
ikfrom the first moment of their puu-
The effect of these boolcs and
f Ab exposure so honorably made by
to Stone on our own young mind, and
ly upon the minds of thousands
MlfilS;'was to open our eyes to the* false*
" dishonesty of the gross misrep-
iS o£ the Catholic religion and
rs which have been rife among
and are still prevalent among
lightened of them, both gentle
jM |{n{>le. Afterwards the task de.
^ upon us to prepare a set of docu-
conceming Rebecca Reed and
Hook which Bishop England had
ibr publication in the edition of
issued by his successor in the
Ckailcston. While we were cor-
Ihe last proofs of the printer at
the Times of that morning
OS the last item of news respect-
itafoitunate Maria Monk, which
t9 die knowledge of the public be-
■Miie publication of the volume under
^f that she had died in a cell on
l*s Island. After the lapse of
years, we find before us the
phy of a daughter of Maria
I who seeks to expiate her mother's
and to make reparation for the
VHM^ done to the clergy and religious
tflle Catholic Church by her pretended
fcliMires made in the fictitious charac-
IV 4f an escaped nun. The unhappy
Homan herself, though we believe
m die daughter of an English offi-
at Montreal, seems to have had a very
' n&other, and,for some reason to
■> Bofcnown, to have been brought up
VjAoul education, and early turned adrift
any protection. Having fallen
ft condition of desperate misery, she
rtcd to the expedient of inventing
jfcft Awful Disclosures in order to get
'■•Mjrand escape from prese/it wretch-
[■hiess. The men — far more malicious
;«wl bud in their villany than this poor
ifc^fDgirl, so much sinned against and
I to feathiUy punished for her own sins
jifctt we piiy more than we blame her —
•fco prepared the vile book oi Awful
\ i Hi r b fm rt, and published it under the
ttme of Howe and Bates, cheated her
Wt other share of the profits. We are
iW to sec their infamy once more ex-
JW«4, and the honor of the Catholic re-
wjK» avenged. Although the most hon-
waWc class of Protestants are exempt
ffom complicity with this and Similar

gross libels on Catholics and caricatures
of all they hold dear and sacred, never-
theless their cause and name are dis-
graced by the fact that they are so fre-
quently and generally implicated in a
mode of warfare on the Catholic Church
which is dishonorable. The statements
which are continually made current among
them respecting Catholics and their re-
ligion, and which are so generally be-
lieved, do no credit to their intelligence
or fairness. We remember hearing the
Archbishop of Westminster remark that
the most ridiculous fables about the Cath-
olic religion are accepted as truth among
the aristocratic residents of the West End
of London. The coarse and angry as-
saults of the English press upon the Mar<
quis of Ripon, on account of his conver-
sion, show, what Dr. Newman has so hu-
morously and graphically described, the
extent and obstinacy of vulgar prejudice
and hostility in England. There is less
here, and it is diminishing ; yet there is
enough to make Mrs. Eckel's audacious
spring into the arena of combat against
it well timed as well as chivalrous.

We do not intend a criticism on her
book, but merely, as an act of justice to
one who has braved the criticism of the
world, to aid herself and her book to
meet this criticism fairly, without preju-
dice from any false impressions which
may be taken from its title. We there-
fore mention the fact, which may not be
known to those who have not read the
book or any correct account of its con-
tents, that Maria Monk, according to the
probable evidence furnished in the book,
and which does not seem to have any-
thing opposed to it, was really married to
a man who was a gentleman by birth and
of respectable connections, although re-
duced by his youthful follies to a condi-
tion which was always precarious and
sometimes very destitute. Mrsi Eckel is
the offspring of this marriage. After a
childhood of hardship^ she was adopted
into a respectable family related to her
father, Mr. St. John, and made the most
strenuous efforts to acquire the education
and good manners which are suitable for
a -lady. She married a gentleman of re-
spectable position and of very superior
intellectual gifts and culture, Mr. Eckel,
who afterwards fell into distressed cir-
cumstances, and died in a very tragical
manner. Mrs. Eckel separated herself
from him some time before this occurred,
and very shortly before the birth of her

432

New Publications,

daughter, as it seems to us for very
good reasons which exonerate her from
all blame for the misery into which her
husband fell when he lost the support of
her sustaining arm. The remarkable
history of her subsequent career in Paris
must be sought for in the pages of the
autobiography. The circles in which she
moved while there were the highest, and
many of her intimate friends were persons
of not only exalted rank, but of the most
exemplary piety, and of universal fame
among Catholics. Of her own accord,
without either compulsion or advice, she
did what she was not bound in conscience
to do — abandoned her brilliant pos-ition in
the world, made known the secret of her
origin, and has now thrown open the his-
tory of her life to the inspection of the
world. That history must plead for itself
and for the author before impartial and
judicious readers. In our opinion it is
substantially true. Wc believe the au-
thor has written it from a good motive,
and that she is sincere in her statements.
Divested of all the adventitious glitter of
the successful woman of the world, she
presents herself for precisely what she is
in herself, and, as we think, is far more
worthy of honor and respect now than
ever before, or than the most brilliant
marriage in France could have made her.
Ever>'body who can read this book
will do so, as a matter of course, even if
they have no other motive than they would
have in reading one of Thackeray's ro-
mances. It is a romance in real life, and
an instance of the truth of the old adage,
** Truth is stranger than fiction." Such
fictitious works as totkair and the Sckon-

berg-Cotta Family have served as a
lemical weapon against the Catht
Church, and we do not see why a roman*
tic but true history, of much greater lit-
erary merit than the whole class of that
sort of trash, should not answer a fpvA
purpose on the other side. If thejt»iai<
of the book find in it mao^r things
to criticism, and jarring upon x d(
and cultivated Catholic sense of pi
and reverence, they should remerobor'
the author lacks the advantage of
and careful Catholic discipline, if '3
comparatively young, and a novtee hj
everjnhing that relates to the splt&w
and religious life. She does noi pnifeflti
to give ihe history of her life as a
to be imitated, or to instruct olb«lS
•one competent to teach on spiritual
ters, but to write her confessions Ibrtej
encouragement of other wayward
wandering souls, and to speak ont fe wfr
what she thinks as she goes along, «lB
^'Qxy little regard to censure or feacolC
There seems a Nemesis in the p^ift^,
cation of such a book which, should gktt
a salutary lesson to those who dace tft
throw dirt on the spotless robe oftbe
Catholic Church. We have often tboqijlt
that this Nemesis is frequently appaiMt
of late in the punishments which tot
come from divine or human justice OA
notorious corrupters of public and pti*
vate morals. Dreadful as are the acttui
corruptions and the corrupt tendencis
in the bosom of our political and socfal
state, wc hope this is a sign that Godlttff
not abandoned us. It is hardly neoamf
to say that this is not a book suital^for
very young people.

ITERARY

OLLETIN

PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENT.

Catholtc PuBLtCATioir Socibtt has In
11 soon pnbltsh a now revieed and en-
•Atioa of Holy Week, Llfb of Father
C.SS.B., Life of 8. John the
The Mistress of ITovioes en-
upon her Dnties, a Fifth atid
Saader. and alao a "Yorxng Ladles'

mnstrated Oatholio Ai^witTtitri for
WIS^ will be r^uly for delirery on Nov. 23.
IjiiiViailff of Mjrr. Dapsnlonp have Jnstbeen
■Md ts Paris. They are in live volumcf, and
HWsall his choice workt, eoch as Defence of
Pkttnrch, Controversy on Bduoation,
Mtesof Boma, and Pastoral Letters.
I A anr edition of the Life of M. Oiler,
of the Seminary of 8. SuJoke. ha» just
I in PSHb. ^

> A Mw work, entitled De la Vie et des
IflHtua Ghretiannes, considered in the reli-
pm itslo, by the Abb^ C. Gay. Vicar-Gcneral
d MOsra, bas^ Jnst been publlvhed In Frs-ce.
9illl4Mdcd Into seventeen chap'era. as fonows:
*'VH Oir1«t{an Life," "The Religions Stote,"
**WBV **The Fear of God,*' "Tbe Cbrlrtlan
*K'* Hamillty/* *• Mortification," " Tempta-
INi," "Holy Poverty,^' "Chastity," "Obedi-
^^ •• Charity Towards God," "Christian
4mi»w,*^ "The Snrrender to God,** **Cho-
^ Towarda onr Neighbor, and the Dn-
•» Whfch spring from it,** ♦*The Three Last
*«l« of Prateroal Charity (Support, Duty,
•!*■),'» ••The Ohnrch considered as an Object
■*Ctartiy in her Triple State of a Triumphant,
^Artnu and Militant Church.**

ft<i work la highiy praised by the French
t^ihoUepresa.

Dr. Marshan'f last work, Protestant Jonr-
atUsm, is thaa noticed In the London Weekiy

' Tnt fOTRTB B8TATB FAOM A CATHOLIC POINT

OF VI rw.
"The fubjeci-matter of his book, which is a
W«f and handsome one, of more than four hnn-
*M ocUto pages, might seem, at a superficial
g'-taea, to be ratb«r nntemptlog— a criticism
«poe the crltic»— a review of the reviewers. But
*«t aay Catholic reader take heart of grace who
■Wtittes the charm of watching the course
'ikes, npou every variety of occasion, In argu-
»«t, by a finished dialectician, and If he has
w das rowers of appreciation, that reader, we
•>"»nt kim, win run through this ample volume
••^My as If he were skimming some picked
"we-Tohaae novel from Mudle*s. Tet the con-
Jnts, after ill, will be familiar to many— the
««y-tour chapters here compacted together be-
»"«. In po»nt of fact, a selecUon flrom a yet longer
*^** 9t paptra already published piecemeal in .

the colomns of our contemporary, the Tablet*
They will be readily recognized, and they will be
welcome upon recognition.

** PfX>ie$faHt JoumalUm is the title of these
well-cut stones with many facets, now that they
are strnng together as a sparkling colUction.
Singly, they have been well aimed, have often hit
very sharply, have sometimes even drawn blood
—that Is, printer's Ink— from the one aimed at-
The motto for the tltle>page is admirably chosen
from Cicero*s D€ Oralore: Mallm eqnidem in-
dis(rtam prudentiam qnam stnltltlam loquacem
—a thought that comes home to us every day,
raoroing and evening, as regnlarly as onr morn-
ing and evening newspapers. The raison d'itre
of the whole volume is clearly enough explained
by our author upon the first page of his preface.
Listening, asj he does daily, to the f<n{fatxmad^s
blown on their own trumpets by so many of onr
leading Journals— /aw/mwiorfw echoed and re-
echoed all round them from the very hoardings
on which their mammoth posters are displayed
—the writer of this intelligent and perfectly
good-hnmoitfM remonstrance with them for their
vain-glory Is particularly struck with the fiict
that, in spite of all their assumed importance,
the world had managed to get on somehow with-
out them for fully three or four thousand years.
Before journalism began— he thinks to himself,
and reminds his fellow-countrymen, and among
them the Journalists themselves— there had ex-
isted' great men, such ss nature is cow loath to
reprodnee ; great Inititutlons, of which the stabil-
ity contrasta cnrlon sly. with our own tentative
and ephemeral experiments ; immortal triumphs
of art, which are at once onr modela and our de-
spair.* As he humorously puts it, * they had no
right to do so,* that Is, to exist, 'but they did.'
And he adds, with delicious gravity : 'It is not
easy to belieTe that the men w»"0 built York
Minster or Westminster A )>bey, compiled Domr»-
day^Booky and dicUted Magna Charta. had much
to learn from * this particular newspaper or that.
' It is more reasonable to suppose,' he says, than
that they could have learnt anything from, say,
the Ffemden Blafi or the Kreux Zeittrng, *that
our chaotic literature and our grotesque ediflcce
would have moved them,* the builders of York
Minster and Westminster Abbey, the compilers
of Dometday-Bock, and the dictators of Magna
Charta, * to inextinguishable laughter.* Yet the
odd thing Is that York Minster and Westminster
Abbey were among the products of what are Im-
pudently called nowadays the Dark Ages I They
are among the worka of tboee slothful and Igno-
rant monks, who were their own architects, scntp-
tors, designers, and decorators, aud who, centn-
rics before newspapera were dreamt of, contrived
somehow, out of the darkness of those benighted

Literary Bulletin.

timefl, to baild up in colossal and symmetrical
proportions the sablimeet edifices assuredly,
that the iDf^ennity of man has ever constructed
apon the snrrace of the globe. Domesday-
Book^ again, it is interesting ta remember,
was completed now close upon eight hnn-
drcd years ago, namely, in 1088. As for the
dictators of Magna Charta, were they not headed
—those barons of England, on the plain of Run-
nymede— by Stephen Langton, Archbishop of
Canterbury and Cardinal of Chrysogonus t Many
centuries before newspapers were thought of,
monies, in obviously vtry Darfe Ages indeed, built
up York Minster and Westminster Abbey, and all
those other glorious fanes scattered over the
western countries of Bmrope; and a cardinal
archbishop, appointed by the Pope, laid what is
ropntcd to be the very fonndation-stone of the
vaunted structure of our national constitution.
'Alfred the Great and Charlemagne/ says our
author in hiit preface— and again, with the gravest
face but twinkling eyes, he says it — * Alfred the
Great and Charlemagne, the Black Prince and
Simon de Montfort, Dante and Milton, Newton
and LeibnitZy and even Pitt and Wai»hingtou,
know nothing of railways, and not much of news-
papers ; yet they are generally coni»idered men
uf mark, and did things which are still spoken of.*
Ceesar wrote his Commentariet^ he wickedly
hints, having in his camp no Special Correspon-
dent ! Ho might— in allasion to the luminous
3lemorial de SainU Htlene— have said the same
of that last of the great typical con^eror», Na-
poleon, who died but little more than half a cen-
tury ago, and who was no less than they without
Hpecial correspoDdeatSfSpecial telegrams, and spe-
cial trains, military ballooning, arms of precision,
ridcd artillery, and with only the merest spectral
forerunners of our now ubiquitous, infaliiblo, and
dogmatic newspapers. Tct tliese great men con-
trived, nevcrtheicss, in some amazing way, to
exist, and, what is more, to Nourish. Ciesar de-
scribed Gaul and Britain; Xeuophon recounted
the manner fit the Ketreat of the Ten Tliousand.
But perhaps, as our author drolly hints, we shall
be told they, * Csesar and Xenophon, were only
undeveloped journalists ' I Stricken with amaze-
ment at the airs given to themselves by so many
oracular teachers, the annalist of the MUaion$
the delineator of i/y Clerical Friends^ takes in
hand, one by one, now this, now that, among our
I*rotostant contemporaries. He does it in the
most perfect good-humor; he does it, besides,
with an air throughout of absolute enjoyment.
According to the popular slang of the day— a
slang phrase employed before now {UaU Hansard)
within the walls of the upper branch of the
legislature— he rejoicingly givea them, turn by
tarn, a slating, letting his missiles fly Incisively
edgewise, each skimming swallow-like and inex-
orably to the very buirs-eyc of its appointed tar-
get. The gravity with which he has at them, one
and all, \^ ximply irresistible. Compared with
our present instructors, he insista that the folios
fiUiog onr libraries, and bearing upon .them the

obscure names of a ?lat<;r, a SopIioctH.
tine, a Thomas Aqnlr^s^, at»d a Bci««oei
of cunrse. *cur1ou« ii]»>TnMtiuLSet or»iiiru«
In which intelligent i^:it?t<^acie htd ft^ii i
In lieu of them— of thwsc Olrt-Wmld i
have become so utterly otM .j^t^^ we h
now at the feet of braiidncw Gimalfcli
typiflea generically it<4 ' ih^ amte Jo(
the sagacious Thotnpson:' Dally ui
newspapers, monthly ins^'iuinu^^ and
reviews, he takes tb^m ult Ui bao^d* ami
circling in mid-air bcfctre t» wifb an
a slcight-ofhand aa tke pitU-)>til» of
And the figure of ppctxh we liava b?fi
hardly be regarded a« Siiappo«(i(ti.% rritii'
as onr author himaeir rccai^uds iia ai tJ>
his ppeface— that Louie V(::ulliet lia
spoken of the babble of bli hfutber .;

* the reverberation of ibe inipfictpi
nkely little.* As vivitl njminder>-,
many, of the tid-bil» of <)iilei but -
that are here enjojiLblc by utl «!<,
riMtme of ProUUanl Jourmdifm^ l«l
that there are touched qIT iw tb«i(^ pae
the • Chrietlanity of tbf /aAo,* lluft * Itcn
of Uh) Olobey the ^ Catiuii I^aw i^f Ib^
Gazette^* the 'Apprnval of the Jiioft*
the * IkUly Newti on ih-e Top*,* iho ' ^lo;
the Church,* the "-Timi* oa UlltiA^Uii
grimagesr* and the ' Satni^ia^ BstUi9 i
caoism.* Commend us aIihi, am^ti^ «ti
table sketches, to liioie (*atitM rw*

* Religious Bunkum,' ib« ' Boonciits J*

* Comic Theologian,* ' XebiiJ^sns CA»

* Wanted, an Antbodtjr to Ob«y/ wid "
Divided against Itt»e)r;^

*' * Tliere are more thtugti In hesv^o i
Horatio, than are (Ircaiut of wt (mi- |%hi
quoth Hamlet. ' Tht-re Jd nothtng In fi»
earth, Horatio, but is kfiomi and thoroa
tered in our philosoiihy/ iiiys /VofMi
naliean. And the touu arr-umetl by H li
ing this philosophy Ip i^opvijrbt^anD^ <
in its arrogance that it b noihing k«i
freshing to see oradtt after orocie thna
examined nnder the Tukr>>f c{?pia.'*

The London Wt&kt^ l:<.yl*Ur uoiksi
Formby*s late work. Sacrum 80pte
as follows:

''The Motder or tue Gku^t G
Familt.— ' ^ehold thy mother— ^ccv ma
said our Lord to his be]ovi.-d dlieJ^k m
hour of the CmciflxJon ; ' « J ^3^ J^ffa hmtnu,
dUdjndus In «iia— and from that hoar th
took her to his ow^,' To cv^rf cttAtw
of the Redeemer IdetiiloiLly the Bm« i
addressed. By every ci)o*en diddptt tk
Virgin is accepted aba jJaifrly aa bla M'Mk
than aa theMotherof ili?adjrabl«R«ii«<e
as truly as she occupii^ IbAX ixi^xul po
the Mother in the grodp of the Ho»/ 1
Bethlehem, in Egypt, ^d afterwini# I
years together at Nazarc^tb. m ftbwilQ.t«ij
same literal trmth she ha» rc»r neatly vm

Literary Bulletin.

held the Mme poeUion in thefevcr-lncrcaf-
kyud niQltiplyins family of the true believers
% Christendom, lo a raptnre of prophecy the
fttttedd of the Lord, according to the Evangelist
fk lake, towards the close of her sublime can>
Btfiofthe Magnifieat, prodaimed, while she was
jIt vtth child, that, by reason of her sopreme
Ire, as the Mother of the Messiah, all
■rM> i i > e ehonld call her blessed. ' Behold for
t* Ac ezclfthncd to 8. Elizabeth: 'Ecce
Its boc bMlam me dicent omnea gentraOonea.*
iQtall Christendom, in every succeeding

a«r Chris tiADity, all generations of true be-
ll hare so called her. It is among the dis-
•igna of their belonging to the true
I their so calling her, for they alone, by so
falfll her own prediction. They alone
•Seller fhlly and literally in the light in which
#1 mm aolemnly bequeathed to them from the
iMMbyher divine Son, namely, as their Mother.
bli»fvm of a little hand-book of devotion, ex-
flMy written for the Danghters of Mary, the
ki» Anry Formby, one of the Tertiary Priests
tfihe Older of 6t. Dominic, explains, in a series
tf llai brief and simple but singularly impreF-
^Nt ifcco mrs e s . In what especially the chosen
ptf afpoSnted Mother of the great Christian
Ml|f te deserving of Imitation by her children.
YtetlOfrpage of the volume is, in itself, as ev-
«r fllfe'page onght to be, a singularly clear eln-
i of the nature of its contents. The prl-
^ fide of the book is recognizable upon the
Eta one of the closing verses of the august
fe|«s^the Fmi Saneta Spiritus. It symbolizes,
)gr a single phrase, the peculiar sanctity of the
Xollwr of the Redeemer. It reminds us, upon
Atthf«sbold, of the supreme dignity accorded by
^■ioitble Trinity to this most perfect, spotless,
of his creatures— she who stood in
tntSmate relationship to each of the divine
\'. the Daughter of God the Father, the
of God the Son, the Spouse of God the
IfllyCBkoaL Sacrum SepUnarium^ the book is
, or. The Seven Gifts of the lioly Ghost, as
in the Life and Person of the Blessed
^hgtaifftirtbe Guidance and Instruction of her
CktUrtt. * Honor thy father and thy mother ' is
swunaandment in the Decalogue which is dis-
tliiLiiliihiid among all the other commandments
l7 bil4f coupled with the solemn promise of a
>«*Kd. And among true believers the Mother
iC the great Christian family has certainly been
nulnterruptedly for nineteen centn-
the time of the apostles until now.
At Hm irrlter of the volume under notice re-
nlQii Ua readers, the holy apostle speaks em-
Ifeftdoiay of the 'household of the (kith,' while
tha Aijkcb speaks of herself In her liturgies aa a
te^. A household or a family without the
Matnl figure of a mother would be no family—
voaldhc no household. And so this family of
Uit chnch, this honseaold of the faith, has
fffr hid one chosen and pre-eminent Mother—
t^ Mother of all Christlons.
** Whit |0 here specially considered in this UtUe

manual as a hand-book for devotion is the ftxnctfon
of the Holy Virgin Mother of Jesus in the economy
of the Christian redemption. Reference is ad-
mirably made by Father Formby in his very first
discourse to a most striking passage occurring in
the remarkable sermon delivered by S. Peter Da-
mian on the mystery of the Nativity. It is
where S. Peter Damlan remarks that, as thefe
could have been no redemption except the Son of
God had been bom of a Virgin, so it was indis-
pensable that the Virgin herself should first be
bom from whom the Eternal Word might be-
come flesh. It w^s essential that the House should
first be built into which the Heavenly King
should descend and make his habitation. This,
says S. Peter Damion, was that House of which
the wisest of the human race, King Solomon,
says in Proverbs (ix. 1) : * Wisdom hath built
herself a house, and hath hewn out seven pil-
lars.' This Virginal House, quoth 8. Peter Da-
mian, has just stood propped up with seven pil-
lars, for the venerable Mother of the Lord was
endowed with the Seven Gifts of the Holy Ghost
—with the spirit of wisdom, and of understand-
ing, and of counsel, and of fortitude, and of
knowledge, and of piety, and of the fear of the
Lord. Those Seven GifU of the Holy Ghost are
imparted to each of ns und^ the imposition of
the hands of the bishop in the Sacrament of
Confirmation. It is but reasonable, therefore,
that the Daughters of Mary should ttudy in a
minute and especial manner the example of their
holy Mother in responding to those Seven Gifts
as all-essential for the attainment of salvation.
The Angelic Doctor, S. Thomas Aquinas, explains
clearly enough that these Seven Gifts are alto-
gether distinct lh>m their corresponding virtues.
In a preliminary discourse of seven pages, espe-
cially addressed to the Daughters of Mary, the
author df this manual of devotion says to them :
' When God gave his benediction to his world,
and bade it increase and multiply, your place
in it was raised to a wonderful dignity— a dignity
that, under the Christian law, has been still fnt-
ther Increased; for the choice is now placed be-
fore yon of either becoming the honored mother
of a Christian Aunlly, or, better still, one of the
virgin spouses of Jesus Christ *— their example,
their model, their supreme guide and glory in
either character. It might have been added, being
one who is herself alone, among the human race
to all eternity, both Virgin and Mother, the Vir-
gin Immaculate, the Mother of God-Incarnate,
Verge Vergliium, Mater Del Genltrix. As if in
justification for the issuing of bis beautiful little
manual. Father Formby, we observe, quotes on
his very first page a passage from the P&re Jean
Baptlste Belot, S J*., in which that learned and
devout author sets forth his reason for pennirg
his treatise on the Seven Gifts of the Holy Ghost,
namely, the ignorance In which so many Chris-
tians live as regards the excellence and import-
ance of those divine gifts in working out human
sanctification. The book Itself, however, is its
own most signal jnatlflcation. The members of

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TIIK tA'niOLlf PlULItATIUX S
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THE

THOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XX., No. 1 18.— JANUARY, 1875.

PERSECUTION OF THE CHURCH IN THE GERMAN
EMPIRE.

spring of 1870, whilst the
concerning the oppor-
of defining the infallibility
ope was attracting the at-
evcry one, and when the
tterings of the Franco^
war were not yet audible,
ing organs of the Party of
in Berlin sought to weigh
ble results of a definition,
"^itican Council, of the much-
dogma. In case the Pope
I be declared infallible, the
ngy of Berlin, affirmed that
Id favor the interference
fovemment to prevent all
lintercourse between the bi-
Prussia and the Roman Pon-
b would result in the crea-
national church wholly in-
nt of Rome.

lis xA-gan of the Party of

openly avowed that there

the slightest probability

state could, by any means

nd, succeed in separat-

ing the Catholic Church in Prussia
from communion with the See of
Peter; nor was there, it confessed
with perfect candor, a single bishop
in Germany who would desire such
a separation.

And yet. as we have shown in a
former article, the task which the
German Empire has set itself is pre-
cisely the one which is here pro-
nounced impossible; and we propose
now to continue the history of the
tyrannical enactments and harsh
measures by which the worshippers
of the God-State hope to destroy
the faith of thirteen millions of
Catholics. The project of the Falk
laws was brought before the Land-
tag on the 9th of January, 1873, and
on the 30th of the same month the
Catholic episcopate of the kingdom
of Prussia entered a solemn protest
against this iniquitous attempt to
violate the most sacred rights of
conscience and religion.

In the name of the natural law.

>rdiiiff to Act of ConKres% in the year 1874, by Rev. I. T. Hsckbi, io the Oflllce of

the Ubnilan of CoDcren, At Waahiogtoo, D. C.
VOL. XX. — 28

434 The Persecution of the Church in the German Empire.

of the historical and lawfully-ac-
quired rights of the church in Ger-
many, of the treaties concluded by
the crown of Prussia with the Holy
See, and, in fine, in the name of the
express recognition of these rights
by the Constitution, they protest
against the violation of the inalien-
able right of the Catholic Church to
exist in the integrity of its doctrine,
its constitution, and its discipline.

It is of the duty and right of each
bishop, they declare, to teach the
Catholic doctrine and administer
the sacraments within his own dio-
cese ; it is also of his duty and right
to educate, commission, and appoint
the priests who are his co-operators
and representatives in the sacred
ministry ; and it is of his duty and
right to exhort and encourage them
in the fulfilment of their charge, and,
when they obstinately refuse to obey
the doctrine and laws of the church,
to depose them from office, and to
forbid them the exercise of all ec-
clesiastical functions ; all of which
rights are violated by the proposed
laws. As to the Royal Court for
Ecclesiastical Affairs, they affirm
that they can never recognize its
competency, and that they can see
in it only an attempt to reduce the
divinely-constituted church to a
non-Catholic and national institu-
tion.

The Memorial concludes witt
the following noble and solemn
words :

" Concord between church and
state is the safeguard of the spirit-
ual and the temporal power; the
indispensable condition of the wel-
fare of all human society. The
bishops, the priests, the Catholic
people, are npt the enemies of the
state; they are not intolerant, un-
just, rancorous towards those of a
different faith. They ask nothing
so much as to live in peace with all

men; but they demand that they
themselves be permitted to live ac-
cording to their faith, of the divin-
ity and truth of which they arc
most thoroughly convinced. They
require that the integrity of reli-
gion and their church and the liber-
ty of their conscience be left invio-
late, and they are resolved to de-
fend their lawful freedom, and even
the smallest right of the church,
with all energy and without fear.

" From our inmost souls, in the
interest of the state as much as of
the church, we conjure and im-
plore the authorities to abandon
the disastrous policy which they
have taken up, and to give back to
the Catholic Church, and to the
millions of the faithful of that
church who are in Prussia and in
the Empire, peace, religious liberty,
and security in the possession of
their rights, and not to impose
upon us laws obedience to which
is incompatible, for every bishop
and for every priest and for all
Catholics, with the fulfilment of du-
ty — laws, consequently, which vio-
late conscience, are morally im-
possible, and which, if carried into
execution by force, will bring un-
told misery upon our faithful Cath-
olic people and our German fath-
erland."

The organs of the government
declared that the Memorial was
an ultimatum^ "a declailttion oi
war " ; that ** it was impossible to
keep the peace with these bishops;
and that they should be reduced as
soon as possible to a state in which
they could do no harm. " Accord-
ingly, the discussion of the Falk la^"s
was hurried up, and they were adopt-
ed in May by a majority of two-
thirds.

In the meantime, the govern-
ment continued to follow up its
harsh measures against the reti-

The Persecution of the Church in the German Empire. 435

gioQS orders, going so far as to close
the churches of royal patronage in
Pdandy in order to prevent their
consecration to the Sacred Heart
of Jesus. It even forbade the
children of the schools to assist at
the devotions of the Sacred Heart.
The Catholic casinos were clos-
ed ; the Congregations of the Bless-
ed Virgin, the Society of the Holy
Childhood, and other religious as-
sociations were suppressed. The
Catholic soldiers of the Prussian
anny had already been outraged
by having their church in Cologne
ramed over to the Old Catholics.

By the beginning of 1873 nearlv
all the Jesuits had withdrawn from
the territory of the German Em-
pire, and taken refuge in France,
England, Austria, Belgium, Brazil,
the Indies, and the United States.
Those who still remained were in-
terned, and, deprived of all means
of subsistence, placed under the
supervision of the police. The
government next proceeded to take
steps to suppress those religious or-
ders which it considered as affiliat-
ed to the Jesuits. A mission which
the Redemptorists were giving at
Wehlen, near Treves, was broken up
by the police. Another mission
which they were about to open at
Obcijosbach (Nassau) was inter-
dicted; whilst almost at the same
time several Redemptofists were
decorated " for services rendered
to the fatherland during the war."
A community of Lazarists at Kulm
was dissolved, and houses of the
Indies of the Sacred Heart, of
the Sisters of Notre Dame, of
the Sisters of Charity, and of the
Sisters of S. Charles were closed.

Von Gerlach, the President of
the Court of Appeals of Magdeburg,
himself a Protestant, has informed
a$,in a pamphlet which he publish-
ed about this time, of the effect of

these persecutions upon the Catho-
lics of Germany.

"As for the Catholic Church,"
he wrote, " persecutions strengthen
her. In fact, her moral power i$
increased under pressure. The
Catholic Church is to-day more
zealous, more compact, more unit-
ed, more confident of herself, more
energetic, and better organized, than
she was at the commencement of
1871. The Roman Catholics have
good reason to be thankful that
their church has gained in faith, in
the spirit of sacrifice and prayer, in
devoutness in worship, and in all
Christian virtues.

" It is even evident that the in-
terior force of the religious orders,
especially that of the Jesuits, has
been proportionately augmented.
Around these proscribed men gath-
er all those who love them to
protect and help them."

The courageous conduct of the
German bishops in taking a firm and
decided stand against the persecu-
tors of the church met with the
almost unanimous approval of both
priests and people. Dr. Dollinger
and his sect were forgotten. If there
had ever been any life in the im-
possible thing, it went out in the
first breath of the storm that was
breaking over the church. All the
cathedral chapters gave in their
adhesion to their respective bishops,
and their example was followed by
the pastors, rectors, and vicars of
the eleven Prussian dioceses. They
repelled with horror, to use the
words of the clergy of Fulda, the
attempt to separate the members
from the head, and to give to the
priesthood tutors in the person of
a state official. Even the twenty-
nine deacons of the Seminary of
Gnesen entered their protest, recall-
ing in their address to Archbishop
Ledochowski the beautiful words

43^ The Persecution of the Church in the German Empire.

of S. Laurence to Pope Sixtus as
he was led to martyrdom: Quo
sine filio^ pater f

The Catholic nobility, in their
(deeting at MUnster in January,
i873» openly proclaimed their fidel-
ity to the church and their firm
resolve to defend her rights and
liberties; and the Catholic people
began to organize throughout the
Empire.

" The Association of the Catho-
lic Germans," which now counts its
members by hundreds of thousands,
was formed, with the motto. Neither
rebel nor apostate^ Its Wanden)er»
sammlungen (migratory reunions)
spring up everywhere, and become
the centre of Catholic life. This
association is based upon the
constitutional law, its acts are
public, the means it employs are
lawful, and the end it aims at is
distinctly formulated in its statutes.
In this manner the Catholics of
Germany prepared themselves, not
to commit acts of violence or to
transgress the law, but to offer a
passive resistance to tyranny and
oppression, to uphold liberty of
conscience against state omnipo-
tence, and to suffer every evil
rather than betray their souls*
faith.

The Imperial government, on the
other hand, showed no intention of
withdrawing its arbitrary measures,
but through its organs openly de-
clared that " the execution of the
clerical laws would form a clergy
as submissive and tractable as the
Prussian army **; whilst Herr Falk
proclaimed in the Reichstag " that
the government was resolved to
make use of every means which the
law placed within its power; and
if the present laws were not suffi-
cient, others would be framed to en-
sure their execution."

The ukase, signed by Bismarck on

the 2oth of May, 1873, suppressed
the convents of the Redemptoriflts.
of the Fathers of the Holy Ghost,
of the Lazarists, and of the Ladies
of the Sacred Heart ; and the mem-
bers of these orders were command-
ed to abandon their houses before
the end of the following November.
The Ladies of the Sacred Heart
were accused of desiring to acquire
"universal spiritual dominion."

The bishops were called on n>
submit for the approval of the gov-
ernment, in accordance with the
tenor of the May laws, the plan of
studies and the disciplinary rules
of their diocesan seminaries ; which,
of course, they declined to (k),
whilst foreseeing that their action
would bring about the closing of
these institutions. Herr Falk, the
Minister of Worship, ordered an ex-
amination into the revenues of the
different parishes, without even ask-
ing the co-operation of the bishops ;
and the civil authorities were wan-
ed of their duty to notify the gov-
ernment of any changes which
should be made in the body of the
clergy. The police received orders
to interfere, at certain points, with
Catholic pilgrimages, which, in
other instances, were positively in-
terdicted.

The annual allowance of twelve
hundred thalers to Mgr. Ledo-
chowski, ^rchbishop of Posen, was
withdrawn, his seminary wasclosed^
and all teachers were forbidden to
ask his permission to give religious
instruction. In November, 187^
the archbishop's furniture was sdi-
ed ; even his paintings were carried
off. The people, gathering in crowds,
shouted after the oflScials : "Thief!
thief!" On the 23d of the same
month Mgr. Ledochowski was con-
demned to pay a fine of five thou-
sand four hundred thalers, or, in
default, to an imprisonment of two

Tlu PersecuHan of the Church tn t/te German Empire. 437

fears, for having made nine ap-
pointments to ecclesiastical offices
( oBtrary to the laws of May.

Before the end of December, the
iioes imposed upon tiie archbishop
reached twenty-one thousand tha*
lers. In January, 1874, he was
cited before a delegate judge of the
Royal Court for Ecclesiastical Af-
fairs, but refused to appear, since he
could not, in conscience, recognize
the competency of a civil tribunal to
pass sentence on the manner in which
he had exercised his pastoral func-
tions. He moreover averred that, in
case the threat to drag him into
coart should he carried out, it was
his firm resolve to say nothing.

Several priests of the Diocese of
Posen had already been incarcerat-
ed for failure to pay the fines of the
government, and on the 3d of last
February, at five o clock in the
moniing, the archbishop was himself
arrested and carried off to prison in
Ostrowo, a town of about seven
thousand inhabitants, chiefly Pro-
testants and Jews.

The bishops of Prussia at once
drew up a letter to the clergy and
the Catholic people of their dioces-
es* in which they declared that" the
only crime of Archbishop Ledo-
rhowskiwas thatof having chosen to
Mifier everything rather than betray
the liberty of the church of God
ind deny Catholic truth, sealed by
the precious blood of the Saviour."

The canons of the Chapter of
Posen were ordered by the govern-
tnent to elect a capitular-vicar;
and as they declined tp give their
approval to the xruel and unjust
imprisonment of their ardhbishop, a
^ate official was appointed to take
f hargc of the affairs of the diocese.

Both the priests and people of
Prussian Poland remain firm, and
give noble examples of steadfast-
ness, in the faith.

The history of the persecution
in one diocese is, with a few un-
important differences, that of all.
More than a year ago, the annual
allowance of three thousand four
hundred and seventy thalers made
to the Theological Seminary of Co-
logne was withdrawn. Archbishop
Melchers and his vicar-general were
cited before a civil tribunal for
the excommunication of two apos-
tates. The Lazarists were driven
from the preparatory seminaries of
Neuss and Mlinstereifel.

On the 22d of November, 1873,
the archbishop was condemned to
pay a fine of twenty- five hundred
thalers for five appointments made
in violation of the May laws ; and al-
most ever}' week thereafter new fines
were imposed, until finally his furni-
ture was seized on the 3d of last Feb-
ruary, and in a very short time the
venerable prelate was incarcerated,
not even his lawyer being allowed
to visit him. His prison-cell was
thought to be too comfortable, and
he was soon changed to one under
the very roof of the jail. A great
number of pastors and vicars of
his diocese were deprived of their
positions, and some of them impri-
soned.

On the 20th of November, 1873,
the priests of twenty-eight towns
and villages of the Diocese of
Treves were interdicted by the
government, and the bishop fined
thirty-six hundred thalers. The
Theological Seminary was closed,
** not to be reopened until the bishop
and rector should accept in good
faith the laws of May, 1873." Any
seminarians who might be found
there on the 12th of January, 1874,
were to be forcibly ejected.
* The 15th of this same month
the professors were forbidden to
instruct the students of theology,
under penalty of a fine of fifteen

438 The Persecution of the Church in tke German Empire.

thalers or five days* imprisonment cicnt to sustain life. We have

for each offence ; and this prohibi- received from a most reliable per-

tion is to remain in vigor until the son, who during the past summer

bishop accepts the Falk laws. On examined into this whole matter on

the 2ist of January, an inventory the spot, the bill of fare of the

of the furniture of the episcopal priests confined in the prison of

palace was ta^en. The goods Treves, which we here submit to

were sold at public auction on the our readers :

6th of February ; in a few days, BreaJi/aH, Dinner. Sn^.

Bishop Eberhard was thrown into Sunday . ...Porndge.Peas Soap»dBral

prison; and before the end of last T^y.'.^.^dgcpS^o^.'is^l^Si

August sixty of his priests were Wednesday.. Soup.... Ry© Meal.Soup«odBre«L

'V . iy r .,. • .1. J Thursday.... Soup.... Peas Pomd«.

COnfeSSmg the faith in the dun- Friday Coffee... Rice Soup.

geons of Treves and Coblentz. Saturday.. . Pwrid«e.Cabbage...Soup.

The old Dominican convent in Three times in the week, each of

Treves had been converted into a the prisoners receives a small piect

prison, and it is there that the bi- of meat, and this is the only change

shop and some thirty of his priests ever made in the bill of fare which

were incarcerated. The prison dis- we have just given. What we have

cipline is rigid and harsh in the ex- called " porridge *' is known at

treme. These confessors of Christ are Treves under the name of ScAiulu,

forced out of their beds at five and is a kind of flour-paste. When

o'clock in the morning, and from this we reflect that there are in Germacy

until they retire at nine in the even- to-day not less than a thousand

ing they must either walk to and fro priests who are suffering this slow

in their cells, or sit upon stools, since and cruel martyrdom, we shall bi

chairs ar« not allowed. If during able to realize that the present

the day they wish to lie down for a pagan persecution may in all troth

moment, an ofiicial at once informs be compared to those which, in the

them that this is not permitted ; if first ages of Christianity, gave to the

they lean against the wall, the table, church her legions of martyrs and

or the bed, they again receive the confessors. It is not necessary

same warning. A jailer accom- that we should enter into a detail*

panies them whenever necessi- ed account of the persecution in

ty forces them to leave their cells, the other dioceses of Germanr.

All letters to and from the prison The same scenes are everywhenr

are read by the officials, and, in enacted — fines, citations, seizure of

case the slightest pretext can be effects, interdicts, and iraprison-

found, are destroyed. None save ments, on the part of the govcm-

those who have voluntarily given ment ; whilst the Catholics, stand-

themselves up, and who, after a first ing in unshaken fidelity to God and

imprisonment, have not received an conscience, suffer in patience evcnr

ovation from the people, are allow- outrage that their enemies can in-

ed to say Mass. The bishop is flict, rather than betray the sacred

permitted to celebrate the Holy cause of the religion of Christ. The

Sacrifice, but no one is suffered to May laws of 1873 did not prove

be present except the server and* sufficiently harsh or tyrannical to

the indispensable government offi- satisfy the Prussian infidels; and

•cial. they were consequently supplemefit*

The food seems scarcely suffi- ed by clauses which passed both

The Persecution of the Church in the German Empire. 439

bouses of the Reichstag last May.
In virtue of these amendments, the
$utc can decree the sequestration
of the goods of an ecclesiastical
post not occupied in the manner
prescribed by the Falk laws. In
this case, these goods are to be ad-
ministered by a royal commissary.

The Royal Court for Ecclesiasti-
cal Afiairs receives the power to
depose bishops; and, this deposi-
tion being once pronounced, they
are forbidden to exercise any eccle-
siastical functions in their respec-
tive dioceses, which by this very
fact are placed under interdict.
When the bishop is deposed by the
Royal Court, the cathedral chapter
b straimoned to proceed to elect
his successor ; and in case it fails
to comply with this injunction
within ten days, all goods belong-
ing to the episcopal see, as well as
those of the chapter of the diocese,
and of the parishes, are sequestrat-
ed and administered by the govern-
ment.

This miserable legislation gives
to the state the entire spiritual
power, and ignores alike the rights
of God and those of the free Chris-
tian conscience. Still, it is only
ihe legitimate and logical expres-
sion of the views and aims of the
modem heathendom which is or-
ganizing throughout Europe for
the destruction of the religion of
Christ.

The May laws of 1873 required
the bishops to convert all the
incnmbents having charge of
churches into permanent and irre-
movable parish priests; in conse-
quence of which the position of
twelve hundred and forty-one in-
cumbents in the Rhine Province
became illegal on the nth of last
May. A general interdict was
therefore expected, and even a pro-
ce» to compel the bishop to com-

ply with this clause was looked for ;
but Herr Falk seems to have
been frightened by his own legis-
lation, since already, on the 8th
of May, he announced in the
Reichstag that only those priests
whom " the government considered
dangerous " would be notified of
the proceedings taken against the
bishops, and that no others would
be held to come under the opera-
tion of the law. In this manner
the Prussian Minister of Worship
avoided the odium of a general in-
terdict, whilst by a slower process
he hopes eventually to bring about
this result. The moment the in-
cumbent of a church receives offi-
cial notification that his bishOp
has been put under restraint, he is
by the very fact forbidden to per-
form any ecclesiastical function,
and his post is considered vacant.
The Landrath then declares this
vacancy^ and invites the parishion-
ers to prepare for the election of a
successor to their former pastor.

That this election may take
place, it suffices that ten men, who
are of age and in the full posses-
sion of their civil rights, put in an
appearance, that the person chosen
by them and approved of bjr the
civil authority may be recognized
as the lawful incumbent.

The evident aim of this law is to
create a schism in every parish in
the German Empire, which, by fo-
menting divisions amongst the Ca-
tholics, would greatly aid the gov-
ernment in its efforts to destroy the
church. But this is only one of
innumerable instances in which the
persecutors have been wholly mis-
taken.

They counted first upon the
weakness of the Catholic bishops ;
confidently expecting that one or
the other of them would place him-
self at the head of the Old Catho-

440 The Persecution of the Church in the German Empire.

lies, and thus, whilst causing great
scandal in the church, gfve to that
still-bom sect at least a semblance
of respectability. But not one
of the German prelates wavered.
They go to prison, like the apos*
ties, Fejoicing that they are found
worthy to suffer for Christ, and de-
clare that they are willing to shed
their blood for the holy cause.
Their enemies are not more ready
to inflict than they to bear every-
thing for the love of Jesus. Then,
there was no doubt in the minds
of the Prussian infidels that large
numbers of the clergy would take
advantage of the bribes offered by
government to apostates to throw
off the authority of the bishops,
and to constitute themselves into a
schisraatical body. On the con-
trary, the persecution has only
drawn tighter the bonds which
unite the priests with their chief
pastors. In all Germany there
have not been found more than
thirty rationalistic professors and
suspended priests who were willing
to take sides with DoUinger in his
rebellion; and the juridically-pro-
ven immorality of Bishop Rein-
kens will no doubt give us a true
insight into the characters of most
of the men who have elected him
their ecclesiastical superior.

When the persecutors found that
both bishops and priests were im-
movable in their devotion to the
church, they appealed to the Ca-
tholic people, and, by the laws of
last May, placed it in their power
to create a schism, by giving them
the right to elect their own pastors,
with the promise that government
would turn the churches over to
them. But this attempt to show
that the bishops and priests of Ger-
many have not the sympathy and
confidence of the laity has met
with signal jebuke.

The elections for the Prussian
Landtag in November, 1873, aod
those for the Reichstag in Janatrj
last, had not merely a political sig-
nificance; their bearing upon the
present and future welfare of the
church in the German Empire is of
the greatest importance. Opportuni-
ty was given to the Catholic people to
make a public confession of faith;
to declare, in words which could not
be misunderstood, whether or not
they were resolved to stand firm in
the struggle into which their leaders
had been forced.

In the November elections, in
spite of every effort of the govern*
ment, the Catholics increased their
representatives in the Landtag from
fifty-two to eighty-nine; whilst in the
Reichstag their members have grown
from sixty-three to considerably
more than one hundred.

The entire Rhenish Province elect-
ed Catholics. Cologne, DasseldoH,
Treves, Coblentz, Aix-la-Chapeile^
Crefeld, Bonn, Neuss, DUren, Essen,
Malroedy, MUlheim, all the cities
of the Lower Rhine, made their vote
an act of faith. Windthorst, the
leader of the Catholic party, was
elected at Meppen (Hanover) over
Falk, the author of the May laws,
by a majority of nearly fifteen thou-
sand. The entire vote for Falk was
only three hundred and forf y-seven.

The result of the elections un-
doubtedly startled the government,
and possibly shook Bismarck's con-
fidence in the power of persecution
to destroy Catholic faith ; but the
struggle had grown too fierce to al<
low him to think of withdrawing.

On the contrary, the firmness of
the Catholic people incited the per-
secutors to still harsher measures;
but nothing that they have done or
can do will succeed in breaking the
combined passive opposition of the
clergy and the laity.

Tke Persecution of the Church tn ilu German Empire. 441

Itt the Vatican Council, the most
detennined resistance to the defini-
tion of the infallibility of the Pope
was made by the German bishops,
who felt no hesitation in openly de-
claring with what anxiety they re-
garded the probable effects of such
a definition upon the Catholics of
their own country. Divisions, apos-
tasies, schisms, seemed imminent;
and it is not easy now to determine
what might have been the result had
not God's providence interfered.

In the first place, at the very mo-
ment when the definition was made,
the terrible conflict between France
and Prussia broke forth, and raged
40 fiercely that the loud earth was
stnjck dumb, and men held their
breath till it should be ended. In
the meantime, the angry feelings
aroused by the discussions in the
Vatican Council had, in great mea-
sare, been calmed, and it was possi-
ble to take a fairer and more dis-
l)a5sionate view of the whole subject.

Then the attempt of the govern-
naent to destroy the Catholic Church
in Germany, by tearing it away from
»ts allegiance to the Pope, and de-
basing it to a mere function of the
itate, roused those who might have
^)een disposed to waver, and brought
about a universal reawakening of
toh. It is the fate of the enemies
of God's* people to bless when they
mean to curse. In fact, when
Catholics begin to suffer, they
•»egin to triumph ; and hence even
those who hate us have of nothing
<o great horror as of making martyrs
wd confessors. They know the
history of martyrdom — that in the
vholc earth and in all ages it
means victory.

The church, which sprang from
the conflict of the God-Man with
Jcath, like him, in her greatest
humiliation shows forth her highest
power.

Her march through the world
and through the ages is not along
pleasant roads and through peace-
ful prospects, or, if so, only at
times and rarely. If she move in
pomp amid the acclamations of
peoples, her triumphal procession
ends in sorrow. The bark of Peter
must be storm-tossed ; and when
the angry waves would swallow it,
the divine voice speaks the magic
word, and the quiet deep bears it
up on her peaceful bosom.

The road wherein the progress
of the church is most secure is the
blood-stained way of the cross.
When she is all bruised, and there
is no comeliness left in her; when
her eyes are red with weeping, and
the world, beholding her agony,
mocks and jeers and laughs her to
scorn, then is she strongest ; for
her strength comes from humility,
from suffering, from the cross.
When she is humbled, God exalts
her; when he permits her enemies
to entomb her in ignominy, he is
near at hand to crown her with the
immortal glory of a new life. The
word of Christ is : " You shall
live in the world in the midst of
persecutions ; but take heart : I
have conquered the world."

Within the memory of those
who are still young, it was the fash-
ion with our enemies to proclaim
that the church was decrepit, that
she was dying, that of her own weight
she would fall to pieces in the new
society that was growing up around
her : to-day we hear that she is
everywhere waxing too strong, and
men appeal against her to tyranny
and to brute force.

The most powerful and the most
thoroughly organized of the modern
nations, the great Cultur-Staat of
the age, has confessed that it is
unable to check the growth of the
church by legitimate means, and it

4^2 The Persecution of the Church in the German Empire.

has therefore had recourse to the
most arbitrary legislation and to the
harshest measures of compulsion
and violence. This, of course, is
the most explicit avowal of its own
impotence. We find also that the
two nations which have manifested
the most supercilious indifference
to the Catholic Church, as being
something which did not and
could not concern them, now ap-
plaud this Prussian tyranny, in
spite of ^he pretence of the love of
freedom and fair play. The sym-
pathy of the English press, and to
a great extent of the American
press, in this struggle, is with the
absolute and liberty-destroying gov-
ernment of Prussia. The favorite
motto of " civil and religious liberty
all the world over " has been wholly
lost sight of, and Englishmen and
Americans give moral aid to a state
which wantonly tramples upon
both.

This, too, was a cherished watch-
word : The church is the friend of
absolutism, the enemy of freedom.

But to-day we behold the Catho-
lic Church, single-handed, fighting
again the same battles of liberty
which she fought and won in the ear-
ly centuries of Christianity. Now, as
then, she opposes absolutism in the
state; denies, as she then denied, that
Caesar can lawfully lay claim to
•* the things of God ** ; and protests,
in the ndme of the outraged dignity
of human nature, that there is a free-
dom which transcends the sphere
of all earthly authority. Her chil-
dren, when nothing else remains to
be done, utter the divine words :
Non possumus — we cannot ; we must
obey God rather than men.

Referring to this struggle, Bis-
marck has said, in a memorable
•peechi that ** it is the ancient con-

test for power, which is as old as
the human race itself — the contest
for power between king and
priest." This is necessarily the
view which he takes, since he bc^
lieves in nothing but force. But
the dualism here is not in the com-*
batants alone ; it is in the objects
for which they contend.

It is indeed the ancient contest
between good and evil, between Iha
spirit and the flesh, between th^
Christ and the rulers of this worldf
which makes life a warfare and the
earth a battle-field, and which must
continue until the end. Never has
it been fiercer than in our day, anj
the battle is yet hardly begun. But
very few indeed understand,*as yet,
the nature of the struggle, or are at i
all aware of the real principles asd
interests which are at stake. F«w
men can see further than an hour ,
or beyond the little circle thai
bounds their private interests ; bui
each day it is becoming more evi- '
dent that men must take sides ; that
not to be for Christ is to be against
him.

Twice in the last eighteen hun-
dred years the church has been the
ark of the nations : she destroyed
paganism ; she converted and civi-
lized barbarism. Some , historian
will tell, in another age, how, when
Christian society, grown IVixurious
and corrupt, without God and with-
out future hope, was sinking back
into the flesh-worship and the death
of ancient paganism, she, gathering
around her the remnant of her chil-
dren, and fearlessly facing the storm
and the wrath of those who had
ceased to know her, kept her own
pure and undefiled till the dawn ot
the brighter day, to become the
leaven of the social state that \^ to
be.

Christmas- Tide. 443

CHRISTMAS-TIDE.

•TwAS the hallowed Chflstmas even-
Christmas of the olden time,

Earth in snowy robes lay sleeping,
But there came a ringing chime
From the forest

Deck'd with glittering frozen rime.

Bright the golden stars were gleaming
Through the cloudless frosty air,

Like the tapers softly beaming
Round some holy shrine of prayV,
And the night wind

Chants an anthem faint and rare.

Cheer'ly shone the Yule-log, glowing

In an old baronial hall,
Ghost-like shadows rose and faded

On the ancient panelled wall :
0*er my spirit
Mournful fancies seemed to fall.

Happy hearts were gathered round me—
Laughing childhood, free from stain ;

Maidens, in their girlish beauty ;
Manhood's gaze, undimm'd by pain ;
And the aged,

Who might never meet again.

Gathered on that Christmas even

In the old ancestral home,
Breathing words of hope and kindness,

'Neath that lofty arching dome,
Ere they parted
Through life's thorny paths to roam.

Christ maS'TuU*

Two beside the hearthstone lingered —

Aged sire, and lady fair ;
He of life's long journey weary ; .

But her softly waving hair

Graced a forehead

Yet unmarked by trace of care.

Spake then out that youthful mother
With her babe upon her knee

To the grandsire^old and hoary,
Like a leafless forest tree :
" Tell me, father,

What thought Christmas brings to thee/

Silently he gazed upon her,
On her brow so pure and white,

On her dark eyes, softly beaming
With affection's holy light ;
But a shadow

Lay upon his soul like night.

" Daughter, in life's joyous morning
Christmas comes with merry cheer.
Fancy tints a glowing pathway
Bright'ning with each coming year :
On the picture
Falleth not a shade of fear.

" Childhood smileth in its gladness,
Archeth Hope her rainbow bright —
Ah ! he strives to grasp the vision ;
Fades it from his eager sight :
Soon around him
Closes Disappointment's night.

" In the noontide, manhood kneeleth
Low before Ambition's shrine.
Praying : * Goddess, hear thy vot'ry,
I no altar seek but thine ' :
Fame's wan fingers
^Withered chaplets for him twine.

" But when fall the length *ning shadows.
When life's even stealeth on,

Christmas-Tide. 445

Memory opes her golden casket.
Counts her jewels one by one —

Earth's dream fadeth ; ^

Her bright smile remains alone.

** One by one my loved departed
To the far-off spirit-land —

One by one they crossed my threshold.
Till, the last of that bright band,
Sad and weary,
By a stranger hearth I stand.

** As the wand'rer homeward speeding
Marks the Southern Cross decline,
I am looking ever backward
To the stars that faintly shine;
But one beameth
With a radiance all divine.

* Star of Bethlehem ! ere the sunlight

Of another Christmas blest
Rises in the glowing Orient,

Light, oh ! light me to my rest I
I would slumber
Calmly in earth's quiet breast."

Slowly, slowly crept a Shadow

Through that silent, darkening room-
Softly loosed the cord of silver.
Led that soul from Sorrow's gloom

To the valleys
Where the flowers immortal bloom.

446

T/if Veil Withdrawn.

THE VEIL WITHDRAWN.

trahslatbd by pbitmlssion, prom thb prbnch op madams c1iavbn, authob op '

*'plburancb/' BTC

bHstobt."

XXX.

The portrait of Gilbert I have
drawn is not incorrect. He was as
noble as I have represented him,
and it is certain that, in speaking to
me as he did that day, he was very
far from the thought of laying a
snare for me, or even for himself.
Whether he was absolutely sincere
or not I cannot say, but probably
as much so as I, at least during the
few first days after this conversation.
Thanks to the method of reasoning
I have given above, and which I
thought original, it seemed to me
that this frequent intercourse with
a man unusually superior to any one
I had ever known, and who, very
far from addressing me any silly
flattery, almost invariably appeal-
ed to all that was highest in my
nature, and, without alluding to the
<ause of my troubles, knew how to
divert my mind completely from
them — it seemed to me, I say, that
this intimacy, this sort of imaginary
relationship which I had accepted,
was not only lawful, but beneficial,
and I regarded it even as a just
compensation for so many cruel de-
ceptions. In a word, I had lost,
through the frivolity of my recent
life, that clearness of spiritual vljion
which is maintained by vigilance
alone, and I was a long time with-
out suspecting that this idle frivo-
lity, with all the exuberant gayety
that accompanied it, was a thousand
times less dangerous than tlie long
conversatioQS, to which the perfect
harmony of a kindred mind, and

the contact with a soul so noble
that it seemed to ennoble mine, lent
such a charm, and gave to my life
a new interest which I had never
experienced before.

There was no apparent, or even
real, difference in our interviews
from what they were before,' and an?
one might have heard evel^ word
he addressed me. And yet I fell
that he by no means talked to roc
as he did to others, and I, on mr
side, conversed with him as I did
with no one else. We were seldom
alone together, it is true, but every
evening, either in the drawing-room
or on the terrace, he found an op-
portunity of conversing with roc a
few moments without witnesses. He
did not conceal from me that he re-
garded these as the most precioui
moments of the evening ; and as to
this I scarcely differed from him.
Occasionally, something inexpressi-
ble in his voice, his looks, and even
in his silence, made me tremble,
as if I felt the warning of some ap-
proaching danger. But as he never
deviated a single word from the riU
he had taken, my torpid conscience
was not aroused! Lorenzo was
still absent, though the time fixed
for his return had long gone by ; and
when I was expecting him the sec-
ond time, I received a letter an-
nouncing a further delay, caused, as
he said, by " a circumstance that was
unforeseen and independent of hb
will.''

A flush of anger rose to my face

.'^

The Veil Withdrawn.

447

iding this letter, though I
acknowledged that the pro-
I of his absence did not
s the same chagrin it once
I did not ask why. I took
in recalling with a kind of
:ncy the aggravating wrongs
rpeatedly endured, and it
o me he had less right than
eny a heart he had so crueU
ded any consolation what-
; remained.

ly this second letter arrived
on the point of starting for
luvius, where, for a week,
>f peppFe had been going
uriosity, as is the case at
w eruption. It was nearly
fore we set out. My aunt
two daughters were of the
;sides Gilbert, Mario, and
as well a^ two foreigners
n the time of the Carnival,
iuously haunted the steps
wo cousins. One was a
Jaron von Brunnenberg, an
t dancer and a great lover
; the other an Englishman,
roung, of fine figure and
a proportions, whose name
ry Leslie.

was a certain embarrass-
our departure among the

of the party, caused by the
eous desire of several of
avoid the calUhe in which
lelia had at once installed

I observed this hesitation,
IS far from flattering to my
It, and hastened to take a
de her. The young baron,
3rted her, then concluded
r my example, and I made

Lando to take the vacant
He obeyed me less eagerly
al. Stella, my two cousins,

young Englishman took
m of the other carriage,
ssumed the lead, followed
envious eye by the baron

as well as Lando, who, I remarked,
seemed in a less serene frame of
mind than usual. Gilbert and Ma-
rio came after in a carozzeila, which
formed our rear-guard.

At first everything went on plea-
santly. My aunt was very fond of
pleasure excursions, and she re-
garded this as one, particularly as
we were all to take supper together
at my house on our return. The
conversation did not slacken an in-
stant as far as Resina, where we ar-
rived at nightfall. There we left
the main road to take that which
led directly to Mt. Vesuvius.

A new crater had this time been
formed below the well-known cone
from which the fire and smoke gen-
erally issued. It was like a large,
gaping wound on the side of the
mountain, which sent forth torrents
of fire, ashes, and red-hot stones.

Consequently, instead of being
obliged to climb to the summit in
order to witness the eruption, we
were able to drive so near the
stream of lava that we only had to
walk a short distance to see the ter-
rible opening, which was approach-
ed more or less closely, according
to the degree of boldness or curi-
osity with which each one was en-
dowed.

But the spectacle presented an
imposing appearance long before
we saw it close at hand, and I was
in the height of admiration when I
heard a murmur beside' me : " O
Gesd, Gesd! . . . O Madonna
santa ! . . ." Turning around, I be-
held my aunt, pale with fright, kiss-
ing the cross of the rosary she held
in her hand.

Donna Clelia, as we are perfectly
aware, knew how to brave danger
when she found an occasion worthy
of the trouble. We had a proof of
this A(i the memorable day of the
combat on the Toledo. Bui, as it

448

The Veil Withdrawn.

has perhaps also been perceived,
she was rather indifferent to the
picturesque. Consequently, there
was nothing at this moment to
stimulate her courage, and I was
alarmed at the condition in which I
saw her.

"O Ginevrina mia ! ..." said
she at last in a trembling voice,
" nan mi fido ! No, I have not the
courage to go any further. . . . Ma-
donna ! . . ."

This last appeal was caused by a
stream of fire brighter than any of
the preceding ones, and accompa-
nied by a loud detonation.

" But merciful Lord ! What fol-
ly !" she continued. "What ca-
price ! What madness ! How can
you wish to rush into such a lake of
fire while you are still alive ! . . .
Oh ! no, not yet ; no, never ! O
mamma mia/ misericordia ! ..."

Each new stream of fire produc-
ed a more lively exclamation of
terror. All at once she leaned her
head on my shoulder, exclaiming :

" Ginevrina ! . . . I feel I am
going to have 2. papariello T *

At this we stopped the carriage.
It was evidently dangerous to take
her any further. But what should
We do ? . . . Must we give up our
excursion, and retrace our steps }
We were not inclined to do this.
Besides, the other carriage was
some distance in advance, and could
not be recalled. In this dilemma
we were rejoined by the carozzella,
Gilbert and Mario leaped from their
carriage to ascertain what had hap-
pened to. us.

"What is it, Zia Clelia?" said
Mario, approaching the carriage,
and perceiving my aunt in the at-
titude I h|ive just mentioned. She
raised her head.

•*0 Mario! figlio mio ! It is

* Neapoliun for a nervous attack.

because I cannot endure this stoni
of fire. It is the end of the worid
— ^the day of judgment ! . . . How
it oppresses me ! . . . How it stiAes
me! . . . O my God! zxA^^fcvett
raga%tc^ ikfve sofwt . . . O holy
Virgin, lead us all back safe and
sound to Naples, and I promise
you that for nine days . . ."

She finished her vow moitallf,
for Mario at once decided on the
only thing that could be done, aid
devoted himself to the task. He
would take her back to Resina in
the carriage, and there await onr
return.

The exchange was soon effected.
My aunt did not require any insist-
ing, after we promised to bring her
daughters back without allowing
them to incur any danger. In the
twinkling of an eye she was placed
beside Mario in the carozsella with
her back to Mt. Vesuvius, whik
Gilbert took her place beside mr
and we pursued our way as fast a<;
possible, in order to make up for the
time we had lost.

We soon arrived at the place
where we were obliged to leave the
carriage.' Gilbert aided me in de-
scending, and then gave me his arm,
while Lando and the baron went in
search of the other members of the
party, who only had Mr. Leslie to
protect them. They were soon oat
of sight, and Gilbert remained alone
with me.

I will not repeat here what every
one has seen or read concerning the
eruptions of Mt. Vesuvius. 1 will
merely say to those who have not
had the experience, that this ex-
traordinary spectacle, assuredly the
most wonderful and at the same
time the most terrific in the whok
world of nature, causes a singular
fascination which induces the spec-
tator to approach continually near-
er and nearer the fiery crater. It

The Veil Withdrawn.

449

impossible to turn away his
eyes. He keeps on, therefore, with-
out looking to the right or left,
without seeing where he is walking,
«tainbling at every step over heaps
of lava scarcely cold, regardless of
tk ipugh path with its sharp, burn-
ing stones, the effect of which is
afterwards seen on his garments
and shoes, though he does not think
•f it while exposed to the danger,
aore apparent, perhaps, than real,
fcut which indubitably exists, how-
ever, as is proved by the numerous
accidents that occur at every new
eniption.

Leaning on Gilbert's arm, I was
too firmly supported to stumble,
a»dw«»able to ascend to the top
of a ridge of lava formed by pre-
ceding eruptions ; and there, pro-
tected by an immense block on the
▼ery edge of the flaming abyss, I
contemplated the awful, imposing
spectacle ! Gilbert did not utter a
word, and I attributed his silence
to the impression which likewise
rendered me dumb in the presence
of this terrific convulsion of nature.
The huming laVa, issuing, as I
have said, from a crater on the side
of the mountain, did not spring up
to fall back again on the summit, as
osual, but it advanced like a large
river of fire over the heaped-up
tnasscs of cold, black lava, giving
them the most singular, fantastic
forais. It was like a city, not on
fire, but of f^ ! It seemed as if
one could see houses, towers, and
palaces; and in the midst of these
imaginary edifices moved the fiery
stream! For lava does not flow.
However steep the descent, it
''lops and goes no further as soon
■i^ the crater ceases to emit it.
But it had not yet stopped. On
the contrary, it pursued its slow,
pitiless course, consuming vine-
yards, swallowing up houfies, and

VOL. XX. — 29

burning the trees and bushes in its
way.

It was a sight difficult to endure
for a long time, and yet I could
not turn my eyes away from so
mysterious and terrible a specta-
cle.

" O my God !" I murmured,
" this is truly la citih dolente / We
have before our eyes an exact rep-
resentation of the last day of the
world! . . ."

Gilbert made no reply. He was
overcome by I know not what emo-
tion more powerful than mine, and,
looking at his face by the red light
of the fire, I was alarmed at the
change in his features and their
unusual expression.

"Would that that day had ar-
rived for me!" said he at length.
"Would that this were really the
last day of my life ! Yes, I would
like to be swallowed up in that
flame ! I would like to die here
on the spot where I am — beside
you — worthy of you. ..."

In spite of the terrific scene be-
fore me, in spite of the noise of the
explosions and the sullen sound of
the lava, the tone in which he
spoke was distinctly audible, and
made my heart beat with mingled
emotion and fear.

"I am afraid you are becoming
dizzy, Monsieur de Kergy," said I in
a trembling voice ; " take care. Its
effect, they say, is to draw one into
the abyss."

** Yes, Donna Ginevra," replied
he in the same strange tone, "you
are right. I am dizzy. I am ap-
proaching the verge of an abyss, I
know. I have rashly exposed my-
•self to the danger. I have pre-
sumed too much on my strength."

The look he fastened on me, as
he uttered these words, gave them
a meaning I could not mistake. It
was no longer Gilbert who spoke —

450

The Veil Withdrawn.

it was not he to whom I had ac-
corded the rights of a safe and
faithful friend. The veil with which
I had wilfully blinded^my eyes sud-
denly fell off, and the emotion I
was seized with, the material flames
that surrounded me, and the cer-
tain peril into which another step
would have plunged me, gave an
exact idea of the danger to which
I had foolishly exposed my honor
and my soul !

I covered my face a moment
with my hands, but spoke as soon
as I dared.

" Monsieur de Kergy," said I in
a supplicating tone, '* cease to look
at the fire around us. Lift up your
eyes, and see how calm and beauti-
ful the night is above this terrible
inferno y

In fact, a bright moonlight was
diffused over this terrific scene, and
the contrast between the earth and
sky could not have been more
striking.

Gilbert's eyes followed mine, and
remained for some time fastened
on those peaceful starry worlds,
which seemed as far remote from
the agitation of our hearts as they
were above this frightful convul;
sion of nature. I felt in my soul
the need of powerful assistance, and
murmured in a low tone : " O my
God, have mercy on me!" with a
fervor that for a long time I had
not felt in my prayers.

After a long silence, Gilbert said
to me in a low, agitated tone :

" Will you pardon me, madame }
Will you trust in me to take you
.away from this place V^

"Yes, I trust you. But let us

make haste to leave so dangetocs a
spot. Do you not hear the frightM
explosions } Do you not see the red-
hot stones that are fl)ring over ow
heads? . . ." And as I spoke a
cloud of thick smoke added obscu-
rity to all the other horrors of the
place.

" Do not be alarmed," said Gil-
bert in a tone once more calm
and decided. '^ We must certainly
hurry away, but there is no danger
yet, unless from fear. Give tte
your hand."

But I hesitated wlien he endea*
vored to take it, and made an invo-
luntary movement, as if going to de-
scend without his assistance.

" In the name of heaveOt" said
he rapidly, trembling with agitaticm
and terror, " do not refuse my as-
sistance in the danger we arc ia-
You cannot do without it. Y<m
must give me your hand, madame. '

His agitated voice became al-
most imperious. I gave him mv
hand, and even complied when he
told me to rest the other firmly
against his shoulder.

" Now," said he, " descend care-
fully. You need not be afraid. I
will support you. In spite of this
whirlwind of fire and smoke, I can
clearly distinguish my way."

He made no further observations*
as we slowly descended ; and a>
soon as we were in a place of safe-
ty, I left him, and leaned against 3
tree at some distance, trying to get
breath. Besides the violent agiu-
tion of my heart, the suffocatinf
air that surrounded us gave me ^
feeling of giddiness and faintness
that was almost overpowering.

XXXI.

The stream of fire and smoke
ihat obliged us^ to leave the place
where we were*standingha^ a like

effect on all who were in the ▼icin-
ity of the fiery current. We wcr<
therefore soon joined by Tertsiw

The Veil Withdrawn.

451

and LandOy Mariuccia and the
baron. But I felt extremely anx-
ious at seeing nothing of Stella and
yoang Leslie, who had left the
odiers to go further below, in order
to get a better view of the lava in
its coarse to the plain. The fear
lest some accident had happened
to them began to chill the blood in
my veins, but I was soon reassured
l>y seeing them at last reappear
with blackened faces and torn gar-
ments, while Stella was barehead-
ed, and her hair streaming in dis-
order.

"Good heavens! what has hap-
pened to-you ?"

" Nothing, nothing," said Stella,
out of breath. " We will tell you
everything by-and-by."

Here Mr. Leslie interposed, de-
claring that the Countess Stella
wa? "the bravest woman he had
ever met — a heroine, and an angel
of goodness."

"You are entirely mistaken,^*
said Stella, drawing up the hood of
her cloak. ** But I have lost my
bonnet, and nearly destroyed my
shoes also, I fear. Let us start im-
mediately. We will relate every-
thing afterwards."

As she was there safe and sound,
it was really much better to put off
any further particulars till another
time, and return to Naples as quick-
ly as possible. We started, there-
fore, without any delay, only stop-
ping at Resina long enough to take
ray aunt, who, having devoted the
whole time of our absence to a
siesta, was completely rested, and
had quite recovered from her ter-
ror. Mario was less good-humor-
ed; but when, a little after mid-
night, we all assembled at last
around the supper-table that await-
ed our return, every one seemed
satisfied with the excursion we had
'nadc. I alone felt I had brought

back a heart more agitated than at
our departure.

Stella still refused to answer our
questions, pretending to be too
hungry to think of giving the ac-
count we were all so eager to hear ;
but Mr. Leslie was only too glad
to assume the task, and at once
proceeded to satisfy our curiosity.

** We were," said he, " watching
the lava, as it advanced with a dull
sound resembling the distant report
of grape-shot, when all at once we
heard a succession of heart-rending
groans a few steps off. At our ap-
proach we found a man lying on
the ground. I endeavored to raise
him. Impossible: he had broken
his leg. Countess Stella question-
ed him, and the story he related
was a sad one. Like so many of
the other poor creatures, he had
deferred leaving his house till the
last moment. His wife was ill in
bed, with a .little boy of five or six
years old beside her. He kept hop-
ing the lava would stop before it
could reach his dwelling — they
all hope that! He went out two
or three times an hour to see how
far it had progressed, and finally
saw all hope was vain. The lava
kept on its course, regardless of any
one. He had barely more than
half an hour to save his wife and
child, and then carry away what he
could. He rushed towards the
house ; but in the haste with which
he endeavored to make up for lost
time, he had fallen from one of
those black rocks you are so fami-
liar with, on the spot where we
found him, unable to rise. It was
necessary to hasten ; the lava was
continually advancing. In less
than a quarter of an hour it would
reach his hut, and his wife and
child were there ! . . . I could
not understand what he said," con-
tinue the young Englishman with

452

The Veil Withdrawn.

an expression of benevolence and
courage which added to the effect
of his narrative, " but while I was
gazing at the devouring current
that was advancing towards a house
I supposed empty, I suddenly saw
the countess dart forward without
any explanation. I understood it
at once, and followed her. Out-
running her, I was the first to ar-
rive at the house, and had already
taken the woman and mattress in
my arms when the countess joined
me. * Take the child !* I cried.
He was screaming, the poor thing;
for, in taking up his mother, I had,
without intending it, thrown him
on the floor. He was a boy of
about six years pf age, and heavy
to carry, I assure you. But kind-
ness and courage gave strength.
The countess picked him up as if
he were a feather, and we hurried
out of the house. The heat of the
fire was already intolerable, and
the earth under our feet heaved at
every step. I thought a dozen
times we had sacrificed our own
lives in trying to save theirs. But
no, thank God ! we all succeeded —
woman, child, and ourselves, with
the mattress — in reaching the poor
wounded man, whose cries of terror
now gave place to those of joy. He
had reason — the poor creature! —
for we were hardly in safety before
we heard a horrid sound, this time
like the noise of cannon — it was
the shock of the burning lava
against the house we had just es-
caped from. What a sight ! Good
God ! . . . But since it must have
happened, I am not sorry I was
there ! The fiery stream first pass-
ed around the house, then rose, as
if to wrap its red flame around it,
and finally swept over the roof;
and when everything was engulfed,
it quietly continued its course.
The poor people wept; but, a%er all,

they were thankful to be alnre,
and kissed the hands of the Count-
ess Stella, calling her an angei sent
by the Madonna and a thoosand
other things of that kind. It was
now time to call for assisUnce, and
by the aid of two or three peasants
we transported them all into a habi-
tation, where they were received
for the night. To-morrow I shaB
go and carry them some assistance.
And now, Madame la Duchesse,
you know how the Countess StcUi
lost her bonnet, and why we were
so late."

The effect produced by this ac-
count cannot be described. Gilbert
eagerly raised his head, and I saw
his eyes glisten as he listened. As
for me, my heart leaped with a kind
of transport, while my dear, noble
Stella made fruitless eflbrts to stop
the acclamations her courage drew
even from those who were the
least accessible to enthusiasm,

" What an absurdity !" exclaimed
she as soon as she could make her-
self heard. "Who of you would
not have done the same thin^?
Stop, I beg of you, or rather, listen
to me. Let us all join in buying
these poor people a cottage to ^^
place the one they hare lost."

This proposition was of coane
acceded to with ardor and anaai-
mity. My Aunt Clelia instandy
plunged into the depths of her
pocket, and had already opened
her well-stocked /^/^-isiM'iuva^r when
Lando rose and exclaimed :

"Stop, Donna Clelia; put your
gold back in your pocket — for the
moment. I have an idea. Let os
do as they do in Paris."

" Oh ! bravo !" exclaimed my two
cousins in a breath.

" Yes," said Teresina with enthu-
siasm, " as at Paris, I beg of yoa.
But what ? how '> say !"

" Listen, all," said Lando— "b-

The Veil Withdrawn.

453

ay programme. It contains
for us all. First, Donna
l's is the easiest, but most
isable. She must lend us one
[rawing-rooms where a small
ect number can assemble.
union shall take place to-
, ... no, the day after to-
, when — pay special atten-
w, Monsieur le Comte de

rt, hearing his name, looked
surprise, while Lando stop-
ay very swiftly in Italian to
ghbor, " You know he is
ed for his eloquence,"
ntinued : " And then, the
le Kergy, here present, shall,
[>ening of the meeting, make
liscourse, in order to explain
?ct of the contribution we
erwards expect of each one.
relate the account we have
ard, and add all he pleases
te excursion we have made

and the various incidents
ire taken place. We shall

on his omitting nothing
:urred. Foi^ Donna Tere-

Donna Mariucciawill sing
iccompanied by the Baron
nnenberg ; and if you wish
leral chorus, here we are»
^eslie, and myself, ready to
r assistance. Finalmente^
e to the most important;
Qtess Stella will recite some
f her own choice, and you
e heard her know what is
ve for those who are to
• for the first time. After
he moment to present your
tions, and you shall give
esult. Chenediur
d not have declined, even
had any serious objections
:his proposition, which was
lusly received with even
nthusiasm than the first,
lough really endowed with

the talent lando was desirous of
profiting by, seemed annoyed.
Gilbert's face darkened, and he
resumed the gloomy, preoccupied
expression he had for an instant
shaken off; but to protest or refuse
was as impossible for them as well
as me, and before separating, at two
o'clock in the morning, the meeting
was decided upon and appointed
for the next day but one.

When I found myself alone, it
was impossible to think of sleep,
notwithstanding the advanced hour
of the night. My chamber was at
one end of the house, and opened
on the lateral terrace opposite that
of the drawing-room. I opened
my window, and took a seat outside.
There, in the imposing silence of
that beautiful night, I sought
calmness and the power of reflec-
tion. The uncommon courage
Stella had just given a proof of
produced a salutary effect on me.
Her example reacted somewhat
against a fatal enervation that was
gradually diminishing my moral
strength. I admired courage, and
my soul, however enfeebled it might
be, responded at this moment to
her noble, generous impulse. With
my eyes fastened on the flame that
now lit up the whole horizon with
its sinister gleam, I thought the
sight ought to inspire Stella with a
lofty emotion such as follows the
accomplishment of an heroic deed-;
whereas I — it was with a shudder
I thought of the contrast it suggest-
ed !.. . I tried to avoid dwell-
ing on what had taken place. I
wished to believe it was my imagi-
nation alone that disturbed and
alarmed me ; that nothing was chang-
ed ; but I could not succeed, and
at last I was forced to consider
what I should do — what was the
course prescribed by the new light
to which I could no longer close

454

The VeU Withdrawn.

my eyes ? But as soon as this ques-
tion was clearly placed before me,
I experienced the most violent re-
pugnance to solve it.

Gilbert's sweet, beneficent friend-
ship alone had enabled me to en-
dure the destruction of my happi-
ness. Could I adroit the necessity
of renouncing it? What had he
ever done till to-day to give me
reason to regret my confidence in
him ? For an instant, it is true,
and only for an instant, he had not
seemed like himself, and my heart
beat, in spite of myself, as I recall-
ed his look and the accent of his
voice ; but did I not attach too
much importance to words which,
after all, were vague and incoherent ?
Should I not take time to reflect ?
Such were the questions I asked
myself, in order to impose silence
on my reason and the actual voice
of my conscience. I succeeded so
far as to defer the reply I was un-
willing to listen to, and put off my
decision, whatever it might be, till
the following day.

It was late when I awoke, for I
did not go to sleep till daylight;
and I had not yet left my cham-
ber when the following letter was
brought me. It was dated the
same day at three o'clock in the
morning :

" Madame : A few hours ago I
addressed you in a moment of de-
lirium. What I said I know not.
But what I do know is that you
understood me, and, in order to re-
gain your confidence and make you
forget what I uttered, I should be
obliged to declare what is false,
and this I cannot do. No, I will
not be false to myself, were I, by
speaking the truth, to forfeit a hap-
piness I ought to have courage
enough to deny myself, and which
I shall, at least, renounce if you re-
quire it.v

" I only ask you not to condemn
me without a hearing. For <m«
allow me to speak plainly, though
it be of myself; which is repngnint
to me, as you may have perceived.
But it is necessary to do this in
order to throw light on the deci-
sion you will afterwards have to
make.

" I believe I have a high idea of
the use a man should make of his
life, as well as a profound convic-
tion he will have to render an ac-
count of the way he spends it In
a word, I adhere, thank God, to
the faith of my mother, and desire
to live as much as possible in ac-
cordance with this faith, and as it
becomes an honest man and a
Christian to live.

" To this end, I have given my ac-
tivity every possible scope — ^bng,
fatiguing journeys, hard study, ac-
tive concurrence in a multitude of
enterprises that seemed to have
an useful object. I have entered
eagerly into everything that could
absorb my mind and time, not
so much out of disinterested zeal
for doing good, as from a cal-
culation that is allowable, I think ;
for it is founded on a distrust of
myself, resulting from an exact
knowledge of the shoals on which
I might easily be wrecked.

" I dreamed of a happiness, com-
mon enough in many countries, but
rare in ours — that of knowing, lov-
ing, and choosing the one I would
make my own ; but this is a difficult*
thing in France, and I had a stnig
repugnance to any other way of
deciding my lot. I persistently re-
fused to consent to any of those
so-called chance encounters one is
constantly drawn into by officious
friends without number in Paris,
who are always ready to take posses-
sion of any one who has the misfor-
tune to be considered a bonp»rtL

The Veil Withdrawn.

455

** In avoiding these encounters I
was spared other temptations still
more dangerous, and I met with
nothing to disturb my peace of
mind till the day I saw you the
first time, madame. I had no con-
versation with you on that occa-
sion, but I observed you, I heard
your voice, and listened to some
of your remarks. I noticed your
indifference to the homage that
surrounded you, and the evident
absence of vanity which your beau-
ty rendered so strange, and I be-
came afraid of you. Yes, I felt I
must avoid you, and I did so reso-
lutely. One day, however, you
were, without my being aware of it,
in the audience I addressed, and
Diana afterwards presented me to
you. The opinion of every one
else immediately became indiffer-
ent to me. I only cared to know
what you thought of my discourse,
and to ascertain if there was any
mental sympathy between us. I
thought I discovered some in the
few words we exchanged, and my
resolution to avoid you only be-
came the more fixed. I even re-
sisted my mother's entreaties to join
some of the excursions she made
with you. Consequently, I only met
you once, as you are aware, ma-
dame, and that was at home, where
I could not avoid the happiness of
being beside you.

** I perceived you were sad that
evening, in spite of your charming
smile and gayety of manner, which
were no less dangerous to me than
your tears. I saw it, and was terri-
bly agitated. And when at last
the time came to bid you farewell,
I could not summon the resolution,
bat said instead ^au revoir*

"Nevertheless, I allowed long
months to pass. I waited till time
had somewhat effaced the vivid-
ness of my recent impressions, so I

should no longer fear to meet you,
and then I made an excuse to stop
at Naples a few days on my way to
Egypt. The day l arrived here,
though I detest balls, I could not
avoid attending that given by the
French amb5.ssador, and there I
saw you once more !

" Shall I acknowledge it } When
I saw you in all the* splendor of
your dazzling beauty, enhanced by
your dress, and surrounded by
adorers, I felt a momentary relief.
I congratulated myself on having
braved the danger of seeing you
again/ It seemed to me at that
moment the image I had so cher-
ished in my heart was effaced, and
I was no longer in any danger.
Alas ! the next day you were no
longer the same. I found you as
you once were, but I had not the
courage to fly from you. My stay
was to be short, and I yielded to
the happiness allotted me, per-
suading myself the habit of seeing
you daily might diminish the effect
of your influence.

** At length, madame, in good faith,
as I thought, I ventured one day
to ask you to regard me as a friend,
and promised to be worthy of the
favor. I firmly believed I promis-
ed you nothing beyond my strength.
A single instant was sufficient to
reveal to me, even more clearly than
to you, the extent of my illusion.
You see I make no attempt to con-
ceal anything from you now. I no
longer try to deceive you. But in
spite of all I have said, I implore
you not to bid me depart. In ask-
ing this I feel sure of never offend-
ing you again. I cannot hope for
the return of your confidence. I
no longer claim to be regarded as a
friend. I even promise to speak to
you henceforth but seldom. But I
beseech you not to deprive me of
the happiness of seeing you ! Do

4S6

The Veil WWtdrawn.

not punish me so severely ! Do
not yet command lAe to go. That
word would be an order I should
at once obey, or rather a sentence
I should submit to without a mur-

mur ; but there is no criminal who
has not the right to petition for
mercy, and that mercy I now im-
plore at your feet.

XXXII.

My mother, in portraying the
lineaments of my youthful soul,
once spoke of a precious jewel hid-
den in its depths. She doubtless
referred to the inclination for what
is right and the lively horror of evil
she discovered there. But does
not this jewel exist with more or
less purity and brilliancy in the
depths of every human soul, requir-
ing only a perverted will to crush
it utterly, or a feeble, undecided
will to tarnish its lustre and dimin-
ish its value? My life, though not
very culpable in appearance, was
now drawing me in its soft current
into that state of sluggishness, in-
action, and weakness which is ar dis-
solvent of this supernatural jewel
without any equal in the natural
world.

I-»orenzo, notwithstanding his jeal-
ous vigilance during the earlier pe-
riod of our married life, did not hesi-
tate to take me to all the theatres,
and at Paris he placed in my hands
some of the most celebrated roman-
ces of the day. This somewhat
disturbed the equilibrium of my
mind, and produced a certain agita-
tion of soul, which is the natural
consequence of an unhealthy inte-
rest in works to which genius and
talent have the cruelty to lend their
irresistible power. When we reflect
on the value of these divine gifts,
the source from which they ema-
nate, and their power of diffusing
light and awakening the mental
faculties, we cannot help thinking
how cruel it is to employ them in
kindling everywhere a fire so de-

structive to the human soul — the
only real, irrevocable death.

But, in spite of the inevitable
effect spoken of above, the strong
disgust and repugnance they speed-
ily produced in my mind prevented
their poisonous emanations from
affecting me seriously. Now, after
being so long exposed to influen-
ces doubtless less deleterious than
those, but by no means strengthen-
ing, a more subtle snare was laid
for me. . . . The letter I held in
my hand was not an efliision that
should instantly have aroused my
conscience, which, though torpid,
was not hardened ; no, its language
was such that I read and reread it,
and allowed the sentiments it ex-
pressed to penetrate my very heart
And yet, what was the substance of
this letter ; what was its real signi-
fication ? However noble and su-
perior to other men Gilbert might
appear in my eyes, of what avail
V as this nobleness, this superiority,
this purity of his soul even, when
he began to tread the lower path
of common mortals with the vain
thought that he could maintain a
straight course better than others ;
. . . that he could make me so
decidedly explicit a declaration, and
promise me an inviolable respect,
which he immediately deviated
from the first time he had the op>
portunity? . . .

But this truth did not at that
time appear in the light in which
I saw it at a later day, and a terri-
ble struggle took place in my heart.
Illusion was no longer possible. I

The Veil Withdrawn.

457

to longer say I had a stire^
friend whose attachment
^wable, and yet I could not
to give it up. I tried to
e myself, with all those ar-
$ that present themselves
as one is ready to listen to
lat this sacrifice was unne-
In the bottom of my
wever, another voice made
ard, repeating more strong-
aming of the night before —
divine voice, scarcely audi-
be midst of all this agita-
dl, when heard, was not lis-

was ^he day I usually went
Livia, but it was quite late
; remembered it. My first
was to omit going for once,

had always been punctual
e interviews, in spite of
bstacle, and Saturday was
r day I could be received,
me minutes' hesitation I
ited the temptation to re-
home.

g the whole period of frivo-
ety that marked the first
of my life at Naples, far
;hing to avoid seeing Livia,
leasure, on the contrary, in
ler advice, which I was by
s as afraid of, even in Car-
ne, as my Aunt Clelia. I
ething like a place besieged
nost surrounded by the
>ut still not wholly inacces-

the friendly power dis-
D deliver it. As I have
«where, Livia's voice al-
ok a correct pitch, >unmis-
to the ear, and I loved to
► it, even when mine was
k to sound the same note
; power and clearness,
rom the day of Lorenzo's
e, so doubly fatal, instead
careless gayety I usually
the convent to acknowledge

and correct, I was filled with a
sadness and anxiety Livia was not
slow to perceive, and, instead of
gently shaking her head, as she
smiled at my account of the some-
what too gay a life into which I
had been led by Lorenzo, she now
fastened a grave, anxious look on
me, to which I replied by pouring
out all the bitterness of my fresh
grievances without any restraint.
After this explanation, which suffi-
ciently accounted for the change
she had remarked, I spoke no more
of myself, and never once men-
tioned Gilbert's name. I was
angry with myself for this reserve.
I longed to overcome it, and tell
her, as I had often told myself, that
in Gilbert heaven had sent me a
friend whose influence was delight-
ful, salutary, elevated, pure, and so
on. These words came to my lips,
but I could not utter them before
her.

Once (it was the Saturday be-
fore) there was a new change in
the expression of ray face — a change
which •reflected, I suppose, the in-
secure and dangerous happiness to
which I had unscrupulously yield-
ed. Seeing me appear with a smil-
ing air and a calm, untroubled
face, she at first seemed pleased,
but, after observing me for some
time, said :

" Has Lorenzo returned?"

" No."

She looked thoughtful.

" Do you know when he will re-
turn r

" I do not know," said I bitterly ;
" and, in fact, I begin never to ex-
pect him, and almost not to wish
him to return."

I saw a slight movement of her
clasped hands like a shudder. She
raised her large eyes, and, looking
me in the face, said :

"Take care."

453

Tki ViU Withdrawn.

Her look and words greatly trou-
bled me, and I did not recover
from the impression till it was time
for Gilbert to arrive in the evening,
when his presence made me forget
it. I thought <Jf this to-day, and
perhaps the remembrance added to
the repugnance I felt to go to the
convent. Perhaps it also caused
the unusual emotion I experienced
when I found myself once more in
the parlor — the very parlor that
filled me with so much terror the
first time I entered it, but which I
afterwards forgot, so different were
the impressions that followed.

But whatever the joy, the trou-
ble, the agitation, or, as to-day, the
anguish, with which I came, a few
minutes sufficed to put me in har-
mony with the inexpressible tran-
quillity that reigned around me.
'rhe pulsations of my heart dimin-
ished, and I experienced the effect
a pure, vivifying air produces on
one who has just come from a
heavy, feverish atmosphere. The
bare walls, the wooden seats, the
extreme simplicity and austeiity on
every side, inspired me with a kind
of attraction that would have sur-
prised those who daily saw me in
my sumptuous home, surrounded
by all that wealth and the most re-
fined taste could procure. This
attraction, incomprehensible to my-
self, was like that vague perfume the
traveller breathes when approach-
ing some unknown shore which
he does not yet perceive. . . .

But on this occasion these things,
instead of producing their usually
beneficial, soothing effect, caused me
a kind of uneasiness akin to remorse,
and I soon found the solitude so
difficult to endure that I had some
idea of profiting by the interval that
remained in order to leave the con-
vent under some pretext without
seeing my sister. But the strength

of mind that, thank heaven, I still
possessed prevented me from kav-
ing the place, and I became absorb-
ed in thoughts I dared not fathom,
so utterly discordant were they with
everything around me, and so diffe^
ent from what they seemed in tiie
light by which I regarded them
only an hour before.

At last the door opened, the cai»
tain was drawn aside, and Livia
made her appearance.

" You are late, Gina," said she
" I was afraid I should not sec yoi
to-day."

I stammered some excuse, as she
gave me a scrutinizing look with
her usual expression of extreme
sweetness.

" You do not look so happy as
you did last Saturday, Ginevra, Yob
are agitated and excited to-day.
Will you not tell me the reason ?"

I was tempted to make her a
thorough, sincere confession; bm
the moment I was about to begin I
was struck with the impossibility of
speaking in that angelic place of
what seemed elsewhere only natural,
excusable, and almost legitimate.

Seeing I made no reply, she gen-
tly said :

** Lorenzo has not yet come home.
Of course his absence afflicts you.
Be patient and forbearing, I conjure
you, Ginevra."

Her words caused me a kind of
irritation, though I was glad to
elude her previous question, and I
hastily replied :

*' Livia, you require too much of
me. Some day I may become pa-
tient and forbearing, but at present
it is impossible."

" Gina, Gina, do not say so," said
she in the tone in which she used
to correct the faults of my childhood.

"O Livia! your poor sister
finds life hard, I assure you. How
happy you are ! . . ."

The Veil Withdrawn.

459

*• Yes, I am happy,'* she softly re-
iKed.

" Who would have said it, howev-
r." I continued in an agitated tone,
'when Lorenzo came to woo me
rithso many assurances of affection,
many promises of happiness ? . . .
That all this should prove false and
llusory! ... Oh! when I think
\i it, I no longer have the strength
..."

"Ginevra!" said Livia, sudilenly
ntemipting me in a tone of. autho*
■ity, "it is useless to talk in that
nanner. You speak like a child I"

She seldom spoke to me in this
ray, and I stopped.

**At the time you are speaking
>iy she resumed, " do you re-
member my telling you one day — ^it
■^ only a short time before your
marriage ..."

I hastily interrupted her in my
turn.

"I have not forgotten our con-
versation, Livia. That was the day
you told me I was going to pro-
nounce the most fearful vow there
is in the world. But, sister, I was
not the only one who made it."

**No, certainly not. You mean
ti> say that Lorenzo has violated the
solemn vow that bound you togeth-
er. . . Yes, Gina, it is horrible, I
acknowledge, but listen to me; if
you continue to think more of your
own wrongs than of God, whom he
Has offended a thousand times more ;
i<^ you continue to complain and
dwell on your injuries, the result
»ill be, you will soon seek likewise
to be released from the fidelity you
vowed to him. And then (may
<iod preserve me from ever seeing
that day, when I shall be truly
"^parated from you !) your fall will
^ speedy, rapid, and terrible. You
^'11 fall as low, perhaps, as you
"^ight now rise high."
She saw me shudder at these

words, and continued with her usual
mildness :

" Now, my dearest Gina, may God
and his angels watctt over you ! . . .
It is growing dark. The bell is
about to summon irfe away. I have
only time for one word : Forget
your hearty I implore you. Believe
me, God will some day satisfy its
cravings, if you cease to listen so
weakly to them, longing to have
them gratified at all costs. Forget
your heart, I say, and think only
of your soul!"

The bell rang while she was sp»eak-
ing. She raised her hand, and made
the sign of the cross in the air. !t
bowed my head, and when I raised
it again she had disappeared. But
she had not spoken in vain. The
clouds that obscured my reason
began to disperse, my courage be-
gan to revive, and the jewel within
to regain the brilliancy that had
been obscured in the depths of my
soul. The course I ought to pur-
sue was set before me with painful
distinctness, but I no longer turned
my ejies away from it.

I was not happy when I left the
convent. I did not even feel calm
or consoled ; but I had come to a
decision.

It was so late when I arrived
home inat the garden was filled
with moonlight. I walked there a
long time, absorbed in my reflec-
tions, and sincerely endeavoring to
strengthen a resolution whose fulfil-
ment I did not yet dare to consider.
I trembled as I asked myself if it
was necessary to utter the decisive
word before another day, or if I
could wait till after the soiree or-
ganized by Lando, when it would
be no longer possible to defer it.

I still hesitated as^ to this point.
Though I had come to a decision,
I did not cease to sufier, but I ceas-
ed to be weak. I was very far

4^0

The Veil Withdrawn.

from the summit, but I resolved to
attain it, instead of remaining as far
below as I now stood. A circum-*
stance, insignificant in itself, noiK^
occurred to confirm the change in
my mind.

The door of Lorenzo's studio
was open, and, wishing to shorten
the way to my chamber, I entered
it, and was proceeding towards the
other door when I found myself
face to face with the vestal of
which I was the model. The
moon threw so brilliant a light over
it as to produce a striking effect.
I stopped to look at it, and, while
doing so, it seemed as if this statue
of myself spoke to me in its own
way, and in a language similar to
that I had so recently been listen-
ing to. .

And what was the idea which
Lorenzo really intended to express
in this vestal — the finest of his pro-
^ ductions ?

One of those ideas which, under
the inspiration of genius, sometimes
sprang from his soul, and seemed
for an instant to show a sen«e of
t*he good equal to that he had of
the beautiful. This was, alas ! only
a transitory gleam of light, but it
was sufficient to justify the ambi-
tious hopes I once felt for a day —
hopes so fatally illusory at the very
time they were conceived !

Lorenzo's idea in choosing the
ancient guardians of the sacred fire
as his subjects was to represent
under these two figures the woman
who was true to her highest mission,
and the woman who was untrue to
it; the latter making use of the
holy fire under her charge to kindle
a flame that would end in destruc-
tion and woe; the other striving
to keep this very fire alive, diffusing
its clear, brilliant, beneficent light,
not only over herself, but over
cverytWng around her

Such was the idea he had
been able to embody, he said
he had me for his model. Ail
was doubtless the dream of
artist ; but while I stood contemf
ing what had resulted from it,
effect I experienced was so straj
the thoughts^ that came to my ra
were so vivid, that they could <
have been the whisperings of
voice that for an hour^had spo
more and more clearly to
heart.

The statue, however ideal;
it might be by the genius of
sculptor, resembled me sufficiet
for me to recognize the likeni
Flooded as it now was by a brillii
unearthly light, I looked at it w
an attention I had never done
fore. I observed its simple, dij
fied attitude; the head slightly
dined towards the symbolic fla
that rose from the lamp she bort
her hands with so much ease, t
yet with care and vigilance; ai
finally, the mouth and eyes,
which it seemed to me no arl
had ever expressed so clearly 1
gentleness, firmness, and purity
wished to depict. It was th
Lorenzo imagined the guardian
the divine fire which not only bui
ed on the sacred altar, but kindJ
and fed the noblest inspirations i
genius. . . .

Yes, the conception was a beau
ful one, and I felt proud and gnl
fied that he had found me worti
of being the model to realize it !

All at once I was struck witli
kind of terror, as it occurred to a
Shall this resemblance be mere
external ? Are not many thinj
wanting in my nature which tit
statue seeks to express, and (
which its beauty is only the ith
tion? . . .

O my God! I thank thw
Everything becomes an instrame^

The Veil Withdrawn.

461

m thy hand. It was thou, and not
this marble, who didst suggest this
thought, and it was through thy
grace that, at that moment, quicker
than I can express it, and as clear-
ly as the eye beholds a picture
placed suddenly before it, I all at
once saw if Lorenzo were present,
ofider the roof that was his, and
Gilbert were also there — Gilbert,
vho called himself my friend and
not his— there would exist at my
fireside, there would be infused into
ny life, a perpetual lie, unmistaka-
ble treachery, and constant danger.
I saw and realized that, though he
might not apparently have anything

to reproach me for, everything
within and around me would hence-
forth continually reproach me. I
saw if the sacred lamp did not ac-
tually fall from my hands, the
purity of its flame would speedily
be dimmed, and certainly end by
being wholly extinguished. . . .

All this became clearly visible
and palpable, and in the presence
of this voiceless marble, before the
image of this pagan priestess, I re-
newed the tacit promise I had an
hour before made to her who was
the living Christian realization of
this ancient ideal of a virtue pure
and chaste.

XXXIII.

I went up to my chamber, not
only startled at the vividness of the
impression I had received, but de-
cided as to my course. The words
falsehood and treachery that came
to roy mind produced a powerful
efiect on me, and would, perhaps,
have had the same effect on every
voman who happened to be in a
similar position, if she had the
courage to call things in this way
by their right names. It is plea-
sant and delightful to inspire and to
experience those profound emotions
song by poets and exalted by wri-
ters of fiction, but it is not noble
to be false. No poet has ever said
so, no writer of fiction has ventur-
ed to insinuate it. Now, it is this
^^Uity, so essential a feature in
all these little dramas of the heart
(real or fictitious), which ought,
it seems to me, to disgust even
those who do not act from any
higher motive than those of the
world. As for me, the mere thought
that it would henceforth be impos-
sible to speak of Gilbert's friendship
without falsehood, and, at Lorenzo's
^um, that I should not have the

same right as before to loo]p him in
the face — this thought, I say, was
sufficient to inspire me at this mo-
ment with so much determination
that I thought my irresolution at an
end. It seemed as if I should have
but little difficulty in accomplishing
the task from which I no longer
endeavored to escape. But in the
evening, when, at a late hour, Gil-
bert arrived, I was somewhat mov-
ed at perceiving my outward calm-
ness and animation made him sup-
pose I acquiesced in his wishes ; for,
after looking at me an instant, he
seemed suddenly relieved from a
lively apprehension, and his eyes
flashed with joy.

There was considerable company
in the drawing-room that evening,
and consequently a good deal of
noise. They had a kind of rehear-
sal of what was to take place the
following evening. My cousins
were at the piano with the baron
and Lando. Leslie, at a distance,
was gazing at Stella, who, under the
pretext of looking over a volume
of Dante, in order to select some-
thing to recite, was seated apart,

462

The Veil Withdrawn.

silent and absorbed. There was
no one on the terrace, and I pro-
ceeded in that direction. I felt
that Gilbert's eyes followed me ; but
he hesitated about joining me. I
likewise felt some hesitation, but,
fearing I might again become irre-
solute, and wishing at once to make
it impossible to'yield to the danger,
I looked up, and motioned for him
to follow me. In an instant he was
at my side, and, as I remained silent,
he said in an agitated tone :

" I hope you have pardoned me,
madame."

I was terribly moved on my
part, but it would not do to mani-
fest it.

" Yes," I replied, " I forgive you ;
for you have been sincere, and that
is worth everything else. But, Mon-
sieur de Kergy, I must be sincere
likewise. Let me therefore say to
you, leave Naples. You ought to,
and it is my wish."

He was greatly agitated, but did
not utter a word. I continued
with a calmness that astonished
me, though my heart beal with
frightful rapidity :

" To-morrow, I know, every one
will depend on hearing you speak,
and I also. But do not remain in
Naples beyond the following day,
if you can possibly help it. And
after you are gone, I am sure you
will be glad you obeyed me."

He made no reply.

"Who knows?" continued I gen-
tly. " The day will come, perhaps,
when we can meet again — when we
can* be truly friends without de-
ceit, without falseness in the real
sense of the word. What is impos-
sible now may not be always."

While I was speaking he leaned
against the wall with folded arms.
He listened at first with his head
bent down; but he now suddenly
raised it, and I saw such a veil of

sadness over his eyes and w1
face that I had to make a vk
effort to maintain my self-c
mand.

At last he said :

*' You are right. It was foil
me to come; it would be gr<
folly to remain. I will obey
madame. I cannot complain, a:
respect you as much as I . . .**

He stopped, for I made a de
catory gesture. What I had to
was said, and I felt our inten
ought not to be prolonged. I
about to leave the terrace wher
detained me.

" A moment more, madann
beg — only one, and the last:
who knows if you will grant
another, even to bid vou f.
well? ..."

I stopped.

"Yes," continued he slowly,
would like to think, as yoa \
that I shall be permitted to sec 1
again some day, and sincerely
your friend. Time will pass
my head and yours. You will
always be young and beautii
Long years will doubtless p^
To enable me to endure the \
sent, I must look forward to
time when I shall be no M
young, and can see you again, 2
resume without fear the tiik
ought not to claim, I acknc
ledge, while there is any danger
profaning it. I await that day."

It was by no means with indii
ence I listened to his agitati
trembling voice ; but I maniM
nothing outwardly, and was e^
able to smile, as I replied :

" It will not be necessary to *
so long as you suppose, I ^
you. Long before my hair grtj
white, what there is good and K
in your friendship will be rest<^
to me. For before that day «*
one, more beautiful than I (^^o^

Tlu Veil Withdrawn.

463

vOi not be difficult to find), and,
moreover, worthy of you, to whom
you can give your whole heart, will
have effaced the remembrance of
the passing fancy I have caused
vithout intending it, but which
dull not be prolonged a single in-
iCant with my consent.-'

I passed by him without looking
up or giving him time to reply,
and returned to the drawing-room.
There I seated myself on a sofa in
an obscure comer of the room, or
lather, I fell on it, pale, faint, and
exhausted by the effort I had
made.

I did not believe a word of what
I had just said to Gilbert. My
ihity was to send him away, and
this duty was accomplished ! But
I by no means desired another
should so soon efface my image. I
said v> to allay his regret and ap-
pear indifferent. I was proud of
the courage I had manifested.
When I compared myself with Lo-
renzo, I thought myself perfectly
heroic, and I was about to have
reason to think myself a thousand
times more so.

lando at that moment left the
piano, where he had been stationed
all the evening beside Teresina.
The latter, it may be remarked en
fananiy had profited so well by his
hints that her toilet had become
irreproachable, and now added sin-
gularly to the effect of her beauty.
Lando perceived it, and it was
evident he also thought of my
cousin's by no means despicable
dowry among her other attractions,
as a possible means of abridging
Kis exile and returning to Paris
before the two years had expir-
ed. When, tlierefore, I saw him
coming with a grave air towards '
the place where I was seated, I
thought I was about to receive a
communication I had long been

prepared for. I did not suspect
what he had to say concerned me
much more directly than himself.

"Cousin Ginevra," said he in a
low tone, as he took a seat beside
me, **I have had news from Mi-
lan." ^

I started involuntarily. He did
not notice it, but continued :

"News which proves I was not
mistaken the other day when I told
you the beautiful Faustina would
take good care to avenge you.
Only, I did not think it would be
so soon."

Brought back so suddenly to the
most painful reality of my life, I
was the more startled and con-
founded at what he said. Lando's
gossip was usually odious to me;
but now, instead of imposing si-
lence on him, I insisted, on the
contrary, that he should conceal
nothing from me.

" Well, then," continued he, " it
seems the fair Milanese, notwith-
standing her belle passion for Lo-
renzo, had never been able to con-
sole herself for being deprived of
the duchess* coronet on which she
had depended. So while neglect-
ing nothing to maintain the ascen-
dency she had regained over him,
she was not wholly indifferent to
the homage of a certain potentate
from the Danube who offered to
share with her his principality and
his millions. She was still hesitat-
ing, it seems, between ambition *
and love, when Lorenzo, who had
some suspicion, and was on the
alert, unexpectedly came upon his
rival. Then there was a violent
scene and high words, which ended
in a challenge. They were on the
point of fighting when the lady
prevented the affair from going any
further by declaring she would give
her hand to the potentate ! ... So
in a short time, I imagine," con-

464

The Veil Wiihdrawn:^

tinued Lando, rubbing his hands,
** Dornia Faustina will take her de-
parture for the banks of the Dan-
ube. You will be delivered for
ever from her, and we shall soon
see Lorenzo come home in a terri-
ble humor. But, frankly, it is good
enough for him. This punishment
is not the hundredth part of what
he merits when he has a wife like
you !"

" O merciful heaven ! what a
fate is mine ! and what a husband I
am obliged to immolate myself
to! . . ."

Such was my first thought on
hearing this account, and an hour
after, when I went to my chamber,
I had not yet overcome the bitter-
ness and agitation it caused me.
My temptation became stronger
and more formidable than ever,
and the desire again sprang up in
my heart to retract the sentence I
had so recently pronounced. To
see him, hear him, sometimes
speak to him, and meet his sym-
])athetic glance — was all this really
forbidden me ? Would this be
fLiiling in my duty to the husband
who had outraged me so publicly ?
No, no, it could not be. . . . No
one yet knew Gilbert was to leave
Naples. A line, a word, from me,
would suffice to prevent his de-
parture. The new life created by

his presence would continue as if
nothing had happened that ought to
terminate it! . . . I had alreadj
seized my pen and written the
word . . . when suddenly there
awoke in my memory the wordt of
Li via : " Think of God, whom he
has offended a thousand timesmoce
than he has you'* ; and afterwank.
these : " If you seek likewise to hi
released, your fall will be ^>ee^
rapid, and terrible."

The recollection of these wofdi
stopped me and made me shmkkL
I now perceived what gradatioM
I had passed through withia ft
month. I felt that Livia was righl
— should I descend from the height
I had just attained, it would i^
deed be to fall lower than I wsi
before, and perhaps to the lowe$t
depths !

My sister in her quiet ceil stiB
aided me with her prayers, which
doubtless augmented the increase
ing light in my soul. I tore up the
note I had begun to write, and,
again preparing myself to struggle
and suffer more than ever, I calmlf
renewed the resolution I had be«
so near breaking. It seemed to roe
this slight victory, though it did
not lessen my sadness, added to loy
strength, and made the jewel with-
in gleam with a lustre somewhat
brighter than before.

Another General Convention of the P. E. Church.

465

ER GENERAL CONVENTION OF THE PROTESTANT
EPISCOPAL CHURCH.

ate convention of the
: Episcopal Church has,
, disappointed everybody,
ul care to avoid anything,
ght cause a rupture, the
:tions of this large and re-
denomination have spok-
i other, and parted. The
none the wiser, and we
ink that they are. High-
n have maintained their
ith smooth dignity; Low-
in have gained some points,
jr have lost others; and
have hidden themselves

If neither party is suit-
is the consolation that no
ased ; and from this uni-
gative we presume the
I comes to an universal
* that all are pleased,
long ago foreseen this re-
they who, arguing from
:ion of Bishop Cummins,
to hear something deci-
e way of doctrine, have
ow peace may be main-
simply abstaining from
: Episcopal Church has
creed. Its articles of
itradict its offices. Its
Tiembers interpret both,
[)m the Babel of conflict-
)ns no certain sound can

Thus it has been, and
I be to the end. There is
thing on which Episcopa-
: — namely, hostility to the
IThurch. With various de-
gnorance or honesty, they
es of the only body which
ith authority, whose forms
VOL. XX. — 30

they counterfeit by sad travesties
or servile imitations.

The action of this convention, as
far as it concerns the interior struc-
ture of the church, which they pro-
fess to have modelled after the
American Constitution, has no
particular interest for the world.
Some improvement may have been
made in the canons, of which we
can be no judges. Legislation is
one of the peculiarities of our day.
If it be harmless, it is looked upon
as a safe use of force and nerve
which, expended in another direc-
tion, might have done damage. We
proceed to notice a few things
which are of importance, and they
are the only acts of the conven-
tion which, on the reading of the
journal, strike us as of any conse-
quence.

We are happy to be able to con-
gratulate our friends on the rejec-
tion of the provifuicU system. With
them it would have worked very
badly, because a province supposes
some central government and a unit
in authority. When a province
separates from its parent state, it
becomes independent. If there be
ni home government, there can
be no province, properly so-called.
The committee very learnedly ex-
plains the constitution of the primi-
tive church, and concludes that it
would not apply to them, and could
not without injury be forced upon
them.

" Your committee assume that the
terms 'prorinciaU system* are used in
the resolution in their full ecclesiastical

466

Another General Convention of the P. E. Church.

and primitive sense. In the early church
there were : i, the parish ; 2, the diocese ;
3, the province ; 4, the patriarchate. The
parish had its priest, the diocese its
bishop, the province its archbishop, the
patriarchate its patriarch. Among these,
the dominant and most active power was
the province with its archbishop. Speak-
ing generally, we may say that it possess-
ed the powers of this body and of the
House of Bishops, and many of the powers
of our diocesan councils. The provinces
were disconnected and independent, ex-
cept as, by very slender lies, they were
united in the patriarchate. Such a sys-
tem would dismember this church*, and
out of this now compact, now united
body create five, or seven, or ten separate
churches. The ties which may at first
unite them will grow weaker smd weaker.
However similar they may be at the mo-
ment of dismemberment, at that moment
the process of divergence will begin, and
it will go on until the separation will be
as great as that now existing between
York and Canterbury. Those provinces
now communicate with each other only
informally.

" Any institution of provinces or pro-
vincial synods, with powers subject at
all times to revocation by the General
Convention.wouldbe useless and illusory.
The provinces, if invested with irrevoca-
ble powers, and discharged from the con-
stant and necessary authority and super-
vision of the General Convention, cer-
tainly might, and probably would, soon
diverge into widely differing practices
and opinions, engendering ecclesiastical
conflicts, threatening the unity of our
church."

Nothing could be plainer than
this argument. In any Protestant
organization, the least separation
makes an independent church. It
could not be otherwise where there
is no infallible authority and no
divine government to bind all the
members to one head. It must be
sad to the lovers of primitive pu-
rity to know how imperfect the con-
stitution of the early church was.
Everything tended to disintegration,
and a more perfect system has been
found out by the wisdom of modern
•days. In the mind of the commit-

tee, the hand of God had nothing
to do with the primitive church;
for there is only one author of con-
fusion and disorder. These learn-
ed antiquarians never heard of the
See of Rome, and do not know thai
OUT Lord said to Peter, " Thou atl
the rock, and on this rock will ]
build my church." Viewing, thenii
however, from their own stai«d*
point, we are glad to note thcii
acuteness, and to congratulate thert
that they have not divided them-
selves.

It appears also that there wa»
some disposition to consider the
American Episcopal Church as a
province of the English, and to|
treat the Archbishop of Cantcrborti
as a kind of patriarch. This di*-i
position was rebuked by the con-'
vention. The following are amonjjl
the remarks made in the House of.
Deputies which show that the quim\
mission of the Bishop of LichficM '
was fruitless : '

" The right reverend gentleman wh**
has taken so strong an interest in ihi«
subject has made a proposition, and (fctj
proposition is that we should become oacj
great province, if you please, with ibei
Archbishop of Canterbury as metropifei-'
tan of these United States for the nonet \
and that in all these conferences tfce|
Archbishop of Canterbury, as the greHi
metropolitan or patriarch, is to preside.

" I know that many are wont to call ibt
Church of England the mother church. IJ
hold that she is not. If so. I claim h
to be nothing but a very poor stcpKOihc
The church in this country never w;
perfected till she got her perfection by tl
consecration of Seabury from the bishoj
of Scotland ; and if we acknowled|rc
mother other than the mother church
Jerusalem (which I am not prepared
acknowledge), we must ackno^^leJ^
Scotland, not England.

" I could say a great deal more on li
subject— full of it I am ; but. under u
circumstances, I think I have said cnou^
to satisfy the members of this hohse li
they had better let it alone, and wait i
the bishops tell us what they think ci I

Another General ConventioH of the P. E. Church.

467

le persons interested. They
\ first invitation without ask-
h your leave* or 'by your
w, after they have been
this church, I would say. in-
^as been by the Dean of Can-
by the prearrangcment of
the very question which these
It a large expense of time
went to attend to, why not
irst to express their opinion?
r it, from tvhat I know of the
of the members of that house,
for that, you will wait to the'
;rm.

e several parties to this move-
erent temperaments. One of
;reat apostolic prelate whom
comed twice to this conven-
ustrious prelate, of whom I
he most unbounded admira-
jrchman, as a gentleman, as a
i a man. In every capacity
can know human nature, he
nor and affection. I do not
le motives of this movement,
y s.ny that he is affirmatively
my belief, to gratify what he
ieveloped in his great nature
of organism. He does wish,
loubt, something like an or-
I of the two churches of the
nglish-spcaking races. That
o a certain extent, is crediia-
nible,but to a certain other
extremely dangerous and
nissible."

;anic unity of the Angli-
the American Episcopal
as far from perfect as
of provinces would prove
xitive system, as stated by
i committee, were adopt-
independence of the two
s as complete as that of
tcrian or Methodist de-
ls in this country. Nci-
und by the doctrinal de-

the other. This being
re hardly understand the
icance of the ceremony
m " alms-basin " was prc-

the General Convention
chbishop of Canterbury,
►p of Lichfield, explaining

the august rite, says :

" It was my happiness to present that
alms-basin to the Archbishop oC Canter
bury in concert with one whose loss we
all lament, who is now with God id his
rest—Bishop Mcllvaine, of Ohio, who,
hand-in-hand with me, each o( us holding
the alms-basin by one hand and on bend-
ed knee, presented that alms-basin for
the Lord's table in S. Paul's Cathedra.,
on the fourth of July, on that occasion.'*

One of the members of the House
of Deputies tells us that

"This basin was procured from the
Messrs. Kirk, of the city 5f Baltimore. The
price of it- was one thousaiTd aollars.and it
is said to be the finest piece of work of siU
ver and gold and precious stones com-
bined that has ever been made upon our
continent. It was sent through the hands
of the Bishop of Lichfield, who presented
it on bended knees to the Archbishop of
Canterbury, to be placed upon the altar
of S. Paul's Cathedral ; and in this basin
the bishops of the Church of England
made \lieir own offerings first. It is un-
derstood that the basin is to be preserved
by the archbishop and transmitted to his
successors, 1*0 be used in all future times
at the consecration of English bishops
and the opening of the Houses of Convo-
cation, and upon all public and great
occasions in which the Church of Eng-
land is interested, and to be preserved as
a pledge and token of unity and good-will
between our own church and our mother
Church of England.

'* I may say here, too, that both Houses
of Convocation, by resolution adopted
unanimously, went in their scarlet con-
vocation robes from their sittings in the
chamber near Westminster Abbey, in
solemn procession, to the celeb-^ation ol
the Holy Communion in S. Paul's Cathe-
dral, especially to do honor to the Ameri-
can Church ;and in this procession Bishop
Mcllvaine and the Lord Bishop of Lich-
field carried our basin, and it was pre-
sented to the Archbishop of Canterbury
in form."

Why did these prelates kn€€l to
the archbishop on this occasion,
unless to do hitn homage ? An<l
what function docs an " alms-basin "
(.ischarge in the consecration of
bishop > and the opening of the
Houses of Convocation ? We ask in

468

A not Iter General Convention of the P. E. Church.

all sincerity, because our knowledge
of ecclesiology is imperfect in re-
ference to these points.

While we praise the manly spirit
of our American friends in not yield-
ing to the spirit of toadyism before
English prelacy, we confess we are
somewhat pained at a seeming want
of self-respect in their attempt to
deal with the "Holy Orthodox
Eastern Church." This body,
though having valid orders, holds
all the doctrines condemned by the
Thirty-nine Articles, and has plainly
and openly anathematized Protes-
tantism. Why will the Episcopa-
lians consent to be snubbed and
slapped in the face for the sake of an
intercommunion which is utterly im-
possible ? If they like it, we ought
not to repine ; yet, for the sake of
our manhood, we protest against it.
The Rev. Dr. Fulton, of Alabama,
said :

" There is a ^rcat body of Christian
people, constituting one of <ho three great
bodies of the Holy Catholic Church,
throughout the world, which to-day are
not in visible communion, although they
are in unity of spirit, and hope for a
more clearly-defined bond of peace.
Hitherto it has only been possible for
these various bodies, or at least two of
them — that is to say, the Anglican Church
and the Holy Orthodox Eastern Churcli —
to meet each other in courtesy. Now,
arrangements have been made through
the Archbishop of Canterbury by which
the dead of our communion from Eng-
land or this country can be buried by
the Orthodox clergy, and other offices of
courtesy and kindness can be performed.
The Archbishop of Syra, representing the
Holy Orthodox Eastern Church, lately
visited the Church of England, and was
there received with the greatest honor.
Prelates of our own church and clergy
of lower degree have likewise been re-
ceived by the Eastern clergy. There are,
in this city, with the approbation of the
bishop of the diocese clergy of the Holy
Orthodox Eastern communion. It is be-
lieved — in fact, it is known — that they are
present now in this house ; and, as a mem-
ber of the Russo-Greek Committee, it was

suggested to roe that, in the geocnl i
cognition of the clerical rank and doa
ter which these resolutions imply, the
brethren should be likewise recogniji
It touches not at all the doctrine of tk
churches ; it touches not at all the dc
trines of their church ; it touches noc
all their attitude toward us; it simy
recognizes that they are clergy da chan
toward which we hope that, in the prw
dence of God, we may be drawn in Um
without any sacrifice of our own priaj
pies."

We doubt not that, when gentl
men meet, they treat each otb
with courtesy. Even Roman Catkl
lies, whom Dr. Fulton would n^
invite to the convention, are coa
teous and polite. But this does o^
mean any compromise in questiod
of doctrine. If Dr. Potter appraW
of the presence of Rev. Mr. Bjerrii
in New York, we are quite sure tli^
the Russian priest never dreams d
acknowledging his authority. Is I
not very much beneath the digni
of a large and respectable body tJ
take mere politeness for any af
proach to unity in faith or coai
munion.^ A letter of the Meti^
politan of St. Petersburg was haw^
ed round among the deputies isi
curiosity and a wonderful sign (A
Eastern favor to the Protestaij
Episcopal Church. We are not $ot
if the following is an exact copy «
the letter. If so, it is a gentle i^
buke, given as politely as could 1^
done under the circumstances. ^\
extract the letter and the commei
thereon from a secular paper gcq
ally trustworthy :

*• THE convention's PROPOSlTlOlf a^U
BY ORTHODOX CATHOLICS.

" Apropos of the efforts of the Protest
Episcopal Church for a closer onioo I
affiliation with the Orthodox EasH
Church, the following letter, tianslii
from the Birthevi^a Vedomosty^x^'^^
journal of a semi-official eccIesiasH
status, will be interesting. It is i replj
the petition of the Protestant Episfdl
Church for a more intimate union ^

Another General Convention of the P. E, Church.

469

rreek Church, and is now for
ne published on this conti-

/'ell-Beloved in Christ, and
IT Reverend Committee of
SE OF Bishops of the Pro-
Episcopal Church • in the
iTATES OF America :
etter, addressed to his Excel-
ocurator General, Count Tol-

been presented by him to the
n of the Most Holy Governing
issia, together with the report
currcnce of the House of Bi-
)ved by the House of Clerical
puties, in reference to the es-

upon a true catholic basis o\
Vaternity between the Araeri-
bodox Churches, especially in
y of Alaska, was received by
[oly Synod of all the Russias
most pleasure, as a new proof
(hown by the representatives
;opal Church, and of their es-
pose concerning the union of
s. The Most Holy Synod, on
prill make it.an object of their
re that a spirit of Christian
ad fraternal love and esteem,
ice with the precepts and
>ur church, shall continue to
the relations existing between
5 of the Orthodox Church and

Protestant Episcopal Church
, and particularly in the Terri-
ika.

he hypothesis of a reciprocal
n in the solemn performance
ament of the Eucharist, the
lurch firmly adheres to the
and convictions so clearly
e messages sent in 1723 by the
latriarchs of the East in reply
tican bishops. It considers a
^reement in faith as absolute-
sable to :he practical mutual
m in the sacraments, inasmuch

is the only possible ground-
Lsis for the last. In order to
roost desired end, a thorough
investigation of the differences
rine of both churches would be
requisite ; and to promote this,
nciple of co-operation will un-
be found in the spirit of peace
r which animates both church-
bodox as well as the American,
le praters for the peace of the
Id and for the union of the holy

churches of the Lord which arise to the
God of truth and mercy from the Ortho-
dox~ churches, and which are most cer-
tainly shared in by the American churches.
" ' Having been authorized by the Most
Holy Governing Synod, I assume the
duty -of presenting their answer to the
House of Bishops of the American Epis-
copal Church, and beg you to accept the
assurance of the- highest* esteem of your
brother and co-servant in Jesus Christ.

Isidore,
*^ * FInt Prettding Member of the GovermnK Synod
of aU the Russias, and Metropoliun of Novgorod
and St. Petersbmg.'

" The only ecclesiastical representative
of the Russian Church in this city, the
Rev. N. Bjerring, has corroborated the
facts set forth in this letter, and further-
more stated to the writer, in answer to
inquiries, that the Orthodox Cl^urch seeks
not exclusive affiliation with the Anglican
and American Episcopal Churches, but
' desires to hold friendly relations with all
Christian denominations; and in this
spirit of fraternal love he receives in his
own house, as personal friends, not only
tbembers of his own household of faith,
but ministers and members of the Lu-
theran and Reformed Churches, Metho-
dists, Baptists, Episcopalians, and Ro-
man Catholics, with all of whom he main-
tains the most cordial relations. But he
declares that there can be no such thing
as sacramental union between his church
and any other, unless there shall have
been first complete agreement in dog-
mas and an unconditional acceptance on
the part of the affiliating churches of the
authority and acts of the first seven CEcu-
menical Councils. This is a coftiiitio sine
qud non from which the Russian Church
cannot move a step nor deviate one line
fron> the dogmatic truth handed down to
her from the apostolic church ; nor can
she at the same time permit anything to
be added to these dogmas."

The Eastern churches will never
recognize the Episcopalians as any-
thing but a sect of Protestants. They
deny the validity of their orders,
and condemn their articles of faith
as heretical. Not one of their bi-
shops or priests would be recognized
as possessing any sacerdotal power,
or could ever receive Holy Com-
munion at the hands of the Greeks,

470 Another General Convention of the P. E. Church.

whom they are inclined to receive
with so much favor.

The following words of one of
their leading agents in England are
sufficiently decisive, though we fear
not plain enough to convince our
brethren who ate so sensitive about
their apostolic succession, which
every one denies but themselves :

" No other Protestant church was
ever so full of contradictions, so
full of variegated heresy, as the Eng-
lish Church was and w, and will be
to the end of her existence. With
such an heretical church the Ortho-
dox Eastern Church never would
allow her bishops to transact.

" If Rome considered all ordina-
tions by Parker and his successors —
/>., the whole present English epis-
copate and clergy — to be invalid,
null, and void, and consistently re-
ordained all those converts who
wished and were fit for orders, the
Eastern Church can but imitate her
])roceedings, as both follow, in this
point, the same principles.

" The Anglo-Catholics are tftost
decidedly no Catholics, but Protes-
tants, although inclining hopefully
towards Catholicism. It is aston-
ishing how the zealous Intercom-
munionists dive into the depths of
orthodox learning, rove in the remo-
test districts, compile the minutest
arguments, while they overlook the
chasm at their feet. They most in-
genuously demand to dispense with
ceremony, and to join hands all at
once over the vast deep stretching
out between them."*

Very little has been done by this
convention in the way of doctrinal
decisions. The House of Bishops
having solemnly declared that in
baptismal regeneration, as the term
is used in the Prayer-Book, no moral
change is signified, the effort to drop

• C*iA0/it OrtkMlMcy, By Rev. Dr. Overbeck.

the term altogether was voted dowit
Thus, in harmony with the customs
of this church, a term is retaiGed
which has no real significance
Those who object to it cxin only con-
sole tl^emselves by the conviciio*
that it means nothing.

A former convention had quite
plainly denied the real presence of
Christ in the Holy Eucharist, aiut
hence the condemnation of anf
adoration of the sacrament is quite
natural. We are not certain that
the Ritualists will see anything to
startle them. They would bardiy
hear any voice, however loud it
might be. Yet we think the rtst
of the world will be satisfied that
no adoration can be paid to the
elements of the Protestant Episcopal
communion, for the reason thai
they are in their very nature and
substance, and that Christ is not in
them. An important canon on rituil
was passed bearing chiefly on this
subject. As it first received the
votes of the House of Deputies, it
condemned " the use of incense ; the
placing, carrying, or retaining a cru-
cifix in any part of the place of pub-
lic worship; the elevation of the de-
ments in the Holy Communion in
such manner as to expose them to the
view of the people, as objects towards
which adoration is to be made ; and
any act of adoration of or towards
the elements, such as bowings,
prostrations, or genuflections.** A*
amended by the House of Bishops,
and afterwards passed by both
houses, the use of incense and ot'
the crucifix is not forbidden. One
deputy explained that the Greek
Church is in the habit of using n-
cense, and that the Lutherans re-
tain the crucifix. Perhaps the>c
may be among the reasons for the
action of the bishops. We con-
clude that while the crucifix nu?
be placed in the church, and in-

Another Ge final Convention, of the P. E. Church.

471

cense be used at the will of minis-
ters or their people, no act of adora-
tion can be allowed towards the
Eucharist. The force of this canon
will depend much upon the dispo-
sition of the bishop, who can wink
at these observances or faiJ to know
anything of them. The law, how-
ever, obliges him to examine the
matter if any two of his presbyters
complain, and, referring the subject
to his standing committee, to ad-
monish the offending minister. And
if the minister disregard this ad-
monition, he must be tried for a
breach of his ordination vow. If
this canon means anything at all, it
will put a stop to all the practices
of the Ritualists by which they en-
deavor to imitate the beauty of
Catholic worship, and their whole
ceremonial is at once excluded from
any Episcopal church. Let us see
if this law will be either respected
or obeyed.

The rejection of Rev. Dr. Sey-
mour, elected to the bishopric of
Illinois, is a still further condemna-
tion of any Eucharistic adoration.
For chiefly for this adoration, which
he was supposed to favor, was he
refused the vote of the clerical and
lay deputies. The majority against
him was so great that hardly any one
can doubt of the mind of the con-
vention. He had been involved in
the Confraternity of the Blessed
Sacrament, either directly or indi-
rectly, and this fact alone was suf-
ficient to cause his rejection. It
seems to us pretty evident that the
Episcopal Church by her highest
authority has denied both baptismal
regeneration and the real presence
of Christ in the Eucharist. Yet
this denial will have little effect,
l>ecause all Episcopalians will think
as they please, and no doctrinal
decision influences their faith.
Creeds are with them written on

paper, and have no further value.
One would naturally expect the
believers in these rather important
doctrines to forsake a church which
condemns them. But few will do
so. They wiP talk of the primitive
days and the hopes of better times,
when the " three branches " of the
Catholic Church shall come to-
gether. Until that time there is no
authority for Anglo-Catholics. If
the Protestant Episcopal commu-
nion should by synod deny the
existence of God, we believe they
would still remain in her, bearing
their burden, persecuted by their
own church, and with great self-
denial waiting till the truth should
revive in the hopeful mother that
bore them. This new species of
self-abnegation and of moral martyr-
dom by one's own church is the glory
of Ritualistic confessorship. They
have not learned that the first duty
of a true church is to teach, and that
the first step in holiness is to mor-
tify self-will.

On the subject of education, the
Protestant Episcopal Church has
nearly taken a step forward, and we
sincerely regret that the step was
only half made. The Committee
on Christian Education recommend-
ed the organization of " sisterhoods *'
and " brotherhoods " to supply
teachers. They say :

•* The great want will not be met until
some method of organization be adopt-
ed, such as brotherhoods or sisterhoods,
whose members make teaching tbeir
special work, and who therefore cultivate
the teaching faculty, and acquire all the
branches of useful learning, in order to
do Christ's work for the young, under the
direction and at the call of their bishops
and pastors. And while an organized
work seems to be the only one likely to
meet our necessities, and while the reli-
gious motive is the only one powerful
enough to draw men and women to such
work for the best years of their lives, il
should be borne in mind that the truths

472 Another General Convention of the P, E, Church,

of the Gospel, and the Catholic faith, as
this church hath received the same, have
strength and vitality sufficient to furnish
motive and method to such associations
without exaggerations or additions in
doctrine or practice, and without borrow*
ing distinctive dress, nomenclature, or
usages from the Church of Roi^ne. In
some of the schools or colleges at pre-
sent belonging to us, such associations
-might be developed — teaching orders-
Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, Sisters
of the Holy Childhood — composed of men
and women of sound judgment, moral
force, thorough education, patient and
winning ways, who would ask for no
higher work than to train the minds and
mould the characters of the young in ac-
cordance with the gracious teachings of
the church, and with the sanction of, and
in loyal submission to, the authority of
those who are rulers in the same."

In accordance with this recom-
mendation, a canon to establish
" deaconesses or sisters " was re-
ported to the convention. It, how-
ever, failed to pass, and the words
of the committee stand before the
world on their own merits. Though
there are grave difficulties in the es-
tablishment of communities where
there is no religious rule or any
unity in faith, yet we would like to
see this imitation of Catholic life
tried among our Protestant breth-
ren. It might do good, and gra-
dually lead the earnest and truly
self-denying soul to the one home
of all Christian life and zeal.

It is a disappointment to us, how-
ever, that this convention has done
nothing in regard to parochial
schools. Some years ago the lan-
guage of the Episcopalian bishops
led us to think that they realized
the full importance of guarding the
young from the dangers of an infidel
education. Colleges and acade-
mies will very poorly meet this
great evil. The children most ex-
posed are those who every day go
to our public schools, where no re-
ligion can be taught, and where a

non-Christian system of instruction
is equivalent to infidelity. The
truth of this assertion needs no
demonstration, for the facts of every
day prove it, and the tide of un-
belief is at our very doors.

The report of the Committee on
the State of the Church dwells on
some generalities, but yet admits a
substantial decline during the three
years past :

" But there are in these documenis
some facts that are not cheering or satis-
factory. In 1871 there were 448 candi-
dates for holy orders, and in 1874 bot
301 — decrease in three years, 147. In
1873 it is said there were no ordinaiion*
in 17 dioceses, and of the whole number
of candidates only 60 or 70 were able to
maintain themselves. Thus we have not
only the supply of the ministry dimiii*
ished, but the fact revealed that parems
of pecuniary ability, elevated social posi-
tion, and great culture, seemingly with-
held their sons from the Lord's higher
service. We have also had our attcntioo
called to the fact that, in many insunces.
the young novice is admitted to the dix>
conate and priesthood with such imper-
fect qualification that we are forced 10 the
conclusion that there is great imperfec-
tion in our legislation, or they whose of-
fice and duty call them to decide upos
the qualifications of candidates are too
lenient in their admission of the appli-
cants."

We do not find any comparative
table of communicants, but ^ould
be led to conclude that as the
ministry diminishes in numbers,
the members would decline in the
same ratio. Perhaps a little more
attention to schools and the training
of the young would be advisable.
If the Episcopal Church wishes to
hold its own in this age and country,
it will have to give more attention
to the dangers of the public schools.

We do not know precisely what
authority belongs to the address oi
the bishops at the end of the con-
vention. It has not one word in
regard to doctrine, and the allu-

Another General Convention of the P. E. Church. 473

dons to any difTerences of opinion
are so very general that no party
could be offended. We do not even
gather the precise meaning of the
wTiter. We utterly fail to compre-
hend his idea of "the liberty of
Christian faith," or understand his
notion of freedom in obedience.
The pastoral was evidently written
to offend no one, and in this we
think it must have succeeded.

There are some good words on
the subject of divorce, but we can
hardly tell how far they go. .Those
'* who put away an uncongenial
wife or husband," and marry again,
uking advantage of the license of
the civil courts, are condemned as
adulterers, unless they do so for the
cause of fornication. We do not
know how to explain .this.^ Is
fornication or sin before marriage
a reason for divorce } Is adultery
after marriage considered suflficient
to break the tie of matrimony, so
that a new marriage is permitted }
If the bishops mean to say this, we
would earnestly recommend them
to study the sacred scriptures of
the New Testament. Their half-
way protest against civil divorce is
nevertheless something to be thank-
ful for in these days.

Now, having rehearsed all the
important points which we have
been able to see in the doings of
this General Convention, we would
ask any person of honest mind who

really believes in the divinity of
Jesus Christ if there is in the Pro-
testant Episcopal community any
trace of the one true church which
he established. It is to be found
neither in the unity of faith nor
in any consciousness of sacerdotal
gifts. No conception of the funda-
mental idea of a church has any
place in her councils, and the truth
of Christ's presence in his adorable
sacrament, which is the very life of
his elect, is the constant object of
assault. While they, against all
facts and the testimony of all which
they pretend to hold as the Catholic
Church, assert the validity of their
orders, they prove beyond all cavil
that the grace of the priesthood is
not theirs. For God never left
that grace, even in heresy and
schism, without the consciousness
of its tremendous power. As a mere
Protestant body, it may keep its ex-
terior before the world. It has no
interior life whatever, no heart and
no soul, that we might mark it and
distinguish it among the hosts of
a divided Christianity. Neverthe-
less, there is light enough to guide
the sincere to the one faith, and the
plea of invincible ignorance will be
a poor excuse for many in the
dread day of account. Let us pray
earnestly to God for these souls in
the night of error. " What will it
profit them to gain the world, and
then to lose their souls ?*'

474

Assunta Howard.

ASSUNTA HOWARD.

COMCLUOBO.

VI,

woman's influence.

" And so I have you all to my-
self once more ; no interference
from cruel guardians on your side,
and none from unreasonable hus-
bands on mine. Joking apart, As-
sunta darling, I think God has been
very good to me to give me such
a compensation for Harry's long
absence. Every trial seems to have
a blessing in its train, by way of a
set-off. And you are just the very
dearest of blessings." And Mary
Lee moved her chair a little nearer
to her friend, by way of showing
her appreciation. Assunta looked
up from her work with a bright
smile, as she replied :

" You are not in the least chang-
ed from the dear Mary Percival of
convent days — and happy days they
were, too — while I feel twenty years
older than I did the day I bade you
good-by at the garden gate. But
now you are mistaken. I am the
one blessed, not blessing. For think
what it is to me — a waif — to find
awaiting me so kind a welcome and
so pleasant a temporary home. God
only knows what would have be-
come of me without you."

" Oh !** said Mary, " my only fear
was that, with so many claimants for
the honor, I should never succeed in
carrying off the prize. I am sure,
until it was decided, and I saw your
trunks safely landed at my door, I
looked upon Mrs. Sinclair as my
deadly enemy."

" Clara is very kind — much more

so than I deserve," said Assunta,
while an expression of seriousness
passed over her face ; ** but I should
not have liked to accept her hospi-
tality now. I think the present ar-
rangement is more for the happiness
of all parties."

And the remembrance of a cer-
tain evening on board the steamer,
when Mr. .Sinclair, a married man,
had dared to tell her, his wife's
friend, that she had first possessed
his heart, and that his love for her
was still unchanged, made her
shudder now involuntarily. He
must indeed have strangely forgot-
ten himself, when, after that, he
added his entreaties to those of his
unsuspecting wife that she would
look upon their home as hers. As-
sunta felt as if the word love had
indeed been profaned by the lips
of George Sinclair. God is love ;
but she knew that he would not
hesitate to take even that most
holy name in vain. Why then scra-
pie to profane the attribute } How-
ever, all this was a secret, known to
herself alone.

" Mrs. Sinclair must have been a
lovely bride," said Mary musingly.
" But, Assunta, why did Mr. Carlisle
return at once to Europe ? I should
think he would be tired of travel-
ling by this time, and would like to
settle down for a while on his own
place. I have heard it is so bcii:-
tiful."

"The habit of travelling grows

Assunta Howard.

475

upon one," replied Assunta. " He
only returned to Maryland to attend
to certain matters in regard to his
sister's property and mine. It was
his intention to spend some time
longer in Europe and the East."
Then, to change the subject, she
continued : " But, Mary dear, when
docs your brother enter the semi-
nary?"

** I do not know," said Mrs. Lee.
" I cannot understand Augustine at
all. He seems just as good and
earnest as ever, and yet something
troubles him, I see it plainly. But
he is unusually reserved with me ;
NO that I feel a reluctance to ques-
tion him. I wish you would ask
hira about the seminary. You can
do it quite incidentally; and very
likely he would tell you all about it."
" I certainly will," said Assunta.
' He is your brother ; so I almost
feel as if he were mine too."

** I do not think," continued Mary,
"that he is well. I am afraid his
trip to the East may have done him
jnore harm than good. He always
protests that he is perfectly well, if
I ask him ; but I am sure he does
not look so."

" I have thought so myself, and I
think we must look upon his case
a:* our next duty." And Assunta
arose, ai the clock struck eleven.

The opportunity to take the case
in hand came much sooner than
the fair conspirators had anticipated.
The next afternoon, while Mrs. Lee
had excused herself for a few hours,
in order to pay the expected week-
ly visit to her mother-in-law, Mr.
Pcrcival joined Assunta, as she sat
alone in the cosey library, finishing
a garment for a poor child in whom
ihc was already interested. Assun-
ta noticed more than usual the
paleness of the spiritual face she
had always so much admired, and
the weariness of its expression ; but,

with true feminine tact, she made
no comment ; only, as he seated
himself beside the table, she looked .
up with a smile of welcome, as his
sister might have done.

" Hard at work, as usual. I hope
I do not interrupt you. Miss How-
ard.^" said Mr. Percival, with an
answering smile.

" Oh ! no indeed. I am delighted
to see you this evening. We have
not had a good long talk since I
came; and yet we have so many
topics of mutual interest."

Mr. Percival took from his pocket
a little box, and, opening it, said :

" Miss Howard, I have ventured
to bring you a souvenir of my tra-
vels, which I beg you will accept
from Mary's brother, and because
of the association."

He placed in her hand a heart-
shaped locket, plain but heavy,
in the centre of which glowed a
large crimson ruby, and around it
were engraved the words, " Cor
cordium." Within, on one side,
was a miniature painting of the
Sacred Heart of Jesus ; on the other
side was set a tiny crucifix, carved
from the olive-wood of Gethseniani
by one of the monks of Jerusalem,
and which had been laid upon the
altar in the Chapel of the Holy
Sepulchre.

'* And I prayed for you in that
sacred spot most fervently, you
may be sure," said Mr. Percival.

Assunta's eyes were still fixed
upon the beautiful treasure which
she held in her hand. Tears were
in them, as she raised them at last,
saying :

" Words are poor thanks for such
a gift as this. You know, Mr. Per-
cival, how much I shall value it.
Indeed, I feel most unworthy to
possess anything so precious ; yet
I shall accept it, as you said, from
the brother of my dearest friend.

476

AssuHta Howard,

who is to me truly a sister in affec-
tion." And pressing her lips to the
crystal which protected the crucifix,
she carefully replaced the locket in
its case.

" And so you did not forget those
foolish, fanciful remarks I made by
-f^ * Shelley's grave. I had not dream-

ed they would have dwelt in your
memory so long; still less did I
imagine they would inspire so
beautiful a design as this, which
4^ is, of course, your own." Then

she added after a little pause:
** There is one greater gift even
than this that I shall ask df you
one of these days. It is one of
your first Masses, when, as a priest,
you are privileged to offer the Holy
Sacrifice."

" Miss Howard," exclaimed Mr.
Percival, with deep emotion, " that
is a subject of which I cannot even
think without suffering."

" Forgive me," murmured Assun-
ta, surprised beyond measure. " It
was indeed unpardonable in me to
pain you by speaking of that
which is between yourself and God
alone. My only excuse is that I
thought the matter had long been
settled."

Then followed a silence, so pro-
longed that Assunta began to won-
der what kept that manly head bow-
ed forward upon the table. Was it
confusion, was it prayer, or had
he perhaps fainted } At last he
suddenly looked up, and fixed those
fine, earnest eyes of his full upon
Assunta's face ; and even in that
moment the thought struck her
what pure, true eyes they were.

" Miss Howard, you are the last
person on earth to whom I ought
to speak on this subject, and I
know not what impels me to do so
now. Pray for me ; for my salva-
tion may depend upon it."

Assunta tried to be calm, as she

said gently, while she breathed t
silent prayer for guidance :

" You must think of me as almost
a sister."

Mr. Percival went on :

" Even your image, true and
beautiful and holy as it is, and pure
as an angel's, should never have
been allowed to come between mc
and the God to whose special
service I was inclined. But believe
me. Miss Howard, never for one
moment have I cherished a hope
that you might be to me other than
you are ; only, when I have striven
to rise above all human feeling,
and to give myself unreservedly to
him who demanded the sacrifice,
God help me! you seemed to fiU
his place in my soul. Forgive me
and pity me! I afm miserably
weak."

After a moment he continued :

"Ah! Miss Howard, you know
what I mean. It is only because
of my own weakness that I have
found the memory of you an ob-
stacle to my advance towards the
perfection to which I aspired."

" And to which you will still as-
pire." And Assunta's voice was low
and sweet, as she for the first time
broke silence. " I had not drearoed
of this, Mr. Percival, but I hope
you will never have occasion to re-
gret the confidence you have re-
posed, not in the ideal which has
for a moment passed as a cloud oi
temptation between your soul and
its high calling, but in one who,
though full of faults, may yet offer
you her sympathy and her pray-
ers.

"God bless you!" escaped from
Mr. Percival 's lips.

" I am too young and inexpe-
rienced," continued Assunta, **lo
give you counsel; besides, I am a
woman ; but, with my woman's in-
tuition, I think I see how all this

\ Assunta Howard.

A77

has come about. . . . May I

go on ?"

** I beg you will ; it is the sort of
boul-wound that needs probing.**

Assunta smiled. *' I do not think
such severe treatment will be re-
quired — only an examination, per-
haps, preparatory to healing. You
met me in Rome — ^forgive me if I
speak too freely of myself — sur-
rounded by that atmosphere of
beauty and poetry which steals
into the soul, because it breathes
from the very centre of Catholic
faith and the glory of the church
militant. But when you met me,
I was with those whose hearts were
not open to such influences ; and it
was very natural that you and I
should feel drawn to each other by
the attraction of a conHnon faith
and hope. Do you think I could
have said those foolish words, which
it seems you have remembered only
100 well " — and she glanced at the
little case in her hand — " if I had
not felt that you could sympathize
with my thoughts, however poorly
they were expressed ? Believe me,
It was a certain earnestness of faith
in me, which your presence drew out
into somewhat too free expression
and which remained in your mem-
ory as an attraction ; and the devil
has ingeniously made use of that
little opening to insinuate some sub-
tle poison. But his power is at an
end, thank God ! He has, for me,
overreached his m^^-k. The very
fiict that you could speak of this
to me proves that the danger is
already passing. O my friend !
think what a poor, miserable sub-
stitute is even the greatest human
happiness for the life to which
<iod calls you. Think of the re-
gard ! Heaven is the price ! How-
ever, it is the Holy Spirit, not I, that
should speak to your soul. Will
you not give him the opportunity ?

Will ydli not, perhaps, go into re-
treat? Or rather, please do not
listen to me, but go to your di-
rector, and open your heart to him.
I can only give you a few words of
sympathy and encouragement. He
can speak to you as the voice of
God."

"You do not despise me, then,
for having wavered ?"

" Do not say that, Mr. Percival,"
exclaimed the young girl earnestly.
" What saint is there that has not
suffered temptation } Despise you }
I envy you, rather. Think of the
vocation God has given you ! If
it proves to be the mountain of
sacrifice, and you ascend it with
the cross upon your shoulders, will
you not be all the better priest
from your likeness to Him who was
at once both priest and victim!"

"Miss Howard, pardon me, but
you speak as if the lesson of Cal-
vary were not new to you; as if
you, too, knew what it is to suffer —
not, as I have done, through your
own weakness — God forbid ! That
I could never think."

" We each of us must bear some
cross," said Assunta hastily ; and
then, to give a lighter turn to the *
conversation, she added: "I am
sorry that I should have proved to
be yours."

For the first time Augustine
Percival smiled, as he said :

" But if, through you, I win my
crown, you will not then regret it V

" O that crown !" exclaimed As-
sunta; "let us both keep it ever
in sight as an incentive. The way
will not then seem so long or so
hard. Mr. Percival, will you see
your director to-night ?"

" I will go to him now. It is
what I have neglected only too
long. God bless you, Miss How-
ard ! But dare I now, after all that
has passed, ask you to retain my

478

Assunta Howard.

trifling gift, that you may not for-
get to pray for me V*

" I shall prize it most highly,"
said Assunta. *' But I shall not
need to be reminded to commend
you very often to the Sacred Heart
of our divine Lord, where you will
find strength and consolation. I
am sure the least I can do for you
is to pray for you, having been the
occasion of your suffering. **

" And of something more than
that," said Mr. Percival.

"And I shall still hope for the
other greater gift," said Assunta
in pleading tones.

** Miss Howard," replied* Mr. Per-
cival, almost with solemnity, ** if I,
unworthy as I am, should ever be
permitted to offer the Holy Sacrifice,
my first Mass shall be for you, God
willing. But I dare not yet look
forward with hope to such a possi-
bility. Once more, God bless you !
Pray for me." And in a moment
more he had left the house.

Assunta attended Mass daily at
the cathedral. The next morning,
as she was leaving the church, Mr.
Percival joined her; but, without
saying a word, he placed a note in
her hand, and at the corner he
turned, and took his way in the op-
posite direction. In her own room
the young girl read these words :

"To-day I start for Frederick,
where I shall make a retreat with
the good Jesuit fathers. In soli-
tude and prayer I hope that God
may make known to me his will.
Pray, that I may have light to see
and grace to follow the inspirations
of the Holy Spirit. The words you
spoke last night are known to the
loving Heart of Jesus. He will re-
ward you. I can say no more now.
Your brother in Christ, A. P "

"Thank God!" exclaimed As-
sunta.

After breakfast, Mary came to

her, as she stood for a moment bv
the window, and, putting her arm
about her affectionately, said :

" Darling, we need not make any
more plans to entrap poor Augus-
tine into a confession, for I do be-
lieve he is all right. He came
here for a few minutes early this
morning to say good-by, as he was
going to Frederick. Of course that
must mean a retreat ; and a retreat
is, of course, the first step towards
the seminary."

" I am very, very glad," said As-
sunta, smiling. "Women are not
always as bright as they think they
are, you see."

Three weeks from that day Au-
gustine Percival sailed for Euroi>c
to enter upon his theological course
in Rome.. And two faithful hcaas
daily begged for him of Almighty
God grace and fortitude with that
happy confidence which seems al-
most a presage of answered prayer.

And fi\^ years passed away-
long and often weary in the pass-
ing, but short and with abundant
blessings in the retrospect — five
uneventful years, and yet leaving a
lasting impress upon the individual
soul. Assunta's home was still with
her friend, Mary Lee — an arrange-
ment to which she most gratefully
consented, on condition that she
might, from her ample income, con-
tribute her share towards the ea^e
and comfort of the family. It thu^
became a mu^al benefit, as well a>
pleasure ; for Capt. Lee's pay as a
naval officer was small and their
only dependence. Assunta had
won the hearts of all, even down to
Mary's two little ones, who came
bringing plenty of love with theni.
as well as adding much to the care
and solicitude of the young mother
and her younger friend.

They saw but little of Mrs. Sin-
clair during those years. She had

Assunia Howard.

479

become a thorough woman of the
world — a leader of fashion in her
own circle. She had lost much of
the simplicity and nafveidQi charac-
ter and manner which had made
her charming in the old Roman
days. Her laugh had not the
genuine ring which her own light
heart used to give it. She was still
beautiful — very beautiful as queen
of the ball-room. But Mary Lee
always insisted that she had the
unmistakable look of one who has
an interior closet somewhere which
might reveal a skeleton ; and As*
santa thought — but her thoughts
she kept to herself — that it was not
very difficult to divine what that
skeleton might be. She understood
her, and pitied her from her heart ;
and she loved her, too, with the old
affection. But their life-paths,
once seemingly parallel, had now
diverged so widely that she felt she
could not help her. The consola-
tion Clara sought was very different
from anything her brother's ward
could supply.

.\nd that brother, Mr. Carlisle —
did Assunta never think of him ?
Daily, before God, she remembered
him; but it was not for her peace
to allow him a place in her memory
at other times. They were entire
J^rangers now, and she had long
since given up the hope of any re-
turn to the old friendship. He
had dropped out of her life, and
(rod alone could fill the place left
vacant by the surrender of this
human love. She prayed for him,
however, still, but as one might
pray for the dead. Her days glid-
ed quietly by, each one bearing a
record of deeds of love and kind-
ness; while the consciousness of
duty fulfilled gave her a peace that
it is not in the power of mere hu-
man happiness to bestow. The
blessings of the poor followed her,

and the blessing of God rested upon
her soul.

Mary sometimes protested against
this " waste of life," as she called it.

" My darling," she said one day,
as she was rocking her baby to
sleep in her arms, "you will be a
nun yet."

" I fear not," replied Assunta.
" I might have wished to enter re-
ligion, but it seems that God does
not call me to that life."

" Then, Assunta, why don't you
marry ? It would break my heart
to lose you, darling ; but, truly, it
grieves me to have you settle your-
self down to our stupid life and
ways, and you so young and rich
and beautiful. It is contrary to
nature and reason."

" Be patient with me, dear," said
Assunta. "I do not believe that
you want to be rid of me. Some
time we shall know what it all
means. I am sorry to disappoint
my friends, but my life is just as I
would have it."

"Well, you are a saint," said
Mary with a sigh ; " and as I am
the gainer, I am the last one to
complain. But I wish you had a
dear little bother of your own like
my Harry." And the maternal kiss
had in it such a strength of mater-
nal love that the baby-eyes opened
wide again, and refused to shut.

Mary heard occasionally from
her brother; and sometimes she
heard of him in a way that filled
her heart with joy. Austere, yet
with wonderful sweetness, full of
talent and a hard student, yet with
touching humility, Augustine Per-
cival, by a life of mortification and
prayer, which his studies never in-
terrupted, was preparing himself
to do great things for God. A few
words, uttered simply by a true-
hearted Christian woman, had turn-
ed the scale for him ; and God will

48o

Assunta Howard.

receive so much the more glory, exercised influence of some noUe

There will come a day which will woman, whose mission is none tke

reveal many such works, performed less real because it is accomplish^

through the perhaps unconsciously- silently and out of the tirorld*s sight

VII.

Five years had passed away, and
their close found Mary Lee wel-
coming back to her home her Ipng-
absent brother, now* a priest. Au-
gustine Percival returned, the same,
and yet changed. There was the
same tender, earnest nature; but
upon that nature grace had built
up a superstructure of such strength
and virtue that, in most respects,
he was a different man — purified
by suffering, sanctified by penance,
and now consecrated by the sacra-
ment of Holy Orders.

It was a happy circle that gath-
ered around the blazing wood-fire
on that cool October evening — so
happy that they were almost sub-
dued, and thought more than they
talked. It was towatds the end of
the evening 'that Father Percival
said quite incidentally :

** Mr. Carlisle returned in the
steamer with me. I suppose he
will soon pay his respects to the
ladies."

Assunta did not start. Why
should she ? Had the name of one
long since dead been mentioned,
it might have caused an emotion
of tenderness ; but that would have
been all. Mr. Carlisle was dead
to her, and every memory of him
had long been buried. So, though
her face became a shade paler, she
went on with her work, and her
hand did not tremble.

" Is he well ?" asked Mary, con-
tinuing the conversation, " and is
he as fine-looking as he used to
be ?"

" He is just recovering from a

very severe illness," replied her
brother. **It has told upon him
fearfully, so that you will find him
much changed. Still, I hope hb
native air will restore him to health;
and no doubt, Mary, bis good
looks will follow. He was already
much better when I parted from
him yesterday." And then Father
Percival questioned Mary about
her absent husband and her chil-
dren, and listened with interest to
the young mother's enthusiastic de-
scription of Harry's brilliancy and
the little Assunta's sweetness.

The next evening, as Father Per-
cival was giving the two ladies an
account of his last days in Rome,
Mr. Carlisle's name was announced,
and immediately he himself en-
tered the pleasant drawing-room.
He was indeed much altered, for
the traces of sickness and suffering
were only .too visible. There was
another change, perceptible to one
who had known him well. In bis
bearing there seemed to be less
pride than of old, and more dig-
nity ; in his face the expressioo
of bitterness had given place to
one more contented, more peace-
ful. Suffe'ring had evidently done
a work in that proud spirit. But
as Mr. Carlisle extended his hand
to Assunta, who greeted him with
the frank simplicity so peculiar lo
her, the same old smile lighted up
his thin, pale face, and he truly
seemed her guardian once more.
Assunta was for the moment sur-
prised to see the cordiality m-ith
which Mr. Carlisle took the hand

Assunta Howard.

481

of the young priest, and held it in
both his, as if a brother's affection
were in the pressure, and which
was returned as warmly. A com-
fortable arm-chair was placed near
the fire for the guest ; and while he
seated himself, as if fatigued, he
said:

** Augustine, have you kept my
secret r

"Most faithfully. I did not
t\en betray that I had one, as a
woman might have done.*' And
Father Percival glanced at his sis-
ter, who pretended indignation, but
said nothing.

"Then," said Mr. Carlisle, "I
must tell my own story. Assunta,
come and sit by me." And he
pointed to the vacant chair beside
bim, while Assunta obeyed at once,
the words and manner were so like
those of the old days.

"Forgive me," Mr. Carlisle went
m, ** if I call you to-night by the
tjmiliar name. I could not say
Miss Howard, and tell you what I
t'jve to tell. And, Mrs. Lee, if I
^«ra to address myself too exclu-
sively to your friend, I beg you
ifill pardon me, and believe that,
t' my story interests ybu, I am
nore than glad that you should
Uow all. Assunta, put your hand
iicre.** And taking her hand in his,
tie laid it upon his brow. " In that
Roman sickness it has often rested
here, and has soothed and healed.
Icll roe, child, do you feel no dif-
ference now ?"

Assunta looked at him wonder-
ingly — still more so when she caught
jght of a meaning smile on Father
t'ercivaKs face.

"Mr. Carlisle, you puzzle me,"
ihr said.

Again that peculiar and beauti-
iil smile, as he continued :

" The sign of the cross has been
^cre; do you understand now, my
VOL. XX— 31

child .^ No? Then, in one word,
I will explain all. Credo — I be-
lieve! Not yet? Assunta, you
have, I know, prayed for me. Your
prayer has been answered. I am a
Catholic, and, under God, I owe
all to Augustine Percival."

Assunta could not speak. For a
moment she looked in his face
with those earnest blue eyes, as if
to read there the confirmation of
his words, and then she bowed her
head upon her hands in silence.
Mr. Carlisle was the first to break it.

"And so you are not sorry ^ petite y
to welcome so old a sinner into the
fold?"

** Sorry !" exclaimed Assunta at
last. " Life will not be long enough
to thank God for this happiness."

" You are so little changed, child,
after all these years, that I mu^t
look at myself to realize how the
time has gone. But shall I tell
you how all this has come about ?
Three months ago I was as miser-
able an unbeliever as ever lived."

"Please tell us all," murmured
Assunta.

" All the story of these five years
would be long and wearisome. Life
to me has been simply an endurance
of existence, because I dared not
end it. I have travelled a great
deal. I have stoody not kneeled^ in
the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre,
and have wandered as a sight-seer
through the holy places in Jerusa-
lem. I have been in almost every
part of Europe. Need I tell you
that I have found satisfaction no-
where? And all this time I was
drawn, by a sort of fascination, to
read much on Catholic subjects ;
so I sneered and cavilled and ar-
gued, and read on.
. " At last, about four months since,
the same uneasy spirit which has
made a very Wandering Jew of me
for the last five years possessed me

482

Assunta Howard.

with the idea of returning home,
and I started for Paris. I engaged
my passage in the next steamer for
New York ; and, though feeling far
from well, left for Havre. I reach-
ed the hotel, registered my name,
and went to my room for the night.
The steamer was to sail the next
morning. I knew nothing more
for three weeks. Fortunately, I had
fallen into good hands, or I should
never have been here. They said
it was brain-fever, and my life was
despaired of. Assunta, child, you
need not look so pale. You see it
is I myself who have lived to tell
it."

Father Percival here rose, and,
excusing himself on the ground of
having his Office to say, left the
room. As soon as he was gone
Mr. Carlisle exclaimed :

" There is the noblest man that
ever lived. No words can tell what
he has been to me. It seems that,
when I was beginning to give some
hope of recovery. Father Percival
arrived at the same hotel on his
way to America. The landlord hap-
-pened to mention the fact of the
illness of a fellow-countryman, and
showed the name upon his books.
Father Percival at once gave up
his passage, and remained to per-
form an act of charity which can
only be rewarded in heaven."

** You remember, Assunta," said
Mrs. Lee, ** Augustine wrote that
he was detained a few weeks by the
411ness of a friend."

"Yes," said Assunta; "but how
little we dreamed who the friend
•was!"

" And a most ungrateful friend he
was, too, at first," said Mr. Carlisle.
" When he came to see me, and I
learned his name, and that he had
become a priest, it was nothing
but weakness that prevented my
driving him from the room. As

it was, I swore a little, I believe.
However, with the tenderness of 2
woman he nursed me day and
night; and even when I was better,
there was still no word about reli-
gion, until one day I introduced
the subject myself. Even then far
said but little. I was too weak ts
have much pride, or that litik
would not perhaps have made tie
impression that it did. My pride
has always been the obstacle, and
it is not all gone yet, peiiiey* fae
added, looking at Assunta, wfe)
smiled in answer.

"One night, from what cause I
do not know, I had a relapse, and
death seemed yery near. Then
Father Percival came to me »
priest. I can hear now the solemn
tones in which he said : ' Mr. Car-
lisle, I will not deceive you. I hope
that you will recover, but you may
not. Are you willing to die as you
are now, unbaptized ?* I answc^
ed, ' No.' * Do you, then,' he said
* believe the Catholic Church to be
the infallible teacher of truth, and
will you submit to her teaching?*
Here I paused. The question was a
difficult one ; the word submit n
a hard wbrd. But death was very
near, and at last, with despertie
energy, I said : * Yes ; baptize roc !*
He then knelt beside me, and made
for me an act of contrition — for I
seemed to be sinking fast — and in a
moment more I was baptized, a
Catholic. He then left me instant-
ly, and went for the parish priesu
who came and administered Ex-
treme Unction to — as they suppo^
ed — a dying man. But the sacra-
ment did its work for life, and r«»t
for death. From the moment of
receiving it the scale turned. 0\
course much that I have told you
I have learned since from Augus-
tine. I was conscious only or
the one act — the submission.

Aisunta Howard.

483

low mean a specimen of a
ave since felt myself to
— resisting God year after
all the strength of human
that most powerful aux-
he devil — pride of intel-
then, when life was at its
and everything had slip-
under me but that one
-then to say, * Life is go-
world has already gone.
;t everything else ; now I,
vill condescend to receive
m of the saints — God and
Do you think, Assunta,
angels would have had
se for rejoicing over such
on to their bright com-

is a genuine drop of your
less, Mr. Carlisle," replied
laughing, nevertheless, at
ess.

there is plenty of it left,
3ut to go on : when I
1 1 was to live, I was de-
before leaving for home,
ny profession of faith in
h, as a Christian should
)t ashamed of bis colors.

would do nothing offi-
le after the baptism, but
er the kindest friend, and
n with a real David and

affection. Oh ! child,
\ have I thought of you
w much you would have
iscd to see me, Severn
neekly receiving instruc-
itholic doctrine and prac-
that simple French priest,
iccded some one to iden-
> myself. Well, to bring
story to an end, the day
ling I made my profession
ind received Holy Com-
n the quiet little parish
And now I am here, the
ad, self-sufficient man as
iear, hut with a peace of

soul that I have never known be-
fore."

" How good God is!" exclaimed
Assunta.

"What does your sister say?"
asked Mrs. Lee.

" My sister .> I do not think she
took in the idea. Her thoughts
would have to travel miles before
they would approach a religious
sentiment. Poor Clara ! I find her
much changed. I spent two or
three hours with her this afternoon.
She was very gay, even brilliant — too
much so, I thought, for real happi-
ness. She did not imagine how
transparent her mask was, and I
would not destroy her illusion. 1
did not see Sinclair at all. £ut,"
exclaimed he, looking at his watch,
and rising hastily, " it is eleven
o'clock. I ordered the carriage
for ten, and no doubt it has been
waiting a long time. I owe you la-
dies many apologies for my thought-
lessness and egotism."

** Mr. Carlisle," began Assunta,
placing her hand in his, as she bade
him good-night; but the words
would not come as readily as the
tears.

Mrs. Lee had gone to summon
her brother, so the two, so long
parted, were left alone.

" My child," said Mr. Carlisle in
a low voice, " I Vnoyr all that you
would say, all the sweet sympathy
of that tender, unchanged heart. I
have much to say to you, Assunta,
but not to-night — not in the pre-
sence of others."

Then turning to Father Pcrcival,
who entered the room, "Augus-
tine," he said, " I am going for a
few days to my place in the coun-
try for rest, and also that I may sec
bow much it has suffered from my
long neglect. Come and see me
there. It will do rac good, heart
and soul."

484

Assunta Howard.

" I will try to arrange my plans
so as to give myself that pleasure,"
replied the priest, as he assisted
Mr. Carlisle into the carriage.

What strange contradictions there
are in human nature ! How little
can we account for our varying
moods and the motives which in-
fluence our actions ! And how of-
ten we seem to get at cross-pur-
poses with life, and only see how
far we have been wrong when a
merciful Providence, overruling all,
unknots the tangled thread and
straightens the crooked purpose !

Excepting the visit of a few hours
paid by Father Percival to his
friend, two months passed by, and
nothing was heard of Mr. Carlisle.
Those two months were to Assunta
longer, more wearisome, than the
five years that had preceded them.
We may talk of hopes that are dead,
and may honestly believe them
buried deep down in the grave
which duty has prepared and time
has covered. But hope is the
hardest thing in this world to kill ;
and thank God that it is so ! Let
but a gleam of sunshine, a breath
of the warm upper air, into that
sepulchre, and the hopes that have
lain buried there for years will
revive and come forth with re-
newed vigor. It is much more
difficult to lay them to rest a second
time.

Assunta had borne her trial no-
bly ; but, as she sat alone on Christ-
mas Eve, and her thoughts natural-
ly dwelt upon that happy return, and
then the unaccountable disappear-
ance of Mr. Carlisle, her courage
almost failed her, and her brave
heart sank within her, as she
thought how dreary the future look-
ed. She had excused herself from
joining the others at a little family
])arty, and for an hour she had
sat idle before the fire — a most un-

wonted self-indulgence for one so
conscientious as Assunta HowanL

A ring at the door and a voice a
the hall made her start and trcsi*
ble a little, as she had not done ov
that first evening of Father Peri
val*s return. She had scarcely w
covered herself when Mr. CarliA
entered the room.

" I have come to account formf-
self,*' were his first words. "I
hoped that I should find you alone
to-night."

" Mrs. Lee has gone to her mo-
ther's," was the reply.

" Yes, I knew it. Assunta, what
haVe you thought of me? Stil
more, what will you think of me
now.? I have suffered much ia
these two months ; perhaps it is ua*
generous in me to say this to yom
Assunta, never for one moment
have I been unfaithful to the love I
told you of so many years ago ; bat
I had given up the hope of evcc
possessing yours. Even when the
obstacle you know of had been re^
moved, I thought that I could bear
to see you happy, as 1 believed yot
were, in a life in which I had b«
share. I felt that it would not be
right even to ask you to marry oflC
so much older than yourself, witk
broken health and darkened spiriti
And your fresh beauty, still so girf*
ish, so all-unchanged, confirmed ray
purpose. Ah ! child, time, that htf
silvered my hair, has not dimmei
the golden aureola which crowof
your dear head. But in the maor
lonely hours that I have passed
since my return, my courage his
grown faint. I have longed for yoar
§weet presence in my home, imt2
an answering voice has urged aieto
come to you. Assunta, once, be-
neath the shadow of the cross, ia
the moonlit Colosseum, I offered
you my love, and you put God be-
tween us. Again I urged my suit.

Assnnta Howard.

485

md again you erected the same im-
passable barrier. To-night I am so
dfish that, even as I have describ-
ed myself to be, I come to you a
iird time with a love which years
tuve but strengthened. My darling,
Cod no longer comes between us ;
:an I ever hope to win that true,
}rave heart ?"

With a child-like simplicity and
X true womanliness Assunta put
ler hand in his, and said :

"Mr, Carlisle, it has long been
rours. 'Unless he can love you
II Gady my mother said. I believe
hat the condition is now fulfilled."
'**And may God bless the love
le sanctions!" said Mr. Carlisle sol-
imnly. After a silence — for where
jcarts understand each other there
s no need of many words — Assun-
a said in her own sweet tones :

" Do you regret now the decision
>f that night in Rome? Was I a
me prophetess V

** But we have lost so many years,"
iaid Mr. Carlisle.

"Yes, lost for time, but gained
lOr eternity."

When Mrs. Lee- returned, she
^tcd the guest with surprise, as
»ell as pleasure; but both these
motions were lost in a still greater
joy when Mr. Carlisle, drawing As-
tanta towards him, said :

** Mrs. Lee, this is my Christmas
jift—a precious treasure, is it not,
to be entrusted to one so undeserv-

Bg?"

"Indeed it is a precious trea-
rare," echoed Mary enthusiastically ;
* but, Mr. Carlisle, there is not a man
in the world in whose possession I
"ould like to see it so well as in
yours."

"Bless you, Mrs. Lee, for your
kind words ! Petite^ perhaps your
taste is not so much in fault after
all."

" And, Mary," said Assunta arch-

ly, "he may yet recover his good
looks, you know."

" Yes," said Mr. Carlisle, " love
and happiness are said to be great
beautifiers. I have no objection to
trying the experiment."

One bright morning, soon after
Easter, there was a nuptial Mass at
the cathedral, celebrated by Fa-
ther Percival, and after the cere-
mony and a quiet breakfast, Mr.
and Mrs. Carlisle drove in their
private carriage to the beautiful
country residence which was to be
their future home.

Just at sunset, as they entered
the long avenue which with many
windings led towards the house,
Mr. Carlisle said :

" My darling, we are at home. I
have waited, like Jacob, almost
seven years for my Rachel. I can-
not say, as he did, that the days
have seemed few^ though I believe
my love has been no less."

" And suppose," replied Assunta,
with the happy confidence of a lov-
ing wife — "suppose your Rachel
should turn out a Lia after all V

" In that case," said her husband
coolly, " I should insist that the
description of that much-injured
lady had done her great injustice.
And I should consider myself a
lucky fellow to have been cheated
into the mistake, and be ready to
wager my Lia against all the Ra-
chels in the world. And now, ray
precious wife, welcome home!"

Ten years later. It is not al-
ways a pleasure to look in upon
loved friends after a lapse of ten
years. Sickness, sorrow, death, or
disgrace may each do a mighty
work in even fewer years, and, at
the best, time itself brings about
marked changes. But a glance at
Carlisle Hall, on this tenth anni-
versary of that happy wedding-day,

486

Assunta Howard,

will only show that same happiness
ripened into maturity. In a mar-
riage like that of Severn and Assunta
Carlisle, whatever life might bring
of joy or sorrow would come to
both alike, and nothing could di-
vide them. Even death itself
would but seem to part them, for
their union was in God, In As-
sunta the added dignity of wife-
hood and motherhood had taken
nothing from the charm of earlier
years ; and, if the beauty of the
young girl had faded somewhat,
the ever-growing grace and purity
of soul more than supplied its
want, even in her husband's eyes.
And Mr. Carlisle? Noble by na-
ture, and possessing the finest qua-
lities of- mind and heart, his soul
was now developed to the full
stature of its manhood. He was a
proud man still, but with a pride
which S. Paul might have com-
mended. He was so proud that
♦ he was never ashamed to kneel be-
side the poorest villager in the
little church. In his pride he glo-
ried in Jesus Christ, and him cruci-
fied. The beautiful church itself
had been erected as a thank-offer-
ing, by Mr. Carlisle and his wife, in
the factory village two miles from
their home ; and for some years
Father Percival had been parish
priest of the Church of the Assump-
tion. And Carlisle Hall resounded
with the merry voices of three
children at the end of those ten
years : Severn, the pride of his
mother's heart; Augustine, Father
Percival's godchild and special
favorite, already destined for the
priesthood by the wishes of the
senior trio; and the baby, her fa-
ther's darling, to whom he would
give the name of Mary, and no
other, "to show," he said, "how
he had progressed in Mariolatry
• since his first lesson in Sienna."

Father Percival had been the only
guest at this anniversary-dinnci,
except, indeed, the children, who
must appear on this occasion, at do
matter how great a risk of noise
and accident. Th^y had now re-
turned to the nursery, but the othen
still lingered at the table.

"Father Augustine," said As-
sunta — for she had learned to fol-
low the little ones in their name
for the priest they loved so well—
" I received a letter yesterday frora
dear old Father Joseph. He is
just as happy in our marriage to-
day as he was when he first heard
of it, and he blesses it, and us, and
the children so sweetly and kindly.
How much I should like to see
him again!"

" I suppose," said Father Perci-
val, " he looks upon the marriage
as a striking illustration of the won-
derful ways and goodness of God,
as it surely is. S. Ignatius ought to
send Father Dupont here, to see for
himself the result of his direction,
and, I must add, of your generosity
and faithfulness, Mrs. Carlisle."

" I am so sorry, Severn," said
Assunta after a pause in the ccffl-
versation, "that Clara would not
come to us to-day. I think a
glimpse of quiet country life might
be a pleasant change for her."

"I fear," replied her husband
sadly, " that poor Clara has much to
suffer yet. It is my opinion that Sio-
clair has no intention of retamraf
from Europe at all. But who
could have made her believe, ia
those sunshiny days, that she would
ever live to be a deserted wife?
Petiie^ the subject is a ver)- painful
one. I am going to change it for
one of which I an) never wean
Augustine, it is not the custom, I
believe, for a man to toast his wife
on such an occasion, but I am go-
ing to be an exception to the rule

Matter,

48/

to,-day. Lord Lytton has in that
grand work of his, My Navd^ two
types of women — the one who ex-
aits, and the one who consoles.
He probably had never seen the
combination of the two types in
one person. I now propose —

and, my darling, you must drink
and not blush — *Assunta Carlisle:
blessed be the woman who both
exalts and consoles !' And let me
add that a happy man was I — un-
worthy — when, ten years ago, that
woman became my wife.**

MATTER.

Although continuous matter
cannot be proved to exist, yet its
existence, as every one knows, is
still very commonly believed, even
by philosophers, on the ground that
it was believed for centuries by all
great men. and has never been con-
clusively refuted. From some hints
which we have given in our previous
article about the difficulties of this
ancient doctrine, the intelligent
reader may have already satisfied
himself that material continuity is
not merely "a philosophical mys-
tery," as Goudin confesses, but a
metaphysical absurdity. As, howev-
er, this last conclusion, owing to its
paramount importance in metaphy-
sics and in natural philosophy, de-
serves a more explicit and complete
demonstration than we have yet
given, we propose to develop in the
present article a series of arguments,
draurn from different sources, to
show tht absolute and intrinsic im-
possibility of continuous matter. The
prejudices of our infancy may at
first resist the demonstration, but it
is to be hoped that they will finally
yield to reason.

First argument. — We know, and
it is conceded by the advocates of
continuous matter, that a finite

being cannot involve in its com-
position an infinite multitude of
distinct terms ; for evidently the in-
finite cannot be the constituent of
the finite. Now, we have shown in
our preceding article that, if there
were a piece of continuous matter,
it should involve in its continuous
constitution an infinite multitude
of distinct terms, every one of which *
should have its own distinct exis-
tence independently of the others.
Therefore continuous matter can-
not exist.

Second argument, — A primitive
substance cannot absolutely be
made up of other substances. But
if there were any continuous mat-
ter, a primitive substance would be
made up of other substances. There-
fore no continuous n^atter can ex-
ist. The major of this syllogism is
quite evident ; for a primitive sub-
stance, if made up of other sub-
stances, would be primitive and
non-primitive at the same time. The
minor can be easily proved. For
it is plain that continuous matter,
if any such existed, would neces-
saiily consist of continuous parts,
substantially distinct from one
another, and therefore having their
own distinct matter and their own

488

Matter.

distinct substantial act, and rank-
ing as distinct, complete, and sepa-
rable substances, as we have shown
in our last article. Now, assuming
that either of these parts is a primi-
tive substance, it is evident that the
primitive substance would be made
up of other substances ; for such a
part, being continuous, is itself made
up of other parts, which are likewise
distinct and complete substances,
as we have just remarked. And
since a continuum cannot be re-
solved into any but continuous
parts, the conclusion cannot be
avoided that the primitive material
substance would always be made
up of other substances. To elude
this argument, the advocates of con-
tinuous matter are compelled to
deny that there is any primitive
material substance mathematically
continuous. But, even so, their
position is not improved. For if
there is no .primitive material sub-
stance mathematically continuous,

• the combination of such primitive
substances will never give rise to
continuous matter, it being obvious
that all the elementary constituents
of continuum must be continuous,
as all philosophers agree. Whence
we again conclude that no continu-
ous matter is possible.

Third argument, — No continuum
can be made up of unextended
constituents, as we have just ob-
served, and as our opponents not
only concede, but also demonstrate
most irrefragably in their own trea-
tises. Now, continuous matter, if
any such existed, would be made up
of unextended constituents — that
is, of mere mathematical points.
Therefore continuous matter would
be a formal contradiction. The
minor of our syllogism is proved
thus. All the points which can be
designated within the dimensions

. of the continuum are immediately

united with one another, and there-
fore no room is to be found be-
tween any two consecutive points :
which shows that in the constitu-
tion of the continuum we would
have nothing but mere points. For
let there be a continuous plane and
a continuous sphere. The sphere,
if perfect, cannot touch the plane,
except in a single indivisible point,
as is proved in geometrj^; never-
theless, the sphere may move along
the plane, and, always touching the
plane in a single point, may noea-
sure a linear extension of matter,
which, accordingly, would contain
nothing but mathematical points im-
mediately folio wing one another. In
other terms, the extended matter
would be made up of indivisible
points ; and since all admit that this
is impossible, it follows that contin-
uous matter is impossible. Against
this argument the objection is made
that it proves too much; as it
would prove the impossibility of
measuring space by continuous
movement. But this objection has
no good foundation, as we shall show
after \:oncluding the series of our
arguments.

Fourth argument, — All the points
that can be designated in a mate-
rial continuum would necessarily
touch one another in such a man-
ner as to form a continuous exten-
sion; hence their contact wonld
necessarily be extensive. But an es-
tensive contact of indivisible points
is intrinsically impossible. There-
fore material continuity is intrinsi-
cally impossible. The. major of this
syllogism is a mere corollary from
the definition of continuum ; for, if
there be no contact, the continuum
will be broken, and if the contaci
be not extensive — that is, such as to
allow each point to extend beyond
its neighbor — no continuous extw-
sion will result. The minor of our

Matter.

489

syllogism can be proved as fol-
lows :

The contact of a point with a
point is the contact of an indivisible
with another indivisible ; and, since
the indivisible has no parts, such a
contact cannot be partial, but must
needs be total. Accordingly, the
second point, by its contact with
the first, will be totally in the first ;
the third, by its contact with the
second, will be totally in the second,
and consequently in the first; the
fourth, by its contact with the third,
will be totally in the third, and con-
sequently in the second and in the
first, and so on. Therefore all the
points which are in mathematical
contact will necessarily correspond
to the same point in space. Now,
to be all in the same point, and to
form a continuous extension, are
contradictories. And thus it is mani-
fest that material continuity is a
mere contradiction.

Some will say that the contact is
indeed made in the points, but that
the parts, which touch one another
in a common point, are quite dis-
tinct. But this appeal to the parts
of the continuum, though much in-
sisted upon by many ancient philo-
sophers, is of no avail against our
argument. For the existence of
these parts cannot be assumed,
without presupposing the continuity
of matter. Such parts are, in fact,
assumed to be continuous; and
therefore; before we admit their ex-
istence, we roust inquire whether
and how they can have intrinsic
extension and continuity. And
dividing these parts into other parts,
and these again into others without
end, of all these parts of parts the
same question must be asked — that
|Si whether and how they can have
intrinsic extension and continuity.
Hence one of two things will follow :
cither we shall never find the in-

trinsic reason of material continuity,
or we shall find it only after having
exhausted an infinite division — that
is, after having reached, if possible,
a term incapable of further division,
viz., a mathematical point. But in
the mathematical point it is impos-
sible to find the intrinsic reason of
material continuity, as we have just
shown. And therefore the material
continuity of the parts has no for-
mal reason of its constitution, or, in
other terms, the parts themselves
are intrinsically impossible.

Moreover, the very distinction
made by our opponents between the
points of contact and the parts
which touch one another in those
points, is altogether irrational. For
a parte ret — that is, considering the
continuum as it is in itself — there is
no foundation for the said distinc-
tion, it being evident that in a ho-
mogeneous continuum no place is
to be found where we cannot mark
out a point. Hence it is irrational
to limit the designability of the
points in order to make room for
the parts. In other words, the
parts themselves cannot be conceiv-
ed as continuous without supposing
that all the neighboring points
which can be designated in them
form by their contact a continuous
extension, which we have proved to
be inadmissible. The aforesaid dis-
tinction is therefore one of the sub-
terfuges resorted to by the advocates
of material continuity, to evade the
unanswerable difficulties arising
from their sentence; for it is true
indeed, as Goudin remarks, that
material continuity is "a philoso-
phic mystery, against which reason
objects more than it can answer,"
though not because in this question
"reason proves more than it can
understand," but because contin-
uous matter is shown to be an ab-
solute impossibility.

490

Matter.

Fifth argument, — It is a known
metaphysical principle that ** noth-
ing can possibly become actual, ex-
cept by the intervention of an act" —
Impossibik est aliquid fieri in actu
nisi per aliquem actum (S. Thomas
passim). But no act can be imagin-
ed by which matter would become
actually continuous. Therefore
no actually continuous matter can
possibly exist. The minor of our
syllogism is proved thus. Acts are
either substantial or accidental;
hence if any act could be conceived
as giving actual continuity to mat-
ter, such an act would be either
substantial or accidental — that is, it
would give to its matter either its
first being or a mere mode of be-
ing. Now, neither the substantial
nor the accidental act can make
matter actually continuous. For,
first, no substantial act can give
to its matter a being for which
the matter has no disposition.
But actuable matter has no dis-
position for actual continuity, for
where there are no distinct terms
requiring continuation, there is no
disposition to actual continuity, as
is evident ; and it is not less evi-
dent that the matter which is to
be actuated by a substantial act
involves no distinct terms, and does
not even connote them, but mere-
ly implies the privation of the act
giving it its first being, which act is
one, not many, and gives one being,
not many, and consequently is inca-
pable of constituting a number of
actual terms actually distinct, as
would be required for actual con-
tinuity. To say the contrary would
be to deny one of the most funda-
mental and universal principles of
metaphysics, viz.. Actus est qui dis-
tinguity which means that there can-
not be distinct terms where there
are no distinct acts.

Moreover, continuity presupposes

quantity ; hence, if the substaotiali
act gives actual continuity to iu
matter, it must be conceded thai a
certain quantity exists potentially in
the actuable matter, and is reduced
to act by the first actuation of mat-
ter. This quantity, would there-
fore rank among the essentials ot
the substance, and could not possi-
bly be considered as an accident;
for the immediate result of the first
actuation of a term by its substan-
tial act is not a mere accident, but
the very actuality of the essence of
which that act and that term are
the principles. Whence it follows
that so long as quantity remains an
accident, it is impossible to make
it arise from the substantial act:
and, accordingly, no substantial act
can make matter actually continu-
ous.

That actual continuity cannot
arise from any accidental act is no
less evident. For the only acci-
dental act which could be suppos-
ed to play a part in the constitution
of a material continuum would be
some actual composition. But as
composition without components is
impossible, and the components of
continuous matter, before such a
composition, are not continuous
(since we must now consider con-
tinuity as a result of the composi-
tion), our continuous matter would
be made up of components destitnie
of continuous extension — that is, of
mere mathematical points. Butt as
this is avowedly impossible, it fol-
lows that it is as impossible to ad-
mit that matter becomes actuallj
continuous by the reception of v^
accidental act.

Sixth argument, — In a philostr
phico-mathematical work published
in England a few years ago,* from

* Th9 EUmtutt 9/ MoleruUv' MtekMm^t. Br
Joseph Bayma, S.J., Professor of Vh^mM^
Stonyhurst College. Londoo and C«abrid|c
MacmiUan and Co. x866.

Matter.

491

vhich we have already borrowed
some plain arguments concerning
other questions on matter, the im-
possibility of continuous matter is
proved by the following argument :
*' A compound which has no first
components is a sheer impossibility.
Continuous matter, if admitted,
would be a compound which has no
first components. Therefore contin-
uous matter is a sheer impossibility.
In this argument the first proposi-
tion is self-evident ; for the compo-
nents are the material constituents
of the compound ; and therefore a
compound which has no first com-
ponents is a thing which is consti-
tuted without its first constituents,
or a pure contradiction. The se-
cond proposition also is undeniable.
And, first, there can be no doubt
that continuous matter would be a
compound ; for continuous matter
would be extended, and would have,
accordingly, parts distinct from
parts; which is the exclusive pro-
l»erty of compounds. Now, that
this compound would be without
prst components^ can be proved as
follows : If continuous matter has
any first components, these compo-
nents will either be extended or
iinextended. If they are supposed
to be txiendedy then they are by no
means the first components ; since
It is clear that in this case they have
distinct parts, and therefore are
themselves made up of other com-
ponents. If they are supposed to
W unextended^ then they are by no
means the components of continuum ;
since all know and admit that no
continuum can be made up of un-
extended points. And, indeed, un-
cxtcnded points have no parts, and
inerefore cannot touch one another
partially; whence it follows that
either they touch each other totally,
or they do not touch at all. If they
do not touch at all, they do not

make a continuum, as is evident.
If they touch totally, the one will
occupy exactly the same place
which is occupied by the other,
and no material extension will arise.
And for this reason geometrical
writers consider that a mathema-
tical line cannot be conceived as
made up of points, but only as the
track of a single point in motion.
We see, then, that a material con-
tinuum is a compound, of which
the first components cannot be ex-
tended, and cannot be unextended.
And since it is impossible to think
of a third sort of ^rst components
which would be neither extended
nor unextended, we must needs
conclude that continuous matter
is a compound which has no first
components. And ' therefore con-
tinuous matter is a mere absurdity **

(P- 30)-

This argument is, in our opinion,
altogether unanswerable. Those
philosophers, in fact, who still ven-
ture to fight in favor of continuous
matter, have never been able to
solve it. When we. urge them to
declare whether they hold the first
components of continuous matter
to be extended or unextended, they
constantly ignore and elude the
question. They simply answer that
the components of material sub-
stance are " the matter " and " the
form." But if the matter which
lies under the form has no distinct
parts, it is evident that the sub-
stance cannot be continuous. The
composition of matter and form
does not, therefore, entail continuity,
unless the matter which is under
the form has its own material com-
position of parts ; and it is with
reference to the composition of
these parts of matter, not to the
composition of matter and form,
that we inquire whether the first
components of continuous matter

492

Matter.

be extended or unextended. To
ignore the gist of the argument is,
on the part of our opponents, an
implicit confession of their inability
to cope with it.

Seventh argument, — Material sub-
stance, as consisting of act and
potency, like everythingelse in crea-
tion, is both active and passive, its
activity and passivity being essen-
tially confined, as we have already
explained,* to the production and
the reception of local movement.
Hence, so long as material substance
preserves its essential constitution,
it is impossible to admit that mat-
ter is incapable of receiving move-
ment from natural causes. But
continuous matter would be inca-
pable of receiving movement from
natural causes. Therefore it is
impossible to admit continuous
matter. To prove the minor of
this syllogism, let there be two little
globes of continuous matter, and
let them act on one another. Since
no finite velocity can be communi-
cated by an immediate contact of
matter with matter, as shown in a
preceding article, it follows that the
velocity must be communicated by
virtual contact in accordance with
the law of the inverse squared distan-
ces. Hence, since some points of the
two globes are nearer to one an-
other, and others are farther, differ-
ent points must acquire different
velocities. Now, one and the same
piece of matter cannot move on-
ward with different velocities, as is
evident ; it will therefore be unable
to move so long as such different
velocities are not reduced to a mean
one, which shall be common to the
whole mass. Such a reduction of
unequal velocities to a mean one
would meet with no difficulty, if the
globes in question were made up

* Thb Catholic Wokld, August, 1874, p. 581.

of free and independent points of
matter; for in such a case the
globes would be compressed, and
each point of matter would act aod
react according to known mechani-
cal laws, and thus soon equalize
their respective velocities. But in
the case of material continuity the
reduction of different velocities to a
mean one is by no means jxyssiblc.
For " in a piece of continuous mat-
ter," to quote again from the above-
mentioned work of molecular me-
chanics, " any point which can be
designated is so invariably united
with the other points that no im-
pact and no mutual reaction are con-
ceivable ; the obvious consequence
of which is that no work can be
done within the continuous parti-
cle in order to equalize the unequal
velocities impressed from without.
Moreover, in our case the reduction
ought to be rigorously instantane-
ous ; which is another irapossibiliiy.
In fact, if distinct points of a con-
tinuous piece of matter were for any
short duration of time animated by
different velocities, the continuum
would evidently undergo immedi-
ate and unavoidable resolution ;
which is against the hypothesis.
Since, then, the said reduction can-
not be made instantaneously, as wc
have proved above, nor, indeed, in
any other way, and, on the other
hand, our continuous particle can-
not move onward before the differ-
ent velocities are reduced to one of
mean intensity, it is quite evident
that the same continuous particle
will never be capable of moving,
whatever be the conditions of the
impact. And since what is true of
one particle on account of its sup-
posed continuity is true also of
each of the other particles equally
continuous, we must conclude that
bodies made up of particles mate-
rially continuous are totally incapa-

Matter.

493

ble of receiving any communication
of motion." *

This argument, though seemingly
proving only the non-existence of
continuous matter in nature, proves
in fact, also, the impossibility of
Its existence. For, if a substance
could be created possessing intrin-
sic extension and continuity, that
substance would essentially differ
from the existing matter, and would
therefore be anything but matter.
Hence not even in this supposition
would continuous matter exist.

Eighth argument. — The inertia of
matter, and its property of acting
in a sphere, might furnish us with a
nevr argument against material con-
tinuity. But we prefer to conclude
with a mathematical demonstration
drawn from the weight of matter.
The weight of a mass of matter de-
pends on the number of material
terms to which the action of grav-
ity is applied, and it increases ex-
actly in the same ratio as the num-
ber of the elementary terms con-
tained in the mass. This being the
case, let us assume that there is
somewhere an atom of continuous
matter. The action of gravity will
fmd in it an infinite multitude of
iwints of application ; for it is of
the nature of continuum to sup-
ply matter for an endless division.
Hence if we call g the action of
gravity on the unit of mass in the
unit of lime, the action of the same
gravity on any of those infinite
I»oints of application will be

g^ dx iiy dz^
P being the aensity of the mass, and
ix, (fy^ dx the three dimensions of
an infinitesimal portion of it.

Now, since we know that gravity
in the unit of time imparts a finite
velocity to every point of matter in
the atom, we must admit that the

• rkt El4m«nt* of Moltcular MtckanUt^ pp.
"•.■9.

action exerted on the infinitesimal
mass p dx dy dz has a finite value ;
and therefore, since the volume dx
dy dz is an infinitesimal of the third
degree, the density p must be an
infinite of the third order. But a
continuous mass whose elements
have an infinite density has itself
an infinite density ; hence, if its
volume has finite dimensions, the
mass itself (which is the product of
the volume into the density) is ne-
cessarily infinite, and will have an
infinite weight. Hence the assump-
tion of continuous matter leads to
an absurdity. The assumption is
therefore to be rejected as evident-
ly false.

We will put an end to the series
of our proofs by pointing out the
intrinsic and radical reason why
matter cannot be continuous. The
matter which is under the form is a
potency in the same order of reality
in which its form is an act. Now,
the only property of a potency is to
be liable to receive some determi-
nations of a certain kind ; and the
property of a potency whose form
is an active principle of local motion
must consist in its being liable to
receive a determination to local
mot>ement. Hence, as the matter
receives its first being by a form of
a spherical character, and becomes
the real central point from which
the actions of the substance proceed,
so also the same matter, when
already actuated by its essential
form, receives any accidental deter-
mination to local movement ; and,
inasmuch as it is liable to local
movement, it is in potency to ex-
tend through space — that is, to de-
scribe in space a continuous line ;
and when it actually moves, it
actually traces a continuous line —
that is, it extends from place to
place, continuously indeed, but
successively ; whence it is manifest

494

Matter.

that its extension is nothing but Ac-
tus existentis in potentia ut in po-
ttntia^2L^ Aristotle would say, viz., an
actual passage from one potential
state to another. Such is the only ex-
tension of which matter is capable.
Such an extension is always in fieri^
x\tytT in facto esse ; always dynami-
cal, never statical ; always potential
and successive, never formal or
simultaneous. We can, therefore,
ascribe to matter potential continu-
ity, just as we ascribe to its active
principle a firtuai continuity; for
the passivity of the matter and the
activity of the form correspond to
one another as properties of one
and the same essence ; and what-
ever can be predicated actively or
virtually of a substance on account
of its form can be predicated pas-
sively or potentially of the same
substance on account of its mat-
ter.

These remarks form a comple-
ment to our fifth argument, where
we proved that no substantial and
no accidental act could make mat-
ter actually continuous. For, since
matter cannot receive any acciden-
tal act, except the determination to
local movement, and since this
movement, although continuous, is
essentially successive, it follows
that by such a determination no
actual and permanent continuity
can arise, but a mere continuation
of local changes. Thus matter, ac-
cording to its potential nature, has
only a potential extension ; or, in
other terms, it is not in itself actual-
ly continuous, but is simply ready
to extend through space by con-
tinuous movement.

The preceding proofs seem quite
sufficient, and more than sufficient,
to uproot the prejudice in favor of
material continuity ; we must, how-
ever, defend them from the attacks
of our opponents, that no reason-

able doubt may remain as to the
cogency of our demonstration.

First objection, — The globe and
the plane, of which we have spoken
in our third argument, though des-
titute of proportional parts suitable
for a statical contact, become pro-
portionate to one another, say^
Goudin, by the very movement of
the one upon the other ; and thu!^
our third argument would fall tn
the ground. For a successive con-
tact partakes of the nature of sur
cessive beings. Hence, as time,
although having no present, except
an indivisible instant, becomes
through its flowing, extended into
continuous parts, so also the con-
tact of the globe with the plane,
although limited to an indivisiblt:
point, can nevertheless, by its flow-
ing, become extended so as to cor-
respond to the extended parts of
the plane. For, according to ma-
thematicians, a point, though indi-
visible when at rest, can by mov-
ing describe a divisible line.

To this we answer that a globt
and a plane cannot by the move-
ment of the one on the other acquire
proportionate parts. For, althou^
it is true that a successive contart
partakes of the nature of the succev
sive being which we call movement
it is plain that it does not pirtskt
of the nature of matter. In fact,
the material plane is not supposed
to become continuous through the
movement of the globe, but is hj
pothetically assumed to be continu-
ous before the moveiynt, and even
before the existence, of the saiJ
globe. The continuous movement
is, of course, proportionate to •>
continuous plane ; but it is eviden*
that it cannot originate any propor-
tioh between the plane and th^
globe ; because this would ^
against the essence of both. N-
part of the plane can be spherical

Matter.

495

and no part of the globe can be
plane ; hence, whatever may be the
movement of the one upon the
other, they will never touch one
another, except in a single point.

That time, although having no
present, except an indivisible point,
becomes extended by flowing on, is
perfectly true ; but this proves no-
thing. For, in the same manner as-
the act of flowing, by which time
flows, has nothing actual but a
single indivisible instant, so also
the act of flowing, by which the
contact of the globe with the plane
flows, has no actuality but in an
indivisible point of space ; and as
an indivisible instant by its flowing
draws a line of time without ever
becoming extended in itself, so also
an indivisible point by its flowing
draws a line in space without ever
becoming extended in itself; and
as the instant of time never be-
comes proportionate to any finite
length of time, so also the point of
contact never becomes propor-
tionate to any finite line in space.

That a line, therefore, arises from
the flowing of a point in the same
manner as time from the flowing
of an instant, is a plain truth, and
there was no need of Goudin's ar-
gumentation to make it accepta-
ble. To defeat our argument, he
should have proved that the actual
flowing of an instant takes up a
length of time. If this could have
been proved, it would have been
easy to conclude that the flowing
contact also extends through a
length of space. But the author
did not attempt to show that an
instant of time flows through finite
lengths of time. It is evident, on the
contrary, that an instant flows
through mere instants immediately
following one another. And thus
the objection has no weight.

Second objection, — If a material

continuum is impossible, all continu •
um is impossible, and thus we are
constrained to deny the continuity
of both space and time. For space
and time — as, for instance, a cubic
foot and an hour — include within
their respective limits an infinite
multitude of indivisible points, or
indivisible instants, just as would
continuous matter include within
its limits an infinite multitude of
material points ; for it is clear that
space and time cannot be made up
of anything but points and instants.
Hence, if, in spite of this, we ad-
mit continuous space and continu-
ous time, we implicitly avow that
our first argument against continu-
ous matter is far from conclusive.

We reply that there is no parity
between the continuity of space and
lime and the continuity of matter ;
and that the impossibility of the
latter does not show the impossibil-
ity of the former. The continuity
of space and of time is intimately
connected with the continuity of
local movement. Movement, though
formally continuous, or rather
owing to its formal continuity, is
necessarily successive, so that wc
can never find one part of the move-
ment coexisting with another part
of the same movement ; and con-
sequently there is no danger of find-
ing in such a movement any actual
multitude, whilst we should neces-
sarily find it in continuous matter.
Time also, as being nothing else
than the actuality or duration of
movement, is entirely successive ;
and consequently no two parts of
time can ever be found together ;
which again prevents the danger of
an (utucU multitude of coexisting
instants. As to space, we observe
that its continuity is by no means
formal, but only virtual, and that
space as such has no parts into
which it can be divided, whatever

496

Matter.

our imagination may suggest to the
contrary. We iadeed consider
space as a continuous extension,
but such an extension and continu-
ity is the property of the movement
extending through space, not of
space itself. Space is a region
through which movement can extend
in a continuous manner j hence the
space measured, or mensurable, is
styled continuous from the continu-
ity of the movement made, or pos-
sible. We likewise consider the
parts of the extension of the move-
ment made or possible as so many
parts of the spcue measured or men-
surable. And thus space is called
continuous^ extended^ and divisible
intopartSy merely because the move-
ment by which space is, or can be,
measured is continuous, extended,
and divisible into successive parts ;
but space, as such, has of itself no
formal continuity, no formal exten-
sion, and no formcU divisibility,
since space, as such, is nothing else
than, the virtuality, or extrinsic ter-
minability, of divine immensity, as
we may have occasion hereafter to
show.

Hence neither space, nor time,
nor movement is made up by
composition of points or of instants ;
but time and movement owe their
continuous extension to the flowing
of a single instant and of a single
point, whilst space, which is only
virtually continuous, owes its de-
nomination of contiliuous to the
possibility of continuous movement
through it. But if there were any
continuous matter, its formal ex-
tension would arise from actual^
simultaneous^ and indivisible points
constituting sl forrnal infinite multi-
tude within the limits of its exten-
sion. Hence there is no parity
between continuous matter and con-
tinuous space or time ; and the
impossibility of the former does not

prove the impossibility of the lat-
ter.

Third objection, — Accelerated
movement is a movement the velo-
city of which increases by continu-
ous infinitesimal degrees — ^that is, by-
indivisible momenta of motion, it
is therefore possible for a quantity
of movement to arise from the ac-
cumulation of indivisibles. Why.
then, should not the quantity of mat-
ter arise in a like manner from the
accumulation of indivisible points?
That which causes the accelera-
tion of movement is, in fact, con-
tinuous action — that is, a series of
real, distinct, and innumerable in-
stantaneous actions, by which the
movement is made to increase by
distinct infinitesimal degrees ; which
would show that it is not impossi-
ble to make a continuum by means
of indivisibles.

We reply, first, that there is no
degree of velocity which can be
styled indivisible ; for however small
may be the acceleration of the
movement, it may become smaller
and smaller without end, as we
shall presently explain.

But, waiving this, we reply,
secondly, that intensive and ex-
tensive quantity are of a very dif-
ferent nature, and, even if it wenr
true that intensive quantity can
arise from an accumulation of in
divisibles, the same would not be the
case with extension. The degrees
of intensity never unite by way of
composition; for all intensity be-
longs to some form or act, whils:
all composition of parts regards the
material constituents of things
Hence movement, though increas-
ing or decreasing, by continuoas
degrees, is not composed of tbexn;
whereas the continuum of matter.
if atiy such existed, should be com-
posed of its indivisible elements.
In movement the increased vclo-

Matter.

A97

city is not a multitude of distinct
acts, but a single act, equivalent to
all the acts which we may distin-
guish under the name of degrees
of velocity. Hence such degrees
are only virtually distinct, and do
not constitute a formal multitude ;
whence it follows that there is no
absurdity in the notion of accelerat-
ed or retarded movement. But
with a material continuum the case
is entirely different; for such a
( ontinuum would be an extensive,
not an intensive, quantity, and
irould have parts not only mental-
ly or virtually, but entitatively and
formally, distinct, and making an
actual infinite multitude within the
limits of a finite bulk.

As to the continuous action
Nrhich causes the acceleration of
movement, it is not true that it
onsists of a sum of distinct instan-
aneous actions. The action may
K considered either in fieri or in
^aeto esse. The action in fieri is
he exertion of the agent, and the
\ci\oxi in facto esse is the determi-
lation received by the patient.
*»'ow, the exertion of the agent is
ucccssive ; for its continuity is the
r>ntinuity of time, and is therefore
mtinuation rather than continuity,
icnce nothing exists of the action
s fieri, except an instantaneous
Kcrtion corresponding to the mo-
lent of time which unites the past
ith the future. All the past exer-
ons have ceased to be in fieri, and
I the future exertions have still to
- made. Accordingly, continuous
tion is not made up of other ac-
al actions, and, though passing
rough different degrees of inten-
ly. is not an actual multitude.
On the other hand, if we con-
ier the action in facto esse — that
the determination as received in
tr patient — we shall find that, al-
otigh such a determination is the
VOL. XX. — 32

result of a continued exertion, and
exhibits its totality under the form
of velocity, nevertheless this result
consists of intensity, not of con-
tinuity, and therefore contains no
formal multitude, but is, as we have
said, a simple act equivalent to
many. Hence accelerated move-
ment is one movement, and not
many, and a great velocity is one
velocity, and not a formal multi-
tude of lesser velocities. In a
word, there is not the least resem-
blance between continuous accele-
ration and continuous matter.

Although the preceding answer
suflSciently shows the fiimsiness of
the objection, we may yet observe
that actions having an infinitesimal
duration are indeed infinitesimal,
but are not true indivisibles. For
the expression of an accelerating
action, in dynamics, contains three
variable functions — that is, first, the
intensity of the action at the unit of
distance in the unit of time; sec-
ondly, its duration; thirdly, the
distance from the agent to the pa-
tient. Hence, in the case of an ac-
tion of infinitesimal duration, there
still remain two variables, viz., the
intensity of the power, and the dis-
tance from the patient; and their
variation causes a variation of the
action in its infinitesimal duration.
Thus it is manifest that actions of
infinitesimal duration can have a
greater or a less intensity, and
therefore are not true indivisibles of
intensity. If, for instance, two
agents by their constant and con-
tinuous action produce in the same
length of time different effects, it is
evident that their actions have dif-
ferent intensities in every infinitesi-
mal instant of time; hence such
infinitesimal actions, though bearing
no comparison with finite quantities,
bear comparison with one another,
and form definite geometric ratios.

498

Matter.

Fourth objection, — If the contact
of one indivisible with another can-
not engender a continuum, we must
deny the existence of time and of
local motion. For time is engen-
dered by the flowing of an instant
towards the instant immediately
following, and movement is engen-
dered by the flowing of a point in
space towards the point immedi-
ately following. If, then, indivisibles
cannot, by their contact, give rise to
continuous extension, neither time
nor local motion will acquire con-
tinuous extension.

Our answer to this objection is
that time and movement are not
engendered by a formal contact of
a real instant with the instant fol-
lowing, or of a real point with the
point following. Duration is not a
sum of indivisible instants formally
touching one another, nor is the
length of space a sum of indivisible
points touching one another. We
may have points in space, but not
points of spcLce ; and in like manner
we have instants in succession, not
instants of succession, though in
common language we usually con-
found the latter with the former.
Yet, when we talk of a point of
space, our meaning is not that
space is made up of points, but
simply that a point of matter exist-
ing in space marks out its own ubi-
cation, thus lending to the space
occupied the name oi point. Hence
no movement in space can be con-
ceived to extend by successive con-
tacts of points, or by the flowing
of a point towards other points
immediately following; for these
points immediately following exist
only in our imagination. Nor does
a flowing point engender a line of
space, but only a line of movement ;
and even this latter is not properly
engendered^ but merely marked out
in space; for all possible lines are

already virtually contained in space,
and therefore they need no engcR-
dering, but simply marking out by
continuous motion.

The same is to be said of tbe
origin of time. Time is not a for^
mal sum' of instants touching one
another. The instant just past ii
no more, hence it cannot touch the
instant which is now ; and the w
stant which is to follow is not yel,
hence it cannot be touched by tk
instant which is now. Accordiaf-
ly, as the movement of a sii^
point marks out a continuous liae
in absolute space, so aho the flow-
ing of a single instant extends a
line in absolute duration. For, as
S. Thomas teaches, in the whole
length of time there is but a single
instant in re, though this same i»i
slant becomes virtually manifold ctl
ratione prions et posterioris by shifw
ing from " before " to " aficr.**
And in the same manner,- in the
whole length of a line measured vk
space by continuous movemeat«
there is but a single point in
actually shifting its ubication fi
"here" to "there," and thus
coming virtually manifold in i»l
successive positions. And for thil
reason both movement and time
are always and essentially develop*
ing {in fieri), and never exist as dis
veloped {in facto esse) ; since of the
former nothing is actual but a
point, and of the latter nothing k
actual but an instant.

It is scarcely necessary to repeal
that, if there were any continuous
matter, its parts would all be actaal:
and simultaneous. Its continuow
extension would therefore be pro-
perly engendered by the contact
of indivisible points, not by the
shifting of a point from one end otf
its dimensions to another. This
sufficiently shows that from the
continuity of movement and ol

Matiir.

499

time nothing can be concluded in
favor of continuous matter.

Fifth objection, — Between two
given points in space infinite other
points can be placed. Now, what
is possible can be conceived to be
done ; and thus we can conceive an
infinite multitude between the two
points. Accordingly, an infinite
nultitude can be contained within
imits ; and if so, continuous mat-
er is not impossible, and our first
irgument has no weight.

We answer that, although an in-
inite multitude of points can be
>laced between any two given
)oints, yet nothing can be inferred
herefrom in favor of continuous
natter. For those innumerable
K)ints either will touch one an-
rther or not. If they do not
ouch, they will not make a con-
inuum; and if they touch, they
rill, as we have shown, entirely
oincide, instead of forming a con-
tnuous extension. It is plain,
hcrefore, that the distance between
he two given points cannot be
lied continuously y even by an infi-
ite multitude of other points,
ind therefore the objection has no
>rce.

Nor is it true that by the crea-
ion of an infinite multitude of
oints between two given points
[ich a multitude would be an in-
nity within limits. For the two
iven points are limits, or rather
:rms, of a local relation, but they
re no limits of the multitude, or
iscrete quantity, which can be
laced between them ; for, without
itering the position of those two
oints, we can increase without end
ic number of the intervening
oints. As volume is not a limit
r density, so the distance of two
DJnts is not the limit of the multi-
ide that can be condensed be-
rcen them.

Sixth objection, — All the arguments
above given against the continuity
of matter are grounded on a false
supposition; for they all take for
granted that a continuum must be
made up of parts — an assumption
which can be shown to be false.
For, first, in the geometric conti-
nuum there are no actual parts;
for such a continuum is not made
up by composition, but is created,
such as it is, all in one piece.
Whence it must be inferred that the
primitive elements of matter, though
exempt, as primitive, from compo-
sition of parts, and really simple,
may yet possess extension. Second-
ly, who can deny that God has the
power to create a solid body as
perfectly continuous as a geometric
volume? Such a body, though
divisible into any number of parts,
would not be a compound ; for its
parts would be merely possible, not
actual; and therefore it would be
simple, and yet continuous. Third-
ly, those who deny the possibility
of continuous matter admit a va-
cuum ' existing between simple
points of matter. Such a vacuum
is a continuous extension inter-
cepted between real terms, and is
nothing else than the possibility of
real extension. But the real ex-
tension, which is possible between
real terms, is not, of course, a se-
ries of points touching one another,
for such a series, as all admit, is
impossible. It is, therefore, an ex-
tension really continuous, not made
up of parts, but only divisible into
parts. Hence matter may be con-
tinuous and simple at the same
time. *

This objection tends to establish
the possibility of simple • extended
matter. Yet that simplicity and
material extension exclude one an*

^Tot^ffoif^ GwMi^Bb 53*-

500

Matter.

other is an evident truth ; in other
terms, material continuity, without
composition of parts, is utterly in-
conceivable. If, therefore, we per-
sist in taking for granted that a ma-
terial contitiuum must be made up
of actual parts, we do not make a
gratuitous supposition.

The three reasons adduced in
the objection are far from satisfac-
tory. The first makes an unlawful
transition from the geometric ex-
tension of volumes to the physical
extention of masses. Such a transi-
tion, we say, is unlawful ; for the
geometrical extension is only virtu^
ally continuous, and therefore in-
volves no actual multitude of parts ;
whereas the physical extension of
the mass of matter would h^ formal'
ly and materially continuous, thus
involving a formal multitude of ac-
tual parts perfectly distinct from
one another, though united to form
one continuous piece. The geo-
metric extension is measured by
three linear dimensions, and has no
density. Now, a geometric line is
nothing else than the trace of the
movement of a point ; and accord-
ingly its continuity arises fronf the
continuity of the movement itself,
which alone is formally continuous ;
for the space measured by such a
movement has no formal continu-
ity of its own, as we have already
explained, but is styled "continu-
ous " only inasmuch as it is the
region of continuous movement.
There is no doubt, therefore, that
geometric extension is merely vir-
tual in its continuity ; and for this
reason it is not made up of parts
of its own, but simply corresponds
to the parts of the movement by
which it can be measured. Ma-
terial extension, on the contrary,
would be densely filled with actual
matter, and therefore would be
made up of actual parts perfectly

distinct, though not separated 1
apply, as the objection does, 1
material extension, what geomea
teaches of the extension of vo
umes, is therefore a mere panl<
gism. It amounts to saying : Y^ci
um is free from compositum; iiut
fore the matter also wki^h weu\
Jill it is free from composition.

We may add that even geomfU
extension, if real, involves comp<
sition. For, evidently, we canni
conceive a geometric cube withd
its eight vertices, nor can we pn
tend that a figure requiring ei^
distinct points as the terms of i
dimensions is free from compoi
tion. Now, if an empty gcomcti
volume cannot be simple, wbi
shall we say of a volume full (
matter? Wherever there is re
extension, there are real dinael
sions, of which the beginning, ai
the end, and all the intcnncdi^
terms are really distinct from oi
another. Hence in a material t
tension there should be as nui
distinct material terms as there i
geometric points within its linui
And if this is simplicity^ we mi
well ask what is composition}

The second reason adduced i
the objection is a va&xt peti^ f^\
cipii. For he who says that Gfl
can create " a solid body as pel
fectly continuous as a geometi^
volume " assumes that such a co^
tinuous body involves no contndJ<
tion; he therefore begs the q«^
tion. On the other hand, to afcj
that God can create a solid H
as perfectly continuous as a geon^l
ric volume, is to affirm thai G^
can create a body of infinite dets
ty — that is, an infinite mass witLj
finite dimensions. For the o^
of a body of matter is the prodc^
of its volume into its density
hence, if its volume be finite, a^'l
its density infinite, the mass will a

Matter.

501

infinite. Now^ a body materially
continuous implies infinite density ;
for it excludes porosity, and it sup-
plies matter for an endless division.
Hence a continuous mass of mat-
ter filling a finite volume would be
in infinite mass contained within
limits. We think we are not pre-
suming too much when we say that
God cannot create such a metaphy-
ucal monstrosity.

"Such a body," sajrs the objec-
tion, ''though divisible into any
lumber of parts, would not be a com-
FK)und." This is evidently false;
or all that is divisible into parts
las parts, and. therefore composi-
ion. Nor is it true that the parts
>f a continuous body ''would be
nerely possible, not actual"; for
f such parts are not actual, how
:an the body be actual? No ac-
ual continuum can exist without
ictual parts. The divisibility of
:ontinuum is not the possibility of
ictual parts, but the possibility of
heir actual separation.

The third reason is based on our
idmission of a vacuum between
oaterial points. Such a vacuum,
t is objected, is a continuous (vir-
ua!) extension, founding the possi-
bility of some other (formal) exten-
ion. This we concede ; but when
t is argued that this other exten-
ion which is possible between the
luterial terms is the extension of
ootttiaous matter, we deny the
oasequence. It is only continu-
iu local movement, not continu-
us matter, that can formally ex-
end from term to term, as we have
roved. When two real points of
tatter have a distinct ubication in
pace, the interval between them
annot be estimated otherwise than
y the extent of the movement
rhich can be made from one point
J the other. We cannot perceive
be distance between two terms, ex-

cept by drawing, at least mentally,
a line from the one to the other;
and for this reason, as we have re*
marked elsewhere, the relation of
distance is conceived by us as a
quantity measured by movement,
not by matter, and representing the
extension ,of continuous move-
ment, not of continuous matter.
Hence a vacuum intercepted be-
tween real points is a rea/^ though
only virtual^ extension; and that
other real and formal extension,
which is possible between the same
real points, is the extension* of local
movement. Our opponent con-
cedes that " the real extension pos-
sible between real terms is not a
series of points touching one an-
other ; for such a series, as all ad-
mit, is impossible." Now, this suf-
fices to show that the real exten-
sion possible between such real
terms is not the extension of con-
tinuous matter ; for such an exten-
sion, as we have abundantly prov-
ed, would be made up of nothing
but of a series of points touching
one another.

Nothing, perhaps, more evident-
ly fliows the unquestionable solid-
ity of the thesis we have imdertak-
en to defend than the necessity
felt by our opponents of admitting
in matter an extended simplicity and
a simplicity divisible into parts^ as
witnessed by this last objection,
which we have transcribed from a
grave and learned professor of
philosophy. Extended and simple
matter is such an absurdity as few
would admit to be a corollary of
their own theories; yet it cannot
be escaped by those who consider
the first elements of matter as en-
dowed with bulk. For physical
simplicity is an essential attribute
of all primitive beings ; and, if pri-
mitive elements are nevertheless
supposed to be intrinsically extend-

502

Christmas in the Thirteenth Century,

ed, it is plain that their simplicity
will be an extended simplicity.

The main reason why some phi-
losophers still cling to material
continuity is their fear of actio in
distans. We have already shown
that such a fear, though very com-
mon, cannot be justified. We

grant that, owing to popular pre-
judice and an incorrect Dotionof
things, many are apt to dread a^
tion at a distance as a dangeroil
shoal; but when they resort to
"extended and divisible simple
city," they steer their ship directif
against the reefs.

TO BS CONTnVUKD.

CHRISTMAS IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

Few are the hearts that do not
feel.the benign and joyful influence
of Christmas. It is the one feast
that neither the all-destroying zeal
of the Reformation cor the cold
indifferentism of the present age
has dared to abolish or desecrate.
To how many is it the sole remain-
ing word that reminds them of the
sacred name of Christ ! There was
a time when Christmas was but one
of the many holydays that with
each succeeding month recalled to
Christian hearts some great event
in the life of their divine Master;
but heresy has swept away one by
one those sacr«ed days of repose
and prayer. Even in Catholic coun-
tries the church has found it neces-
sary to reduce the number of Days
of Obligation, so cold have grown
both faith and devotion.

Wealth and material prosperity —
these are the sole ends for which a
heartless world would have us ex-
ert all our energies, and it would
fain clog with the sordid love of
gain all the higher aspirations of
the soul.

But we are forgetting that this is
Christmastime — a time for innocent

pleasure, and not for moraliiing;
so, leaving the present age, with afl
its faults, we will ask our readers to
transport themselves with us, in im-
agination, some six centuries bact
and witness how was celebrated in
those Ages of Faith the holy nigbl
of the Nativity of our Lord.

The period selected is about the
middle of the Xlllth century.
Religion was then in the fullest
splendor of its power. It was the
light of civilization, the custodian
of all learning. | Every art had
combined to render its outward ex*
pression worthy of the great and
holy mysteries it taught. Goflnc
architecture had at this date rt-
tained its highest perfection ; ^•nt-
ing and sculpture were almost »-
clusively devoted to the decoitliaB
of God's temples ; poetry and wms*
sic were united to render attractive
the sublime and rarely-interrupted
Offices of the church. The lit«r-
gical works of the period arc nuncs
of poetic and musical riches tfc»l
for the most part lie hidden and
uncared for in their musty tomes.

Some will 'doubtless smile whe»
we speak of the Latin poetry of the

Christmas in tfte Thirteenth Century.

503

middle ages, and certainly those
who seek in it the polished and
classical verses of a Horace or a
Virgil will be disappointed. They
will, however, find that, despite their
tomewhat strange Latinity, these
productions of a so-called barbar-
ous age contain a depth of feeling,
a strength and freshness of expres-
sion, quite unknown to the pagan
poets, and were as appropriate to
those grand old cathedrals under
whose roofs they were to resound
as were the classic odes and songs
to the luxurious banquet-halls of
Rome or the effeminate villas of
Naples. In fact, to adequately
judge of the poetry contained in
the Offices of the mediaeval period,
we must place ourselves amid the
sorroundings in which they were
performed ; we must not view it
from the stand-point of the present
age, with its entirely different ideas
of both religious life and religious
art.

It will be, then, in an old French
cathedral that we shall ask our
reader? to spend this Christmas
night ; for the office, or rather reli-
gious drama, at which we intend to
make them assist, is taken from a
Roman-French missal of the XII Ith
fcntury.

The night has closed in. With-
in the city walls the tortuous and
narrow streets are nearly deserted ;
bat lights gleam from many a dia-
mond pane, for inside joyous circles
are gathered around the glowing
logs that brightly sparkle . in the
implc chimneys. Old stories are
repeated by venerable grandfathers
to merry grandchildren, who in re-
turn sing with silvery voices quaint
old carols. Suddenly a well-known
sound fills the air; from the high
f^athedral lowers burst forth the
joyous chimes that herald the ap-
proach of Christ's natal hour. The

HOtes that ring out so clearly in the
cold December air are those of the
familiar Christmas hymn, Christe
Redemptor omnium.* Soon a hur-
rying throng begin to fill the streets,
all wending their way towards the
same point, through narrow and
winding streets. By gabled house
and arched doorway, by mullioned
window and jutting tower, they \ ress
forward until they reach the central
square, where rises, in all its splen-
dor, the old cathedral church.

Beautiful and imposing at all
times is a Gothic cathedral, but
never more so than when the trem-
bling light of a winter moon throws
around it a soft halo, just enough
to make its grand proportions visi-
ble amid the surrounding gloom,
while leaving all the finer details
wrapt in sombre mystery. Doubly
lofty appear tower and spire, and
strangely weird each fantastic gar-
goyle, as a stray moonbeam falls
athwart its uncouth countenance.

Let us follow the crowd, and enter
beneath the richly-sculptured door-
way. Dim is the light within, only
just sufficient to find your way
among the throng that now begins
to fill every part of the vast edifice.
The numerous assemblage of priests
and choristers are singing the Of-
fice of Matins, the grand old melo-
dies of S. Gregory resounding be-
neath the vaulted roof with that won-
derful effect that makes them, when
sung by choir ai* J congregation, the
most truly religious music that ex-
ists. As the last solemn notes of
the Te Dcum die out, a white-robed
chorister-boy representing an angel
advances into the centre of the
choir, and in sweet, clear accents
chants the words of the angelic
message, " Nolite. timere : ecce enim

* In olden timet it was the custom to ring on the
chimes the hymns of the church, not the worldl/
or Tulgar airs now too often heard.

504

Christmas in the Thirteenth Century.

evangelizo vobis gaudium magnum,
quod erit omni populo, quia natus
est vobis hodie Salvator mundi, in
civitate David. Et hoc vobis signura :
Invenietis infantem pannis involu-
tura, et positum in praesepio " —
" Fear not : for behold, I bring you
good tidings of great joy, that shall
be to all the people : for this day is
born to you a Saviour, who is
Christ the Lord, in the city of Da-
vid. And this shall be a sign unto
you : You shall find the infant wrap-
ped in swaddling-clothes, and laid
in a manger."

Then from the high trifofium-
gallery seven pure young voices
ring out, as if from heaven, the
words sung by the angel-host on
the first Christmas night : " Gloria in
excelsis Deo, et in terra pax ho-
minibus bonae voluntatis." These
familiar words that herald the
pious representation of the holy
scenes whose reality centuries ago
hallowed this night in the moun-
tains of Judaea, are listened to by
the vast congregation with rapt
and devout attention. In their
simple and earnest faith the assist-
ants feel themselves transported
back to the days of Herod and to
the village of Bethlehem, as they
behold emerging rf|;om the western
porch, and slowly advancing up the
nave, a train of shepherds with
staves in their hands, singing, as
they proceed in search of their new-
born King, the following hymn.
Both words and music are full of
beauty, and the cadence is well
suited to a Christmas carol :

TianseftBius, videamu
Verbum hoc quod factum

est
Transeamus, ut adaans
Quod annundatum est^

In Judea puer vagit,
Puer salus popuU,

Quo beUandum ae pras-

sagit
Vetus hoetis necafi.

Accedamus, accedamus
Ad prsDsepe Domku,

Et dicamus:

Laus fecundiB ViigioL

Pax Sn terns nundatur.
In ex^bis gloria.

Terra coelo foederatur,
Mci'-'-'ntc gratia.
Mediatur homo Deus
Descendit in propria,
Ut ascendat homo reus
Ad amissa gaudia.
Eia! Ei&l

Peace oo earth is an-
nouncedf and in heaven
glory.

Earth is recoodled
through divine grace.

The Mediator God-Man
descends amongst his
own, that guilty man
may ascend to lost joys.

l£t US go over, let mmat

thit word that is case

to|»ass.
Let us go ofrer, that «r

may learn what has

been anaouoced.
In Judaea an ia
An Infant, the :

of his people.
By whom the aadoit

enemy of the wodl

foresees ke mast It

warred opoo.
Let OS approach, kC«i

approach tite oadk^

our Lord,
And let us sing: 1

to the icuitial Tin

A crib has been arranged at lift
extreme end of the choir, contaki*
ing the figure of the divine Infaat
and our Blessed Lady. It is sur-
rounded by women, to whom na-
turally is given the charge of watch-
ing over the Virgin Mother and
her new-bom Babe. Towards this
crib the shepherds wend their way,
passing beneath the carved rood-
screen through the open portals of
the choir. Two priests advance to
meet them, and greet them with the
following versicle : " Quern quaeritis
in praesepio, pastores, dicite.^"—
"Whom seek ye in this manger,
shepherds, tell us V*

They reply : " Salvatorem Giris-
tum Dominum infantem pannis in-
volutum secundum sermonem an-
gelicum ** — " Christ our Lord and
Saviour, an infant wrapped in swad-
dling-clothes, according to the word
of the angel."

The women around the crib now
draw back the curtains that hare,
until this moment, kept it conceakd
from view, and, showing to the shep-
herds the divine Infant reclining in
the manger, sing these words : " Ad-
est hie parvulus cum matre suade
quo dudum vaticinando Isalas dix-
erat propheta : Ecce virgo conci-
piet et pariet filium : euntes diciie
quod natus est" — " Here is the lit-
tle Child and his Mother of whom
of old Isaias prophesied : Behold,

Christinas in the Thirieenih Century.

SOS

a Virgin shall conceive and bring
forth a son ; go forth and announce
that he is born." The shepherds
salate the Virgin and Child, and
stog the following charming little
carol in honor of the Virgin Mother :

Silve Virgo flinguIarU ;
▼irfo mannw, Deain

AateiBcia gencrstnin
Cbrieptttrk;

MoKKOi nunc creatum

la^y Mark, tua prece
A fcocaci purpi fece ;
Noancursum iocolatu^
Scdifpooe,
Oldcttuafriui

Hall, O Virgin incom*
parable! remaining a
Virgin, thou hast
brought forth the Son
of God, begotten of his
Father before aU ages.

Now we adore him, form-
ed of the flesh of his
Mother.

Mary ! purify us from
all stain of sin ; our
destined course on
earth so dispose, that
thy Son may grant us
to enjoy his blessed W-
»:ou.

After this hymn they fall on their
knees and adore the divine Babe ;
then, turning towards the choir,
they with joyful accents exclaim,
" Alleluia, Alleluia. Jam vere scimus
Christum natum in terris, de quo
canite omnes cum prophetis dicen-
tcs" — "Now we truly knpw that
Christ is bom on earth, let all sing
of him with the prophet." Answer-
ing to this invitation, the choir in-
tone the prophetic words of the in-
troit of the midnight Mass : " The
Lord has said to me, Thou art my
Son; this day I have begotten
Thee."

The priests and assistants ad-
vance slowly in procession to the
foot of the altar, and the solemn
celebration of High Mass commen-
ces.

The lessons conveyed by this
beautiful and symbolic representa-
tion ar^happily continued when the
reality of the divine mysteries has
taken its place. The priests who
represented the shepherds, quitting
the crib where they were the first to
do homage to the Child-God, pro-
ceed to occupy the most exalted
places in the choir, and to take the
leading parts in the chants that ac-

company that Holy Sacrifice in
which the same Child-God once
more descends on earth.

Among the many impressive cere-
monies of the Catholic Church,
there is none more touching than
the celebration of the midnight
Mass. Whether it be in a vast cathe-
dral or in a modest village church,
it never fails to bring home to the
heart, in a wonderful manner, the
realization of the two great myster-
ies of the Incarnation and the Eu-
charist, awakening in the soul a
lively devotion towards them. If
such be the effect of the sacred rite
on men who have only just quit the
bustle and turmoil of life, as they
enter the church, what must it have
been on minds prepared by so gra-
phic a representation of those very
mysteries that the Mass not only
commemorates, but actually repro-
duces id a manner far more perfect,
if less perceptible to the outward
senses.

How conspicuous, then, was the
wisdom of the church in encourag-
ing the performance of these pious
dramas — not only as affording an
innocent pleasure to the specta-
tors, but as a preparation for the
better understanding of the sacred
mysteries that were commemorated
in each succeeding feast; for on
the popular mind how far more
powerful than the most eloquent
sermon is the effect of any cere-
mony that appeals directly to the
senses !

At the termination of the Mass
the officiating priest, turning to-
wards the shepherds, intones the
following anthem : " Quam vidistis,
pastores? dicitc, annunciate nobis
in terris quid apparuit " — " Tell
us, O shepherds, whom you have
seen ? Announce to us who has
appeared on earth." Jo which
they reply : " Natum vidimus et

506

The Civilization of Ancient Ireland.

chores angelorum collandantes Do-
rainum. Alleluia, alleluia " — " We
have seen the Lord, who is bom
on earth, and the choirs of angels
praising him."

The office of Lauds, which ter-
minates the night-office, then com-
mences. The shepherds, still occupy-
ing the places of honor, but divided
in two choirs, sing the poetic para-
phrase which on all solemn feasts
in those days took the place of
the Benedicamus and Deo Gratias.
After which they all unite in chant-
ing the following antiphon, which
forms a fitting termination to the
ceremonies of the night : ** Ecce
completa sunt omnia quae dicta
sunt per angelum de Virgine Mar-
ia " — " Behold, all things are ac-
complished that were announced

by the angel concerning the Virgm
Mary."

Such were the pious -festivities
that six hundred years ago fill-
ed with joy and devotion many
a vast congregation in cathedral
and church throughout France on
Christmas night. We have de-
scribed them as far as they can be
gathered from the Office-books of
the period ; but how many beautifiil
details, handed down by tradition
and introduced from lime to time,
must necessarily have escaped us at
this distant period ! We venture to
hope, however, that we have suc-
ceeded in giving our readers at least
a slight idea of the deep religions
feeling, and at the same time poetic
beauty, that characterized these sa-
cred dramas of the middle ages.

THE CIVILIZATION OF ANCIENT IRELAND.*

The greatest difficulty experienc-
ed by students of Irish history,
whether foreigners or to the manner
born, arises out of the crudeness of
the mass of fables and myths, con-
tradictions and harsh criticisms,
which confuse and disfigure many
histories of the country. Unfor-
tunately, native Irish historians
and annalists have been wont to
indulge much too freely in exag-
geration and romance, substituting
the airy creations of the poets for

• On the Manntrt and Customs c/ihe Aneisnt
Irish : A senes of Lectures delivered by the late
Eugene O'Curry, M.R.I. A., Professor of Irish His-
tory and Archaeology in the Catholic University of
dixes, etc., by W, K. Sullivan, Ph.D., Secretary of
Ireland, etc. Edited, with an Introduction, Appen-
the Royal Irish Academy, Professor of Chemistry
to the Catholic University, etc. 3 vols. London :
Williams & N^rgate. ^New York : Sold by The
Catholic PubLcatioo Society.)

authenticated facts, and dogmat-
ically putting forward the most
minute details of remote, and there-
fore necessarily indistinct, actions
in a manner to overtax our credulity
and weaken our faith even in well-
established authorities. English
writers, on the contrary, from Gi-
raldus Cambrensis downward, have
erred on the other side. Alirays
ignorant of the Gaelic tongue, »nd
generally of the customs, laws, and
religion of the people whose history
they assumed to chronicle, Ihej in-
variably attempted to conceal their
defective knowledge by ignoring
the claims of the Irish to a distinc-
tive and high order of civilization,
not only before the advent of the
Anglo-Normans, but anterior to the
introduction of Christianity. The

The Civilization of Ancient Ireland.

507

want of adaptability of the English
mind to historial composition, even
in relati(Ai to domestic matters, may
account for much of this unfair
method of treating those of a sub-
jugated nation. National and, of
late centuries, sectarian animosity
has been, however, the leading mo-
tive of the British historiographers,
with one exception, for falsifying
the records of the past, no matter
to what country they belong. To
hive acknowledged that S. Patrick
preached the Gospel to a race pos-
sessing considerable social refine-
ment and mental culture ; that, un-
der Providence, an entire people
were converted to Christianity with-
out any material change in their
civil polity or disruption of their
general domestic relations ; and that,
even in his lifetime, he had the
happiness to see his work completed,
and to feel that he would leave be-
hind him a native priesthood, whose
piety and learning were for ages af-
terwards to edify and astonish Eu-
rope, was to concede the glory and
ihe wisdom of the church in intro-
ducing and perpetuating the faith
of her divine Founder at that early
period of her existence.

With the Irish historians, who
fully admitted this great central
fact in the annals of their country,
it was different. They knew the
language, laws, and habits of their
countrymen, but the circumstances
by which they were surrounded
rendered it impossible for them to
consult freely the original records
then existing, or to compare and
collate them with that scrutiny and
care with which documents of such
antiquity ought to be regarded.
Thus, Dr. Keating wrote his work
in the recesses of the Galtee Moun-
tains, while hiding from the " Priest-
hunters " of James I.; and the Abbd
McGeoghegan composed his while

in Paris, a fugitive from William
of Orange's penal laws, where at
best he could only consult second-
hand authorities. As for Moore,
though illustrious as a poet, his
knowledge of his native country
was of the most meagre and inac-
curate description, and his igno-
rance of its language and antiqui-
ties, as he subsequently confessed,
is apparent in every page of his
book.

At the time of the Norman inva-
sion, and for two or three centuries
afterwards, the number of Irish
MSS. in Ireland, including histories,
annals, genealogies, poems, topo-
graphical and otherwise, historical
tales, and legends, was immense.
Many of them, fortunately, are still
extant, bearing date from the Xth,
Xlth, and Xllth centuries; but the
greater portion are either destroyed
or hidden in inaccessible places.
As the civil wars progressed, and
the ancient nobility were slaugh-
tered or driven into exile, the culti-
vation of native literature gradually
ceased, and consequently many of
the most valuable national records
were ruined or lost, so that their
titles only remain to us ; while
others, escaping the general spolia-
tion, became scattered among the
libraries of the Continent, or found
their way into careless or hostile
hands. At the present day several
are in the British Museum ; the
Bodleian Library, Oxford ; in Paris
and Brussels; St. Gall, in Switzer-
land; and St. Isidore's, in Rome.
One hundred and forty are yet pre-
served in the library of Trinity Col-
lege, Dublin ; while many of the most
valuable are the property 'of the
Royal Irish Academy and of pri-
vate collectors.

The decline of learning in Ire-
land, like so many of hor other ca-
lamities, can be dated from the

So8

The Civilization of Ancient Ireland.

period of the " Reformation," as its
revival may be said to have been
contemporary with the uprising of
the people, which led to the par*
tial emancipation of the Catholics,
less than half a century ago.
Then it was that the Irish, breath-
ing something like the air of free-
dom, began in earnest to gather up
the broken threads of their ancient
history, and to demonstrate to the
world that, though long enslaved
and silenced, the spirit of true na-
tionality was as indestructible in
their hearts as was the faith for
which they had so long and heroic-
ally suffered. In 1826 appeared
O'Conor's translation of- the first
part of the Annals of the Four Mas-
ters ; some years after Dr. Petrie
published his masterly work on the
Round Towers^ and in 1851 Dr.
O* Donovan issued the entire An-
nals^ the great vertebra of Irish
chronology, in seven large volumes,
containing more than four thou-
sand pages ; the text in Irish char-
acters, the translation and copious,
critical notes in English. Late in
the next year a commission of Irish
scholars was appointed by the gov-
ernment to collect, transcribe, trans-
late, and publish the Ancient Laivs
and Institutes of Ireland^ which, af-
ter a great deal of labor and ex-
pense, has now been accomplished.
The first volume of this most val-
uable work appeared under the ti-
tle of Senchus Mor^ in 1865, the se-
cond four years later, and the third,
we learn, has recently been issued
from the press in Dublin. Mean-
while, the Celtic and the Archaeolo-
gical Societies, separately and com-
bined, for many years past have been
publishing several valuable detach-
ed works on Ireland, which have at-
tracted much attention in literary
circles in Europe, and quickened at
home the popular desire for produc-

tions of a similar character. In x86
Dr. Todd's Wars of the GaedAHmt
the Gailly a translation Of all th
original documents extant beaxin
on the wars of the Danes and othc
Norsemen in Ireland daring the tw
centuries preceding ihe battle 01
Clontarf, a.d. 1014, was added t
the collection of historical records
But the merit of elevating th
study of Irish history to the digni
ty of a profession belongs to th«
Catholic University of Ireland
thus constituting a claim on the af
fections of the Irish people i:
every clime which will long re
main among the foremost of it;
many distinctions. At its fonnda
tion a chair of Irish History ant
Archaeology was established, ant]
the late Eugene O'Curry, of aii
men then living the most fitted for
the position, was selected to fill it
In 1855-56 Prof. O'Curry deliver^
,ed before the students a course
of twenty-one lectures, afterward>
published at the expense of ihr
University under the title of Lec-
tures on the MS. Materials of An-
cient Irish History, This work, ir.-
eluding a valuable appendix, embn-
ces six hundred and sixty pages, an.:
contains a full and most interesting
account of all knowh documents re-
lating to Irish history. These lec-
tures were followed by a series Oatk.^
Manners and Customs of the Ancient
Irishy delivered during the year-
1857-62, and recently published is
two handsome volumes, with an in-
troduction and explanatory notes bv
the editor, W. K. Sullivan, in a-
additional volume of six hundretJ
and forty-four pages. The value ot
O'Curry's last work, as well as of the
very profound introduction by Prol
Sullivan, can hardly be over^stiina!
ed. In them are contained a com-
plete, vivid, and harmonious series 01
pictures of the laws, religion, tcrri-

The Civilisation of Ancient Ireland.

509

torial and class divisions, literature,
artv social habits, weapons, dress, and
ornaments of the people of ancient
Ireland from the remotest times to the
Xth or Xlth century. The style of
O'Curry in presenting these instruc-
tive historical tableaux is clear, con-
cise, and sufficiently varied to attract
the attention of the least diligent stu-
dent ; while any of his statements
which may appear to savor of an
over-fondness for the things of an-
tiquity, or undue reverence for the
past, find an efficient corrective in
the critical and exhaustive com-
mentaries of the editor, who, in
addition to being a distinguished
chemist, is evidently an excellent
philologist and ethnologist; as fa-
miliar with the genius of the con-
tinental languages and antiquities
as he is with those of his own
country.

With the results of the labor of
two such men before him, the stu-
dent of Irish history, though unac-
quainted with Gaelic, and beyond
the reach of the original docu-
ments, has now no excuse for not
l)ecoming as familiar with Gaelic
historical and archaeological lore
as with those of the other races of
the Old World. He will be reward-
ed, also, in his studies, by the con-
templation of a system of civiliza-
tion without a parallel in the re-
cords of any other nation of which
we have a knowledge ; equally re-
moved from the elaborate, artificial
life of the Greeks and the oligar-
chical paganism of Rome, as it was
from the rude barbarism of the
Northmen and the refined sensual-
ity of the East.

Before the commencement of
our era the history of the various
tribes who are said by tradition to
have visited Ireland as colonists
or invaders is, of course, obscure,
and can be traced only through the

legend-tales of the poets and story-
tellers of more recent but still
very remote times. There is no
doubt, however, that about the mid-
dle of the first Christian century
the island was peopled by two dis-
tinct and to some extent hostile
tribes; one described as a tall,
red or golden haired, blue-eyed,
and fair-complexioned people ; the
other dark and small of stature —
evidently the subject race. About
this time a revolution, or rather a
series of revolts, by those known
by the name of the Aithech Tuaiha^
or rent-paying tribes (the Aiticottt
of continental writers), broke out,
and resulted in the temporary suc-
cess of the servile race and the an-
nihilation of the greater part of the
nobility. The aristocracy, however,
regained their power after some
years of violent and varying strug-
gle, and to prevent the recurrence
of such bloody scenes, as well as
to disunite their enemies, they re-
distributed them throughout the
island, while at the same time they
built a number of duns, or forts
within easy supporting distance of
each other, the better to consoli-
date their authority and ensure the
protection of their families.

The leader of the restored nobles
was Tuathal," the Legitimate," who,
having been declared King of Ire-
land, reorganized the government,
founded the Irish Pentarchy, estab-
lished great national and provincial
fairs, and enacted the greater part,
at least, of the body of laws known
as the Scnchas Mor. He was in
fact the first able soldier, as well as
law-giver, of whom we have any
definite and well-authenticated ac-
count in Gaelic history. As the
country at that time, and for centu-
ries after, was essentially agricultu-
ral, we naturally find that the laws
of Tuathal and his successors are

5IO

The Civilizatiofi of Ancient Ireland.

mainly devoted to agrarian matters ;
the divisions, rights, and duties
of the various classes of occupants
of the soil being set forth with a
minuteness and exactness rarely to
be found in modem codes. Politi-
cally, the island was divided into
five subordinate kingdoms, nearly
corresponding with the present four
provinces, except that the fifth,
which was called Meath, embraced
not only that county, but West-
meath and a portion of the sur-
rounding territory. Here were situ-
ated Tara, the principal palace of
the Ard'Rigy or supreme monarch,
and the mensal land set apart for
his use. Sometimes the Ard-Rtg
was also King of Meath, but gener-
ally, as in the cases of Con ** of the
Hundred Battles," Nial, "of the
Nine Hostages," and Brian,
" Boru," he was the head of some
of the great northern or southern
septs. In theory the sovereignty
was elective, and by the law of Tan-
istry the king's successor was desig-
nated during his lifetime; but in
practice, when the crown did not
descend hereditarily, it was most
frequently the prize of successful
warfare. The same may also be
said of the provincial kings. There
appears to have been no such thing
known in that age as a Salic law
for the exclusion of women from a
participation in the affairs of gov-
ernment ; for we find numerous in-
stances of kingdoms being swayed
and armies led into action by the
gentler sex, notably the celebrated
Meave, the Queen of Connaught,
and the darling heroine of Irish fic-
tion.

The provincial kingdoms weie
divided into Mor Tuathsy each of
which comprised several Tuaths^
and these again were sub-divided
into Baili Biaicuhs CaethramJiadhs^
or quarters ; Scisreachs^ or plough-

lands ; and BaiU-boes^ or cow-lands,
each of the latter containing about
sixty acres. According to a poem
of the Vlth or Vllth century, there
were in Ireland at that epoch 184
Tuaths; 5,520 Baii6 Biatachs;
22,080 Quarters; 66,240 Plou^-
lands; and 132,480 Ballyboes—
equal to about 7,948,000 acres.
The lowest rank in the nobility was
that of Flaih, or lord of a Tuatk;
the highest in the commons were
the Bo-aireSy or farmers who, thoagh
they held lands from the Flaih^ were
freemen, entitled to all the rights
and privileges of witnesses, jurors,
bails, and local courts. Next be-
neath them were the saer and datr
Ceilesy or free and base tenants. As
there were no towns or villages of
any importance, the rules of the
agrarian laws were applied to ali
classes, and hence skilled workmen,
such as goldsmiths, blacksmiths,
dyers, and other mechanics, were,
equally with the smaller tenant far-
mers, called free CeiieSy holding by
contract from the Flaihsy and pay-
ing in labor or kind a determined
equivalent. The base Ceiles were
of two kinds — one who held lands
by uncertain tenure, or as tenants
at will ; and the other, who perform-
ed personal service as merccnar>-
soldiers or laborers upon the men-
sal lands of the lord. "Though
the free CeiUs were all freemen,"
says Sullivan, " and consequently
possessed some political rights, it \^
evident that the extent of those
rights differed. In some cases they
must have been confined to bear-
ing arms and obtaining a share
of the common land. All Ccik^
whether free or base, had certain
definite rights in the territory, such
as the right to have a habitation
and the usufruct of the land; but
besides these were several other
classes, who possessed either rery

The Civilization of Ancient Ireland.

few rights, or occupied so low a po-
sition in the social scale as to have
been practically in a state of com-
plete servitude ; these were the
Bcthachs^ SencUiiheSy and Fuidirs'*
The scLer or free Bothachs were sim-
ply occupiers of cabins, and the
doer Bothachs were menials; while
the ScncUiihes included aU sorts of
poor dependents, generally the de-
scendants of strangers, mercenaries,
or prisoners of war. The Fuidirs^
to whom S. Patrick in his captivity
belonged, were absolutely serfs at-
tached to the land, and in some re-
spects the property of the chief.
It was only a F lathy however, who
was entitled to retain those belong-
ing to the three servile classes ; and
where the condition grew out of
mutual compact, it could be ended
by either at any time. Prisoners
of war, malefactors, and non-paying
debtors, similar to peons, were of
course excluded from this privi-
lege. Those various classes and
sub-divisions did not constitute per-
petual castes; on the contrary, a
member of the lowest order,
through lapse of time, undisturbed
possession, and the accumulation of
property, could ascend, not only to
the highest place in the commons,
but enter the charmed circle of ar-
istocracy itself.

It must not be supposed, how-
ever, that the entire ownership of
the soil was vested in the Mor-
Flathsy or great chiefs ; in fact, they
only owned theis proper estate and
the mensal lands attached to their
office, upon which were employed
their Ceiles and FuidirSy who tilled
the farms and paid rent by supply-
ing their masters' tables, and by
other tributes. In like manner the
subordinate Flat/is and Aires held
their own proper lands in fee, pay-
ing their superior a tax, or Bes-Tigiy
in acknowledgment of his autho-

rity, and exacting labor and ser-
vice in turn from their Bothachs y
SencleitheSy and base Fuidirs, The
remainder of the land belonged to
the freemen of the Tuaih in com-
mon, subject only to the dominion
of the chief, though on certain con-
ditions the usufruct could be de-
vised or alienated. ** In process of
time," says Sullivan, " estates were
carved out of this public land, as
appanages of offices, as rewards for
public services, or by lapsing into
prescription. The holders of such
estates were the AireSy and as such
were in an especial manner the
Uiles of the Rig, The king, with
the consent of his council, might,
however, grant a portion of it as
allodium at once. It is probable
that Magh Ai^, now the plains of
Boyle, in Roscommon, was public
land." Around the duns or forti-
fied residences of the chiefs their
retainers and menials built their
wattled huts for the sake of conve-
nience and protection, and thus
were formed the nuclei of so many
towns and villages still marked on
the map of Ireland, of the names of
which Dun forms a part ; just as in
later times the early Irish Christians
crowded round the churches and
monasteries, and, thus forming new
Communities, took the names of
their patrons with the prefix Kily
derived from C/7/, church. An-
other class of subjects, artisans,
farmers, and teachers, were to be
found in the neighborhood of the
courts of law and permanent places
for elections, who, forming corpora-
tions or guilds, gradually laid the
foundation of boroughs and privi-
leged towns, under the manage-
ment of BrugferSy or magistrates.

There were several degrees of
rank among these officials. Some,
whose duty was confined to the
regulation of copartnerships in

512

The Civiltzatton of Ancient Ireland.

farms and the fixing of metes and
bounds ; others who held courts in
their own houses, entertained guests,
and presided over the election of
the chiefs and their Tanistes^ This
class belong to the AirS rank, and
every freeman had the right to vote
at the assembly of the Tuath^ and
appear as a witness, juror, or bail in
court. The Brughfer of a pro-
vince held six different courts, and
superintended the choice of the
provincial king and his successor.
On these occasions the voters were
all of the Flaih rank, and were
supposed to represent their clans
or Finh. This term, though liter-
ally meaning a house or family, was
in law used in three different senses :
first, as applied to all relations by
consanguinity to the seventeenth de-
gree, who were entitled to inherit
property, as well as being liable for
tines and mulcts ; secondly, to the
lord and his dependents ; and, third-
ly, to all the inhabitants of a Tuaihy
no matter of what condition. So,
also, the word Cland, or clan, which,
in its restricted meaning, was ap-
plied only to the nobles and their
immediate families, was in its ter-
ritorial application interpreted to
signify all the people of the same
district, who usually assumed the
surname of the chief, though no re-
lationship existed between him and
t'hem. There is therefore no more
reason to suppose that an O'Brien
or a Murphy of to-day is descend-
ed from the victor of Clontarf or
the traitor of Ferns, than that his
ancestors were FiUdirs under either
of those kings. In fact, family
names were only generally intro-
duced into Ireland in the Xlth cen-
tury.

With few exceptions, the punish-
ment of crime under the ancient
laws of the country was by fine, so
that jails and penitentiaries were

unknown. This fine, or eriCy was
paid by the criminal, or by his /w^
or clan, to the party aggrieved or
his representative, and upon failure
thereof the culprit was reduced to
the condition of a Fuidir. The
servile classes, who had no goods,
could not, of course, be fined or
further degraded; but their lords
were compelled to respond in dam-
ages, and in case of injury done to
his defenceless tenants the landlord
was entitled to compensation. In
the Senchus Mor^ " every nice of-
fence bears its comment," accord-
ing to the enormity of the crime
and the rank of plaintiff and de-
fendant ; so, in one sense at least,
every man in Erinn may be said
to have had his price. The ccMirts
in which those erics were levied
seemed to have been organised on
a very just plan, and their proce-
dure exhibits marked germs of oni
I>resent jury system — or trial by a
certain number of neighbors and
equals.

Minor causes were tried in the
courts of the Tuaths or Aires^ but
greater ones were determined at the
provincial assemblies, which appear
to have exercised both legislative
and judicial functions. The ab-
sence of cities or stationary places
of barter was supplied by the insti-
tution of vast provincial fairs, held
at stated times and in central lo-
calities. The most famous of these
were that of Tailti in Meath, Ai-
Uch in Derry, and Carman at Wex-
ford. The latter, which took place
in August of every third year, was
the most extensive, as well as the
roost ancient; its origin lying far
back in the mythical ages, and its
discontinuance dating so late as the
Xlth century. For some strange
reason these great national ix^
were invariably held in pagan
cemeteries, and in ante-Cbristiaa

The Civilization of Ancient Ireland.

times were always commenced with
games and funeral ceremonies, clos-
ing with horse-racing, martial and
athletic sports. According to the
ancient chronicle, there were three
markets at each fair, viz. :

" A market for food and clothes ;
a market for live-stock, cows and
horses, etc. ; a market of foreigners
and exiles, selling gold and silver,
flc. The professors of every art,
lM)lh the noble arts and the base
arts, and non-professionals, were
there, selling and exhibiting their
I ompositions and their professional
works to kings, and rewards were
piven for every work of art that
•ras just or lawful to be sold or ex-
Ijibited or listened to."

The most important business of
he assembly, however, consisted
jf the making of new laws and the
evision of old ones for the pro-
ince for the three succeeding
cars ; and, as the Rig and his of-
icers were always in attendance,
he hearing and decision of serious
auses on appeal from the inferior
ourts. In the presence of the
f»vercign and his court the greatest
rder and decorum were enjoined,
nd whoever was found to dis-
irb the public peace by violence
r fraud was summarily condemn-
i to death ; the offence being in
>me sort adjudged treason, and
at condonable by eric fine. The
me not devoted to law-making,
lals, and traffic was occupied in
nusement and various sorts of
Lstimes ; and if the ancient i)eople
Erinn had as much relish for fun
d frolic as their descendants, we
n well imagine what mirth, socia-
lity and interchange of opinions
iK*»t have prevailed among such a
;ht-hcarted multitude, whose only
portunity for enjoyment and mu-
ll recognition occurred every third
ar. An old poem, " which/' says
VOL, XK— 33

513

O'Curry, " I believe to have been
contemporary with the last celebra-
tion of the feast, if not of even a
more ancient date," thus enume-
rates the different classes of per-
sons who attended on such occa-
sions, and the intellectual wares
they brought with them for the
delectation of the gathering :

** Trumpeu, CruiU* wide-mouthed honM.
Cusigt Itmpmniiti^ without wearineat,
Poeu and petty rfaymeaten ;

*• Fenian tale* of Find t-«n unUring entcrtain-

Destnictlnns, cattle-preyis courtship*.
Inscribed ublets and books of trees^t
Satires and sharp-edged runes ;

** Proverbs, maxims, royal precepts.
And the youthfiil-instnictioo of Fithal ;
Occult poetry, topographical etymologies.
The precepu of Catrpri and of Comae ;

" The Feasts, and the sreat Feast of Teamar ;

Fairs, with the fair of Emaaia,

Annals there are verified.

Every division into which Erin was divided.**

The Feast of Teamair, or Tara,
here alluded to as having constitut-
ed one of the subjects of the recita-
tions at Carman^ was also triennial,
but of a different nature, and in vol v
ing much higher occupations than
those of the provincial fairs or
feasts. It was an assembly of the
subordinate kings and the nobles
for elective, legislative, and judicial
purposes; but, though nominally
held every three years, was in real-
ity celebrated as often as a new
king was to be crowned, a general
public law to be promulgated, or
when some extraordinary occasion
demanded the presence of the
chiefs and Rigs before the supreme
monarch. Again, many years arc
known to have elapsed without an
assembly or Feisy owing to the ex-
istence of internal dissensions or
foreign invasions. This assembly
is said to have owed its origin to

^Harpa.

tOtherwiat luMwnasrinn McOooU GeMial of
the If Ditia of Irelaiid a.d at).

tOgiUM.

514

The Civilization of Ancient Ireland.

Tuathal the Legitimate, and it is
certain that it only ceased to be
held when Tara was abandoned as
a royal residence in the Vllth cen-
tury. The court of the Ard-Rig on
such occasions was not only attend-
ed by the provincial magnates and,
in pagan times, by the chief Druids,
but by their followers, poets, doc-
tors, and historians, with their re-
spective household guards. It was
a knowledge of this custom, doubt-
less, that led S. Patrick to select the
hill of Tara as the place, and the as-
sembly of the Feis as the fitting oc-
casion, upon which to disclose to the
darkened minds of the whole people
the splendid truths of Christianity.
The palace and adjoining houses
of ancient Tara, judging by the ex-
tensive traces of their foundations
yet remaining, must have been
built on a very large scale ; but as
they were constructed entirely of
wood, the buildings proper have
long since disappeared. Still, we
have accounts, more or less authen-
tic, that collectively they were able
to afford shelter and* Accommoda-
tion to many thousands of visitors,
and that the barracks alone allowed
quarters for twenty-four thousand
soldiers. Of the style of architecture
of the king's house we have no de-
scription, save that it was rectangu-
lar, and that its principal room or
hall, which was used for delibera-
tions as well as for feasts, was pro-
fusely ornamented with carvings in
gold, silver, and bronze. Before
the introduction of Christianity all
buildings were of wood, some square
or rectangular, others o' al or round.
Those of the higher classes were
made of solid logs, but the smaller
fanners and laborers dwelt in huts
made of interlaced wattles or twigs,*
the interstices closed by mortar
made with wet earth and straw.
Stone structures were unknown be-

fore S. Patrick's time; for, thongb
lime was used as a wash for the in-
terior and exterior of boases, it&
employment as a cement dates fros
the Christian ages. Hence there act
no pagan ruins to be found in th«
country. The Round Towers, now
proven beyond doubt to have bcoi
church belfries, are the most a^
cient stone memorials existing, ft
may be also remembered that dJNB
Druids had no such places of wi^
ship as temples or covered sancto^
aries, and whatever rites they per
formed must have been celebrated
in the open air. Indeed, our know-
ledge of those mysterious people
and of their equally occult religions
system is merely of a negative char-
acter ; for, as 0*Curry says :

"We only know that ihey worshipped
idols from such examples as that of cb
idol gods taken into the Druid's bed, fo
as to influence his visions, as described
in Cormac's Glossary^ and that of the in-
vocation of the idols in the case of tfe
Teinm Larghdha ; and we know that in
certain ceremonies they made use of the
yew-tree, the quicken or roan-tree, and
of the black-thorn, as in the instance ei
the ordeal or test of a woman's chancier
by means of fire made of these sacrctf
woods. That the people of ancient Erias
were idolaters is certain, for they certnaiy
adored the great idol called C/vm Omagi*
in the plain called Magk Sleekly as 1
showed on a former occasion. But h tf
remarkable that we find no mentkn of
any connection between this idol and ikc
Druids, or any other class of priests t«
special idol-servers. We have only lfc»
record of the people, generally, a&ac» -
bling at times to do honor to the i4fll
creation. As little, unfortunately, d« «r
know of the organization of the order at
the Druids, if they were indeed an ordet-
They certainly were not connected as-
such with the orders of learned mem <*
profession of teachers, such as befen
explained. The Druids were often, ham-
ever, engaged in leaching, as has beea
seen ; and it would ap pear that kings an*'*
chiefs, as well as learned men, were al»»"
frequently Druids, though bow or why I
am not in a position to explain with cr»

The Civilinatien of Ancient Ireland.

515

afflty at present. ... I have refrained
rom suggesting any theory of my own
m the subject. This negative conclusion,
icvcrtheless, I will venture to draw from
be whole : that, notwithstanding the sin-
ptlarly positive assertions of many of our
»*n «s well as of English writers upon the
ubject, there is no ground whatever for
lelievLDg the Druids to have been the
iriests of any special positive worship ;
tone whatever for imputing to them
mmaA sacriices ; none whatever for be*
icviog that the early people of Erinn
dored the sun, moon, or stars, nor that
bey worshipped fire ; and still less foun-
Eation for the ridiculous inventions of
lodem times (inventions of pure igno-
loce), concerning honors paid to brown
nils, red cows, or any other cows, or
Aj o( the lower animals."

Next in rank and 'social impor-
ance, if not the equals or superiors
>f the Druids, were the Ollamhs^ or
loctors, the FiUs^ or poets, and the
Erehcnsy or judges. In the earliest
iges these three classes were all in-
:laded under the term Fileadh^
Kwts, who not only professed phi-
osophy, such as it then was, but
recorded history and chronology in
rerse, and expounded the laws so
^resenred, in the various local courts
iftd tribunals. A tendency, howev-
rr, to mystify and confuse the stat-
ues of I'uathal and his successors,
«d to the expulsion of the children
>f song from the forum, while the
)ffices about the sovereign, when
^Yc matters were to be considered,
ell to the lot of the philosophers.
This latter class had also an espe-
:tal charge of educational matters,
uid usually superintended person-
ally the training of the children of
he Rigs and chiefs. The Ard-Rig^
the provincial kings, and the Flat/is
fad their own philosophers, poets,
ind judges, with their special duties
w«gncd them. Of the first, besides
waking and preserving regular rec-
r^fds, ** they were bound by the
wme laws," says O'Curry, ** to make

themselves perfect masters of that
history in all its details, and to teach
it to the people by public recitals,
as well as to be legal referees upon
all subjects in dispute concerning
history and the genealogies." No
person cculd be a Brehon without
first becoming an Ollamh^ and
twelve years* study was required for
that honor. But the poets, like
their tribe in every land and age,
were the nobly honored and the
most privileged of any order in the
government. They flattered kings
and satirized them with impunity,
charmed the masses with the melody
of their songs and the fertility of
their imagination; but, while they
were generally on the side of popular
liberty in their verses, they were
always to be found at the tables
of the nobles, where good cheer and
rich largesses awaited them. How-
ever, as their poems were the only
vehicles through which the history,
traditions, and even laws of the na-
tion could possibly have been trans-
mitted to us, we owe them too much
to blame their amiable weaknesses.
Like the teacher, when t'le File tra-
velled about the country he was ac-
companied by his pupils, and ev-
ery hospitality was shown to him
and them, partly from love of his
calling, and not seldom through
dread of his satires. Many instan-
ces are recorded in popular, tales
of the dire effects of the poet's wrath,
of which sickness, loss of property
and reputation, were among the least.
In connection with the courts we
find two classes of paid advocates^
one the Ebt^ attorney, and the other
the AighnCy or counsellor. When it
is remembered that slander and
libel were offences severely punished
• in the Brehon courts by eric fine,
we can admire the grim humor which
discriminated against the attorneys,
who, as the wise law-givers of old

5i6

The CivUixatvm of Ancient Ireland.

argued, being professional libellers
of other men, had no right to exact
a fine when their own characters
were assailed.

The custom of fosterage, about
which so much unfavorable com-
ment has been made by modem ill-
informed writers, is fully and clearly
explained by O'Curry, who classes
it as ^ part of the educational sys-
tem of the country, and not, as
some erroneously suppose, the par-
tial desertion of children by their
parents. In Lecture XVII. he as-
serts :

'• We have ample proof that this foster-
age was not a mere indiscriminate cus-
tom among all classes of the people, nor
in any case one merely confined to the bare
physical nurture and rearing of the child,
which in early infancy was committed to
the care of a nurse and her husband ; but
that the fosterhood was generally that of
a whole family or tribe, and that in very
many cases it became a bond of friend-
ship and alliance between two or more
tribes, and even provinces. In those
cases the fosterers were not of the com-
mon class, poor people glad to perform
their nursing for mere pay, and whose
care extended to physical rearing only.
On the contrary, it is even a question,
and one not easily settled, whether the
term nursing, in the modern acceptation
of the word, should be applied at all to
the old Gaelic fosterage, and whether the
term pupilage would not be more appro-
priate. . . . The old Gaelic fosterage ex-
tended to the training and education, not
only of children up to the age of four-
teen, but sometimes of youths up to that
of seventeen years."

One of the chief duties of the fos-
ter-father was the military training
of the young chieftains. This con-
sisted principally of the manage-
ment of the horse, cither in pairs
for the chariot or singly for riding,
the use of the casting spear and
sling, and the sword exercise. Of
strategy the ancient Irish soldiers
had no idea, and very little of tac-
tics; so that their battles were

hand-to-hand combats, and there-
fore bloody and generally decisive.
Their weapons of bronze or iron,
many fine specimens of which we
examined years ago in the museum
of the Royal Irish Academy, still
exhibit evidences of high finish and
excellent temper. We do not find
any mention of cavalry in the ac-
counts handed down to us of the
various battles fought in the earikc
centuries, and very slight allusioai
to defensive armor. Ornaments of
gold and other precious metal^
such as crowns, collars, torque
rings, and shield-bosses, were w6n
in great profusion and variety, oo(
only by nobles and generals, bat
by ordinary officers ; in fact, so gor^
geous are the poets' descriptions
of the decorations of their favorite
heroes that we might be inclined
to accuse them of gross exaggen'
tion had we not also been shows
some magnificent antiques of this
description, in a perfect state of
preservation, by the gentlemen of
the academy during several visits
made to that depositor ^ of Irish
antiquities. Some of these valu-
able decorations are made of na-
tive ore, but by far the greater num-
ber were manufactured out of the
spoils of war — the plunder wrested
from the adjacent islands and the
coast of France by the numerous
expeditions that were fitted oat in
Ireland in the three or four centu-
ries preceding S. Patrick's mission.
The dress of the higher classes
was, it seems, equally magnificent,
and each rank was distinguished
not only by the peculiar shape of
its garments, but by the number ot
colors allowed to be worn. Thtis»
servants had one color; £amnei%
two; officers, three; women, four;
chiefs, five ; oUamhs and fiUi^ sii;
kings and queens, seven ; and, ac-
cording to the ancient records, br

The CwilufatioM of Ancient Ireland.

517

shops of the Christian Church were
ifterwards allowed to use all these
combined. Red, brown, and crim-
son, with their shades and com*
>ounds, were the colors generally
jscd; green, yellow, blue, and
)lack sometimes, but not frequent-
y. Prof. Sullivan, in that part of his
ntroduction treating of the various
iye-stuffs used in ancient Ireland,
akes occasion to dissipate some
)opular errors with regard to na-
ional colors. He says :

"Garments dyed yellow with saffron
re constantly spoken of by modem
rriters as characteristic of the Irish,
rbcre is no evidence, however, that saf-
loa was at all known by the ancient
rish, and L^iuis or Inars of a yellow
olor are only mentioned two or three
imcs in the principal tales. From what
las been shown in the Lectures d^nd in this
^ntrodtutipm about the color of the ancient
rish dress, it will be evident that there
ras no national as distinguished from
Ian color for the Lena ; a saffron-dyed
'Q0» if at all used in ancient times, would
« pecoliar to a single clan."

The Lena here spoken of was an
nner garment which hung down to
he knees like a modem kilt, usu«
lly made of linen, and sometimes
itcrwoven with threads of gold,
n addition to this were worn a shirt,
r Leine; a cloak (Brat) ; an Jnar^
T jacket ; TriudAas, or trowsers ; a
hr, or conical hat; and Cuarans,
r shoes made of raw-hide. The
Mtume of the women differed lit-
e from that of the men, except
lat they discarded the iriubhaSy and
ore their ienas and ieines longer.
They were, however," says Sul-
van, ^ distinguished from the men
y wearing a veil, which covered
le head. This veil was the Caiiie^
hich formed an essential part of
le legal contents of a lady's work-
ig. In a passage from the laws,
uoted in the Lectura^ it is called * a

veil of one color '; as if variegated
ones were sometimes used. . . .
The white linen cloth still worn
by nuns represents exactly both the
Irish Caille and the German Hul^
ia,** In many other respects, be-
sides the matter of dress, women
were placed on a footing nearly
equal to that of men in those remote
times; and if their liberal and re-
spectful treatment may be consid-
ered one of the tests of civilization,
the old Gaels were in refinement far
in advance of any other race in pa-
gan Europe, and indeed of many
of our own times. We find women
not only taking 4)art in public af-
fairs as rulers and generals, but as
Druidesses, judges, poets, and teach-
ers. At Tara and the great pro-
vincial fairs a separate portion of
the grounds was assigned them, so
that they could observe the games
and enjoy the amusements without
interruption ; while in the homes
of the J^igs and chiefs the best
rooms, and sometimes an entire
building, called Grianan^ or sunny
house, was exclusively reserved for
their use. Most of the principal
places in the country, such as the
locations of the great fairs and the
sites of royal palaces, were named
in their honor, as well as the moun-
tains and rivers and other objects in
nature suggestive of symmetry, beau-
ty, and elegance. We also read in the
Senchus Mor several very minute
and stringent laws protecting their
rights of person and property, as-
signing their dowry before mar-
riage and their separate ownership
of property afterwards. They were,
in fact, to a great extent pecuniar-
ily independent of their husbands ;
and though polygamy was toler-
ated and divorce allowed in pagan
times, they were so hedged in by re-
strictions and conditions that it is
more than probable little advan-

518

The Civilisation of Anciint Iniatid.

tage was taken of the latitude thus
afforded both parties.

Being almost exclusively an agri-
cultural people, with very little
commerce with the outward world,
the food of the ancient Irish was
confined to the natural produc-
tions of the soil, flesh-meat, milk,
and fish. Wheat, spelt-wheat, bar-
ley, and oats were produced in
abundance, while cattle were so
plentiful and so general an arti-
cle of traffic that in the absence of
coin they formed the currency of
the country, and in them fines were
paid and taxes levied. Butter, milk,
and cheese were luxuries, but vege-
tables, such as leeks, onions, and
water-cresses, were to be found
growing in the garden of the lowest
Fuidir, Beer, likewise, appears to
have been the popular drink. Im-
ported wine and native mead, distill-
ed from honey, were considered the
aristocratic beverages of the period.
That large quantities of the latter
were consumed at the triennial feasts
there can be no doubt, judging from
the tales of the pdets ; and it was on oc-
casions when it was circling round
the board that the Cruits (harps),
Timpansy or violins, and Cruiscachy
or pipes, the three principal musical
instruments of the Gaels, came into
play. The poets, too, were there to
sing their songs of love and war, and
the historians to recite the traditions
of the tribes of Erinn. It is not po*
sitively known whether the pagan
Irish had a written language or al-
phabet. O'Curry is disposed to be-
lieve they had, while Sullivan is of
opinion that letters and writing
were introduced with Christianity,
and that previous to S. Patrick's
time all teaching in the ancient
schools was oral, and the genealo-
gies and histories were committed
to memory and transmitted from fa-

ther to son. They both, howcTC
agree that there was a system o
writing known only to the initiatd
now called Ogham^ which was in
scribed on prepared wood, and es
graved on monuments and tomb
stones, many of which latter, thougi
still well preserved, are illegible u
the best antiquarian scholars. Tlw
ancient Gaels, like theirdescendaots
had a special reverence for their dea4
and indulged in protracted wakci^
as well as extensive funerals. Ii
pagan days their funeral ceremonies
were most elaborate, but in Chris-
tian times these gave way to the
solemn offices of the church. Eaci
person was buried according to Im
rank while living ; the corpse wis
deposited deep in the ground, and a
cairn or mound of earth and stooe
was erected over the grave to mark
the spot. We have no reason to
suppose that they had even the
faintest notion of a future life or of I
the immortality of the soul, thcirl
mythology limiting the supcroa*|
tural to celebrated Tuatha da D^\
niansy real personages, who had|
left the surface to inhabit thcj
bowels of the earth, and to fairieij
the " good people " of the model
peasantry.

Those, then, were the pcopb
computed to have been about thr^
millions in number in his time. Q
whom S. Patrick preached the Nd
Law, and whose complete convcfsicl
and subsequent undying attacbmei
to Catholicity have puzzled as vc
as confounded the enemies of th
church. Though pagans, they wer
neither barbarous nor oversupei
stitious, and their ready apprccij
tion and acceptance of God's myl
terious and elaborate Word b tl
best proof that their hearts vtfl
pure and their minds active vA
comprehensive.

Robispiirre.

519

ROBESPIERRE.

The father of the great revolu-
tionary demagogue was an advocate
at Arras, a peaceful citizen, who
had nothing about him in character
or manners to suggest that he was
to be the parent of the monster
known to history as the tiger-man.
Nay, so little of ferocity was there
abeut the worthy advocate that,
when his wife died, he nearly went
melancholy-mad for grief, and in
his despair left his native town, and
took to wandering about France,
then beyond it to Germany and
England, where he finally died.
There are, it is true, some ill-natur-
ed local chronicles extant which
pretend that it was not so much
grief as debt that drove the discon-
solate widower into exile ; and this
harsh and unpoetic version is sup-
ported by the fact of his having, by
his flight, abandoned to loneliness
and utter destitution the three little
children, two boys and a girl, whom
the wife he so bitterly lamented had
left to his paternal care. Maxi-
inilien Marie Isidore, the eldest
of the three, was born on the 6th
of April, 1760. The solitary posi-
tion and the poverty of the desert-
ed children attracted the compas-
sion of some kind persons of the
town, and notably that of the cur^
of the parish, who sent Maximilien
to school, where soon, by dint of
hard work and intelligence, the boy
shot ahead of all his class fel-
lows, and justified the predictions
of friends that he would make a
name for himself in whatever trade
or calling he embraced. The Bi-
shop of Arras, Mgr. de Conzii, was

also interested in the little fellow ;
his industry and desolate poverty
making a claim on the prelate's
paternal notice. He used his influ-
ence with the abbot of the famous
Abbey of Waast to grant Maximi-
lien one of the abbatial bourses at
the College of Louis le Grand, in
Paris. The very first steps in life
of the future persecutor of priests
and religion were thus guided by
the hand of the church, his poverty
enriched, his orphanhood fathered,
by her charity. The Abb^ Proyart,
then president of Louis le Grand,
continued to the poor provincial
student the fostering kindness of
those worthy ecclesiastics who had
placed him under his charge. Maxi-
milien was also at this time largely
assisted and most kindly befriended
by the Abb^ de la Roche, a canon
of Notre Dame, who, all through
the period of the young man's
studies in Paris, kept watch over
him, and showed him the most sin-
cere and delicate affection. When
at the age of nineteen, Maximilien
left the college, the Abb^ de la
Roche used his influence to secure
the vacant bourse for the younger
brother, Augustin Robespierre, and
succeeded. Maximilien was called
to the bar very soon after leaving
Paris, and began at once to excite
attention by his talent as a speaker.
The first mention we find of his
forensic success is in 1783, when
he was engaged in a case against
the corporation of St. Omer, a small
town near Arras, in behalf of a gen-
tleman who had erected a lightning-
conductor on his house, and been

S20

Robtspiem^

prosecuted on account of it, and
condemned by the corporation. He
appealed to thehighercourt of Arras.
Robespierre pleaded his cause, and
won a triumphant reversal of the
first verdict. We find a note of
this incident in the Memoires (U
Bachaumont : ** The cause about the
paraionnerre has been before our
court three days, and has been
pleaded by M. de Robespierre, a
young lawyer of extraordinary
merit ; he has displayed in this af-
fair — which was, in fact, the cause
of arf and science against prejudice
— a degree of eloquence and saga-
city that gives the highest idea of
his talents. He had a complete
triumph; on the 31st day of May
the court reversed the sentence,
and permitted M. de Boisvale to
re-erect his paratonturrc.** Robes-
pierre was just three-and-twenty at
this date. He is styled de Robes-
pierre by the writer, and had assum-
ed the particuU noble at a much
earlier date ; he is entered at col-
lege with it, and at the bar, and was
elected to the States-General as de
Robespierre. The pretentious pre-
fix cost him dear, as we shall see ;
it afforded a poisoned shaft to Ca-
mille Desmoulins long after the Re-
generator of the people had eras-
ed the feudal particle from his sig-
nature. But these were sunny days,
when he might use it with impunity,
and even to some advantage. The
young advocate was courted and
admired, and made welcome in
clubs and drawing-rooms ; he wrote
essays and won prizes from learned
societies, thus establishing a literary
as well as legal reputation. He
even aspired to be a poet, and ad-
dressed sonnets to ladies of fash-
ion at Arras, which gained him the
smiles of the Ariadnes and Arach-
nes that he sang to, and caused
him to be rallied as a squire of

dames. This time of merrj dal-
liance, however, soon came to ao
end, and graver ambitions began to
open out before Robespierre. He
was elected member of the States-
General. M. Dumont, the distin-
guished journalist, gives a lively
description of the figure made by
the " avocat, de Robespierre," in
one of the earliest sittings of that
Assembly: "The clergy, for the
purpose of surprising the Tien
Etat into -a union of the orders,
sent a deputation to invite the Tiers
to a conference on the distresses of
the poor. The Tiers saw through
the design, and, not willing to ac-
knowledge the clergy as a sepantc
body, yet afraid to reject so cha-
ritable and popular a proposition,
knew not what answer to mak^
when one of the deputies, after
concurring in the description of
the miseries of the people, rose and
addressed the ecclesiastical deputa-
tion : *Go tell your colleagues that,
if they are so anxious to relieve
the people, they should hasten to
unite themselves in this hall with
the friends of the people. Tell
them no longer to retard our pro-
ceedings and the public good by
contumacious delays, or to try to
carry their point by such stratagems
as this. Rather let them, as min-
isters of religion, as worthy servants
of their Master, renounce the
splendor which surrounds them, the
luxury which insults the poor-
Dismiss those insolent lackeys who
attend you; sell your gaudy cqai-
pages, and convert those odious
superfluities into food for the poor.
At this speech, which interpreted so
well the passions of the moment, there
arose, not applause — that wouU
have appeared like a bravado — but
a confused murmur of approbation
much more flattering. Every one
asked who was the speaker. He

Robespierre.

521

not known, bat in ^ few min-
utes his name passed from mouth
to month ; it was one which after-
wards made all France tremble — it
was Robespierre /"

One is at a loss which to admire
most in this brilliant sortie^ the skill
and power of the speaker in play-
ing on the passions of his hearers,
or the dastardly ingratitude which
led him to use the eloquence he
owed in so large a measure to the
clergy for the purpose of stigmatiz-
ing his best benefactors. The first
time Robespierre's voice was raised
in the tribune it was to vituperate
'he men to whom he owed his edu-
cation, almost, it may be said, his
existence. The reward of this
treachery was not delayed ; he elec-
trified his audience, and henceforth
became known to fame, though not
yet to infamy. It is only just to
Robespierre to admit that when he
entered on his public life, his char-
acter was unstained by any of the
vices which it developed later; he
was in private life held to be virtu-
ous, and suspected of no vice be-
yond the honorable one of ambition.
Probably he would have lived and
died amongst his fellow - citizens
without earning a worse reputation
than the rest of them,* if this latent
ambition had not led him to seek to
rise above them, and if his ability
had not seconded the aspiration.
Even in his demagogic career he
kept his reputation for integrity, and
gained the surname of the Incor-
ruptible. Incorruptible by money
he certainly was, while the instinct
of either cowardice or sagacity in-
duced him to disavow all personal
ambition. Power was what he
thirsted for; wealth and pageant
he despised. These principles,
aided by his fiery talent as any ora-
tor and his shrewd knowledge of
the times, soon lifted him above

all competitors, and made him a
kind of uncrowned monarch long be-
fore he became so in reality as dic-
tator of the republic. It is inter-
esting to note the various decrees
he passed while reigning in the Na-
tional Assembly. One of the first
was the turning of the Church of
S. Genevieve into a Pantheon for
the ashes of great men, and the inau-
guration of the paganized Christian .
temple by the entombing of Mira-
beau's remains there. Then we see
him ardent in endeavoring to carry
the abolition of capital punishment
— an instance of that strange para-
dox so common to Frenchmen, who
shrink with morbid sentimentality
from inflicting death on the vilest
malefactor by the hand of justice,
while so ready to shed the blood of
innocent men without remorse, nay,
with exultation, the moment their
passions are roused.

The flight of the royal family to
Varennes wrought a sudden and de-
cisive change in the state of public
aflairs. Robespierre was just then
at the summit of his reputation as
an orator, admired as the most
prominent figure in Mme. Roland's
coterie, which numbered all the
cleverest men of the new school,
though the gifted and ill-starred cen-
tre of the group seems, even in the
days of their closest friendship, to
have resented Robespierre's stub-
bom independence, which contrast-
ed disagreeably with the unquali-
fied adulation of his fellow-devotees.

The abortive attempt of the un-
fortunate Louis to fly from a posi-
tion which had become unbearable
had set the match to the train which
Robespierre and his Jacobin faction
had so long been preparing. The
question, hitherto whispered in
ambiguous words, was now spoken
boldly aloud: What was to be
done with the king? Lafayette was

522

Robespierre.

for keeping him a prisoner in the
Tuileries, he, meanwhile, acting as
a sort of military viceroy ; the Or-
leanist faction had another solution
to offer ; the Jacobins and the Giron-
dists another. There was a stormy
sitting at the Assembly. Brissot pro-
posed that the people should like
one man rally round the republi-
can flag, and sign a petition for
the abolition of the king. There
arose in answer to this daring pro-
position a tempest of applause, ter-
ror, anger, and loyal indignation.
The Assembly rejected it, and voted
for maintaining the king. Robes-
pierre nishcd out of the hall,
tearing his hair and crying out,
" My friends, we are lost I The
king is saved!** This was on
the 15th of July. A meeting had
been already called of the Jacobin
Club for the 17th on the Champs
de Mars for the purpose of ex-
pressing the national will. The
club, on hearing the vote of the As-
sembly, kept up a farce of respect by
issuing a counter-order. But the
sovereign people were hampered by
no such mock scruples; they, in
the person of Brissot, drfew up a
fresh petition, and invited all classes
of their fellow-citizens to attend at
the appointed day on the Champs
At Mars, where the altar of father-
land would be erected, and where
all patriots could sign the petition
towards the freedom of the country,
A tragi-comic incident marked the
proceedings at an early hour. Two
men were found hid under the
" altar," and detected in the act of
boring a hole in it with a gimlet ;
they were forthwith dragged out
and massacred on the spot, though
the only evidence of guilt brought
against them at the time, or after-
wards, was that one of them had a
wooden leg, and the other a basket
of provisions. The mob were like

dry powder that only wanted a
spark to make it ignite, destroying
and self-destructive. The wildest
inferences were drawn from the
discovery of the two unlucky eaves-
droppers : they were laying a mine
to blow up the patriots assembled
round the altar of fatherland ; the
absence of all appliances for this
terrible purpose proved nothiog;
some cried out that they were spies
in the king's pay ; others that they
were secreted there as dupes to be
murdered by Lafayette's creatures
as a pretext for beginning the
massacres that followed. We even
find Mme. Roland repeating some
absurd notions of this kind; bat
nothing is too monstrous or too pre-
posterous for prejudice to swallow.
However, let the motives of the two
men have been what they may,
their murder was undoubtedly the
signal for that onslaught of the
troops which completely destroy-
ed Lafayette's tottering popularity,
and compelled him to leave Paris
for a command on the frontier.
The real odium of the unpremedi-
tated blood^shedding fell, like every
mistake of the time, on the king.
On the 5 th of February, 1792, Robes-
pierre was named Public Accuser,
and from this event dates the ex-
plosion of personal rivalry between
him and Brissot. He never could
forgive the latter having been
chosen to draw up that famous
petition of the Champs de Mars,
and for keeping the ascendency
which this fact gave him in the
Assembly and in the Jacobin Club.
But Robespierre did not long re-
tain the subordinate position of
Public Accuser; he hated the bond-
age of having to attend at fixed
hours, and some months after his
nomination he resigned and start-
ed a newspaper called the D^fen-
seur. Blood and terror were hence-

Robespierre.

523

forth the watchwords of the jour-
nalbt-patriot. He effected a sham
reconciliation with Brissot and all
other enemies, and the Judas kiss
of hate and treachery went round.

Roland was named, minister at
this crisis; a clever and honest
man, moderate, and, above all, the
husband of Mme. Roland, his no-
mination was hailed with joy by
all. Robespierre alone was furious
at seeing the mediocre provincial
farmer placed over his head. His
jealous vengeance against Mme.
Roland dated from this elevation
of her husband. The success of
his journal consoled him, mean-
while, for the delay of larger
triumphs, while it procured him
competence and independence,
which were all he required. He
lodged with a man named Duplay,
a carpenter, who had a wife and
two daughters. One of the latter
became branded in connection with
the name of her father's tenant.
Robespierre vindicated his surname
of Incorruptible all through the
period of his popular power, inas-
much as he was inaccessible to the
temptation of money or any of the
softer bribes which sometimes be-
pile hard, ambitious men into acts
of mercy or passing tenderness.

In August, 1792, he suspended
his labors as a journalist, and
henceforth devoted his undivided
energies and his whole time to the
political events which were thicken-
ing around him. The last number
of the Difenseur contains an in-
flammatory appeal which is too
significant of the man and the times
to be omitted. It was decided that
a convention should be elected to
choose a new form of national gov-
ernment. The issue depended al-
most entirely on the character and
principles of the members who
should compose it. Robespierre

determined at any and every cost
to be one of the elected. It was his
supreme opportunity; if he missed
it, his career as a popular leader
was broken, and he must sink back
into the ranks of obscure mediocri-
ties who had shot up from the mass
of agitators like rockets, burning
bright and fierce for a moment, and
then subsiding in darkness. He
had that instinct of genius which
enables a man to read the temper
of his time, and to this sanguinary
temper he passionately addressed
himself in the closing number of
his paper :

" You must prepare the success
of this convention by the regene-
ration of the spirit of the people.
Let us awake — all, all arise, all arm,
and the enemies of liberty will hide
themselves in darkness. Let the
tocsin of Paris be re-echoed in all
the departments. Let the people
learn at once to reason and to fight.
You are now at war with all your
oppressors, and you will have no
peace till you have punished them.
Far be from you that pusillanimous
weakness or that cowardly indul-
gence which the tyrants so long sa-
tiated with the blood of the people
now invoke when their own hour is
come ! Impimity has produced all
their crimes and all your sufferings.
Let them fall under the sword of
the law. Clemency towards them
would be real barbarity — an out-
rage on injured humanity." This
manifesto revealed the true aim
and policy of Robespierre, and just
gave the touch that was necessary
to set the wheel revolving. Dan-
ton cried amen to it, and all the
faction shouted amen in chorus.
" We must dare, and dare again,
and dare to the bitter end!" said
Danton, and the word acted like a
trumpet-call to the bloodhounds
of the revolution. The prisons of

524

Robespiirn.

Paris were at this moment gorged
with aristocrats awaiting their trial.
The people shouted, Try them!
The tocsin sounded, the prison-doors
were surrounded. Mock courts of
justice were set up in the court-
yards. Quickly, one by one, the pri-
soners are called out, questions are
rapidly put and answered ; the jury
decides : " Let the prisoner be en-
larged ! " The gendarmes seize him ;
they open the gate and " enlarge "
him. He falls forward on a mass of
glittering pikes and bayonets, and
dies, cut to pieces. Soon the num-
ber of the butchered is so great
that the amateur executioners have
to pause and clear the space by
piling up the corpses to one side
before they resume their work.
Every prison presents the same
scene. At La Force a remnant of
the Swiss Guard is called out.
** They clasp each other spasmodi-
cally, gray veterans crying, * Mercy,
gentlemen, mercy!* But there is
no mercy! They prepare to die
like brave men. One of them steps
forward. He had on a blue frock-
coat. He was about thirty. His sta-
ture was above the common, his
look noble and martial. * I go
first,* he said, * since it must be
so. Adieu !' Then, dashing his hat
behind him, * Which way V cried
he to the brigands. * Show it me.'
They open the folding gate. He is
announced to the multitude. He
stands a moment motionless, then
plunges forth among the pikes, and
dies of a thousand wounds.*' * The
fair and saintly Princesse de Lam-
balle fell, butchered^ by the same
pikes; her head paraded through
the streets, her remains profaned
by the most unheard-of indignities.
As it always happens in these
storms of human souls, there were

• Faen^ea, La VdrititouU Eniikrg^ Pw 173.

tones of a divine harmony to be
heard striking through the hideous
din. Old M. de Sombreuil \s
dragged out to die. His daughter,
a tender girl in the first blush ol
maidenhood, rushes out, fearless
and bold, clinging to him, and ap-
peals to the tigers about to shed
his blood: '*0 good friends! he
is my father ! He is no aristocrat !
We hate aristocrats ; tell me how I
can prove it to you.>** They fill a
bowl full of the hot blood of an
aristocrat just slain, and present it
to her, saying : " Drink this, and wc
will believe thee and spare thy fa-
ther. "

She drinks the loathsome draught,
and clasps her father amidst the
Vivats of the mob. Alas! it was
only a respite that the brave deed
had gained for the beloved old
man. He died by those same
blood-stained hands before the
year was out. At the abbey a pic-
ture of rest and calm is to l^ seen :
" Towards seven on Sunday night,
we saw two men enter, their hands
bloody, and armed with sabres.
A turnkey with a torch lighted
them ; he points to the bed of the
unfortunate Swiss, Reding. Reding
was dying. One of the men paused ;
but the other said : Allans done:
(come along !) and lifted the dying
man, and carried him on his back
out to the street. He was mas-
sacred there. We looked at one an-
other in silence; we clasped each
other's hands ; we gazed on the pave-
ment of our prison, on which lay
the moonlight, checkered with sha-
dows. ... At three in the manta^
we heard them breaking in one
of the prison-doors. We thought
they were coming to kill us. . . .
The Abb^ Lenfant and the Abbe
de Chapt-Rastignac appeared in
the pulpit of the chapel, which was
our prison. They had got in by a

Robespierre.

525

door from the stairs. They said to
us that our end was at hand ; that
we must compose ourselves and re-
ceive their last blessing. An elec-
tric movement, not to be describ-
ed, threw us all on our knees, and
we received it. These two white-
haired old men blessing us from
their place above, death hoveling
over our heads — the moment is
never to be forgotten."* Half an
hour later the two priests were
dragged out and massacred, those
whom they had strengthened with
their last words to meet a like fate
listening to their cries.

The massacres began on the 2d
and lasted till the 6th, when Robes-
pierre and Danton were elected to
that legislative body called the
Deputation of Paris, composed of
twenty-four members, the first name
on the list being Robespierre, the
last Philippe Egalit6. It was on
this ocasion that the future regicide
adopted the surname of Egalit^, he
being compelled to choose some
appellation not obnoxious to the
people.

The great struggle now began be-
tween the Jacobins and the Giron-
dists, or virtually between the lead-
ers of the two factions, the old ri-
vals, Robespierre and Brissot. All
the ultra-republicans, who were
represented by the Deputation of
Paris, grouped themselves on the
top benches of the convention to the
left of the president, and were called
ihe Mountain — a^name henceforth
identified with its prophet, Robes-
pierre. The question still was,
What was to be done with the king ?
The Jacobins were for killing him,
the Girondists for putting him aside.
The wretched weakness, vacillation,
and cowardliness of the Girondists
make them objects of contempt,

* jonffakK, Tkirty-Hgki H^urt im tkt AHmye

without exciting in us the kind of
horrified awe inspired by the mon-
strous feats of those Titanic fiends,
the Jacobins. By what fatality is it
in France that the honest-meaning
party is always the cowardly one that
dares not assert itself, but bows
down, cowed by the cynical auda-
city of the anarchists ? The Giron-
dists might have turned the scales,
even at this crisis, if they had had
the courage of their consciences;
but they were cowards. Their policy
was to run with the hare and cry
with the hounds, and it met with the
fate it deserved. But we must not
anticipate. The Mountain, on the
other hand, did not lack the courage
of its creed ; it out-heroded Herod
in its fury against the king and all
appertaining to the old order which
he represented. Roman history
was its Bible, and the examples
there recorded were for ever on its
lips. All citizens were heroes, Cin-
cinnatuses, Catos, Ciceros, etc. ; all
sovereigns were Neros and Caligulas.
The Girondists turned these fine
texts against their rivals by accus-
ing them of plotting to set up a
triumvirate, to be composed of
Robespierre, Marat, and Danton.
This was only three weeks after the
orgy of blood which ushered in the
reign of Robespierre and of Ter-
ror. Danton mounted the tribune,
and made an eloquent defence of
Robespierre, who never spoke im-
promptu when he could avoid it.
Marat then rose — for the first time
in the convention — and was hooted
down ; but he persisted, and made
them listen while he exposed his
revolting doctrines of wholesale
murder and anarchical rule.

So the days passed, in boisterous
invective, idle perorations, and sa-
vage threats of one party against
another. The Girondists, however,
were worsted in the fi^ht^ and the

526

Robespiem.

strength of the position remained
with Robespierre and his more
bloody and unscrupulous faction,
who had from the starting traced
out his plan, and adhered to it with-
out flinching. The king was fore-
doomed to the scaffold, but some
semblance of legality should ac-
company the decree. So strong
was the Jacobin influence at this
crisis that those who did not share
the murderous design were terri-
fied into seeming to do so, and,
while looking with horror at the
regicide in preparation, were cowed
into silent acquiescence. M. Thiers,
in his History of t?u Revolution^
says : " Many of the deputies who
had come down with the intention
of voting for the king were fright-
ened at the fury of the people, and,
though much touched by the fate
of Louis XVI., they were terrified
at the consequences of an acquittal.
This fear was greatly increased at
the sight of the Assembly and of
the scene it presented. That
scene, dark and terrible, had sha-
ken the hearts of all, and changed
the resolution of Lecointre of Ver-
sailles, whose personal bravery can-
not be doubted, and who had not
ceased to return to the galleries the
menacing gestures with which they
were intimidating the Assembly.
Even he, when it came to the point,
hesitated, and dropped from his
mouth the terrible and unexpected
word, * death.' Vergniaud, who had
appeared most deeply touched by
the fate of the king, and who had
declared that 'nothing could ever
induce him to condemn the un-
happy prince* — Vergniaud, at the
sight of that tumultuous scene, pro-
nounced the sentence of death."
It must truly have been an appall-
mg spectacle, the like of which tlie
civilized world had never before
beheld. Mercicr, in bis Sketches of

the ReioiuHon^ gives us an animated
and glowing picture of the coort
during the trial : '' The famous
sitting which decided the fate of
Louis lasted seventy-two hours.
One would naturally suppose that
the Assembly was a scene of medi-
tation, silence, and a sort of reli-
gious terror. Not at all. The ctid
of the hall was transformed into
a kind of opera-box, where ladies
in negligi were eating ices and
oranges, drinking liqueurs^ and re-
ceiving the compliments and salo-
tations of comers and goers. The
huissiers (bailiffs) on the side of
the Mountain acted the part of the
openers of the opera-boxes. They
were employed every instant in
turning the key in the doors of the
side galleries, and gallantly escort-
ing the mistresses of the Duke of
Orleans, caparisoned with tri<ol-
colored ribbons. Although every
mark of applause or disapprobation
was forbidden, nevertheless, on the
side of the Mountain, the Duchess
Dowager,* the amazon of the Jaco-
bin bands, made long *ha-a-hasl'
when she heard the word * death '
strongly twang in her ears.

"The lofty galleries, destined
for the people during the dav-s
which preceded this famous trial,
were never empty of strangers and
people of every class, who there
drank wine and brandy as if it had
been a tavern. Bets were open at
all the neighboring coffee-houses.
Listlessness, imj)atience, fatigue,
were marked on almost every coun-
tenance. Each deputy mounted the
tribune in his turn, and every one
was asking when his turn came.
Some deputy came, I know not
who, sick, and in his morning-gowri
and night-cap. This phantom

* Mnse. de Moataano, second vife by a aecfaa
atic marriage of the late Duke of Orleaas, Efahc^*
lkth«r.

Robespierre.

527

caused a great deal of diversion in
the Assembly. The countenances
of those who went to the tribune,
rendered more funereal from the
pale gleams of the lights, when in
a slow and sepulchral voice they
pronounced the word * death !* — all
these physiognomies which suc-
ceeded one another, their tones,
their different keys ; d'Orleans hiss-
ing and groaning when he voted
the death of his relative; some cal-
culating if they should have time
to dine before they gave their vote ;
women with pins pricking cards to
count the votes ; deputies who had
fallen asleep and were waked up in
order to vote; Manuel, the secre-
tary, sliding away a few votes, in
order to save the unhappy king,
and on the point of being put to
death in the corridors for his infi-
delity — these sights can never be
described as they passed. It is im-
possible to picture what they were,
nor will history be able to reach
them."

Amongst the timid Girondists
who dared not vote for acquittal,
and shrank from decreeing the king
to death, many hit upon a half-mea-
sure, which was that of coupling
their vote for death with condi-
tions that practically negatived it.
This cowardly transaction is said
to have given rise to some trickery
in the counting of the votes, which
enabled the scrutineers to make
the majority of one voice by which
the sentence of death was carried.
It was this sham proceeding which
prompted Si^yes to say when re-
cording his vote, *\Death — without
palaver !"

Robespierre's figure stands out
with vivid and terrible brilliancy
against the background of this
picture. He dismissed the ques-
tion of the king's innocence or
guilt — that had, he knew right well,

nothing whatever to do with the
issue — and proceeded to demand
his death on the grounds of urgent
political expediency. " The death
of the king was not a question of
law, but of state policy, which,
without quibbling about his guilt
or innocence, required his death ;
the life of one man, if ever so inno-
cent, must be sacrificed to preserve
the lives of millions." There was
honesty at any rate in this plain
speaking, and so it was better than
the odious hypocrisy displayed by
the other actors in the tragic farce.
On Robespierre's descending from
the tribune, his brother Augustin,
rose and demanded in the name of
the people "that Louis Capet shall
be brought to the bar, to declare
his original accomplices, to hear
sentence of death pronounced on
him, and to be forthwith conduct-
ed to execution." Wild confusion
covered this extravagant motion,
but no notice was taken of it. The
2ist of January was near at hand ;
even the Mountain could afford to
wait so long.

On the loth of March, the Revo-
lutionary Tribunal was decreed.
A month later there broke out a
violent altercation between Robes-
pierre and some of the Girondists
in the Convention ; numbers clamor-
ed for the " expulsion of the twenty-
two "obstreperous Girondists ; they
were arraigned before the bar where
the king whom they so basely be-
trayed had lately stood ; the trial
lasted four days ; even that tribu-
nal, used to dispense with all proof
of guilt in its victims, could not
decide on condemning twenty-two
men at one fell swoop without some
shadow of reason, and there was
none to be found. But Robespierre
was not going to lose his opportuni-
ty for a quibble ; impatient of the
delay, he drew up a decree that

528 The Better Christmas.

" whenever any trial should have death !" This abominable docn-

lasted three days, the tribunal ment was read and inscribed on the

might declare itself satisfied with register of the tribunal the same

the guilt of the prisoners, might evening, the Girondists were at

stop the defence, close the discus- once condemned, and sent to the

sions, and send the accused to scaffold next morning.

TO BB COMCLUDKD NXJTr MONTH.

THE BETTER CHRISTMAS.

" *Tis not the feast that changes with the ever-changing times,
But these that lightly vote away the glories of the past —
The joys that dream-like haunt me with the merry matin chimes
I loved so in my boyhood, and shall doat on to the last.

** There still is much of laughter, and a measure of old cheer : •

The ivy wreaths, if scanty, are as verdant as of yore :
And still the same kind greeting for the universal ear :

But, to me, for all their wishing, 'tis a * merry ' feast no more !**

I said : and came an answer from the stars to which I sighed —
Those stars that lit the vigil of the favor'd shepherd band.

And 'twas as if again the heavens open'd deep and wide,
And the carol of the angel-choir new-flooded all the land

" Good tidings still we bring to all who still have ears to hear ;
To all who love His coming — the elect that cannot cease ;
And louder rings our anthem, to these watchers, year by year.
Its earnest of the perfect joy — the everlasting peace.

" Art thou, then, of these watchers, if thou canst not read the sign ?
The world was at its darkest when the blessed Day-star * shone.
Again 'tis blacker to her beam : and thou must needs repine,
And sicken, so near sunrise, for the moonlight that is gone I"

* ** Until the day dawn and the day-etar arise ia your hearts.*'—* S. Peter L ig^

Eng^k attd Scotch Scetus.

ENGLISH AND SCOTCH SCENES.

Tbs home life of England has
rcT been a favorite topic with
merican writers. The first thing
tat strikes an American travelling
irovgh England is the age of
rerjrthing he sees, the roots by
hich every existing institution,
astern, or pleasure is intimately
Muiected with its real, tangible
cototype in the past. He sees.
», how the people live a thorough-
f characteristic life — that which
onsists in identification with every-
bing that is national. No one is
unadaptive as the pure-bred
triton, and it has truly been said
hat an Englishman carries his
oimtry with him wherever he
,ws. You never see an English-
Bio to advantage except at home ;
«t, once enthroned amid his local
vrrDundings, there is a sturdy na-
ivt dignity in him which none can
dp admiring. He is no politician
a the mercenary, personal, busi-
est-like sense of the word, but he
^kt% a pride in following the
o«rse of his country's progress, in
wring a hand in all reforms,
1 exercising his right of censure —
f» as some foreigners plainly call
t " grumbling " — and especially in
'Aching closely over the well-be-
; of his own county and neigh-
Hiood. By this minute division
labor every county becomes, as
►tre, a self-governed little nation,
Mods and tenacious of its rights,
hiiy alive to its interests, intense-
hgorous, and occasionally aggres-
te. Political and social life are
Nclf intermingled, and personal
^-nterestedness is almost ever}'-
VOL. XX. — 34

where the rule. The varied tradi-
tions of different neighborhoods and
the strong individuality shown by
the different sections of the country,
contribute a picturesque element
to modem life, and often make the
naost inherently prosaic actions
take on a mask of romance.

Elections to Parliament afford a
multiplicity of such scenes, and form
one of the greatest periodical excite-
ments that stir up country towns.
The candidate is generally one of
the sons of some family well known
in the county, or sometimes the
chief proprietor of the neighbor-
hood, if he be still under fifty. The
county constituencies almost always
return a member of this class ; the
commercial representatives come
from the great manufacturing towns,
where they have slowly toiled to
make their fortunes, and risen, by
earnest application to business,
from the rank of a vestryman ta
that of lord mayor. The country
town in which the hustings and
polling-booths are erected is as
animated as it would have been at
a great fair of the middle ages or
an extraordinary sale of wool,
which in Gloucestershire, Warwick-
shire, ard Worcestershire was a
great article of trade in the XlVth
century. Everything in the shape
of bunting, evergreens, allegorical
pictures, flaming posters, and un-
limited ale has been done by both
sides to enhance their popularity
with the electors and non-electors.
Indeed, the latter are quite as im-
portant as the former, for from
their ranks are recruited the bands.

530

English and Scotch Scenes.

of music and the array of stalwart
supporters, ready to fight, if requir-
ed, and to shout at the top of their
hings, so as to bewilder the voters
and claim or surprise their votes.
The canvassing that goes before
an English election is neither a
pleasant nor a creditable thing to
dwell on ; when subjected to the
analysis of uncompromising moral-
ity, it resolves itself into deliberate
and organized " humbug " ; for it
includes every species of flattery
under the sun, not to speak of
direct bribery. Very funtiy inci-
dents sometimes occur to break the
monotony of the usual routine.
For instance, in canvassing a large
seaport town, the Liberal candidate
bethinks himself of his yacht — a
gem in every way — and organizes a
large party, to which are invited the
voting citizens and their wives and
daughters. A splendid luncheon
is provided, and each dame and
damsel goes home with the con-
viction that her smiles have won
the heart of the candidate, and
that he has sworn them by a tacit
but flattering contract to further his
claims with their all-powerful hus-
bands and fathers. " Iloni soit qui
tnalypensey The latter are as proud
of the expectant M.P.'s notice of
the female members of their house-
holds as the ladies themselves, and
the issue is trembling in the balance,
when an announcement goes forth
that the Conservative candidate has
had his drag and four horses sent
djwn from London, and proposes
parading the young ladies and the
more fearless married women on
ilie roof of this ultra- fashionable
vehicle. The invitations are of
course more limited than those for
the yacht, but promises of repeat-
ing them, until all the free electors*
families have been included, cheer
up the spirits of those not asked

the first day. The Liberal pits bii
yacht against his rival's drag, and
invites the maids and matrons to
another sail. Apparently, Neptonc
does not intend to vote for him, for
a slight breeze arises, and the waTfs
roll more than landsmen find plea-
sant. The cabin fills rapidly, ifld
faces once rosy and saucy, \xs%
pale and shrunken; the retun
against wind and tide is a wretcbrf
journey. The poor candidate, i«
despair, tries to become nurse a«d
doctor, as well as consoler ; hot It
too, feels his cheeks blanch, not at
the lurching of the vessel, but at Ae
fear of the effect of this accideot
upon the votes which he was already
reckoning up so confidently. -Aj
the forlorn party lands, tlie dnj
sweeps by, drawn by its four fiery
horses, the whip cracking, tlwr
smart grooms grinning at the win-
dows (in these carriages, made Itkf
a mail-coach, the servants sit insit
and the master drives, while his
guests are packed on the outside
seats at the top), the women htid*
dling under cloaks and umbrellas,
but all giggling with delight at ibc
adventure, neither damped nor do-
mayed by water that cannot drown
them, and wind that cannot make
them sea-sick. The next day
those who have recovered froa
their marine excursion are invited
to try the drag, and the Liberal
candidate's chances fall as visibl?
as the barometer did yestcrdar.
When the great day comes, the
drag has done its work, and the
Conservative is returned by a fn-
umphant majority.

To return to our country tor
in its holiday attire. No great an,
are resorted to here ; the comno ^
kind of canvassing will do for the*
quiet, agricultural people, and ttrf
only day that is worth roentiocin?
is that of the election itself 'lie

English and Scotch Scetus,

531

stire look of the place does not
ortend any very desperate con-
^ although there is a free dis-
lay of the two opposite colors —
liie(Conservative) and yellow (Lib-
ttl). The rivals come down from
leir neighboring seats in gay car-
•ges full of the ladies of their
w^es, wearing their respective
abrs. The horses and postilions
feai- bunches of blue or yellow
Ibbcm; even the whip has its con-
pcnous knot of color. Brass bands
Ush forth a whole host of dis-
Olds; the hired partisans good-hu-
Kkitdly shout for one or the other
puty; an air of great good-will
^vaQft. The whole thing looks
lore like the welcoming home of a
inde than a serious political gath-
nng. The candidates ascend the
(Usttngs, or platform for speeches,
ad cordially shake hands with one
mother. They think it fun to be
Imposed to each other in public,
rbereas in private they are friends,
tompanions, and neighbors; they
tare had the same training, the
Mie education, the same associa-
ions, the same local interests, and
ht question that will decide their
election will more likely be their
fiputation as farmers and their
polarity as landlords than their
^itical opinions as to the affairs of
ifae nation at large. Talking of
bribery and undue influence in
dcciions, there is a law yet in force
[though, of course, its effect is mere-
ly nominal) which forbids any peer
to be present at an election. His
[presence is, by a legal fiction, sup-
posed to hamper the freedom of the
ifotcrs, and tlie law thus provides
■gainst the appearance of coercion
ftr intimidation. The candidates
fcr the counties are almost invari-
^y the sons, brothers, or nephews
of peers; but, however near the re-
^tionship, no member of the House

of Lords is allowed to infringe on
this rule. A contested election,
one in which party spirit runs high
and the passions of the people are
artfully fanned and excited on both
sides, is a scene worth witnessing
once ; but the excitement is of too
rough a sort to make one wish for
a second edition of it. A foreigner
once said that the two best sights
which England had to offer to a
stranger were an Oxford "com-
memoration " and a contested elec-
tion. The latter seldom takes
place jjfi the peaceful neighbor-
hoods of the midland counties, and
the only other species of elections,
as distinguished from the festive
one which we have just sketched,
is, as a remnant of old-time indif-
ferentism, a curiosity in its way.
There are no longer what were
called " rotten boroughs '* and
" pocket boroughs," the former re-
presenting what had once been a
populous town or large village, now
reduced to half a dozen ruinous
tenements and an old, disused par-
ish church, but still retaining the
right to return one or more mem-
bers to Parliament ; the second be-
ing a village still worthy of the
name, but from time immemorial
voting strictly in accordance with
the wishes of the **lord of the
manor," whether peer or com-
moner. These were also called
"close boroughs." The Reform
Bill of 1830 did away with all such
transparent abuses, but family in-
fluence, exerted in a milder form,
still remains an important element
in all agricultural counties ; and it
sometimes happens that for a whole
generation, no one will think it
worth his while to oppose a candi-
date whose good working qualities
are recognized by friend and foe,
and whose personal popularity,
joined with his powerful connec-

532

EngHsA and SciOch Scenes,

tioitd, makes his success almost ab-
solutely certain. Such was the

case in the election at O , for

which the same member has run
unopposed for at least a quarter of
a century. The nomination was
made by the high sheriff and the
magistrates of the county, assem-
bled in the town-hall. This is a
portion of a ruined castle or abbey,
the Norman windows of which still
assert their identity, though they
have been shamefully mutilated
and forced to conform to the ugly,
shallow openings called windows
in our days. The inside showed
no signs of beauty. It was a huge
bam, with grim-looking benches or
pews at one end, towering amphi-
theatre-wise one above the othen
Public business of all kinds was
transacted there. The decoration
of the hall is somewhat peculiar, con-
sisting of nothing but horse-shoes.
From time immemorial the custom
of the county has been that every
peer setting foot within the little
town should put up a horse-shoe
in this hall, or give an equivalent
in money, which is spent by au-
thority of the town council in
buying a horse-shoe in his name.
There is some dispute as to when
and how the custom originated.
The common belief is that Queen
Elizabeth, passing through O — ■ — ,
stopped to get one of her horses
shod, and, in perpetual memory of
her royal visit, gave the town the
privilege of exacting the tribute of
a horse-shoe from every peer set-
ting foot within the county. By
an anachronism, which at any rate

does honor to O 's public spirit,

there are horse-shoes bearing dates
far more remote than the XVIth
century, and some one has actually
put the Conqueror himself under
contribution, and unblushingly la-
beled a very antique shoe with his

mighty name and the evetitM date,
T066. During tlie last three htw-
dred years genuine historical hone
shoes have alK>unded ; some plain a
the real thing, some gold or silvered,
some painted with heraldic device^
some immense as children's boo^K^
some minute as the shoe of a Shet-
land pony. Whether the thotaasd*
year-old superstition of the connec-
tion between luck and a horse-sHoev
and the belief in the power of the
latter against witches, has aaythiflf
to do with the custom, we do not
know for certain, but it is not •«»•
likely.

In this remarkable town-bdl
were assembled the electors and
magistrates one November moni-
ing. All the prominent coyntrf
** gentlemen " and many farmers »i
tradesmen were present, besides *
few ladies, come to see the proceed-
ings. The member who had beea
re-elected every time that an elec-
tion took place for the previow
twenty years was the brother ol
one of the great land-owners of the
neighborhood, and a ConservatiTt.
No one thought of opposing him
His friends and constituents moSly
appeared in riding-boots, some m
**pink."* One young magistrate
got up and proposed him fonotllT
to the electors in a girlbb, awk-
ward speech; another secon^W
him in a still briefer address, au^
the question was asked: **Ha^
any one any objections to make or
any candidate to oppose?" A
squeaky voice at the end of ti'
hall propounded a query in this
form :

** Would the honorable merabcr
vote for universal suffirage and df
down church rates .^**

•Tbc tedimcal term far a acUlet •«>"*<^5
foxhunten) wlien it hw seen Krrkc, •« ■*
tails have become fink thnmgli czpOMt » »
wtatbor.

English and Scotch Scenes.

533

A hugh ran through the crowd,
wA a& impatient movement stirred
ht knot of magistrates. Year af-
jr year some wag of this kind
^Mted the Radical hobby, and
lit il in this unoffending fash-

al the steady-going "church*-

** and loyal upholder of the
Mlhution who represented the
in Parliament. The un-

aovement continues, and hor-
■ are heard neighing and paw-
m outside. Men in red coats

oot their watches and put on
Daces. It is nearly twelve
lUock, and the business of the na-

is delaying the " meet." The
are waiting not far off, and
MM&date, sheriff, magistrates, and
jbctors are all alike anxious to be
|B The hall is soon cleared and
y dection quietly over — ^a very
iOOMiary matter .in the consid-
Mkm of those who have been
Mpt from kennel and field for two
Big hours. They rush out with

fike zest of school-boys let loose
phy, and the hunt that day has
Iriee its ordinary success, or at
bflrt its members think so, because
|e beloved sport has been inter-
pitted, and requires extra enthusi-
jn as a peace-offering at their
^ds. So with redoubled vigor
Ift search after foxes goes on,
pA Aot till long after sundown
dl the candidate, magistrates, and
tOMtittients return to their homes.
Very different are those elections
dioiesurroundings remind us rather
if acUn gathering to the standard of
bdr chief than a modern constitu-
sacy crowding to the polling-booths.
fhcmcre description of these elec-
iOtt Kenes through Great Britain
u»d Ireland would form an inter-
i*ting chapter in contemporaneous
Wxory. The political differences
ftccdnot even be alluded to; the con-
ttast of outer circumstances is sug-

gestive enough. In an agricultural
neighborhood, such as that r6u(id

the town of O ^ a certain kind

of torpidity exists among the pros-
perous and contented farmers. Not
a hundred miles from the palace
of the people at Westminster the
interest in politics is subordinate
to that excited by a cattle^how
or the prospect of a drought ; in a
word, there is so little local change
called for which could be bene-
ficial to the county that the pas-
sive but deep-rooted clinging to
old traditions, which is so charac-
teristic of the genuine Englishman,
is in this case rather a matter of
course than a virtue or a merito-
rious turning away from tempta-
tion.

Life is hard to the masses in a
city. Sharp ills require sharp re-
medies, say the demagogues ; and
straightway the voters adopt the
extremest doctrine they can find,
and fancy it a panacea for all ills.
An English paper recently defined
this kind of voter as the man
" who has just learned sufficient to
be sure that there can only be one
side to a question." The Irish
elections, proverbial for their stor-
miness, are of another nature ; ap-
pealing to our sympathy by the
wild earnestness of the voters, and
governed by feelings which, though
often misdirected, are yet noble in
their origin. Religion and patriot-
ism are the prime movers of the
passions of Irish constituents ; they
often look upon their exercise of
the franchise as a protest against
tyranny and a confession of faith.
And indeed the " tyranny " is no
mere political scarecrow to them.
It is very tangible ; it strikes home
to them, for its immediate result
may be eviction and starvation.
The wild, humorous individuality
of the people of the western baro-

534

English and Scotch Scenes.

nies of Ireland redeems much that
is reprehensible from vulgarity in
the faction fight — a not infrequent
concomitant of the election. There is
a rough romance left in these fights,
making them the direct counter-
parts of the sudden encounters be-
tween the clans of the various
kings of Celtic history; and what
is best and most palliative is this :
that sordid considerations are al-
most wholly absent from the vo-
ters' minds. If men must fight, let
them do it for anything rather than
money; and, to do these electors
justice, we will say that there is
less bribery in all the Irish country
districts put together than in one
English manufacturing town. You
will say there is intimidation in-
stead ; but, even that is better than
bribery, for it is less degrading
to a human being to barter away
his vote, in view of the threats of his
landlord to turn his wife and chil-
dren out of doors, than to sell it for
money. But there are other elec-
tions to speak of — those in the
Highlands of Scotland.

Education is more universal
among the humbler classes in Scotr
land than in either of the sister
countries, and by nature the Scotch-
man is more reflective than the
Englishman or Irishman. There is
less of collective life in his country ;
the land is poor and barren, the
northern parts are broken up by
lochs and treacherous estuaries, and
many counties include rocky islands
among the billows of the Atlantic.
In Inverness-shire the elector is far
removed from all common external
influence. He thinks slowly and
seriously, working out his own
problems, answering his own ques-
tions by the aid of his strong na-
tive sense. He and many of his
fellow - voters are shepherds or
" keepers." They inhabit an isolat-

ed cottage in some remote glen— a
cottage that is only approached by
some faint sheep-track. Australia
or the Territories of the United
States are hardly less solitary; but,
on the other hand, the Scottish
Highlands, if solitary, are not bar-
barous. In newly-settled counlrits
where the popularion is only grad-
ually fusing into a national pe^^e,
the're is lawlessness to contend with ;
the school and the church are yei
open to the attack of ruffianly bands,
and dependent on a few respectable
though equally rough settlers to
stop the brigandage of their unmly
neighbors. An old country, how-
ever sparsely peopled, has the past
to guide it ; its hermit settlers arr
the heirs, not the founders, of a
state and a history. So it is with
ancient Scottish shires, and thus
you will find their electors a>bcr.
silent, reflective men, conscious of
their dignity as clansmen of the old
families whose names are in the re-
cords of Scotland from the VllUh
and IXth centuries; and perfectly
aware of their personal, political
value as present electors to the joint
Parliament of a great empire. In
England there were serfs, but in
Scotland (and in Ireland also) tbert
were clansmen — not slaves, but sons
by adoption ; freemen with the right
to bear arms ; protected, not owned,
by the great chiefs of the North
They were used to a certain degree
of power and responsibility, and
their descendants were not intoxi-
cated by a sudden rise to independ-
ence, as were the corresponding
classes in England when the frar-
chise was extended to them.

To continue our description of th-*
local surroundings of the Invemesv
shire voters — men removed fron
the ordinary circumstances whit"
make most elections pretty miu '.
the same dull, time-worn, vulgar-

English and Scotch Scenes.

53S

vitd sight — wc quote from a recent
article in an English publication:
"The nearest neighbors on one
side are beyond a great mountain-
nage, while for miles upon miles
on the other there stretch the un-
peopled solitudes of a deer-forest.
The nearest carriage-road is eight
pwks ofi^ and that is travelled only
ttoe days in the week by a mail-
ctKt that carries passengers. The
ciitftch and school are at twice the
disUnce ; so the children must trust
(a die parents for their education,
«ad the father can only occasional-
ly join in the Sunday gossip, in the
pansh churchyard, that expands
the ideas of some of his fellow-par-
ishioners. His cottage is ten miles
fcom the nearest hovel where they
uSi whiskey. His work is arduous ;
he is afoot among his sheep from
the early morning until dusk. In
the best of times and in the height
of summer it is but seldom that a
itray copy of the county paper
finds its way to the head of the
glen* He is thoughtful by nature,
u you may see in his face, which
has much the same puzzled expres-
$ion of intelligence that you remark
in the venerable rams of his flock.
No doubt he thinks much, after a
£uhion of his own, as he goes * daun-
dering' about after his straggling
sheep, or stretches himself to bask
io the hot sunshine, while he leaves
his collies (sheep-dogs) to look
after his charge.*'

This is a very true picture. Of
course, in such a situation, it is im-
possible for the Highland shepherd
to follow the questions that affect
*he fate of ministries. He can
know nothing of foreign affairs,
probably never heard of the Ala*
bama^ and would be at sea on the
•ubject of the Franco-Prussian war.
Mr. Gladstone's financial schemes
we not only puzzles but terra incog-

nita to his mind. He knows nothing
of the extension of the suffrage in
counties, and even local rates are
indifferent to him, as the only one
that concerns him is the dog-tax —
concerns him, but does not affect
him ; for his master pays the tax,
and he himself is more or less ex-
empted from extra trouble, accord-
ing to the number of sheep-dogs for
which that master chooses to pay.
His interest in the man who repre-
sents him in Parliament is therefore
either purely theoretical or, what
happens oftener, purely personal.
There are country gentlemen every-
where who, though no newspaper
may blow the trumpet of their fame,
are nevertheless known throughout
a wide expanse as good men and
true, kind yet just landlords, up-
right magistrates, and sound econo-
mists. Their names are house-
hold words; their memory is al-
ways associated with some gener-
ous deed ; they are looked up to
and honored in the county. They
are generally scions of the old his-
torical families of the land — of those
families to which the Scotchman
clings with a proud affection, and
which have been perpetuated by the
very institutions that some coiners
of new political creeds find so dele-
terious to the human race. The
shepherd probably turns his mind
to some such man of whom nothing
but good has ever been recorded,
and willingly entrusts to his safe-
keeping the interests of himself, his
clan, and his country. Judging
from the particular to the general,
he concludes that, since this candi-
date has always been a kind master
and a good landlord to his own
folks, he is likely to be a conscien-
tious law-maker and an earnest
protector of the nation's liberties.
Questions of detail may fairly be
trusted to him; the main thing is

536

English and Scotch Scenes.

that no widow or orphan has ever
had any complaint to make of him.
This is the aspect on the voter's
side. Let us see what it is on that
of the candidate. There is no ques-
tion here of bill-sticking, of dis-
tributing cockades, or of having
bands of music and hired groups
of partisans in your wake. Can-
vassing means " posting long distan-
ces in dog-carts, seeking relays at
widely-separated inns, where the
stable establishments are kept on a
peace footing, except during the
tourist season. In winter the
roads are carried across formidable
ferries, where, if you bribe the boat-
man to imprudence, your business
being urgent, you are not unlikely
to meet the fate of Lord Ullin's
daughter.*' But this is not all ; for
when you have braved the floods,
and arrive famished and half-fro-
zen at some out-of-the-way hamlet
whence the scattered cottages may
be gained, there is yet the ordeal
of the interviews before you. The
Scottish hermit can hardly be ex-
pected to forego or shorten such a
rare opportunity of contact with the
outside world. He will tax your
ingenuity with the shrewdest, per-
haps politically inconvenient, ques-
tions ; and never doing anything
in a hurry himself, he will resent
his visitor's seeming to be press-
ed for time. No hasty and trans-
parent condescensions will do
for him. He will not be satisfied,
like the comfortable trader of the
towns, with the candidate's kissing
his youngest born and promising
his eldest son a rocking-horse.
Smiles and hand-shakings are cheap
gifts ; but he wants no gifts, only
pledges. He wishes to be met as
an intelligent being, a man who, if
worth winning, must be worth con-
vincing. He expects a straightfor-
ward, if short, explanation of your

general opinions; aad though tbe
sense of his own dignity zs a voter
is great, he does not forget that po-
litical does not entail social equal-
ity. Grave and earnest, he will
resent flippancy as an insult to hi^
understanding ; and a joke that
would win over a dozen vota io a
small commercial town -will very
probably lose you his vote, and his
good opinion too.

But there are also other consti-
tuents to be called upon. The nu-
merous islands on the east coast of
Scotland aflbrd a still larger field
for the danger and romance of can-
vassing. The islanders arc yevj
sensitive, and feel terribly hurt at
the insinuation that their home lies
out of the world. If their votes arc
necessary, is the courtesy to ask for
them superfluous ? They lead haz-
ardous, daring lives themselves
and do not understand bow any
man can shrink from the danger that
may be incurred in nearing their
rocky island. If he does, what is
he worth } they will argue ; for the
natural man readily judges of bii
fellow-man's mental qualities by his
physical endurance. Then (we
quote again the graphic sketch
above referred to), "that island
canvass means chartering some
crank little screw, beating out into
the fogs among the swells and the
breakers, taking flying shots at low
reefs of inhabited rock, enveloped
in mists and unprovided with light-
houses. Landing-places are almost
as scarce as light- towers, and you
may have to bob about under the
* lee of the land ' in impatient ex-
pectation of establishing communi-
cations with it. When you do get
to shore, you must be hospitably
fiiedhy the minister and the school-
master, the doctor and the prin-
cipal tacksmen, until what viib
sea-squeamishness and the strong

English and Scotch Scenes.

537

^iritSy it becomes simply heroic to
pinerve the charm of your man-
Mis. Moreover^ you had better not
Hiike your visit at all than cut it
ndvilly short. Our friend the
^pberd may have made up his
Mad 16 support you ; but you may
idy npon it that he will promise
niieng until you have set yourself
iomforasolemn 'crack' with him."
Tbft day of the election itself is a
HUliible ending to this romantic
qtiiode in the life of an ordinary,
imdging M.P. When a Highland-
sr acts about a thing, he never gives
iakefore it is accomplished. Ho*
■tf binds him to redeem a promise,
■ketber made to another or to him-
idf; pride compels him to prove
luielf superior to circumstances,
i)PM>st to nature herself; and he
doggedly goes on his way, undeter-
rtdby any wayside temptation to turn
iito smoother and pleasanter paths.
So the voters " climb over moun-
tkiasand plod over snow-fields, wade
mwntain streams, navigate lochs
a crank cobles, and cross raging
esUuries in rickety, flat-bottomed
feny-boats; so that, should the
wiwis and the weather interfere too
seriously with the exercise of the
ekctors' political rights, the polling
of a great Highland constituency
nay possibly have a gloomily dra-
matic finale." *

While we are on the subject of
Scotland,* we may mention the va-
rious occasions on which national
gatherings draw together thousands
of picturesquely-clad men and wo-
men. The games are the most
characteristic of these meetings.
They take place in various places,
mostly during the months of Au-
gust and September. They are
generally held under the patronage
and supervision of some great fam-

• UturJmy Uroinu^ Feb. ai , 1874, art. »* High-
WCaMdtoeadM."

ily of the neighborhood. Some-
thing of old clan feeling is revived.
The men often march in in bodicn,
preceded by their pipers, and wear-
ing their individual tartan, with dis-
tinctive badges. The villages for fifty
miles around send their group of
representatives and their athletes
and champions in the games. Ve-
hicles of primitive build with rough,
wiry little ponies bring in their load
of farmers and petty freeholders.
The country-houses and shooting-
boxes fill with guests from England ;
and in the neighborhood of Bal-
moral, to which we more particu-
larly allude, there is of course the
additional attraction of royal coun-
tenance and patronage. The queen
and the royal family sometimes be-
come the guests of their subjects
on these occasions, and an almost
German simplicity reigns for a few
days among those to whom eti-
quette must be so sore a chain.
The princes wear the Highland
dress, and the queen (that is, before
her widowhood) something of tar-
tan in her plain toilet. The na-
tional sports, such as throwing the
hammer, lifting heavy weights and
supporting them on the outstretch-
ed hand, etc., require both strength
and dexterity, and the champions
who contend in these games are
generally "professionals." Some-
times, however, some village athlete
ambitiously enters the lists against
the trained champions, and occa-
sionally bears off a prize. A com-
petition of pipers is often a feature
of the day, and these worthies make
a brave appearance in their velvet
jackets covered with a breast-plate
of medals, severally won in various
contests. The shrill, clarion-like
tones of the bagpipes are not agree-
able to the untrained ear, but to
the Highlanders, whose national
associations are proudly entwined

538

English and Scctch Scenes.

with this wild, primitive music of
the hills, they are naturally sweeter
than the most sublime strains of
the old masters. No one, even
though not Highland-bred, can lis«
ten to the pipes, playing a pibroch
among the echoes of the mountains,
without feeling that the soul of the
people is in it ; that the spirits of
" the Flood and the Fell " which
Walter Scott so graphically intro-
duces in his Lay of the Last Min^
sir el might have used just such
tones for their fateful, wailing
speech ; and no one having more
than common ties binding him to
Scottish traditions and Scottish
homes can think of the wild dirges
or stirring war-calls of the pipes
without sympathy and loving re-
gret. Not quite so inspiring, how-
ever, is this music when the piper
marches round a small dining-room,
and plays the distinctive tune of
the host's clan to the guests as-
sembled over their wine and des-
sert. The narrow space makes the
music harsh and grating, just as a
confined room takes from the Ty-
rolese jodel all its romance, and
turns the sounds into the caricature
of a loud roulade. The games of-
ten last for three days, and a sort
of encampment springs up by ma-
gic to supply the deficiencies of the
crowded inns of the neighborhood.
At the end of that time there is a
ball given at one of the principal
country-seats, and a torch-light
dance for the people. The queen
and the royal family accompany
their host and hostess, and are con-
tent with a hasty dinner, served
with a delightful relaxation from
etiquette ; for this is their holi-
day from political anxieties and
social duties, and the more infor-
mal this assembly, the better it
pleases them. The ball-room is
not very large, and its simple de-

corations are in keeping with the
character of the feast and the style
of the lodge or cottage in whkh
it is given. There are flowers in
abundance, flags and evergreen
garlands, Highland badges and em-
blems, and stags' heads with iMrancb-
ing antlers — the trophies of the
host's skill in stalking the red deer.
Outside the house is a wide space,
destined for the torch-light dance
Great iron holders and pans lifted
on rude tripods contain the torches
and the resinous fluid which, when
set on fire, burns steadily for miny
hours. To and fro flit the kilted
Highlanders, with their jevdled
dirks or daggers, and their hairy
sporrans decorated with silver plates
the size of large coins. The cham-
pions of the games are there, the
rival pipers, the mountain shep-
herds, the gillies or game-keepen,
all the household servants and those
of the guests ; the women wearing
tartan ribbons of different clans,
and Scotch flowers, blue-bell, heath-
er or bog-mjrrtle, in their caps or
bodices. The pipes strike up the
music of the sword-dance ; a noted
dancer comes forward, and lays two
naked swords of ordinary len^li
on the ground, crossing them at
right angles. Within the four na^
row spaces between the points of
this cross he then begins a series
of marvellous steps, leaping high in
the air, shufiiing, crossing his feet,
and invariably alighting in the right
spot, within a few inches of the
swords, always in these four inter
stices, but never touching norcvefl
grazing the blades. If he were u>
touch one ever so lightly, and hot
for an instant, his reputation would
be gone. Another succeeds him.
and so on, till all the famous dan-
cers have exhibited their skilL No
novice appears ; they take care oe-
ver to dance in public till they art

English and Scotch Scenes.

539

perfect in this feat. Scotch reels for
Ibc most part take up the rest of the
m|^t, and are danced by four people,
two men and two women, the former
sttilding back to back, and their
ptrtn.ers opposite. Various figures
foOow each other, the figure eight
being the most frequent. This is
ttuuiged by the four dancers lock-
ing arms and giving a swing round,
then passing on to the next person ;
mns are locked again, and another
mm given, and so on till the four
hvrt changed places, and in doing
«d have described the figure eight.
Of course, in this dance, it is the
tncn who show to most advantage,
M they perform a series of regular
steps, snapping their fingers mean-
while, and, as soon as they get ex-
cited and enter into the spirit of
tlie national dance, uttering a pecu-
liar sort of cry. The women mostly
walk and jump through their evolu-
tions. The less characteristic danc-
ing in the ball-room, but in which
reels are also mingled with quad-
rille and waltz, ceases about two
o'clock in the morning, and the
musicians are at liberty to join the
fan outside. The Highlanders
sometimes take possession of the
deserted* ball-room, and continue
their own revels there till daybreak,
when the torches flicker out and
the spell is broken. Another na-
tional dance is the strathspey, which
we never had the good fortune to
sec performed.

In winter curling is the favorite
game ; it is played on the ice with
heavy round stones, about eight or
nine inches in diameter, and three
to three and a half inches thick.
These stones are neither rolled nor
thrown at the line and mark, but
propelled, by the strength of wrist
of the player, along the surface of
the ice, and aimed to displace the
itones already set up by the oppo-

site side. Whichever side, at the
end of the game, has most stones
near the line which serves as a
mark, is declared by the umpire to
be the winner. Miniature curling-
boards are very common in Scotch
country-houses, with stones two* or
three inches in diameter; it is an
amusing game on a rainy day, and,
though so small, no little skill is re-
quired to guide these stones aright.
The same house to which we
have taken the reader to be present
at the torch- light dance is a very
pretty specimen of Scotch hunting-
lodges. Built at various times, it
consists of several cottages, once
detached, but now irregularly con-
nected by picturesque galleries,
verandas, and staircases. One part
has much the appearance of a Swiss
chdUt ; another that of a river-side
villa on the Thames, with its glass
doors opening on to a lawn, and its
rustic porch smothered in climbing
roses. Though so straggling, it is
a very comfortable house. Nothing
is wanting — billiard-room, smoking-
room, boudoir, and innumerable
pigeonholes for guests — a charming
house for persons of sporting tastes ;
the halls carpeted with deer-skins,
and the walls hung with antlers, bear-
ing each the date of the death of the
stag to which they belonged ; equal-
ly charming to the delicate London
beauty wearied with her social tri-
umphs, for here she finds the thou-
sand elegances of a rococo drawing-
room, the luxurious arm-chairs, the
rare china, the velvet screen hung
with miniatures, and little gilt
brackets, each supporting a tiny
cup or a porcelain shepherdess — in
a word, every pretty refinement of
the latest fashion. The neighbor-
hood is famous for stalking — that
is, following the red deer through
moor and forest alone, with your
rifle and your slight bag containing

540

Et^ish and Scotch Scenes.

some biscuits and a pocket-flask.
You may have to trudge over miles
and miles of heather, watching
every turn of the breeze, lest it
betray your whereabouts to your
beautiful victim ; making immense
ditours to reach him from some
convenient cover; creeping along
on all fours, or even flat on the
ground ; often taking a long, cold
bath in the mountain burn (stream),
wading through it, or waiting in it,
so as not to let him scent your
trail. If for no other reason, this
sport is superior to any because it
demands solitude ; though it is hard
to discover why one should not be
privileged to take a twelve hours*
walk or saunter without the pretext
of the rifle slung at one's back,
and also without incurring the
charge of eccentricity. A forest in
Scotland is treeless; the term is
applied to a wide expanse of
mountain, covered knee-deep with
heather, and perhaps here and there
with a few stunted bushes or clumps
of graceful birches. Here the red
deer feeds in herds, and you some-
times come across six or seven of
these " monarchs of the glen. " The
sportsman, however, seldom pursues
or kills more than one in a day.
A moor is much the same in ap-
pearance as a forest, but that terra
is reserved for those tracts of
heather-land where the grouse and
the black-cock abide. These are
often rented to Englishmen, the
forests seldom ; so that the South-
ron, if he have a taste for deer-
stalking, generally depends for his
chance of indulging it on the hos-
pitality of some Scottish friend.

This neighborhood is full of ro-
mantic glens and hollows where
mountain streams gurgle through
narrow channels of rock, where
tiny waterfalls splash under bridges
mossy with old age, and where

real forests oi pine and birch ud
rowan, or mountain ash, make a va-
riegated network across the blue
horizon. In one little gorge tradi-
tion says that a hunted partisan of
Charles Edward took refu^ a^r
the fatal battle of Culloden, in 1745,
and lived there concealed for several
weeks. The particular place where
he hid was under a projecting ledge
or table of rock, overhanging the
brown, foaming waters of the mimic
torrent, which, though not large m
volume, might yet have strength
enough to dash you in pieces, if
you fell into the narrow bed brist-
ling with sharp, rocky points »d
irregular boulders, round which the
water boils and hisses, as if chafing
at its imprisonment. The rocb
incline their jagged sides so far for-
ward over the stream as almost to
meet in an arch above it, and the
chasm can be easily, almost saMy,
leaped. Indeed, the rift is invisi-
ble from the road, which passes
within a few yards of it. Its sides
are fringed with heather, and are
undistinguishable, except when one
is standing close upon them.

The Nortli of England, with its
mountains and its lakes, its solitary
tarns (pools or smaller lakes) and
its becks, has a family likeness to
Scotch scenery. I ts people, too, arc
akin to the Lowland Scotch in their
taciturnity, their hardy, physical
nature, and their language; yet to
those who know both well the dif-
ference is very perceptible in
olden times Lancashire and York
shire, lying to the west of the Lake
country, were emphatically the land
of the church, one vast net-work of
beautiful abbeys with their immense
pK>ssessions. Even after the Refor-
mation these two counties remained
the stronghold of Catholicity, and
to this day they contain more Cath-
olics (exclusive of tlie large modem

EngHsh mid Scotch Scenes.

541

towns and their population) than
«iy other part of England. The
fiivorite sport of Lancashire is
4iCler-hunting.

A certain breed of hounds, hav-
ing very long bodies ^nd short
fcigs, is kept for the purpose; the
rtwams abound in otters, and the
lant is very exciting. The gentle-
nm wear preternatural ly thick
ktots, covering even the thighs, as
tliey often have to wade in after
tfce otter, whose teeth are so sharp
flwt they can take off a hound's leg
«C one bite. These animals dive
dexterously under the banks, and
fcnerally lead the hunt a pretty
cJiise; but, never having seen this
iport ourselves, it is difficult to de-
scribe it graphically. The dialect
of this part of the country is almost
ts much a language as Provencal ;
the people have their own litera-
ture, and one of their poets (a hu-
morous one) has been styled, par
txceUence^ the ** Lancashire Poet."
Lancashire people are desperately
chmnish, quite despise the southern
English, and obstinately adhere to
their own customs, as something
ibmeasurably more dignified than
the finical fashions of the South-
ron. The gentlemen all talk the
dialect when speaking with therr
farmers, game-keepers, or servants,
and speak it with genuine gusto
too. A Lancashire kitchen is a
heart-warming sight ; it is emphati-
cally the room of a farm, an inn, or
any middle-class dwelling. The
fire blazes in the depths of a caver-
nous chimney, with settles on each
Mdc, on which two men can sit
Abreast, while from the low roof
hang endless strings of fine onions
and dozens of hams and flitches of
bacon. At another part of the
ceiling is fixed an immense rack,
over which hangs the oatmeal cake
io large sheets, of which any one

is at liberty to break off a piece
for his supper nnrebuked and
without question of repayment.
Hospitality is a cardinal virtue
here, but it is not that voluble,
fussy hospitality which worries its
recipient and makes him feel tlie
obligation ; you are welcome to go
in and sit down, eat and drink,
warm and dry yourself at the
hearth, and go out again, without
being assailed by impertinent ques-
tions or bored by long domestic
revelations. A Lancashire host re-
spects your mind while he refreshes
your body, and silently makes you
at home. Those kitchens of the
north are the very type of comfort,
with their vast comer-cupboards,
their cleanliness — you might liter-
ally eat off the brick floors ; they
are always paved with brick — their
long oat-cake racks and tempting
meat, all home-cured, hung from
the ceiling. The temptation may
be too great for you some night, if
you happen to return to your lodg-
ings, very hungry, at the late hour
of twelve — ^that is dissipation in
Lancashire^for you may wander
in, and see no harm in hunting in
the cupboard for eggs and flour,
and in slicing off whatever will
conveniently detach itself from a
hanging flitch, in order to flavor
some appetizing sauce of which you
possess the secret. Perhaps the
midnight raid ends fatally, and you
stumble over the pots and pans, or
find the embers hardly hot enough
to cook the sauce, or give it up at
last in despair, with a ridiculous
foreboding of what the landlady
will say to-morrow morning when
she contemplates the ragged ap-
pearance of the best flitch ! Let
us hope that you will honestly own
your delinquencies, and not affirm
that ** it roust have been the mice,
ma'am !** It will be the easier as

542

English and Scotch Scenes.

you happen to know the house well,
and its inmates long ago agreed to
overlook your little eccentricities
with regard to sauces !

Among the principal country fes-
tivities which draw large parties to
the neighboring houses in many
parts of England, are the local cat-
tle-shows. The breeding of cattle
is a topic of almost as universal in-
terest in England as fox-huntings
especially among .country gentle-
men. The secret of this apparent
interest lies rather in the intense
pride with which they naturally re-
gard everything connected with
their homes, than in downright per-
sonal liking for fat oxen and prize
pigs. Not even the farmers who
exhibit the cattle can outmatch the
ladies of the neighborhood in their
solicitude for the honor of the
county, and, besides this, the gen-
tlemen themselves sometimes enter
the lists, and exhibit some choice
specimen, thus giving their house-
holds special reasons for pride and
anxiety. Most of the houses fill
with guests for the occasion, and,
despite the lateness of the season
(the shows are generally late in the
autumn, the one to which we refer
taking place in November), the
weather is usually propitious. Let
us take a peep in at the window of
yonder large Tudor house, with its
cedars, sentinel-like, guarding the
approaches to the hall-door, and an
old gabled, ivied ruin overlooking
the gay mosaic of the parterre.
There is plenty of water here — ponds
where huge old beeches droop over
the banks and moor-fowl swish
through the rushes on the margin,
and ponds fringed with late
roses, and lifting up in their midst
islands with rustic arbors and a
wilderness of creeping plants.
Within the house is the usual
amount of family portraits and an-

tique carved furniture, with a More
than ordinary display of hot-house
flowers. A little earlier in theseascm
you would find in the drawing-
room two immense marble vascv
in each of which blossoms a qoecoly
azalea, snowy or ruddy, as the case
may be. On the tables lie islands of
moss, relieving and framing three or
four star-shaped, blood- red cactus-
blooms. Round the high chimney-
piece, where a wood- fire burns mer-
rily (a luxury in England), v^ as-
sembled a family party, neither sdf
nor yet free, and picturesque, if no-
thing else ; for the girls are drcsstd
in the square-cut bodices and paic-
hued, brocaded overskirts of a more
picturesque age. Perhaps they are
discussing art matters or weaving
personal romances. . . . No, (or
here, as elsewhere, you cannot lake
the bit in your mouth ; it is the
only penalty of decorous countrv
life in old England. They are tail-
ing of to-morrow's agricultural Cur,
the annual cattle show, wbicn
takes place in the country town.
There is a large party in the house
for it ; it is the event of the week.
Most country ladies pretend to be.
and some are, poultry fanciers; so
there is an additional department
allotted to the prize poultry. The
carriages draw up in a wide fielii
near the tents and sheds, where j
view of the race-course can be had
The men circulate among the cattle ;
the " judges ** sit in a tribune pro^
vided for them. It is difficult if>
get up any enthusiasm about IhtJ.
kind of tiling ; but the adjuncts an*
quite as enjoyable as are most out
door pleasures that you cannot ca-
joy alone. The last day of the fair
closes with a dinner, when the pr k
beasts and their owners are com
mented upon and the general po-
litical situation discussed. One ol
the farmers is a born orator; at

English and Scotch Scenes.

543

least he 4clights in the sound of
his own flowery periods. He
quotes Shakespeare and Tennyson,
tad feels sure he has made a hit.
As an professions are represented,
there is room for all kinds of toasts,
and under the veil of sociability
fbeopportunities for speaking home-
traths are not neglected. Around
Ike hall are galleries that serve for
spectators, both male and female,
rad from this point many a
tadicrous incident is revealed to
y»a that escapes the "grave and
reverend seigniors " below. This
is what a spectator once saw : The
dinner takes place once a year, and
tt is impossible to have nothing
bttt trained waiters. Many of the
gentlemen on this occasion brought
their own servants with them ; but
even this was not sufficient, and the
iopplementary waiters were "le-
gion." The dinner was not as orderly
as it might be. There was a great
deal of hurrying and skurrying,
orders angrily given and awkward-
ly executed, wine liberally spilt be-
fore reaching its destination, etc.
Suddenly some one gave an order
from the far end of the hall, and an
unlucky bumpkin, eager to show
his agility, made a dart forward, but
came to an abrupt stand-still in the
nuddlc of a lake of soup that spread
warm and moist about his feet. In
his haste he had stepped into the
soup-tureen, which another waiter,
in clumsy hurry, had momentarily
deposited in this conspicuous place.
The braying of the band, whose
conductor was naturally not a little
exhilarated by the copious " refresh-
ment ** distributed during the day,
drowned these "asides"; but we

cannot help thinking that the posi-
tion of a spectator, alive to these
incidents behind the scenes, was pre-
ferable to that of the unhappy actors
and speakers, nailed for four or five
hours to the table, and condemned
to drink the execrable wine usually
furnished on such occasions.

With this we will close this some-
what lengthy sketch of some of the
incidents of rural life in the old
mother-country — a subject so dear
to Washington Irving, so attractive
to Longfellow, and so heart-stirring
to many who, on this side of the
Atlantic, have not yet lost in the
turmoil of business or the hurry of
politics the fond, poetic remem-
brance of the land of their fore-
fathers. It is a restful picture ; the
soul grows young again in the con-
templation of that healthy, even
placid home-life, diversified by so
many local interests, and, disturbed
by so few dangerous excitements.
In such an atmosphere it is no
wonder if scholars, poets, and gen-
tlemen develop quietly, as the fruit
ripens on the sunny garden wall;
nor is it strange to find these men,
so accomplished and so learned,
filling the unobtrusive and secluded
walks of life, as well as the councils
of the nation, the cabinet, the bar,
and the Parliament. Happy is the
nation that attains to a green old
age ; happy the country that keeps
all that is poetic in the past, without
relinquishing the practical and the
useful in the present. It is a good
thing to be able to look back proud-
ly on a long line of doughty fore-
fathers, but better still to be able
to look forward as proudly to a
goodly line of worthy descendants.

S44

Thi Future of the Russian Church.

THE FUTURE OF THE RUSSIAN CHURCH.

"How much happier is Russia
than are many Catholic countries !"

It is thus that a German author,
of the Baltic provinces, a Protestant,
and a subject of the czar, broke in
upon the concert of complaints on
the condition of the Russians to
which we had for a long period been
luibituated. It is true that Augus-
tus Wilhelm Hupel wrote towards
the close of the last century; but
the state of things which drew from
him this cry of admiration continues
even at this present time. Let us
add that a considerable number of
writers, especially Protestants, share
the sentiments of Hupel ; in fact, a
reftain government not long ago
ranged itself on the side of this au-
thor's opinions, and undertook to
procure for its subjects, whether they
would or not, the same happiness
as that which the Russian people
enjoy. This fact is a more than
sufficient inducement for us con-
scientiously to study the cause of
this happiness — a study to which the
following pages will be devoted.

Happily, the writer of the Baltic
provinces expresses himself with re-
markable precision. "The mon-
arch," says Hupel, in speaking of
the synod which governs the Rus-
sian Church — "the monarch him-
self selects the members of this
ecclesiastical tribunal, and can also
summarily dismiss those who do not
please him. It follows, therefore,
that the members of the synod en-
tirely depend upon the will of the
czar. Not only can they do no-

thing of which he does not appiort
but, by virtue of this arrangement,
// is the czar himself who is the red
head of the church of his emfirt
Of what lofty wisdom, then, is not
this institution a proof! Hov
much happier is Russia than zre
many Catholic countries !" * It is
evident, therefore, that the object of
admiration and envy is the concen-
tration of civil and religious power
in the sovereign's hands; the synod
of St. Petersburg being the institu-
tion which secures and perpetuates
the concentration of this donbie
power.

The czar to whom Russia is in-
debted for the synod is Peter I^
surnamed the Great (i 689-1725).
than whom few sovereigns have
been the object of more enthusias-
tic admiration. The things which
he undertook and in which he sac-
ceeded, for promoting the civiliza-
tion of Russia, are truly surprising,
his laws being, in our opinioo, the
most splendid monument he has
created in his own memory. Fre-
quently, in glancing through the
Compute Cotiection of the Laws of tk
Russian Empire^ \ while takrog intc
account the number, the variety,
and extent of the subjects embraced
by the genius of Peter, the circum-
stances under which he had to wort
and the thankless elements which h«

• '* Welch cine hScbst weue EiaricktiiBct ^
gmckhch iit Rusdand roc vielen RSmischlUttJ
Itschen Ufadeni !"-//«rAA " I>»e kirklkbe Soo^
voa RusBland/'in the tf0rdiKlu MixtlU'»'^
part zf ., Riga, 1786, p. 88. |

t Ftnt Scries, Tob. iit^u.

TJie Future of the Russian Church,

545

ontrived to manage, we have ex-
ericnced sincere admiration ; but,
idc by side with his great qualities,
% what ignoble and monstrous
ic« did he not indulge ! If we
trc to quote certain judgments
Bssed by his contemporaries, it
•raid be easy to understand the
iipist with which the History of
mr the Great, by Voltaire, fills
kfy sincere and virtuous man.
nat qualities do not excuse great
pees, especially in the case of Peter,
Id on many occasions proved by
fl conduct that he was capable of
Hfrcstraint, had he only chosen to
^ise it. This czar, whose lead-
i| characteristics were a spirit of
bennination and an energetic
8» can neither be excused for his
efaoatcbes nor his cruelties. The
ifcrms originated by him natural-
^ bear the impress of the despotic
bracter of their author. In the
twcnt day it is openly said, even
(Russia, that Petgr acted, " as if
»Cfe were no possible limits to his
Wcr, setting himself determinedly
rpin his end, without in the least
DttUing himself about the nature
[fte means." * We may add that
le religious convictions of the czar
ttt, to say the least, an enigma.
Bd this is the man who gave to
ic Russian Church the organiza-
an which she retains to this day.
Unhappily for the people, when
oian rises from among them and
vomplishes unheard-of undertak-
gS the prestige of his name eclips-
rtlc light in which -justice would
gard his actions. If flattery erects
bim its altars, and if religious or
tfitical passions find it to their in-
fest to exalt him, this man, though
his grave, continues no less to
icrcise a powerful influence ; and

' Set PAanld, Learning mttd Liieraturt in
uiim mmdtr Pettr tkt Great, (Ife Russsaa) St.
tending, i86>. Vol. ii , pp. 4^^X'
VOL. XX. — 55

all his qualities, even his bad ones,
receive a species of consecration.
A century and a half have elapsed
since the death of Peter the Great,
and yet it may be said with truth
that he still rules Russia. It is no
common thing to find a series of
sovereigns, all of whom draw their
inspiration from the same idea ; and
yet all the czars, with the single
exception of Peter IL, who only
reigned three years (i 727-1 730),
perpetuated, with regard to the
Russian Church, the idea of the
originator of the synod.

That the czars, however, should
have made it their rule to walk, in
the footsteps c^ Peter, and that in
their ukases they should recall his
memory with enthusiastic eulogies,,
it is easy to conceive ; and also that
Protestants, especially those of Ger-
many, should never weary in their
praises of his religious reforms;
these praises being, in the first place,,
the payment of a debt of gratitude
to the czar, and, in the second, ani
homage rendered to the Protestant
side of the reforms themselves. But
the most painful part of the matter
is that Peter and his successors^
should have found, in IkU very
church which they were oppressing,,
not only docile instruments of their
will, but also the warmest encour-
agements to prosecute their work.
Theophancs Prokopovitch,. Bishop,
of Pskoffl of whom we will speak
further, wrote treatises to prove
that "the czars have received fromi
on high the power to govern the
church ; only it is not permitted,
that they should officiate in it."*

* Amongst the v«riot» writings in wbith Proko-
povitch develops this thought might he noticed'
one which has for its title A n Historieal Di$jui-
sithn on the quality t>/ pontiffs or kigk-^ritMtto/
idol-worship possessed by (he Roman emperors^,
both pagan and Christian :/or what r^son^ and '
in Iff hat sense they possessed it ^ andtvhether^ in th4'
Christian /aw, Ckrietian sovereigns can he eaited
Bishops and Pontiffs ^and in what sense, 9c^ Pee«m»
burg, ijai. Sec l*tkarshi^ op,. cU.y vol ii., p. 519,

546

Tlu Future of the Russian Church,

Plato Levchin, Metropolitan of
Moscow, while he was still tutor to
the Czarowitz Paul, afterwards Paul
I., prepared for his use a catechism
which has been held in great esteem
by Protestants. In the epistle dedi-
catory he thus addresses his pupil :
*' I bear in mind a saying of your
highness — saying worthy of eternal
remembrance. We were one day
reading this passage in the Gospel :
Take heed that you say not among
yoursctves : We have Abraham for
our father (S. Matt. iii. 9) ; when,
upon my remarking that the Jews
vainly gloried in having Abraham
for their father, whose faith and
rivorks they failed to imitate,
your highness deigned to reply :
*And I also should glory* in
-vain that I descend from the great
Peter, did I not intend to imitate
Jiis works.* That these and other
similarly excellent dispositions of
your highness may increase with
your years, behold this is what the
church of God, prostrate before the
altar, supplicates, and will never
cease to supplicate, of the divine
mercy, from the profoundest depths
of her heart,^' *

There is nothing surprising in
the fact that lessons such as these,
explained and developed in the
body of the catechism, should have
borne their fruit. The pupil of
Plato, having become czar, was the
first who introduced into official
edicts the title of Head of the
Church f for himself and his suc-
cessors, and more emphatically than
perhaps any one of the others he
established as a principle the supre-
macy of the czar over the church. J

•♦ Mgr. Plato, Orthodox Doctrine : or^ Ckristian
Thtoiogy A bridgid. (In Russian) St. Petersburg, ist
tti.y 1765 ; 3d ed., 1780,

T Sec ** The Act of Succession to the Throne of
.Huisia/' April 5, 1797, Compl. CoU ^ Vol. xxiv.
•<t7,9«o).

tSee the Ukases of the 3d Nov ,1798 '(18,734), and
>of the X ith Dec, 1800 M9,684\ See also on this svb-

We forbear to quote other exim
pies. If it be true that natioij
never stop short at a theory, ^
same thing is true also of sover-
eigns ; and, when Nicholas I. actr<
.as every one knows he did act, b<
was but carrying out the doctna*
accepted and taught in the Russia
Church. As for the people, \
would have been indeed surprisiflj
had they not shared in the cioctritt
of the church, and still more so ha
they attempted any opposition ti
it. In fact, as might be supposed
there was no lack of writers whose
themselves to make the people ap
preciate the advantages of every dc
scription which they enjoyed unde
the religious autocracy of thcczan

This state of things could rwl
however, last indefinitely ; and ;
was the Emperor Nicholas him-sa
who, by some of his measures, cod
tributed to hasten its end. At tte
commencement of his reign it t^j
desired to exclude the foreign ele
ment from teaching, and to sub^ti
tute for it the national only. Pm
fessors were lacking; and, tofoni
these, the government thought :
well to send out young men at it
own expense to learn in the G<f
man universities that which tfce;
would subsequently have to tcicl
the Russians. Besides, for nur/
years past Russia has entered in:<
active and frequent relations wi::
the rest of Europe ; the regulation
which bound Russians, if not to IJ*
glebe, at least to the soil of il*'^
country, have been relaxed; tn\
elling has been facilitated; tnvc
lers have been able with leas dilt
culty to penetrate into the coo^
try, and its own inhabitants tc C'
abroad and obser\'e what is pas^r,
in the rest of the world.

ject our book : The Pf^ts 0/ Romt mmd Hu ^f*
0/ the Oriental Church, Loodoo: Ix^^
«87i,I>p. 78-«>.

The Future of the Russian Cliurclu

547

And what has resulted from all
this ? Many things ; and, first of
all, the following: "The future
propagators of learning and civili-
zation," says the P^re Gagarin, in
a remarkable pamphlet,* " were sent
to Berlin, where they lost no time
in becoming fervent disciples of
the Hegelian ideas. It was in vain
that serious warnings reached St.
Petersburg of the fatal direction
these young men were pursuing.
For reasons which perhaps some
future day may explain the warn-
ings were wholly unheeded ; and
in a short time the chairs of the
principal universities were filled by
these dangerous enthusiasts, whose
newly-imported id?as made rapid
progress. School-masters, * profes-
sors, journalists, the writers who
had been formed in the universi-
ties, successively became the apos-
tles of the doctrines which they
had adopted. Neither censures,
nor the watchfulness of the cus-
tom-house, nor the active surveil-
lance of an ubiquitous and anxious
iwlice, availed to put a stop to the
propagation of revolutionary no-
tions, protected as they were by
eccentric formulas, unintelligible
to all who were not in the secret
of the sect. It was not until 1848
that the eyes of the government
began to be opened; but it had
no efficacious remedy at hand. It
multiplied regulations, of which
the object was to hinder the diffu-
sion of modem science and ideas ;
but was destitute of salutary prin-
ciples to offer as a substitute for
the unhealthy teaching of which it
now recognized the dangers. The
system of national education, which
had so miserably failed, had been
l>ascd upon * orthodoxy/ autocracy,
and nationality, and was now re-

*La RuMiU tera-t-tlU Calholitjue f Parle PC re
j 'Jagmrin, S.J. Paris: Douniol, iSsC

suiting in the triumph of German
ideas, in the atheism of Feuerbach,
and in radicalism and communism
of the most unbridled description."
That we may not unjustly charge
the Emperor Nicholas with being
solely responsible for these results,
it must also be said that other
Russians, who had at any rate
travelled at their own expense, and
foreigners who had come to settle
in Russia, assisted in propagating
the same doctrines. If books are
not printed without some reason-
able hope that they will be read,
and if the number of publications
in which certain ideas are particu-
larly developed proves the favor
with which -they are received, it
would be only too easy to make
a statistical statement of alarming
significance, showing the favor wkh
which the most revolutionary doc-
trines are received by the Russians.
Books printed in the Russian lan-
guage are evidently addressed to
Russians only, this language not
having hitherto acquired a place in
that part of education which is
called the study of modern lan-
guages ; and we can prove the exist-
ence of jiumerous publications in
the Russian language, appearing
some in London, some in Berlin,
some at Leipsic, some at Geneva,
and elsewhere also, in which the
most communistic doctrines find
their apology. Amongst others we
may notice the publication at Zu-
rich of a periodical review entitled
Vpered! (Forward!), which wars
against all belief in the supernatu-
ral and against every kind of au-
thority. It matters little that the
writings of which we speak them-
selves penetrate with difficulty into
Russia; it is not to be suppos-
ed that the fact of having, when
abroad, read this review or any-
thing similar closes to Russians

548

The Future of the Russian Church.

the return to their country. The
book remains outside; but its
teaching enters with them.

Let us now return to the consid-
eration of the Russian Church.
The radical ideas of which we
have been speaking are plainly in-
compatible with the religious auto-
cracy of the czars ; and neverthe-
less Russia offers us the spectacle
of men imbued with these ideas,
and even manifesting them open-
ly without, who suddenly recover
their orthodoxy as soon as they
recross the frontier of their coun-
try.

Under pain of deserving the re-
proach of cowardly hypocrisy, these
Russians cannot support the exist-
ing state of things, liberty of con-
science being too intimately allied
with their principles. The reader
will judge whether it is not wholly
immoral that men who have ceas-
ed to believe in anything should,
in order to escape legal conse-
quences, present themselves in the
*' orthodox " churches for confes-
sion and communion ! . . . Now,
as far as we are aware, none of the
pains and penalties against those
who, being born of "orthodox"
parents, fail to practise the state re-
ligion, or to fulfil their duty of an-
nual confession and communion,
have hitherto been abolished ; still
less are the penalties abolished to
which all are liable who propagate
doctrines contrary to those of the
official church.

But the Russian atheists and ra-
tionalists of every shade of opinion
are not the only persons who have
a supreme interest in requiring, to-
gether with liberty of conscience,
the abolition of the penalties to
which they would be liable if the
same rigor were observed towards
them as towards those Russians who
have become Catholics. For the

czars, not satisfied with cafh'ng
themselves and with being the head
of the " orthodox " church, have also
arrogated to themselves the right
of direction with regard to all the
religious sects of the empire.

When Paul I. declared that ** the
supreme authority, confided to the
autocrat by God, extends also over
the ecclesiastical state, and that the
clergy are bound to obey the czar a%
t/ie head cliosen by God himself in all
things, religious as well as civil,''*
he was not addressing himself to
the " orthodox " but to the Catlio-
lie subjects of the empire. It is in
employing similar language, and by
virtue of the same general principlci
that the czars have defined the
position of Protestants, Annenians,
Jews, and Mahometans. However
accommodating one may suppose
the Russian subjects belonging to
these different religions to be, we
cannot understand why, at least in
heart, they do not protest againJ^i
the strange pretension that in reli-
gious matters they are bound to
obey the " orthodox " czars. Nei-
ther can we suppose that, if thej
hold their errors in good faith, and
believe themselves in possession of
" religious truth," they do not ex-
perience some desire to communi-
cate their treasure to others, and
do not suffer in obeying the articles
of the penal code which forbid their
so doing.f What can be, upon thb
subject, the sentiments of the ten
millions of Russians belonging to
the various sects formed in the bo-
som of the Russian Church itself,
their name itself indicates; they
are called collectively Raskdrnkt-
that is to say, schismaties* Thus
we need not say what must be the

* See the Ukasts, Noa. 18,734 nd 19^681.

tin the eastern ptorinces of the Ri
the Mahometans carry oa an active
at the expense of orthodoxy.

The Future of the Russian Church,

549

thoughts and desires of the Cath-
olic subjects of the czar. There
remain only the " orthodox **; but
it is they who form the majority of
the Russian subjects. It would be
loo much to expect to find in them
the partisans of a more extended
liberty of conscience than that
which is permitted by the Code.
"The dominant religion of the em-
pire," says the Code, ** is the ortho-
dox. Liberty of worship is award-
ed not only to the members of other
Christian confessions, but also to
Jews, Mahometans, and pagans. . . .
The dominant church alone has the
figfd to make proselytes'' * We will
fiot stop to consider the mqtives
which induce the " orthodox " Rus-
sians to oppose themselves to a
more extended liberty of con-
science,t but will rather proceed to
examine whether, apart from what
we have here said, it be not urgent,
even in the interests of orthodoxy
itself^ that some changes should be
introduced into the present organi-
zation of the Russian Church. We
may be able to show that, by a sin-
galar disposition of Providence, the
uterests of the orthodox faith are
intimately allied to those of the Ca-
tholic Church in Russia.

II.
If we are to believe ilussian
theologians, the Russian Church,
with its czar, realizes in a certain
ihcasurc the ideal of a church sus-
tained by a powerful sovereign,
which to many persons is the most
desirable state of things possible.
We may call to mind the saying of

• CiU #/ tk« Lmwt 0/ ike Jfuufan Empire^
^ liv. ** Statute for the Prevention and Extir-
Moiol Offences against the Faith/* Arts. 9a and
97> Ed. iSs7t PP> X&1 19-

t To raeadon only the Patulavtstt^ whose fbnnii-
1> ii wsfl known : *' Orthodoxy and nationality are
■ prwyaim .** If all Ruastans thought the same,
Ac fhfhoBcs nught spare themsdres the trouble of
mj tethsr contfovetsy.

the Count de Maistre on the Holy
Roman Empire, which was neither
holy, nor Roman, nor an empire ;
in fact, the testimony of history
leaves us in doubt as to whether
this institution has served more to
protect or to afflict the Catholic
Church. Prosperity or reverses, it
is true, alike turn to the advantage
of those dear to God ; but scarcely
will any one take upon himself to
maintain that, because reverses are
useful to the church, they must be
purposely procured for her. And
therefore, whatever may be, for a
longer or shorter time, the probable
advantages of this institution, it is
best, if we mistake not, to leave its
revival to the providence of God.
But if such is the teaching of his-
tory with regard to an emperor,
guardian of the faith and protec-
tor of the Catholic Church, history
condemns with a far more powerful
eloquence the strange protection
with which the czars have over-
shadowed their communion. In
the Spiritual Regulation may be
seen the passage in which Peter tlie
Great is designated the " guardian
of orthodoxy and of all things re-
lating to good order in the holy
church." * The successors of
Peter continued to declare them-
selves invested with the same mis-
sion, and this passage of the Spirit^
ual Regulation was also inserted in
the Russian Code.f

To be the guardian of orthodoxy,
and of all which concerns good
order in the holy church, is in fact
i\\e first duty of a Christian monarch.
We will examine briefly the manner

♦ Rifiltmtnt eccldiiastiqut tU Pierre le Gratui^
«/r., part i , p x6. Paris : Library of the Bibliographi-
cal Society, 75 Rue de Bac, 1874.

t ** The emperor, as a Christian sovereign, is the
supreme defender and protector of the dogmas of
the dominant fiuth, the guardian of orthodoxy
and of all that concerns good order in the holy
church."— C(wfr 0/ihe Laws 0/ the Russian Em-
pire; Fundam. Laws, art. 40, ed. 1857, p. xo.

550

The Future of the Russian Church,

in wliich the czars have acquitted
themselves of this duty.

Any reader who, without being
repelled by the subject and form of
the Spiritual Regulation^ y/ovX^ im-
pose upon himself the trouble of
perusing them, text and notes, to
the end, would have no difficulty in
understanding with what good rea-
son Protestants can and must look
upon Peter as one of themselves.
The Protestant tendencies of the Spi-
ritual Regulation are evident. The
reader will also observe the precau-
tions, all in favor of the Protestants,
there taken for the preaching of
the divine Word. The priests, the
monks, and the bishops of the
Orthodox Church, treated as they
were by Peter, were made to appear
simply contemptible. In the same
way, the favor publicly shown by
liim to the Protestants of Germany,
the importance he accorded to
them, and the boundless confidence
he placed in their co-operation with
liim for the civilization of Russia,
and finally the ridicule he cast upon
holy things in his infamous orgies —
all this can hardly be reconciled
with the idea of the fulfilment of
his first duty as a Christian prince.

In the notes to the Spiritual
Regulation we may also perceive,
in more places than one, the manner
ill which Catherine II. understood
and exercised her mission as Head
of the Greek Church ; for thus she
entitled herself in writing to Vol-
taire. No sincerely orthodox Rus-
sian could read the correspondence
of Catherine with Voltaire without
blushing. If Protestants may fairly
claim Peter I. as their own, un-
believers have a full right to do the
same with regard to Catherine, and
glory in it, as in fact they do. In
various passages of these letters
(which we have perused) she ridi-
cules not only the ceremonies but

also the sacraments of her charch.
If to this we add the favor sbowri
by her to the infidel philosopher
of the EncyclopidiCy the free access
which their productions found at
St. Petersburg, the atmosphere of
impiety with which she surrounded
herself, and the state of her own
morals, so plainly indicative of an
unbelieving soul, our estimate will
not appear exaggerated. It wonld
in truth have been miraculoos it
under such tutelage, orthodoxy
could have retained its hold upon
the minds of those who knew how
to read, write, and think ; and thus
the unbelief that prevails among
the higher classes in Russia is the
heritage of Catherine II. If, on the
other hand, she showed herselt"
zealous for the maintenance of
faith among the lower orders, it
was because she predicted the same
results from their unbelief as she
did from any desire they might
evince for knowledge. ** It is not
for Russians," she wrote to the
Governor of Moscow, " that I am
founding schools; it is for Europe,
where we must not lose ground in
public opinion. From the day that
our peasants shall have a desire for
instruction, neither you nor I wiU
remain in our places."

Under the successors of Cathe-
rine II. Russian orthodoxy under-
went various phases, according to
the degree of orthodoxy professed
by the czars and the vicissitude*
of their interior and exterior poliq.
Paul I. was so convinced that he
was the real head of the churcli
that he one day proposed to sa)
Mass.* On the other hand, it i-

♦ We bavc it from an authentic Kwrce tbtt ^
emperor had had made fof himself, Hoc tkb p»po«-
a set of (sacerdotal) vestments of sky-Uae vtint
and was so bent upon carrying out his iatentK
that his principal fevorite. Count Rostop*^
only succeeded in dissuading him by zcauaiK^ ^■
lliat he had been twice named, and was thectfj*''

The Future of the Russian Church,

551

certain that he contemplated the
reunion of the Russian with the
Catholic Church.* This monarch,
however, was incapable of com-
manding respect, or of helping a
Tclum to the faith, either by his
intelligence or his moral qualities ;
and thus incredulity continued its
ravages in Russia.

In the life of Alexander I. a
period is distinguishable in which
the czar had an evident leaning
towards Protestantism ; and his
historians do not fail to remark the
influence obtained over him by the
I*rotestant, Mme. de Krudener. If
we are not mistaken, those who
so actively busied themselves in
founding a Bible society in Russia
had no intention of favoring ortho-
doxy.

It was also under the reign of
the same czar that appeared the
first edition (1823) of the catechism
of Mgr. Philaret, destined to take
the place of that by Mgr. Plato,
then used for religious instruction
in the schools. Now, in 1823 Mgr.
Miilaret was far from being so or-
thodox in his writings as he subse-
quently became ; and the first edi-
tion of his catechism differs mate-
nally from the later ones. *' The
Kmperor Alexander," writes an au-
flior well deserving of confidence,
''v\as an orthodox Christian, twt in

i:«rding to the casont of the church, dtiqualified
[YoOerittgthe Holy Sacrifice.

• Father Gruber» General of the Jesuits, who was
; crau bvor with Paul, presented to the czar a pro-
i<^ lorreunkM). By command ofthe czar the Archi-
*wdriie EageniuA (Volkhovichinoff). afterwards
i>tftr«poKtanof Kieff, published in 1800 an answer to
•n project, in the form of a canonical dissertation,
^ tkt Antkcrity 0/ tk$ h'opt. See Tht Russian
'^a, by Pire Gagann, S.J., pp. xi8, 119.
It appcan that this affair was under considera-
^«> for several years, and even in the reign of
-»theniie II. And in fact Hupel, in a note of the
'•auscript in which we found the opening passage
< this esay, mentions the rumor %\ read by the
"T«f*paperi that a complete {poi/i^e) reunion of the
Htaaan with the Catholic Church was about to be
■| ompHshed, and attributed these same rumors to
•'-«x- Jesuits, Hupd wrote 10178*!). ^tofi.c.'t.
> 5^^ aotc.

the sense of his churchy but in that of
the rigorous conformity of his belief
to the fundamental doctrine of all
Christian churches ; which is the re-
demption of mankind by the death
of Jesus Christ, by means of faith." *
What a stone to cast at a czar, the
guardian of orthodoxy ! Notwith-
standing all this, Alexander, to- *
wards the close of his life, must
have had continuous relations with
Pope Pius VII. ; some affirm even
that he died a Catholic, f

As we have seen, it was at the
commencement of the reign of the
Emperor Nicholas that, at the ex-
pense of the government, the Rus-
sian youth wer^sent for education
to the University of Berlin. Then
came the formidable revulsion of
orthodoxy, which, announced by
the revision of the catechism of
Mgr. Philaret, manifested itself by
the sanguinary " conversions " in
Lithuania, in 1839. The tidings
were received in Europe by a gen-
eral cry of indignation; and the
remembrance has not yet faded
away. J By a strange coincidence
Nicholas, to whom is due the glory
of having completed the gigantic
undertaking vainly attempted by all

♦ Schnitzler (J. L.), Ilistoirt intimede la Rnssu
sous Us Etn/^treurs Alexandrt et NicelaSs Paris,
Renouard, 1847, vol. i , note xiii. ; Dispositions
rteiigi fuses tie t Empereur Alexandre^ p. 463,
note xi. ; La Sainie Alliance et Mme. de Krude-
ner. See also a writing by the Protestant pastor,
Empaytaz. Notice sur Alexandre^ Empereur de
Russie. Geneva, 1828.

+ We have endeavored to elucidate this point of
history, without having arrived at any definite re-
sult ; we have some reason to believe that all which
was known of the last d.iys of the Emperor Alexan-
der has not been made public. The notes which
we had collected upon this subject would here be
out of place

X It was in consequence of thb event that, not
long afterwards, appeared the two works, respec-
tively entitled Persecutions et souffrances de t£jr*
Use Cathoiique en Russie. Par un anc en Conaeil-
Icr d'Etat en Russie (le Comte Axsine d'Harrer)
Paris: Gauifte, 184a ; and Vicissitudes de C Eglise
Cdtholique des deux rites en Pologneet en Russie,
ParleP Theiner, prctre de I'Oratoire. The French
edition of thb last work appeared in 184a, preceded
by a remarkable introduction from the pen of Count
c!e Montolcmbert. Pari5 : Sagnicr and Bray.

532

Tlie Future of t/u Russian Church.

his predecessors, of the codification
of all the Russian laws, had desired
that in the Code the following arti-
cle should be inserted : " The do-
minant church alone possesses the
right of leading those who do not
belong to her to embrace her faith.
This faith, however, is produced by
divine grace in the soul, by instruc-
tion, by gentleness, and especially
by good examples. Therefore is it
that the dominant church does not
allow herself to make use of any
coercive means, how small soever,
to convert to orthodoxy those who
follow other confessions and other
beliefs, and, after the example and
the preaching of the apostles, she
in no wise threatens those who will
not be converted from their belief
to hers." All this is to be found
in the Russian Code of 1832, of
1842, and of 1857, and continues
to have the force of law at this pre-
sent time ! * We will say nothing
here of the reign of the present em-
peror, but will merely observe that
the powerful reaction which took
place almost immediately after the
death of Nicholas, and which com-
pelled the government to enter up-
on the way of reforms, was the in-
evitable consequence of that empe-
ror's conduct. It is only just that
the historians of Alexander II., in
passing judgment upon his hesita-
tions and self-contradictions in re-
ligious affairs, should bear in mind
the difficulty of the part bequeathed
to him by Nicholas.

But neither the ten millions of
Raskolniks which Russia can count
at this day, nor yet the numerous
unbelievers and rationalists of ev-
ery shade which she contains, pro-
test as eloquently against the pro-
tection afforded by the czars to or-

* Statute for the preYention and extirpation of
offence* against the faitht CWr, etc, vol. xiv.^ed.
>857» «rt 97i P- »^

thodoxy and the church as the
impotence to which the czars have
reduced that church itself for exer-
cising any influence over the en-
lightened classes. All who have
written upon Russia agree in ac-
knowledging and deploring the de-
gradation of the orthodox clergf . *
Lest we should trust ourselves,
with regard to a point so delicate
for us, to any exaggerated or inex-
act accounts, we have been care-
ful to be guided in our statcment-j
by writers offering every securitr,
not only for competence and im-
partiality, but also for their sympa-
thy with the orthodox clerg}-. The
author oi La Tolerance et le ukissu
Religieux en Russie^ known under
the name of Sch^do-Ferroti, appears
to us to unite all these qualities
in a high degree. " Having," be
writes, ** in the capacity of an old
engineering officer, traversed Rus-
sia in all directions, takmg, on foot
and with the circumferentor in my
hand, journeys of four and live hun-
dred kilometres ; and travelling in
this way for the space of six months
at a time, stopping at every village
which I happened to find on my
way, I habitually addressed rayseli
to the priest for any information 1
desired to obtain, and, early taking;
into consideration the moral ant!
political importance of these niec,
I set myself to study thera with
particular attention. . . . I do not
exaggerate in saying that I have
made the acquaintance of many
more than two hundred Russian
priests. I may say that I met wiih

• See Diseriptiom of the Country CUrgj «
Russia (Pans, Franck, 1858) ; Tkt Ru*x£*m Cit^-
gy On Russian) Rerlin, 1859 ; 0/tk« Org^mitMi>t*
0/ the EccUsiastical Schooit in Russia (ia Ra-
•ian), Leipsic, Wagner, 1863 ; Of ths Oriki^
Clergy y Black and IVAite^ iu Russia (inRnaaa^*
Leipuc, Wagner, 18^ ; the P^re GagaziB <»
TAe Russian Clergy (Londcn, Rnms & Owe.
187a) ; Eckardt, Modsrm Russia (Loodtm^ iM*
etc,, etc.

The Future of the Russian Church.

553

specimens of all the varieties, from
the young priest but yesterday ar-
rived in the parish to the old man
bowed down beneath a load of
moral and physical sufferings ; from
the priest of the regiment to the
ascetic fanatic ; from the ex-profes-
sor of the seminary, nominated to
ibe cure of some rich church in the
capital, where he parades his rheto-
ric and complacently displays his
erudition, to the humble village
piiest scarcely able to decipher his
Breviary."*

This is enough, as to the compe-
tence of M. Sch^do-Ferroti ; and
with regard to his impartiality on
the point we are c^onsidering, it ap-
pears in every page, as will be
proved by our quotations. For the
rest, the author is a Protestant,
and argues warmly in favor of re-
ligious liberty for every worship
and for every sect.

With regard to his sympathy for
the orthodox clergy, it would be
difficult to find a more devoted ad-
vocate. '* It is,*' he writes, " with
satisfaction that I can say that I
always found belter than I had ex-
pected, better than I had any right
to expecty considering the situation
and the social position in which he
found himself, the man whom I
had set myself to study." f

Let us add, moreover, that M.
Schedo-Ferroti is by no means ten-
der towards the Catholic clergy,
i>vcr whom, according to him, the
•irlhodox Russian clergy have the
advantage in not being "tainted
with hypocrisy." J This is an ad-
ditional reason Ifor our choice of
this author.

* SdiMo-Fcrrod, Z« T»Hr«ne* et U Sckitm*
Keligitujc em /Ctuu'g, Uerlin : Bekr, 1863, pp.

X Th« reader wtti find in the KiiUmeni EccUsi^
«'(/if«/,j«st brought out in Paris, the passage to
which arc sJludc fp. 19a, note).

We will now see what he says re-
specting the social influence of the
Russian " popes," quoting only a
few lines: "Oppressed and disre-
garded by his superiors, the pope
loses three-fourths of his means of
action, for he sees himself cast off
by the upper class, tolerated by
the middle class, and turned into
ridicule by the common people. . . .
Judging from appearances, and no-
ticing that everywhere, even in the
receptions given by dignitaries of
the church, the pope Occupies the
lowest place, the masses have con-
tracted the habit of never assign-
ing him any other." *

Such are the Russian clergy who
are iif contact with the people — the
clergy whose office it is to instruct
the Russians in orthodoxy, and to
maintain them in it. Now, this
was not by any means the social
position of the clergy when Peter
I. instituted the synod. On the
contrary, the Spiritual Regulation
shows us this czar, alanned at the
excessive influence which the clergy
at that time possessed, painting in
sombre colors the dangers resulting
therefrom to the country, and find-
ing therein his best pretext for es-
tablishing the synod. It is the in-
stitutions of the czars which have
created for the clergy the melan-
choly situation in which they find
themselves at the present day,
which have deprived them of all
moral influence, and have reduced
them to be " cast off by the higher
orders, scarcely tolerated by the
middle classes, and turned into ri-
dicule by the common people."
That which retains these classes,
notwithstanding the contempt in
which they hold their popes, in an
outward profession of orthodoxy, is
the Fefiai Code. Can it be believed

*ScUd0-Ferr0ii (p^. ciU^ pp jaS and jil).

554

The Future of the Russian Church,

that, without the injunctions en-
forced by this Code, the people
would confess to priests whom
they so utterly despise ?

To resume : There are historical
facts still living in the memory of
the Russian people which show
them their czars making small ac-
count, personally, of orthodoxy, at
the very time when, by laws of
great severity, they compel its ob-
servance by the people. They see
the higher ranks sceptical or unbe-
lieving, revolutionary ideas in favor
with a great number of their fellow-
countrymen; the RaskotnikSj who
in the time of Peter the Great were
scarcely sufficient to form them-
selves into sects, now so powerful
by theiT numbers and their politi-
cal importance that they have al-
ready forced the government and
the synod into making some con-
siderable concessions ; they see the
clergy reduced, thanks to the insti-
tutions of Peter, which have been
continued and completed by his
successors, to mere agents of the
police, tools in the hands of power,
and forming a caste so despised
that rarely is a pope admitted fur-
ther than the antechamber of any
house belonging to a member of
the upper classes, and powerless to
exercise any influence whatever,
even upon the lower orders ; this
is a true portrait of the Russian
Church of to-day — the Russian
Church such as the czars have
made it. *

And to-morrow ?

This to-morrow, now drawing
near, will still more clearly reveal
what the czars have made of ortho-

♦ During the last few years endeavors have4>cen
made to raise the status of the Russian clergy, and
although it remains fundamentally the same, the
government has given proof of no len good will than
intelligence in its endeavors. In fact, terrible re-
prisals are in store for the upper classes whenever
the people shall have lost all faith.

doxy and of the church of which
they call themselves the guardians.
The day must soon come when, by
the intrinsic force of things, the
regulations of which we have been
speaking will disappear from the
Russian Code, and when nothing
will force the Russians any lorger
to keep up any relations with a
clergy whom they scorn, nor to
practise the religion of which they
are the teachers and representatircs.
That will be the day to which
Catherine II. looked forward with so
much dread — the day when the
Russian people will " know how to
read and write, and will feci a
desire for instruction.** What will
happen then in Russia has been
shown to us, on a small scale, in
what has taken place before our
eyes in more than one C-atholif
country, where \hc rler^^y, strong
in the support of the laws, livcti
without anxiety about the future.
until political revolutions, coming
suddenly to change the relations
between church and state, placed
them without any preparation face
to face with unbelief We say, how-
ever, ^« « smalt scale ^ for if the Cath-
olic clergy could not foresee the
first outbreak of unbelief, they re-
quired but a little space of time in
which to moderate or check its
progress. Neither in Spain nor
Italy can unbelief boast of havln;:
greatly dinxinished the number ot
Catholics;, one might say rather
that the new legislation has but
served to open an easy way out to
those who were such only in name,
and has thus delivered the church
from them. Information obtained
from undoubtedly authentic source^
proves that the churches are no le>^
filled by the faithful, and the sacra-
ments no less frequented, than be-
fore. This is a state of things
which it will be difficult to find it

The Future of the Russian Church.

555

Russia ; and we will mention the
reason why.

And in the first place, if it is just
ir» acknowledge that, in some pro-
\ inces of the countries we have just
named, abuses may have crept in
imong the clergy, still they were
neither so serious nor so general as
]'cople have been pleased to repre-
>cnt them. Their principal source
\\as to be found in the too great
number of ecclesiastics, of whom
some had entered holyV)rders with-
out a true vocation. But, precisely
by reason of the large number of •
priests, there are very many good
ones to be found, and enough of
these to suffice amply for the needs
of the faithful. Their virtues,
which contrast with the manner of
life habitual to the apostles of
irrcligion, thus formed a first en-
trenchment against unbelief.

Will it be the same in Russia ?

We are far from wishing to dis-
j)aragc the Russian clergy. Their
defects neither destroy nor excuse
any which may be met with among
C'atholic priests; we will even ad-
mit that the great majority Of the
Russian popes lead exemplary lives.
Kut is it known what is the gain
to unbelief, in Russia, from even a
very small minority of bad f>opes?
\:\ Russia each parish has only just
so many priests as are absolutely
r.,'ccssary to carry on the worship;
\nd with scarcely any exceptions,
n-I>ecially in the country, no parish
i :is more than one priest. If, then,
this priest lose the faich, unbelief
rt ill have free course in his parish.
Ilie reader would here perhaps
remind us of the monks, who are
^tiU numerous in Russia, and ask
whether these could not come to
[[.e assistance of the secular clergy.
Any Russian would smile, were
»ucU a question put to him; but we
v\ill confine ourselves to remarking,

in the first place, that the monks
who have received holy orders
(hiero-moines) are very rare, and,
secondly, that never would any
Russian parish desire the interven-
tion of a monk. Stations, retreats,
spiritual exercises, general com-
munions, all these expressions do
not, so far as we know, possess
even any equivalents in the Russian
language to this day, unless, indeed,
in the Catholic books in that tongue
which the government of St. Peters-
burg has recently caused to be
printed, in order, it might seem,
that more prayers might ascend to
heaven in the Russian language,
and fewer in Polish. In any case,
the interference of monks in the
management of parishes would be
a far bolder innovation even than
the " correction " of the liturgical
books, which gained for Russia the
ten millions of sectaries she can
reckon at the present day. And
this comparison reminds us that on
the self-same day whereon ortho-
doxy shall lose the support of the
Penal Code, the Russian popes will
not only have to defend it against
unbelief, but also against the vari-
ous Russian sects, some of which
surpass in their diabolical supersti-
tions aud abominable mysteries all
that has been related of the Gnos-
tics and Manicheans. And, more-
over, it must not be forgotten that
the Russian popes, however exnn-
plary they may be, and however full
of zeal for orthodoxy, are married
priests. Thus one quality is want-
ing to them, of which the prestige
is far from being superfluous.

We will not ask how it happens
that the Russian clergy, if truly
virtuous, are " cast off" by the high-
er classes, barsly tolerated by the
middle class, and turned into ridi-
cule by the lower orders of the
people/* when goodness and virtue

556

Tht Future of t/u Russian Church

rarely, if ever, fail to give their pos-
sessor an ascendency, especially
over the masses, which is indepen-
dent of either rank or learning.
At t^e same time, we do not intend
to place any reliance on the state-
ments we find in Russian writings
on tfiis subject ; the falsehoods and
exaggerations which are so frequent,
even in Catholic countries, with re-
gard to priests, make it a duty to
receive with mistrust the accusa-
tions of the Russians against their
clergy. But, we repeat, the Rus-
sian clergy who are in contact with
the people are married, and this
fact deprives them of a quality
which is far from being unneces-
sary.

Here we may perhaps be re-
minded of the Protestant ministers,
especially the Anglican, "so respect*
able," we are assured, " so sur-
rounded with confidence and es-
teem, and at the same time a mar-
ried clergy.**

We have made it our rule to
avoid all recrimination, and there-
fore accept on trust all that we are
told of the excellence of the Prot-
estant ministers; but we ask, in our
turn, how is it possible to establish
a parallel between their mission and
that of the '^orthodox *' clergy ?
Protestantism, of whatever form,
recognizes no other judge than in-
dividual reason, on many questions

touching upon morah, while, on lb,
other hand, the" orthodox "chunli
possesses an authority which de-
cides upon them in the sense le2.>(
favorable to natural inclinatior.«i.
It is only some few forms of Prot-
estantism that impose any parties: -
lar mode of worship ; whereas thr
orthodox communion does not oa
this point allow freedom of choice
to its members. Protestantism ha-
banished expiatory works; the or-
thodox church requires prolongtd
fasts and abstinences. Protestant-
ism sends us to God for the huoi-
ble confession of our sins, bat the
orthodox church commands that
they should be copfessed to a pric5t.
in order to obtain, by this painful
act of humiliation, the pardon f>f
God. If Protestantism pK>ints tu
Jesus Christ as our model, it never-
theless circumscribes the sphere in
which we are allowed to imitate
him; while the orthodox church
fixes no limit to the imitation of our
divine Example. Virginity, pover-
ty, and obedience are for Protest-
antism that which the cross was to
the Gentiles — " foolishness " ; but
the orthodox church recogniies
in them the counsels of perfection
bequeathed by Chnst himself to
those who desire most closely to re-
semble him.

We will not pursue the parallel
further.

TO BB CONTINVBO.

The Leap for Life. 557

THE LEAP FOR LIFE.

An EmoDB im thb Caxkbk or Prks. MacMahon.
I.

In Algeria, with Bugeaud,
Harassed by a crafty foe,

Were the French, in eighteen hundred thirty-one ;
Swarthy Arabs prowled about
Camp and outpost and redoubt
Crouching here and crawling there,
Lurking, gliding everywhere,

Tiger-hearted, under stars and under sun.
Seeking by some stealthy chance
Vengeance on the troops of France —
Vengeance fierce and fell, to sate
Savage rage and savage hate
For the deeds of desolation harshly done.

11.

On a rugged plateau,
Forty miles from headquarters of Marshal Bugeaud,
I^y an outpost, besieged by the merciless foe.
Day by day close and closer the Arab lines drew
Round the hard-beset French.

To dash out and flash through,
Like a wind-driven flame, they would dare, though a host
Hot from Hades stood there. But abandon the post }
Nay, they dare not do that ; they were soldiers of France,
And dishonor should stain neither sabre nor lance ;
They could bravely meet death, though like Hydra it came
Horror-headed and dire, but no shadow of shame
For a trust left to perish when danger drew nigh
Should e'er dim the flag waving free to the sky.
But soon came a terror more dread to the soul
Than war's wild thunder-crash when its battle-clouds roll,
And the heavens are shrouded from light, while a glare,
As of hell, breaks in hot, lurid streams on the air !

558 The Leap for Life.

It was Famine, grim-visaged and gaunt.
To the camp most appalling of foes —
Slow to strike, slow to kill, but fall sure
As the swift headsman's deadliest blows.
0*er the ramparts it sullenly strode,
Glided darkly by tent and by wall,
Spreading awe wheresoever it went,
And the gloom of dismay over all ;
Blighting valor that ne'er in war's red front had quailed,
Blanching cheeks that no tempest of strife e'er had paled

in.

Then a council was held, and the commandant said
Direst peril was near ; they must summon swift aid
From the Marshal, or all would be lost ere the sun
Of to-morrow went down in the west. Was there one
Who, to save the command and the honor of France,
Would ride forth with despatches ? He ceased, and a glance
At the bronzed faces near showed that spirits to dare
Any desperate deed under heaven were there.
But the first to arise and respond was a youth
Whose brow bore nature's signet of courage and truth,
In whose eye valor shone calm and clear as a star
When the winds are at rest and the clouds fade afar.
Who was he that stood forth with such resolute air?
Young Lieutenant MacMahon, bold*, free, d^bonnaire ,
Never knight looked more gallant with shield and with spear,
Never war-nurtured chieftain less conscious of fear.
In his mien was the heroic flash of the Gaul,
With the fire of the Celt giving grandeur to all ;
And he said, head erect, face with ardor aglow,
"I will ride with despatches to Marshal Bugeaud!"

IV.

It is night, and a stillness profound
Folds the camp ; Arabs stealthily creep
Here and there in the moonlight beyond.
With ears eagerly bent for a sound
From the garrison^ watchful and weak ;
O'er the tents welcome nigh||-breezes sweep,
Bringing balm unto brow and to cheek
Of men scorclied by a pitiless sun
To a hue almost swarthy and deep
As the hue of the foe they would shun.

The Leap for Life. 539

Stretching dimly afar,
Between slopes that are rugged and bare,
Half obscure under moonbeam and star,
Half revealed in the soft, misty air,
Runs a rude, broken way that will lead
Gallant rider and sure-footed steed
Westward forth to the camp of Bugeaud,
Forty miles over high land and low ;
But the steed must be trusty and fleet,
And the bridle- hand steady and keen
That shall guide him by rock and ravine,
Where eaclr stride of the galloping feet
Must span dangers that slumber unseen ;
And beyond, scarce a league to the west.
Yawns a treacherous chasm, dark and deep.
Where death lurks like a serpent asleep,
And the rider must ride at his best.
And his steed take the terrible leap
Like a winged creature cleaving the air.
Else a grim, ghastly corpse shall be there.
With perchance a steed stark on its breast.
And the moon shall lock down with a stare
Where they lie in perpetual rest.

VI.

Now the silence is broken by -neigh and by champ
And the clatter of hoofs, and away from the camp
Rides MacMahon, as gallant, as light, and as free
As the bridegroom who goes to his marriage may be.
With prance and with gallop and gay caracole
His swift steed bounds along, as if spurning control ;
But the bridle-hand guides him unerring and true,
And each stroke of the hoofs is thew answering thew.
Through the moonlight they go, fading slowly from sight,
Till both rider and steed sink away in the night.
But they go not unheard, and they speed not unseen ;
Dark eyes furtively watch, flashing fiercely and keen
From dim ambush around; then like spectres arise
White-robed figures that follow ; the rider descries
Tnem on slope and in hollow, and knows they pursue.
But he fears not their craft or the deeds they may do,
For his brave steed is eager and strong, and the pace
Growing faster and faster each stride of the chase.
Now the slopes right and left seem alive with the foe
Gliding ghost-like along, but still stealthy and low,

56o The Leap far Life,

As wild creatures that crouch in a jungle ; they think
To entrap him when back from the terrible brink
Of the chasm he returns, for his steed cannot leap
The dread gulf, and the rider will halt when its steep
Ragged walls ope before him, with death lying deep
In the darkness below ; they will seize him, and take
From his heart, by fell torture of fagot and stake,
Every secret it holds ; then his life-blood. ma)6 flow,
But he never shall ride to the camp of Bugeaud.

VII.

Still unflinching and free through the moonlight he goes.
And each pulse with the hot flush of eagerness glows.
Now a glance at the path where his gallant steed flies,
Now a gleam at the weird, spectral forms that arise
On the dim, rugged slopes, then still onward and on.
Till he nears the abyss, and its gaping jaws yawn
On his sight ; but the rider well knows it is there,
And his speed is soon cautiously checked to prepare
For the desperate leap ; he must now put to proof
The true mettle beneath, for the slip of a hoof
Or a swerve on the brink will dash both into doom.
Where the sad stars shall watch o'er a cavernous tomb.
Girth and bridle and stirrup are felt, to be sure
That no flaw shall bring peril — and all is secure ;
Then with eyes fixed before, and brow bent to the wind,
And one thought of the foe and his comrades behind.
And a low, earnest prayer that all heaven must heed.
He slacks bridle, plies spur, and gives head to his steed.
With a bound it responds, ears set back, nostrils wide.
And the rush of a thunder-bred storm in its stride !
Now the brink ! now the leap ! they are over ! Hurrah I
Horse and rider are safe, and dash wildly away ;
Not a slip, not a flinch, swift and sure as the flight
Of an eagle in mid-air they sweep through the night,
While the bafiled foe glare in bewildered amaze
At the fast-flying prey speeding far from their gaze ;
And the soft stars grow dim in the dawn's early glow
When MacMahon rides into the camp of Bugeaud.

The Yea^ of Our Lord 1874.

S6i

THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1874.

A c^nvERAL glance at the movements
' the past year will scarcely prove en-
wm^ng. even to the most devout be-
pver in the glory and the destiny of the
piden century drawing so rapidly to its
E»0e. Our own nation, which — with steam,
pctricity, railroads, the newspaper as it
mds to>day in all its power and pride
Mr tlic current number of the New
nic fferald)^ and other great material de-
lopments of the age — may consider it-
If at will as either the mightiest product
the enfant g4u of the century, has not

sre;at matter for self-congratulation.
Dr national year, that dawned on disaster,
ts struggled through a painful life only

dose in gloom, with perhaps a faint
oagb uncertain glimmer afar oif of bet-
r times to come. The " Christian" states-
en wbo have had the country and its
ana^ement all to themselves these many
ars past have left behind them a bitter
^acy. The great scandals — for even
andals in these days have a greatness
r tbeir own — which at length broke up
le ranks of the " Christian " statesmen
ere sufficiently touched upon last year,
Ki are only called to mind here as tend-
t|r in great measure to explain the year
r national distress we have just passed
iromgfa.

All through the winter months the pov-
rty and misery of the masses in New
ork and other of our chief cities were
nexampled in our history ; nor was the
rvival of business during the spring,
immer, and fall seasons of such a na-
tre as to warrant the hope of being able

1 stave off a similar calamitv in the early
KHiths of the coming year. The real
utve of the distress is known to all — the
raeral stagnation of business in 1873,
^suiting chiefly from the panic of the
rcvious year, which in turn resulted
wm the corruption in high places of the
stional. State, and municipal guardians
f the public trusts. Public confidence
T\\ shattered ; business was at a stand-
nll, the masses consequently idle, while

(frneral reduction in the rate of wages
c^t strikes among such as were not
VOL. XX. — 16

idle. In this connection it may be well
to call to mind what was generally ob-
served at the time : the significant ab-
sence of the Irish and Catholic body from
the seditious meetings ; yet on that body
fell the burden of the distress. What the
disciples of the "Christian" school of
statesmen, who gave cause for the sedition
by their conuption and dishonesty, would
be pleased to term their " foreign " faith,
" foreign " education, obedience to' the
tmined body-guard, the priesthood, of a
" foreign " potentate, the Pope, alone pre-
vented their falling in with the ranks of
sedition. Yet the preaching and practice
of the "foreign" faith, we are constanly
assured, is the greatest danger to the
republic.

The trials of the severe season, how-
ever, brought out into startling promi-
nence one great fact: the willingness
and«resources of the public to encountci
an unexpected demand of this kind.
New York, for instance, was overrun.
with public charities and associations for
the relief of the poor, the unfortunate,.
the maimed, the halt, the blind, the fa-
therless children, helpless women, and so.
forth. In short, there was scarcely a de-
partment of human misery which had not-
its corresponding asylum, aided in most
instances by the State, erected often and*
paid solely by the State, as well as a va-
riety of others set on foot and kept-
a-going by private philanthropy or chari-
ty. Money from public and private re-
sources had been pouring into these asy.
lums for long years past, without any
startling demand being made upon them
in return. Now was the time to prove-
the utility of those institutions, of which
we were so justly proud. What was their
actual condition? They were for the
greater part found practically with exche-
quers already exhausted, without anything
like adequate results being shown. An-
inquiry as to where all the money had
gone succeeded in tracing considerable
sums as far as the pockets of the di-
rectors, their wives, families, and friends
generally, after which all traces myst««

562

The Year of Our Lord 1874.

riously disappeared. The good old
maxim that " charily begins at home "
would seem to have impressed itself as a
necessary truth on the minds of the dis-
pensers of our public charities, and it
seems to have been carried out severely
to the letter. One consolation was af-
forded the public, however. For some
time past its conscience had been offend-
ed by the granting of certain sums — small
enough indeed, in comparison with the
necessities of the cases — out of the public
funds to those social offences known as
"sectarian" charities — sectarian chari-
ties ! — and these sums, such as they were,
had within the year been very judicious-
ly and properly withdrawn, in accord-
ance with the spirit of the Constitution,
as expounded by the men from whose
ranks sprang the Christians of the Criait
Mobilier school. It was no small satis-
faction to see, in the time of trial, that
the public was justified in withdrawing
from such institutions the Slate appro-
priations, on the ground that they were
not distributed as in purely Stale asy-
lums. How the '* sectariarl " charities
contrasted with the others in the admin-
istration and distribution of their funds
may be left to the records of the year to
tell, as unfolded in the columns of the
daily press. Whether a general remodel-
ling of our public institutions, in view of
the flagrant mismanagement exhibited
last year, be not desirable, is left to the
consideration of those most concerned in
the matter— the public themselves. As
they stand they arc an eyesore to honest
men, a standing breach of public confi-
dence, and a gross violation of the public
contract, to say nothing of what they may
i)c in the eye of a heaven that seems to be
Abetting farther and farther remote from
the earth, whereon God once was pleased
10 walk with the father of mankind.

Our class of statesmen found an easy
solution of what Mr. Disraeli esteemed
the most difficult problem of politics— the
feeding of a people by the government —
by an increase of money ; and an increase
\\{ money is the simplest thing in the world,
when money is only so much paper stamp-
ed by the government with promise to
pay at no very precise date. All that flie
government had to do in order to ease
matters was to draw an unlimited num-
ber of I O U's on itself— itself being
practically bankrupt for the time l>^*i"g.
but relying on the prospect of someihiife
eventually '* turning up" to its advanuige.

The sad conflicts in Arkansas an^
Louisiana, the hostility between bla .
and white, come in the same order, h
this case, in Louisiana at least. the Pk^
dent and his advisers did not showiim
selves as well as in the quashing o(iu
bill for inflation of the currcncr. i^l- •
the party that had recourse to an abv
lute revolution in the Stale and lo u
face of the nation cannot but be condi&r
cd, inasmuch as the approaching deoic'v*
might have peacefully served thdr \\^
poses to the same end, much more is i>
government to be condemned which i
the first instance gave its sanction inw
support to a great and standi n^^ wruv
Fortunately, but little blood was v^w
yet one drop in such cases is an indK-.
tion of the neighborhood of a driest
All hope for the dispersion of ibis .»
pending deluge rests now chiefly »"
the parly which was returned lo powc: j
the November elections.

If the year leaves us with so eu
to lament, so many vexed prohlecf i
solve, so many rocks ahead in ournalkm:
course, and with only a half-conWr. •
in the crew who are in charge of the ^
of state to guide it over the unre«:^r-
dangers of unknown seas, what shai: ''
said of Europe, with its divided naiK'
alities, ambitions, and policies, and cc '
danger as a unit?

The general arming of the nations ts-
began almost half a century ago, hot ^>
hurried into feverish activity since '
Franco- German war. may now be said:
be conipleted. Russia within half a f^
en years will, if peace so Cir faron he-
have three millions of soldiers in ibc^-
France almost as many; Gertnany.bit*
enrolment of the Landsiurm, has i-'^'
itself a nation of soldiers; Aii«|J
Italy, and the rest all follow in doeou
All Europe is at this moment anupi
the teeth, solely to preser\'e peace. ^"^
is irresistibly reminded of an old ff^
about a strong man armed keepinf ^
housflu

A set of fanatics assembled in Loi>^
to sympathize with the PrussjaDprr*
ment in its " struggle " with its Cif^
subjects— that is to say, with the w^
sale imprisonment of the Catholic
shops and clergy, ihe suppression of '^'
oUc religious societies, ihe fining of 0=
olic ladies for presenting addresses
condolence lo the imprisoned ecdf^'
tics. The meeting of sympathy ci '
forth a vcr>' remarkable leiier ofgnuii"

The Year of Our Lord 1874.

563

torn the German emperor, and occasion-
d a general jubilee On the part of the
vemian official press. So far, so good,
ti flic meanwhile a French bishop, think-
ly, probably, that it is hard for a man
►Jiose sole crime consists in the fact of
b being a Catholic bishop to be impri-
ooed for that offence, ventures to deliver
imfld opinion on the matter in a pasto-
if to his flock. Straightway comes out
! PtiMsian official paper with an editorial
ta for solemnity and massiveness might
Ine been written by the Emperor him-
bK warning, not the French bishop, but

I France, that if it cannot restrain itself
ta that shocking habit it has. acquired
fttSing intemperate language against a
ietgM>oring and unusually friendly pow-
^ Germany, painful as the task may be
tHS feelings of humanity, will pwjsiiive-
fbe compelled to take its own measures
^ its own defence. France immediately
lleestbe hint, eats the leek with all be-
ndBg meekness, and a circular couched

II tbe language of the Academy is de-
^aitli«d to the bishops generally, the
itehk English of which would be to hold
hsfr tongues on .ill German matters, un-
ISf, of course, they have something plea-
BB( to say. That may be a very easy task
br the bishops, but there still remain
TOc hiUs-noirs of offending governments,
fce gentlemen of the press ; and gentle-
ntn of the press, in France as everywhere
te, are unhappily distinguished not so
nch, perhaps, for having opinions of
tefr own, as for giving vent to those
iplaions. and setting them down in inde-
!We ink. M. Veuillot, the editor of
VUt^vers, is just one of these unfortu-
»lc beings. M. Veuillot has a rnfher
nroag way of putting things when it
pleises him, and M. Veuillot is hardly
Aeman to take a diplomatic hint. The
Md doty becomes incumbent on his gov-
fnnnent, therefore, to give M. Veuillot
u»d his paper a vacnlion of a couple
of months. The vacation was called sus-
ptation. It was duly explained that the
German government had had nothing
whatever to do with the matter, though,
*ttango to say, the French government
fcai never thought of suspending M.
Veuillot for hammering away at itself.

Belgium and Italy were threatened in
^ike manner for allowing their subjects
^irtcdom of opinion in so important a
Wttcr. Even England was warned, but
the warning had small effect.

h was whispered, though the corre-

spondence never came to light, that at one
period during the past year some sharply-
worded notes passed between the German
government and our own. What the
cause of the sharply-worded notes may
have been remains a diplomatic secret.
The only thing significant about the mat-
ter is that the whisper took shape about
a month after the arrest and imprisonment
of Archbishop Ledochowski, who had
the immortal honor of being the first of
the German bishops to surrender the
liberty of his person for his faith in this
strife. That imprisonment called forth
an unanimous condemnation from the
American press — not the sectarian press
of any creed — that did it honor, and led
one to hope that such a thing as principle
still existed on the earth, and that genu-
ine homespun American love of liberty
was not a meaningless thing.

To the charge of necessary disloyalty
to the ecclesiastical laws of Prussia, Cath-
olics will perforce plead guilty — the same
Catholics who before the passing of those
laws never dreamed of or were accused
of disloyalty to the state. Those laws are
an insult to the age and to all time.
There is not a line of them that does not
betray the steel of the executioner, red
almost with the blood of his victim. The
spirit of Brennus is abroad. The scales
of justice show a sadly uneven balance ;
but the sword of the barbarian tossed in
ends all disputes and argument.

Our modern Brennus has stnick his
blows so rapidly and truly that the world
still stares at him in dazed wonder. Suc-
cess has wailed on his footsteps, and
men who worship success arc not yet
sufficiently masters of themselves to
measure that success aright. They are
afraid to question the actions of a man
who seems to strike with the inerrancy of
fate. Prince Bismarck had certainly the
world on his side ; and if the world be-
gins now to fall away from him and re-
coil, to recover its senses a little, and to
question the right and wrong of his ac-
tions, he has none but himself to blame.

The signs of the past year tell us that
the recoil is beginning to set in. The
elections early in the year went against
the government. The Catholics gained
a large majority on their former number
even in Prussia itself. Alsace-Lorraine
returned its members simply to protest
against annexation, while the soaalists
were strengthened also. The govern-
ment still holds a strong majority, it is

S64

The Year of Our Lord 1874.

true ; but the falling away from its stand-
ard within four years of its mightiest tri-
umphs was so significant of what was
likely to ensue should the government
persevere in its policy, tliat the first thing
taken into consideration immediately
after the elections was the restricting of
the franchise to such voters as it was felt
would return a safe and sure majority
for the government. Next to this came
measures for the restriction of the liberty
of the press, which by the cflForls of the
Catholic party were defeated.

The obvious question will force itself
on the mind : Why should a government
so strong and mighty, so beloved of the
people, as we are always assured, tremble
at the popular voice and at the criticism
of a newspaper? The answer is easy.
The army bill followed. The govern-
ment required a peace-effective voted
once for all of four hundred and one
thousand men. That army was to stand,
and, once the bill was passed, parliament
was to have no further voice in the mat-
ter, whether in regard to payment of the
bills or in regulating the number of men.
That was to pass completely out of its
hands.

For once even the " blustering majori-
ty" did not save the government. The
terrible danger of the scheme was obvi-
ous. The mere presence of so tremen-
dous a standing army was a standing
menace not only to the country and its
liberties, but to its neighbors. It did
not breathe the spirit of peace and rest in
the government, and of proper regard for
a country already worn and disturbed by
three harassing wars occurring in quick
succession ; while the taking out of the
hands of the Houses the control over so
large an item of the public funds as was
embraced in the bill, was a blow at their
privileges to which not even faith in abso-
lutism dould blind them. A storm was at
once raised. The government staked its
existence on the measure. Marshal
Moltke rose up in the House, and made
a speech in defence of it that will be re-
membered. He spoke of the alarm
caused by Germany to its neighbors.
He told them that what they had gained
in a few months it would take them fifty
years to keep and secure. It was neces-
sar)' that, though they might not draw
ihc sword, their hand should be for ever
on the hilt. He assured them that, after
all, wars undertaken and carried through
by regular armies were the swiftest and

therefore the cheapest. An importaa
consideration that last. As a final ai|»
ment the veteran told them th^t "a
standing army was a necessity of Ai
times, and he could not bat ask dv
House to devote the figure of four ki»
dred and one thousand rank-and-file tt
a peace-footing once for all." Apoo-
footing ! But even the marshal's seda»
tive eloquence could not move them.

Prince Bismarck fell sick and rBtinl
toVarzin. The £mperoi*s birthday cut-
round, and the generals of his czn^
came to congratulate him. He assiiMi
them that he would dissolve parliaoMl
rather than alter the bill. ButhisinpCi
rial majesty forgot that there were turn
kingdoms than Prussia concerned in Mi
measures now, and that the dissolidiM
that once before served the King of Pra^
si^K sufficiently well might, in the difii-
turbed state of affiurs, prove a daogeoM
experiment to the Emperor of Germ^
Finally, as is known, somewhat bdM
counsels prevailed, and a compromise «i
effected, which limited the figure to thn<
hundred and eighty-five thousand bm
for seven years. This was a severe check
to the government, while it was a lessoi
to the people to distrust rulers who, in d*
light of their own schemes, considered te
empire as a mere instrument, foxgetlio|
wholly that they were for the empire, art
the empire for them.

There are many matters in the intenid
history of Germany during the past yeir
that deserve to be dwelt upon partica-
larly and at length, but a few of whid
only can be glanced at here. The desiit
to expand and strengthen itself abroad is
natural, and it is strange that the gorem-
ment organs should be so anxioos to
disavow so praisewortliy an object, pnr-
vided the motives that urge it arc good.
It is strange, at the same time, to sec ho*
it continues its repressive emigistioa
laws ; how anxious so mighty an cinpiic
is to keep all its children at home, wbe:t
they may be serviceable in the Landstono ;
and how anxious those children ait to
get away and come out to us here, lei?-
ing behind them and surrendering for cm
all the glory and the promise of the ncwh-
founded empire. It is strange, also, to
note to what little tricks so great a p*"
emment can descend in its sclf-imposei
conflict with its Catholic subjects; as.te
instance, the forged Papal decree respect-
ing the future election of the SoTticign
Pontiff that found its way into the col-

The Year of Our Lord 1874.

565

nns of the Cologne Gazette at so oppor-
^s moment as the eve of the German
iMtteft. Simultaneously with its appear-
bD&we were reminded of the significant
Mtfttion of Prince Bismarck in the
hi«ia ]>arliament, June 9, 1873 : " If
btMisage is brought to us that a new
AlptlMS been elected, we shall certainly
ItMtiUed to investigate whether he has
Ma duly, properly, and legitimately
InM'^ ; that is to say, whether the veto
Ptetead of the Holy Roman Empire —
Uai course is the Emperor William —

I tf the other powers possessing a veto

Itiie German government might in-

\ has been exercised . " Only if we

rMtsied on these heads will he be

Blo daim in Germany the rights be-
Ifl^ to a Roman Pope."
I 0«t of consideration for Prince Bis-
■■elMre pass over those fierce parlia-
iimHUf storms where bis keen oppo-

KVon Windthorst and Von Mallin-
tvitted the Chancellor himself with
M^been actually guilty of the disloy-
l^lQ Prussia and the German soil which
kB fttsely attributed to the Catholics.
Die frince, amid thunders of applause,
ittfad them with malicious lying ; but
^ charge, though momentarily effective.
Ml Ml a happy one, as the disclosures
^ Ow. Delia Marmora subsequently
Italy was threatened in conse-
I of Delia Marmora's indiscretion,
: threat proved inefiectual. The
said his say, and the lie was
on its author. Prince Bis-
popularity was on the wane, if
pOtift Germany itself, certainly in a very
iMlge circle outside of Germany where he
M h&berto been worshipped as one who
■illl WHae justice described himself as
Mhs best-hated man in Europe." Then,
pRlMMely for himself, as fortunately as
I SOftM in a drama, came the Deus ex
mMtd in the pistol of Kullmann to re-
hm Mm from his momentary misfor-
Prince Bismarck was not the
to miss so fine an opportunity of
J to adbount the insane attempt of
dtoioa of a madman on his life, and we
Mieiooded with the time-honored taunts
nfumm to ends because a man of noto-
bad and violent character, who
I to have been present at some
C^dhoBc meetings, committed the wicked
od utterly unjustifiable act of firing a
t4MI at the Chancellor. There are some
two hundred million Catholics in the
vorld ; there are in Germany fourteen or

fifteen, in Prussia alone eight millions, of
the same creed. Of all these millions
one man, of wicked antecedents and in-
sane descent, is found to commit an act
abhorrent to the Catholic conscience all
the world over, and at once the universal
conscience of that mighty multitude is
with a benignant generosity centred in
the person of this wretch, who, whether,
as many believed, a dupe of the govern-
ment tools or a dupe of his own disor-
dered intellect, was equally a wretch.
Why not turn the arg^ument the other
way? Why not wonder at the sublime
patience of the people who see the sacred
persons of their bishops and priests
dragged from the altar-steps, stripped of
their goods, and buried in fortresses, for
the crime of violating laws that were
made to be violated, without moving a
hand to prevent such constant outrages,
because the teachings of those disloyal
priests and bishops, of that arch-foe to
German nationality, the Pope, never cease
to forbid armed resistance to the most
oppressive laws that were ever framed?
Two or three officials have been sent
alone among a vast multitude of Catho-
lics to drag before their very eyes the
priest whose Mass they have just attended,
from the altar of Christ to a prison — for
what possible purpose but to provoke
bloodshed and insurrection? Happily,
the people were still by the efforts of the
clergy restrained from putting themselves
at the mercy of a government that knows
no mercy; but who shall say how long
that patience will endure? And this
is the government whose sole aim is the
unity and consolidation of Germany and
the happiness of every section of its
people !

As the Von Amim case is still pend-
ing, it is useless to conjecture what the
documents may contain whose posses-
sion prompted Prince Bismarck to arrest
and confine in a common prison the man
who next after himself stood the foremost
in the German nation. The arrest to the
world at large showed more forcibly than
anything that has yet taken place to what
lengths the chief of the Prussian govern-
ment can go ; how easily he can trample
under foot every tradition of civilization
and every feeling of humanity to crush a
foe or sweep from his path a possible
danger to himself. It is probable that the
documents turn chiefly on his foreign
policy, and would stamp in iudelible
characters that policy, which it needs no

c66

The Year of Our Lord 1874.

writing to tell us threatens not only the
church, but the peace of Europe, and,
through Europe, of the world, perhaps for
centuries to come. Such disclosures
would in the eyes of outraged Germany
and Europe necessitate his deprix'ation of
a power ho has so fatally abused.

France struggles on still without a gov-
ernment ; that is to say, without a gov-
ernment of which six weeks of existence
could be safely predicated. The changes
in the ministry have been changes of men
rather than of measures. The various
parties are still at daggers-drawn and
rather on the increase than otherwise.
The Count of Chambord seems for the
present to have retired from the contest —
A wise and patriotic example, which if
all could follow, the country might be
allowed breathing time and some fair
chance of arriving at a sound judgment
as to what was the exact government it
wanted — a problem which the French na-
tion has seemed incapable of solving
since the first Revolution. The Bonapar-
tists have profited by the withdrawal of
the Count, and displayed an earnestness,
boldness, and activity which have been
crowned with some success, but marked
by the disregard of the nation and its sub-
mergence in the family name and fame
that seem the chief characteristics of
"' the Napoleonic idea." The coming of
age of the son of the late emperor was
marked by a theatrical display and orac-
ular speeches worthy of the Second Em-
pire at its zenith. There have been the
usual " scenes " in the French Assembly.
The " intervals of ten minutes" and "in-
tervals of a quarter of an hour " have been
alarmingly frequent, and after some sit-
tings the air bristled with challenges from
warlike deputies, which afforded excel-
lent material for the illustrated journals ;
but, on the whole, few more dangerous
weapons than the peaceful pocket-hand-
kerchief were drawn, and the pocket-
handkerchief, as all public orators know,
is a vast relief in trying moments. M.
Thiers has preferred the Apennines to
the tribune, and has happily spoken
more in Italy than in the Chambers. M.
Gambetta, for a man of his calibre, has
been singularly well behaved on the
whole, and we have not had so many of
those journeys to the disaflfected districts
of which at one time he threatened to be
so fond. Sad to say, it is the soldier-
president who has thus far kept the dis-
orderly parties from flying at each other's

throats by the sheer force of the aimj, 03
which he silently leans all the whik.
France is practically in the bands of 1
military dictator. She is happy in bei
dictator — that is all. Marsha] MacMahpc.
on succeeding M. Thiers, promised to in-
swer for order, and be has kept his void
More than that, be has, wisely for Fiascr.
however sad it may be to say so, maoi
the Assembly keep its word and ahkk br
the septennaU which it conferred on bim.
He has used his vast power with asiags-
lar discretion, a patriotism unexampltd
almost in the face of opportunities tisi
would turn the head of many a gream
man, and an honest siogle-mindedse^i
that has clearly nothing else than (be
good of the whole couiury in view. The
last S3mabol of a now ineffectual protec-
tion, and indeed for a long time an insiR-
cere one, of the Holy Father, has beco
withdrawn in the Orenoqiu. It is bene?
so. It is better, perhaps, since matten
have been pushed so far, that the Holi
Father stand absolutely alone, powerleis
and defenceless, in the eyes of earth and
heaven. The power of God alone can
now restore to him what is his by right
To-day among all the European gOTCTD'
ments there is none so poor as to do tuni
reverence. England has recendy witt-
drawn even its shadow of a diplosut:.
representative, which possibly marks tbe
beginning of the ^Miitle more eizerg) ir
foreign policy and little less in domestk
legislation" that Mr. Disraeli advised
while still in opposition.

In all other respects except politio
France has every reason to be congnia*
lated. The earnest turning of the p«3-
ple's heart to God. the desertion of wbom
called down such terrible punishments,
seems in no degree to diminish. Ttt
seasons have been propitious, ind the
vintage of 1874 has been of unexanpkii
excellence and productiveness. Tbe c\-
ports of the year were roarvellouslf ^
creased, and God*s blessings would sees
to be raining down again on this soitU-
tried land and people. All ^t is oetdcJ
is a good and firm government, of wbic.
however, as yet, there seems no ioune-
diate prospect. France is as opes »*
ever to surprises ; and it is ab$oIutu<
impossible to forecast its political fnn^

England has experienced a pcaccu'
revolution similar to our own, and or-
al most as astonishing in its suddcaDO^"^
though, as in our case, there wetc w
wanting indications of the change in F-^*-

The Year of Our Lord 1874,

567

ties 'which has taken place, as will be
Ibcnd doly noted by those who care to
look at The Catholic World's review
fer 1873. On January 22 Mr. Gladstone
iMsed his memorable " prolix narrative,"
■DQonncing, to the surprise of all men,
tlM immediate dissolution of Parliament.
Tlw sudden and, under the circumstan-
OGC, onexampled action of the premier
bolted remarkably like a desire to take
line by the forelock, and by the sudden-
avioof the attack shatter and utterly dis-
: COOlft the slowly-gathering forces of the
! Opposition. If such were the real inten-
>liMk,it was miserably miscalculated and
libigQlarly ill-advised. The country was
atlBOch outraged as shocked, and show-
!«) Its appreciation of Mr. Gladstone's
JkiU at a coup by returning a very hand-
•toe Conservative majority, so that Mr.
iDisneli, happy man ! found himself, to
Hi own surprise, no less than Mr. Glad-
HOtte's, within three weeks of the disso-
'MoQ, at the head of a strong government
vA party, with his old rival deep in the
'Atde. The result of the English elec-
Hens ma)' prove a lesson to popular lead-
«fS for the future not to presume too
Tmch en their popularity, not to jeopard-
to a powerful party, and throw an em-
^tt hito sudden confusion by what looks
190 much like a freak that it is hoped
Ktywin by "a fluke."

The most significant lesson of the elec-
taks, perhaps, was the instantaneous tri-
vmph of the Home Rule party in Ireland,
wirilc as yet it was to all appearance in
hi infancy, and almost beneath the ra-
liootl notice of the English press. It
Ittd omly provoked derision and calumny.
We were constantly told that it had no
lold on the heart of the people, that it
daimed no men of note, that the nobility
nd gentry held aloof from it, and so

The "wild adherents" of the "wild
fcOy ** have taught even the London Times
ta respect them ; and much reason had
ftejr to be pledged to their wild folly, if
lilt words of a man whose opinion is
tertalDly of some value on the subject
Ittfe any weight : " Ireland at this mo-
ment is governed by laws of coercion and
rtringent severity that do not exist in any
other quaner of the globe." Those words
were spoken on the 4th of February, 1874.
The speaker was Mr. Disraeli, the pre-
sent Prime Minister of England. The
laws that provoked the observation of so
ezniacnt an English statesman still pre-

vail in Ireland. The appeal for amnesty
for the unfortunate remnant of the Irish
political prisoners has, since those words
were spoken, been refused by Mr. Dis-
raeli. And yet the Irish calendars for
this year, as for many a year past, were*
the cleanest in the world and the freest
from crime of all kinds. Such is the na-
tion governed at this moment by laws
such as Mr. Disraeli has described. The
result of such government can scarcely
recommend iis dispensers to the nation
governed, and yet their appeal for con-
trol of their own affairs, which the Eng-
lish Parliament confessedly does not un-
derstand, and, if it did understand, has, as
it acknowledges, too much business on
its hands properly to attend to, is a wild
folly !

The chief piece of English legislation
during the year has been what was em-
bodied in " the bill to put down ritual-
ism " — that is to say, the regulation of di-
vine worship as understood in the church
established by act of Parliament. Ritu.il-
ism, or the " Romanizing tendency," as
it is strangely termed, in the Anglican
Church, has been put down, as far as an
act of Parliament can put it do\vn. Our
ritualists on this side were put down
also, for their bishops followed that au-
thority in their church known as the Bri-
tish Parliament, composed respectively
of Anglicans, Dissenters, Jews, Quakers,
and other sects, with, worst of all, a strong
contingent of Roman Catholics. That hy-
dra-head of the Anglican Church regulated
for it to a nicety, pronounced upon its de-
votions, practices, sacraments, vestments,
ornaments, postures of the body, bendings
of the knee, elevations of the hands, pros-
trations, crossings, and so forth, ac calm-
ly and in as business-like a fashion as
though it were sitting on an income tax ;
and the church that we are so solemnly
assured by learned men like Bishop
Coxe, if it dates not exactly from the 1st,
certainly dates from somewhere in the
neighborhood of the IVth, century, with a
subsequent lamentable gap up to the
X Vlth, when the Apostle Henry and oth-
ers of that ilk came to renovate and re-
store it to its pristine purity, bowed meek-
ly to the infallible decision of the busi-
ness-like assembly of Jews, infidels, Qua-
kers, Dissenters, Anglicans, and Roman
Catholics. What would S. Peter and S.
Paul think of it all ?

Something far more serious than ihis,
and of far deeper import to the nation,

568

The Year of Our Lord 1874.

was the long and pertistent strike of the
agricultural laborers, which was carried
on on a most extensive scale, and with a
union that was not thought to exist in
the successor of the Saxon hind. Once
the ball of disaffection is set rolling, it is
very hard to say where it will stop.
It is clear that the unions have at last
permeated the entire body of the English
laboring^lasses. The tiades-unions are
too often cousins>gennan to the secret
societies. The mass of the English agri-
cultural classes, in common with the vast
majority of the English laboring-classes
and artisans, have no religion at all. The
disaffection with the present order of
things in England, though less pronounc-
ed than in most modern European na-
tions, has been long gathering, is rapidly
spreading, and is beyond all doubt of a
nature to excite considerable alarm. Loss
of religion, it is needless to say, leaves
the minds and hearts of men open to all
evil, and it would be beyond stupidity to
shut one's eyes to the very plain fact that
the spirit of evil and of general disaffec-
tion is particularly active all the world
over just at present. Banish religion,
banish the guiding hand of God from
your objective laws and from the heart
and sight of your people, and the people
will look on the powers that be, of what-
soever nature, as oppressors, on the rich
as despoilers of the poor, on the employ-
ers as their tyrants.

A most important movement, and one
that we welcome with all our hearts, is
the bold step taken at last by the Eng-
lish hierarchy in founding a Catholic uni-
versity in England. The want has long
been felt in that country of a centre of
Catholic intellect, culture, and thought,
to vie with those seats of learning which
the piety of their Catholic forefathers had
left as priceless heirlooms to their Catho-
lic children, but which, with all holy
places and all holy things, had by the
national apostasy become perverted from
the purpose of their pious founders, and
fallen by a too easy lapse from centres
of false faith to centres of no faith at all.
In England and Ireland, as with us, the
means of providing higher education for
students desirous of attaining it have
been hitherto necessarily and lamentably
deficient. The Catholic University in
Ireland and this later one in England
give promise that, with proper encourage-
ment from the wealthy and intelligent
laity, this long-felt want will be at length

adequately supplied. These ire davs
when the Catholic laity, to whom nov
all positions, or at least very importasi
ones, are fairly open, are in doty bouod
to take their stand as becomes 1o^ dtil
dren of a mother universally assuled.
The laity can penettate where the dfrj?
have no voice. They are, as S. Peter
called them, and as they have so sigD2])>
proved themselves in Germany, **a kio^-
ly priesthood.'' But to take a stand si-
milar to that taken by the noble Gennas
phalanx, that ** thundering legion " in the
service of the pagan empire, they raim
be equal to their adversaries in culture,
refinement, and address, all which come
more by education than from nature.
Many a great mind has retired wittno a
narrow circle for which it was cetttfnly
not bom, and its efforts rendered Inli
nugatory by lack of that eaxly assoda-
tion and training which a great nniTtr.
sity, an intellectual focus of the brigfctes:
minds in the galaxy of letters, is ioteod-
ed to and does supply. We look, then.
with as much hope as expectancy to this
step on the part of the £ngHsh*hienrcby.
who have saved their children from the
allurements of a satanic culture by supply-
ing them with men of recognized intdter-
tual standing and acknowledged faiih in
Christ and in his church. Our only hope
is that in our own country we soon mny
rival them.

Some mention will probably l>e lookcii
for here of the controversy, as it is cailrJ.
which has sprung up in consequence ci
a recent pamphlet written by Mr. Glad
stone; but there is little need of soci
mention, inasmuch as Mr. Gladstoce
seems to have been sufficiently answem)
by the very men whom his pamphlet ira<
intended chiefly to affect — the Protcstani?
of England. Whether so intended or
not, it was beyond all doubt an arteiopt
altogether unworthy the high character
of the distinguished author to rouse tbe
rancor of the English Protestants againn
their Catholic fellow-subjects. Cooid vr
altogether rid ourselves of the resprr:
with which Mr. Gladstone, take hin a!i
in all, has hitherto inspired us, asanu):
whose heart was as large and loyal j«
his intellect, and that intellect insprm
with reverence for God and holy ihiar
his latest exploit could only be desoil*'
as a vulgar ** No Popery " appeal to tl"
worst classes and most degraded p3^
sions of English society, deliverrd h
bad taste and worse faith, and, to crov;

The Year of Our Lord 1874,

569

Uk list of offences, as a political mistake,
vii^ has already failed in its object of
cscablisbing him,, as Earl Russell once
^ttk and as men of the Newdegate and
Ukalley type would be, as the English
*No Popery" champion and leader.
white it effectually alienates from him
taoefbrall a large and influential body
of supporters on whom he has often
COKSted, and on whom there was no rea-
«MI to believe that a genuine change of
teB< on bis part might not have led him
I^Connt again. That his pamphlet is
i aft tbis is true ; that Mr. Gladstone in-
it to be all this there is too much
I to believe, but of that he himself
lean tell. If the leader of the English
tlbtrsd party is pleased to be patted on
A* back by the men in Germany who

^X on the back the orators of Exeter
who met to sympathize with the
GtOBan persecution of Germans whose
Otlf crime was their Catholic faith, and
lAMe only stain was and is their readi-
Mlt to sacrifice life, lands, and liberty in
defence of that faith, he is welcome to
Ihs ill-earned applause and doubtful
IwAor.

like space already given to the impor-
latt topics touched upon leaves little
loom for comment on others. And in-
dead the story, as far as the Catholic
Chwch and general politics arc con-
cerned, is much the same all the world
over* Austria has followed in the wake
ef Prussia, though its ecclesiastical laws
ito Qot seem to have been carried out
with the brutal thoroughness of its neigh-
faoi; Italy continues in its downward
cosne. The state of its finances is ap-
palling, and yet it plies whip and spur
vtth reckless speed into chaos. Brigan-
dago, in the south chiefly, grows worse
iod worse. Civil marriage there, as in
Bmtsia, is the law established. A new
y fcw o of the secret societies crops out
IfOV time to time. It has tried the
■cheiue of popular election of the eur^
w did Switzerland and Germany, with a
like result in all cases — an ^swx^ fiasco,
ll bas made great strides in the way of
pillar education, with the result pic-
towd by the special correspondent of the
I^ondon Times: "The property that is
takaa from some of the Capuchin con-
'•Ws in Tuscany, and sold at auction, is
bought back at the auction by * pious
twncfactors,' who recall the scattered fra-
ternity to their deserted and desecrated
Jwmcs, and restore monachism on con-

ditions more favorable than those on
which it stood before its suppression.
The central government and the muni-
cipalities in Italy strain every nerve lo
supply the people with a free and good
education, but their schools have to
strive hard to withstand the competition
which is raised against them by the Sco-
lopii in Florence, the Barnabites in Mi-
lan, and the Ignorantins in Turin. . . .
There are now Waldensian, Methodist,
and other evangelical churches and
schools in Rome, as in other Italian cities,
but their success is not very encourag-
ing, even in the opinion of their candid
promoters." And we may add, for the
benefit of the ardent but foolish suppor-
ters of the Van Meter and such like
schemes, a further extract from the same
correspondent: ** Attempts to allow the
people to elect their parish priests with-
out the permission of, arid even in direct
opposition to, the bishop of the diocese
have been made in some Mantuan rural
districts and elsewhere, but hitherto with
no extensive or decisive results ; and the
Gavazzi, Passaglia, Andrea, and others,
who would have ventured on a reform-
ing movement within the church itself,
have met with no support whatever, either
on the part of the government authorities
or of public opinion."

The celebration of the twenty-eighth an-
niversary of the elevation of our Holy Fa-
ther, Pope Pius IX., to the chair of Peter,
was general throughout Christendom, but
desecrated in Rome by the infamous action
of the usurping government in clearing the
streets of the crowds who were peacefully
returning from the Te Deum in S. Peter's.
Violent arrests were made on no pretext
whatever, some of the persons arrested
being English and American Protestant
ladies. On the evening following,
and with the connivance of the present
Roman authorities, a hideous crowd as-
sembled at midnight to howl cries of hate
and blasphemy under the windows of the
Sovereign Pontiff. Not religion alone,
but common humanity, seems to haw
been banished from Rome by the entrance
of Victor Emanuel. Our constant prayer
should be that the great Pontiff, whose
conspicuous virtues, and sufferings su
patiently borne for Christ's sake, may be
preserved to his children long to witness
with his own eyes the end of the blasphe-
my, violence, and imposture which now
beset him on all sides.

Switzerland has almost outPrussiaed

570

The Year of Our Lord 1874.

Prussia in its assault on the Catholic
Church. So much for the freedom of the
typical republic ! It has changed its con-
stitution into despotism, driving away
the Catholic voters from the polls by in-
timidation and violence." Even Loyson
has felt himself compelled to cry out
against its excesses, and resigned his
curacy at Geneva. The constitution
which it has now adopted, it rejected only
two years since. It completely subjects
religion to the state, and renders it im-
possible for a Catholic priest to remain in
liis native country and practise the duties
of his office. Civil marriage here again
is the order of the day. Marriages, it
used to be said, were made in heaven.
Their birthplace has been transferred to
the office and celestial presence of his
eminence the town-clerk.

In Spain the struggle has assumed a
fiercer and more determined character
than ever. Castelar, who is already and
very deservedly forgotten, was president
at the opening of the year. His success
in that r^^was >vliat might have been ex-
pected, and what has fully justified the
opinion held of him throughout in these
pages. He was defeated on reading his
message to the Cortes in January — a
message of despair. General Pavia
cleared the Cortes and took possession
Willi his troops. The movement was so
well planned that no rising took place.
Indeed, it was hard to say for what or
for whom a rising should have been
made. There was no government ; al-
most all the prominent men had been
tried in turn and failed, and the last was
the least capable of all. Serrano came to
the front again ; the whole movement
was probably his. Cartagena, which had
so long held out against a bombardment
by sea and land, was taken soon after,
and there remained no foe in the field
but Don Carlos, who had profited by the
diversion at Cartagena. BUbao was se-
riously threatened by ihe Carlist forces,
and would have proved, if taken, an
important prize to them. Serrano has-
tened to its relief with all the available
forces of the country, and, aided by
Marshal Concha, succeeded in rais-
ing the siege without inflicting afiy
material loss on the enemy. Marshal
Concha he left to prosecute the campaign,
and for the first time since their last ris-
ing the Carlists found themselves sore
lieset. A bullet at Estella, however,
ended the checkered career of the most

dangerous opponent they had yet
countered, and victor^' after victors
more or less importance has, wiiu
occasional reverse, continued 10 en*
their arms. More than once have
been assured of their annihilation *'
to see them appear with renewed strcn:.
and add another victor)- to their crc-.
Through the influence of Germanv
European powers with the exception
Russia, have recognized a republic wh
does not exist, atbd does not promise-
exist, in Spain. At one time Pru-
threatened to interfere immediately. .
may at any time renew the atteoapt. I
reason for this interference is obv-*,
A Prussianized Spain would serve -•
double-barrelled gun, covering at o~
Rome aiKl France. Whereas the succt
of Don Carlos is the success of a Cai.i
sovereign and a Bourbon ; consequeir
a friend to France, whatever may be :
government in that country. Rus? i
refusal to join in its schemes was, h <
ever, a little too significant to igzK>re. .^
love, which was never at -fevcr-poini :
tween what are now the rival power?
Europe, was not incre.ised by this ret-.
In the meanwhile Spain is sufl^cring t.i
ribly in blood, in commerce, in eve-
thing that m.ikes the life of a n
tion, by this prolonged struggle, whirh
was our hope to see concluded crc t*-
by the victory of the only man who k i
promise the Spaniards asafeandv< 1
ous government, and who has provii
himself possessed of all the qualities ^
king, general, and, as far as we are at'
to judge, truly Christian leader — Dli
Carlos.

In Mexico, Brazil, Vcnefucla, and otfcfl
of the South American states, the strsg^i
between church and state in Europe ha
been repeated, even to the scixiire of pro
perty, the expulsion of priests and dbm
the imprisonment of bishops and prietf
One little repnblic alone, that of Eqm
dor, has set a noble example to the wori^
of loyalty to the Catholic faith and to tM
Apostolic See by devoting a large ?aa
out of the public funds to the aid of tfat
Holy Father. The secret societies hat^
seemingly as strong a hold in Scad
America as in Italy, and the boldno^
with which they act is manifested by tfc^
severity of the sentences passed on l)U
Bishops of Olinda and Para, the h\^
bishops of Caracas and Venezuela, anJ M
aged Bishop of Merida. Those an ^"^^
Catholic states, and it is to be hoped t^

The Year of Our Lord 1874.

571

ail true Catholics there will exert them-
selves and use the lawful power that is in
their hands to put a stop to the scenes of
outrage and brutal vloience that are con-
•tanlly on the increase.

It is time that civilized governments,
or those that claim the title, should unite
10 put a stop to the horrible periodical
aassacros of Christians in China, of
vhkh the details reach us from time
10 dme, particularly during the past
year. It is a shame upon all nations that
peaceful women should be' outraged and
bnttally cut to pieces, as are the Catholic
oans in that country. The European
power? and our own could, if they chose,
ptit a stop to this infamous practice— for
piactice it is. And our own government
mi^ well take the initiative in the mat-
IK. We welcome the Chinese into this
<OUDlTy. They come in swarms; they
ifid home and labor, and reward for their
labor. They live among us. and leave
Bik umnolested to the last. Their very
idoUtxy is allowed ; and yet at almost
Hated intervals their countrymen rise, up
and horribly mutilate and murder our
dearest and best.

Of actual wars during the year there
hare been happily few. The defeat of
the Ashantees, and the burning of their
capital city by the British forces, adds, it
is to be presumed, a new lustre to the
flories of England. The Dutch retaliated
for their defeat of the year previous in
Achoen by in turn defeating the Achi-
neae. Russia is securing its footsteps as
it advances into Asia. An invasion of
Fonnosa by the Japanese, who are be-
coming more and more amenable- to Eu-
ropean customs, ended strangely by a
{Hiynent of indemnity on the part of
Chiaa and the departure safe home of
the Japanese. The usual chronic rcvolu-
tiotts might be recorded oi one or more
oflbe South American states, but beyond
thli there is nothing very sanguinary to
record.

Aa event that will long be memorable,
*wl which excited very general interest
outside, was the departure for the first
*i«« of a body of pilgrims from this coun-
try 10 Lourdes and Rome, under the gui-
dance of the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Fort
Wayne and the Rev. P. F. Dealy, S.J.
They were received with special marks
of aA^tion by the Holy Father, who de-
chired that in this country he was more
i'ope than in any other.

An event that excited extraordinary

commotion and a general display of a
strange splenetic hate on the part of the
English press was the quiet conversion
to the Catholic faith of the Marquis of
Ripon, who, in addition to his hereditarj*
title and estj^blished character as an
English statesman, added that of Grand
Master of the Freemasons in England.
Among other conversions was that of the
Queen Dowager of Bavaria.

We are not in the position to compare
the statistics of the past year's capital
crimes or suicides with those of former
years ; but whether they be greater or less,
they are alarmingly great. Suicide and
murder were startlingly frequent during
the year; and as far as passing glances
at the reports in the newspapers would
justify an opinion, they seem in most
cases to have resulted from wicked and
immoral lives. For a time masked bur-
glary threatened to become the fashion-
able crime of the year. A speedier sen-
tence and a more honest dispensing of
the law than often prevails would more
materially, perhaps, than any other means
tend to diminish the long annual list of
offences against life and property. Edu-
cation, to be sure, is a great thing, and
there will be an opportunity in the com-
ing year of seeing how the new law of
compulsory education for all children
uill work in the State of New York. The
question is too large a one to enter into
here. As has been shown over and over
again, compulsory education with us
means practically a compulsory Protes-
tant education ; for Protestantism, if not
actually taught, is done so at least nega-
tively, for many of the class-books teem
with Protestantism from cover to cover.
That, however, is a matter within the
power of remedy to a great extent. The
compulsory education of Prussia that
is so much extolled allowed the Catho-
lic priest and the Protestant minister
to teach their respective religions at
stated hours, in opposite corders of the
schools, even though they had Sunday-
schools as well. But our only safeguard
is our own schools for our own children,
and it is gratifying to note the zeal with
which both clergy and laity have com-
bined during the past year to pstablish
Catholic schools all over the country.
That is the first thing to be done. Let
us first have our own schools, and then
we may fairly see about the management
of our own moneys.
Only a few of the distinguished dead

572

Tlie Year of Our Lard 1 874.

who have gone out with the year can be
mentioned. The church in the United
States has lost five venerable servants
and pioneers of faith, in Bishops Melcher
of Green Bay, O'Gorman, of Omaha, Whe-
lan of Wheeling, McFarland of Hartford,
and Bacon of Portland. The College of
Cardinals has lost three of its members :
Cardinal Bamabo, the great Prefect of the
Propaganda, to whom the church in this
country is greatly indebted ; Cardinals Fal-
cinelli and Tarquini. The Christian Bro-
thers lost their venerable superior. Brother
Philippe, whose funeral was attended by
the chief notabilities of Paris, together
with ji vast crowd of people of all ranks
and conditions in life, so much so that as
the white flag was the suspicious color
just then, and as that flag has the misfor-
tune under its present holder of being
connected with religion, the keen-scented
gentry of the press discovered in this last
tribute to a man who had spent his life
in doing good a Chambordist demonstra-
tion. The death of Mgr. de Merode was
a great loss to the Holy Father, as well as
to a multitude of friends. An interesting
comparison might be made between the
purposes to which he devoted his vast
wealth and those of a man still more
wealthy who died within the year — the
Baron Mayer de Rothschild. His admir-
ing chronicler in the leading English
journal informs us that the baron, who, in
addition to his other admirable qualities,
was a silent member in the English Par-
liament, spared no expense to erect in
his own palace a museum "adorned
with all that is beautiful." " He applied
himself systematically to breeding race-
horses," in compensation for which ex-
ceptional virtue the same glowing chron-
icler assures us that "when he won, a
year ago, the Dudley, the Oaks, and the
St. Leger, all the world felt that a piece
of good and useful work had been per-
formed." Well, well ! Did not our own
Sumner leave life this very year amid
general regret, sighing only that his book
was not completed ? Had that been fin-
ished, he would not have cared. And,
thinking thus, went out one who is a part
of our history, and whose name, though
it did not fulfil all its earlier promise, was
great among us. Ex-President Fillmore
died almost unnoticed. Certain news of
the death of Dr. Livingstone in 1873 ar-
rived during the year. Art has lost
Kaulbach, who devoted his undoubted

genius to attacking the church, and F(v
ley. One of the men of a century died
in Guizot. Merivale and Midielet art
lost to history, Shirley Brooks to ligbi
literature. Strauss, the infidd, per.
haps, has learnt at last the truth of an
awkward verse in S. James. Not onlf
Germany, but the Catholic cause all tbc
world over, has sustained a sad and in a
sense irreparable loss in the great ami
chivalrous leader of the Catholic ceotrc
in the German parliament, Mnr voo
Mallinkrodt, whom divine Providetict
was pleased to call away in the fadgli;
of a career of great usefulness to thf
church and to society. He was a foe
whom Prince Bismarck dreaded aad
had reason to dread — one of tiioce no
whom no weak point escapes, no sid«
issue can divert, no opponent con.
Adam Black and the monstrosity knoira
as the Siamese Twins died daring the
jrear.

And now the glance at the oudiae of
the general year and some of its chief in-
cidents is completed. With ereiy suc-
ceeding year we look forward with mort
anxiety than confidence into the hKiuv.
There are terrible forces, long concealed,
nearer the social surface than they ever
were before, and they come up now, as i
consequence probably, just when the gen-
eral bond that ought to hold the hoaua
family together is at the loosest; vbcn
men are ready to burst all bounds and
call everything in question ; and when
the lights of the age can only tell maa
that he is nothing more than a fortcritotif
cohesion of irresponsible atoms, begot-
ten of void only to fall back into it Thr
only bond that can bind the human iaa^
ily together is " the one law, oae feirh.
one baptism," preached nineteen ccsta-
ries ago in Judeca by the lips of the Soq
of God. And it is just that (aith that i«
now being as fiercely assailed as it ever
has been within the Christian era. Tberr
is not merely an arming of malerial foitr^
going on silently. There is a dash u
faith, of intellect, of moral princii^es. cf
all that guides and constitutes the idikt
and the greater life of man ; and of tbc
double collision, the material and cIk
spiritual, that seems to hang over us ^
make heavy with foreboding the air (<
all the world. Though supernatural \3^^
may not doubt as to the issue, hoiiun
weakness cannot but tremble and grow
faint at the prospect*

New Publuations.

573

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

OftiSMTAL AND Linguistic Studies. Sec-
•od Scries. By W. D. Whitney, Pro-
ISes^or of Sanscrit and Comparative
Philology in Yale College. New
York : Scribner, Armstrong & Co.

1874.

Yale College well deserves the name
of university in common with its great
riral. Harvard. The advance it has made
vitlilo the last twenty-five years is some-
iMiig really remarkable, and, to the great
hooor of its governing body, this advance
Ins kept pace in linguistic studies with
the hnprovement in the departments of
mathematics and physics. One of the
functions of a university is the produc-
tton of really learned and solid books for
the instruction of readers generally, as
well as students in particular branches.
The volume before us is a specimen of
this class. Whatever we may think of
v>mc of Prof. Whitney's theories and
opinions, we must acknowledge the evi-
dence of study, labor, and great care to
present the results of learning and
tlwaght on important and interesting
tttb)ects, which his works exhibit.

The contents of the present volume
sre somewhat varied and miscellaneous.
One of the topics treated of, which de-
•efves special attention, is the spelling
and pronunciation of the English lan-
Kttage. The variations of spelling are
001 so numerous and important as are
tkote of pronunciation, but in this latter
respect our language is certainly in a
Mate which is most unsatisfactory and
rexatious, and becoming every day worse.
We arc not an advocate of any revolu-
tionary project in regard to phonetic
tpdling, but we do most earnestly desire
a fixed and uniform standard, and still
more a rule of uniformity in pronuncia-
lion. ^ Mr. Whitney's researches into this
uibject are extremely curious, valuable,
and often arousing, and he shows a very
peculiar and ingenious facility of describ
ing and expressing the various oddities
And extravagances of individual or pro-
vincial usage. The question at once sug-
%t%x% itself whether there are any practi-
•^ble means of fixing a standard of spell-

ing and pronunciation. If it were ques-
tion of a language spoken by one nation
only, we can see very easily that an aca-
demy might be established which should
settle all these matters by authority. An
Englishman might assert the right of
England to determine all usages in re-
spect to the English language, and the
corresponding obligation of all English-
speaking peoples to conform to an au-
thoritative standard furnished by an aca-
demy in England. Americans might not
be satisfied wiih this. The further question
arises, therefore, whether it be possible
that English and American scholars
should do something concurrently in this
direction.

Mr. Whitney has given in some other
papers, with a condensed but clear expo-
sition, historical and philosophical views
of India and China which will probably
have more interest to the great body of
readers than any other portions of his vol-
ume. In respect to one very importai^t
aspect of these topics, the missionary as-
pect, he shows impartiality and manifest
effort to conform his statements and
judgments to historical facts and a real
rather than a fanciful standard. There
is no attempt to claim for Protestant
missions greater success than they have
had, and a very fair tribute of praise is
given to the celebrated Catholic mission-
aries who have labored in that arduous
field. Yet, like other Protestants, Mr.
Whitney shows himself not well informed
about the practical results at which Cath-
olic missionaries aim, and which, in so
far as that is possible, they accomplish,
in making their converts solidly pious
and virtuous Christians.

Among the other topics treated of in
this volume, the most important are
Milller's Chips from a German ^Vcrkshop,
Cox*s Arymn Mythology, and the ** Lunar
Zodiac of India, Arabia, and China." We
have not examined these and previous
essays of the learned author, in which the
formation of languages and mythologies
is treated of, with sufficient attention to
be enabled to understand clearly his fun-
damental theory of the origin and history

574

New Publications.

of religion. Wc therefore abstain from
any attempt at a critical judgment ; and,
in regard to Mr. Whitney's own special
department of Sanscrit^ very few critics
can safely venture on that ground. Thor-
ough and solid studies in these recon-
dite branches of knowledge must lead to
results advantageous to religion as well
as to merely human science. We rejoice,
therefore, in the noble and in many re-
spects successful efforts of Mr. Whitney
and his associates to promote the cause
of high education in this country. We
trust that their example may be emulated
by those who have the principal charge
of the higher education of our Catholic
youth. The English bishops have al-
ready inaugurated the University College
of Kensincjton with a faculty worthy of
Oxford or Cambridge. When will the
first steps be taken for a similar institu-
tion among ourselves?

The King's Highway ; or, The Catho-
lic Church the Way of Salvation,
AS Revealkd in the Holy Scriptures.
By the Rev. Augustine F. Hewit, of the
Congregaiicn of S. Paul. New York :
The Catholic Publication Society.
1874.

Tnis work of Rev. Father Hewit sup-
plies a want we have often felt in in-
structing converts to the church. There
are many sincere persons looking for
light, and dissatisfied with the religious
sect in which they were bom, who have
no idea of the church, nor the office it
holds in Ihe plan of redemption. The
denomination to which they belong has
never been of any use to them, and has,
in fact, disclaimed all power to guide or
help them. It requires often some time
to overcome their prejudice against any
kind of instrumentality between their
souls and God. They believe in the
Sacred Scriptures, which they have never
deeply studied, but which they hold to be
the oracles of divine truth. In their op-
position to the Catholic faith they have
been fighting against the only thing
which can fill up the desire of their
hearts, and bring into blessed harmony
all they know of God and all they seek
from his hands. To such -this book will
be as a messenger from heaven. It will
remove their doubts, and from the inspir-
ed writings will prove to them the error
of Protestant theories, and show how
Christ our Redeemer is only to be found
in his church, " which is his body,"

which •* he filleth all in all." Written in
the clear, graceful, and forcible stjU-
which distinguishes all the works of thr
author, it brings forth an argument which
no honest mind can resist. It poia[<
out " the King's highway," so pl.iinly
that " the wayfaring man, though a foot,
cannot fail to find it." The first chapters
are devoted to a refutation of the false
theories of Calvinism and Lutheranism.
By the plain language of the Bible tbt^
are shown to be opposed to the divint^
Word, contradictory of each other, and
hostile to the very nature and attribute*
of God. The true doctrine of redemption
is then set forth from the Scriptures, wirfi
the office of faith and the prerequisites of
justification. The whole system of sal-
vation, as ;he mercy of Jesus Christ ba»
revealed it, arises in its beauty and ful
ness before the eyes of the sincere, aiiu
the Catholic Church opens its door u*
the weary and heavy-laden, that theymav
enter in to praise God and find rest v^
their souls. We have nowhere s**a .1
more clear and effective demonstration
of our divine religion from the Scripture?;
We have only to pray that it may havt- a
large circulation among the honest in-
quirers after truth in this day of darkness
and infidelit}'. Protestants of the olJ
class profess a great reverence for tbt
Bible, which is to them a kind of niteoi
faith. The diligent reading of this work
will convince them that they cannot fol-
low the Scriptures and remain wherr
they are ; that Catholics alone can under
stand and obey the written Word of Gci.
Neither can they abide in the treed cl
their fathers amid the errors and disor-
ganizing infiuences of this day. Tbft
must go forward and keep the truth thcr
have already received by embracing a'l
to which it leads, or lose what thc>' have
in the misery of doubt and unbclid.
The day of grace for dogmatic Proic<i-
ants is well-nigh gone.

We have only to add the earnest wish
that Catholics generally would read thi-
book and profit by the instruction it con-
tains. There are very many aroon^ u*
who might lead others to the truib. t*
they were better informed as to tbc
grounds of their faith, and the points oJ
controversy which separate the contliii
ing Christian sects from the chnrr'i
Idleness and ignorance will be a fcaru
burden to bear before the Judge of a
The talent hidden in the ground will W
demanded with interest, and the unprt*!

New Publications.

575

able servant will have to answer for light
unimproved and grace unfruitful. The
souls we could have saved will rise up
against us in the day of our greatest need.
**Unto whomsoever much is given, of
him much shall be required.'*

T. s. p.

Trrse Essays on Religion. By John
Scaart Mill. New York : Henry Holt
ft Co. 1874.

What John Stuart Mill was, and what
Us life was, our readers have been aU
ittdy informed in a review of his Autobi-
' ^H^ify. The prince of modern English
flophists and sceptics, he was as misera-
He and hopeless in life and death as the
victin of an atheistical education might
be^pected to be ; as miserable as a man
omwardlj prosperous, enjoying the re-
lOiirces of a cultivated mind, and ex-
tpspted by the moral force of his charac-
lerfrom the consequences of gross crimes,
coatd well become. These three Essays
ar« essays of the unhappy sceptic to re-
daoe his readers to the* same miserable
condition. Their scope is to overturn,
noc revealed religion alone, but all
tbetfin : to destroy the belief in God ; and
to substitute the most dreary atheism,
btolism, and nihilism for the glorious,
elef;iting, consoling faith of the Christian,
wd ibc imperfect but yet, in itself, enno-
bling philosophy of the higher class of
ritionalists. It is a very bad sign for
otiT age, and a worse omen for the future,
tbaf men can profess atheism without
incuning public odium and disgrace, and
ihat respectable publishers find it for
their interest to flood the market with
the deadly literature which is worse than
that of France during the age of Bayle
and Voltaire. A large class of book-
♦etfers may always be found, not scrupu-
loas or over-sensitive in their consciences
about right and wrong in morals, when
monc)' is to be made. We suppose, how-
ever, that those of ihcm who expect to
make fortunes and transmit them to their
children would like to have the good
order of society continue. What can
*ach gentlemen be thinking of when
Ihcy help to lay the train under the
foundations of order and social morality ?
We know of a man who helped to run
hi« own bank, in which he had many
thousands of dollars invested, by dc-
nuoding specie for a hundred-dollar bill
'luring a panic. Old John Bunyan tells
'»f a certain person living in the town of

Mansoul whose name was Mr. Penny
wise pound-foolish. Every one who
helps on the spread of atheism, material-
ism, impiety in any shape, even if he
makes money or fame by it, is helping to
run his own bank. Moreover, he is help-
ing to train the generation of those who
will cut the throats of the whole class he
belongs to. We are just now very wise-
ly, though somewhat tardily, bringing the
odious Mormon criminals to justice, by
a kind of blind Christian instinct which
still survives in our public opinion.
What is the consistency or use of this,
if we are going to look on apathetically
and see the next generation all over our
country turned into atheists? Practical
atheism is worse than the most hideous
and revolting form of Mormonism. Why
mend a broken spar when mutineers are
scuttling the ship from stem to stern ?
Would it not be well for those conductors
of the press who have some principles
and some belief in them, for the clergy,
and for all who have access in some form
to the ear of a portion of the public, to
be a little more alive to the danger from
the spread of atheism, and a little more
active in counteracting it?

Pardon, gentlemen, for disturbing your
nap. You are very drowsy, but is it not
time for you to wake up ?

Eagle and Dove. From the French
of Mademoiselle Fleuriot, by Emily
Bowles. New York: P. O. Shea.
1874.

This is a story of Breton life and of the
events of the siege and the Commune of
Paris. It is superior to the common run
of stories in artistic merit, its characters
and scenes have a peculiar and romantic
interest, and its religious and moral tone
is up to the highest mark.

The Works of Aurelius Augusiink,
Etc. Vol. XI. Tractates on the Gos-
pel of S. John. Vol. II.; Vol. XII.
Anti-Pelagian works, Vol. II. Edin-
burgh: J. & J. Clark. 1874. (New
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica-
tion Society.)

Two more volumes of the splendid
edition of S. Augustine's works are here
presented, and deserve a warm welcome
It is difficult to see how they will serve
the cause of the Church of England, but
that is the affair of the editors, not ourK.
Of course they are mighty weapons for
High-Churcbxnen against their Low and

576

New Publications,

Kioucl Church antagonists. But they tell
equally against these same High-Church-
men in favor of the Catholic Church.
The treatise against Vincentius Victor, in
Vol. XII., is crowded with denunciations
of the Donatists, who arc the prototypes
of Anglicans, except in one respect, viz.,
tliat tlie former had valid orders.

Rhymes AND Jingles. (Illustraled.) By
Mary Mapes Dodge, author of Hans
Hrinker^ etc. New York: Scribner,
e Armstrong & Co. 1875.

This is a very pretty book for a Christ-
mas present. The rhymes are nice, and
such as will please,, amuse, sometimes
iusiruci the little folk of the nursery. The
illustrations are numerous and well ex-
ecuted, some funny, some remarkably
beautiful. Any little boy or girl who has
not already been surfeited with toys and
books may be made happy by such a
gill. Merry little people, a merr>* Christ-
mas to you ?

LiiiRARY OF THE Sacred Heart. Balti-
more : J. Murphy & Co. 1874.
This is something towards supplying
a s^rent need among Catholic publica-
tions. There are numerous and beauti-
ful series of books issued by the secta-
rian press, but comparatively few by
(\iihoUc publishers. Any one who has
had to procure Catholic libraries knows

this want. Such series are great aids
in supphing Sunday-school or faoose-
hold libraries. We welcome the abort-,
and trust it will be followed by others of
the same kind. Much credit is due m
the publishers for their selection and tb.
neat appearance of the volumes. Thr
selection comprises six small and ciioirf
spiritual works. God our Faiker and ik«
Happiness of Heaven^ by the same auibor.
have been noticed with high praise d
our columns. The others also are stand-
ard works. We recommend this " Librarv
of the Sacred Heart," and hope it will t'e
appreciated. It is contained in a ncai
and tasteful box.appropr:atelyomamcni-
ed with pious emblems of the Sirred
Heart.

Bric-a-Brac Series — No. IV. : Pkeson-

AL REMtNISCENCES BY BaRHAM, HaK
NESS, AND HODDER. Ncw York

Scribner. Armstrong & Co. 1874.

This is quite up to the mark of tbt
foregoing volumes, and full of Tcrr
agreeable anecdotes, criticisms, anJ
literary chit-chat.

Announcement. — We shall begin, nni
month the publication of a new serial
story, entitled Are you my Wifef by the
author of Paris before the War, Number
Thirteen, A DaugkUr pf S, IK-mime, Fins
F/., etc, etc.

Literary Bulletin.

*9or A series of resden for use in CatboUo
NftoQls exclaf^irely, this series is gotten up with
taste sod enterprise, and J ndicionsly graded, and
MttpOed. The paper is good, binding fair, mar-
|)m too narrow for symmetry, and illastrations

XsATing oat of acconnt the religions selec-
M, the pieces are rather better calculated to
and instmct than those of many books

intended for nse In pnblic schools, reminding ns
of the beantiful books of reading- lessons used in
the national schools of Great Britain and Ire-
land.

*^In the lower books the lessons are arranged
for soand, not for sense, though the selection of
easy words is happy. As compared with Catholic
readers in general, they are the best in the
market/*

BOOKS OF THE MONTH,

Okosb this head we intend to give a list of all
iNaew Catholic Books published in this country
kHhsBonth, as well as all those published in Eng-
^ a»d for sale here. Publishers will please

send a special copy to the publisher for the pur-
pose of having its title inserted here. All the
books mentioned below can be ordered of Ths
Cathouc Publication Soaarr.

NEW AMERICAN BOOKS.

IJ« Kinq's Highway ; or, Tlie Catholic
Church the Way of Salvation, as Revealed in
the Holy Scriptures. By the Rev. A. F.
Hewit, ol" the Congregation of St. Paul. New
Terk : The Catholic Publication Society, i
vol. tsmo ^/ 60

iFOREIGN BOOKS.

2h€ Moti Ancient Ziret of Si. Tairick,

New York : P. J. Kenedy., i vol. i6mo,

Sf 00

A Treaiige on ike ,Sixieen JVames of Ire-

tand. New York : P. J. Kenedy, i vol.

i8mo ^... 00 ctt.

€kMisione Conirorersy, ' *' x. '—Expostula-
tioa in Extremis { or. Remarks on Mr. Glad-
strae's Political Expostulation on the Vatican
Decrees, in their Bearing on Civil Allegiance.
By the Right 1-Ion. Lord Robert Montagu,
M.P f. S/ 00

Cimdsioue Conirorersy. **j."— The Vatican
Decrees and Catholic Allegiance. A Reply to
Mr. Gladstone's Political Expostulation. By

: A Monk of Su Augustine's, Ramsgate.50 eit»

I3# Prisoner of the Temple; or. Discrowned
and Crowned. By M. C. O'Connor Morris.

S'J 25

U P^puiar Mi$iory of the Ineurreetion of

t7»s :.... Sf as

Turyaiory Surreyedf or, A Particular Ac-
count of the Happy and yet Thrice Unhappy
Suie of the Souls There. Edited by Dr. An-
derdon ^/ 60

Margaret ^oper ; or. The Chancellor and
Hfa Daughter S3 00

the Choice of a Slate of Zife, By the late
Blihop of Bruges Sf 60

Bfmne of the Church. Translated from the
Original into English Vierse. By Rev. John
_WJW. D.D SJ^ J96

The Ter feet L<^ brother. By Felix Cum-

oJfdo S2 26

^toieetani Joumalitm. By the author of

'* My Clerical Friends." i vol. 8vo ^6 00

Uft ofS. Sior. Cotombini. By Fco Belcari.

Tnuolated from the editions of 1541 and iS^a.

, Crown 8vo, with a Photograph Sf 76

l^nhdall^s MonasUcon Mibemicon.

Edited by Dr. M man. Vol.1 S^O 60

thet of the Irish Saints. By Rev. J. O'Han-

wtt. Nos. lyi^^, 4,5 now ready. Price per No.

60 cts.
Uotmres on CathoHo Faith and Traelice.

By Rev. J. N, Sweeney, O.S.B. 3 vols. ^4 60
tHreeiory for Varices of every Heliqious

Order, particularly those Deroted to the

JSdmtation of TouU Sf »6

iitmmer Talks about Lourdes. By Miss

Ciddell 0^ 00

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Bituale Romanum^

IWITH THE

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A NEW a:

nd^omp:

LETB RUBRICATED EDIT10N.2

THE UDdcrBi^ed have the pleasnre of annonncine to the Catholic Clersy of the United States a work
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THE APPENDIX —What makes this edition of the Ritual especially worthy of patronaee l« rt*e
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'/I

ANNOUNCEMENT FOR 18

-*«♦•»>

The OatUuUr Publiration Soric^ty lian in jm
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I A Letter to tlie Duke of ITorfoIk on the Oocasioii of

<ilH<lHtone*» recent ExpoHukiioo, By JcvUn Henry Nm»

II The Vatican Decrees and Civil Allegiance. By llii it nil

Arch his hop Munuing*
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EtL The OfEce of Holy Week, in ronlinpr U\ the Ktinmw 3ili^'a
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aiul cnhirgcd ediflori, imd will be priulrtl from iargv* Ijrpr- 1
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IV The Mistress of Ko^ices {♦iilightf*t>o«l upon Uvr Un\
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V. Deharbe*8 Complete Catechism, Tnui*li4i**U Uy Fiuide

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SACRUM SEPTENARIUMi or. The Seven Gift* of tiio Urtlj C*
exemplified in tliu Llf<> tmtl Person of the Bloisi^d Viriflo Hmj, for uui f*'
and iDKtniGtJon of Cbildreo. By Ke7. i1<'tiir7 Fonmb/. 1 rot. Itttnu . .

THE nxnSTRATEB OATHOUO FAMILY ALMAKAO for Ifl

The Catholic Publication Society.

UAWREKCE KEHO£, Gen. Agent*

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THE

lATHOLIC WORLD.

■

VOL. XX., No. 119.— FEBRUARY, 1875.

7RCH AUTHORITY AND PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY:

FROM AUBREY DE VKRE TO SARA COLERIDGE ON THE CATHOLIC PHTLOSO-
OF THE " RULE OF FAITH," CONSIDERED ESPECIALLY WITH REFERENCE TO
VHS TRANSCENDENTAL SYSTEM OF S.

JITTER to me, printed in the

ir of Sara Coleridge^ and dated

er 19,^1851, contains the fol-

Bg passage : " Viewing the Ro-

system as you do, my dear

, I cannot regret that you

as you do, of the compati-

* of my father's scheme of phi-

liy therewith, assured, as I feel,

rbe had done that Papal system

>much justice to believe in it

^divine institution" (vol. ii. p.

•NOTK FROM THE AuTHOR.

CuRRAGH Chase, Adare,
Ireland, Nov. 04, 1874.
b Asn> DsAit Sir • The public has taken recent-
\ idcsenred interest in the Mewoir and Let-
ra Ccitridie that it has struck mc that the
H: letters which I wrote to her before mak-
nbmlsaion to the Catholic Church, In which
ibily my reasons for taking that step, might
r to many enquirers.

of Sara Coleridge's Letters have often

, •* But where is your port of the correspon-

They may perhaps be glad to read at least

; letters, to which many of hers were re-

I send you, with some preliminary re-
'Ihis day, by Iwok-post. It is quite at your
IT yon think it worth publishing in The
World. ...
1 reonin very truly yours,

AUBXBY vu Vbrb.

T. COLERIDGE. *

401). From my youth I had beJPan
ardent student of Coleridge's phi-
losophy, to the illustration of which
his daughter, indifferent to her own
literary fame, so faithfully devoted
her great powers. That philosophy
had largely inspired F. D. Mau-
rice's remarkable work. The King-
dom of Christ s and I believed firm-
ly that it was, at least as compared
with the empirical philosophy of
the last century, in harmony with
Catholic teaching, rightly under-
stood ; and that the objections made
against that teaching were such as
a transcendentalist must regard as
proceeding, not from any intuitions
or ideas of the "reason," but from
the cavils of that notional under-
standing called by Colerid'ge "the
faculty judging according to sense."
I have lately found a letter written
by me to my lamented friend less
than a fortnight after her letter
quoted above, and about a fortnight
before I made my submission to the
Catholic Church. It may interest

■ceordlng to Act of CongTMs, in the year 1875* by ReV. I. T. Hrckbr, io the OflBce of
the Librarian of Coogrest, at Washington, D. C.

578

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility.

some of those who have read Sara
Coleridge's letters, and who are
enquirers as to the method proper
for reaching solid conclusions in
the domain of truth not scientific
and discovered by man, but re-
ligious, and revealed to him.

It was my object to show that
the Catholic " rule of faith " does
not oppose, but alone adequately
vindicates, some great principles
with which it has been contrasted,
e,g,y personal action, the depend-
ence of individual souls on divine
grace, religious freedom, zeal for
truth, the interior character of gen-
uine piety, and the value of "in-
ternal evidences." That "rule"
has been stigmatized as a bondage.
This is the illusion of those who,
reading the church from without,
any under the influence of modem
and national traditions, see but a
part of her system, and have not
compared it with other parts. The
Catholic law of belief I endeavor-
ed to set forth as the only one
consistent with a sound philosophy
when treating of things supernatu-
ral, and as such beyond the method
of induction and experiment, while
it is also both -primitive and Scrip-
tural. I wished to show that it is
the only means by which we can
possess the revealed truth with cer-
tainty and at once in its fulness
and its purity ; and to illustrate it
as not alone our gate of access to
truth " spiritually discerned," but
the nurse and the profectress of our
whole spiritual life, with all its re-
deemed affections ; as opposed, not
to personal action and responsibil-
ity, or to a will free and strong, be-
cause loyal, but to an unintelligent
pride and to a feeble self-will, the
slave of individual caprice ; as the
antrigonist, not of what is transcen-
dent and supernatural in religion,
but of a religious philosophy in

which the philosophy exalts itself
against the religion, " running after'*
revelation to " take somewhat of it,^
but not inheriting its blessing.

Twenty-three years have pa^f
since my letter was written ;lfc
year after year has deepened in mt
the convictions which it cxpressc%
or rather which it indicates in I
fragmentary way, and possibly ool
with a technical accuracy. In to
church I have found an ever-deep-
ening peace, a freedom ever widen*
ii^g) ^ genuine and a fruitful method
for theological thought, and a tniA
which brightens more and moit
into the perfect day. External t&
her fold, it is but too probable thit
I should long since have drifted
into unbelief, though a reluctant
and perhaps unconscious unbelief.

After some prelimirx^ry matter,
referring to our earlier discussions,
the letter continues as follows:

Divine faith is a theologicrf
virtue, the gift of God, which rais-
es the spirit to believe and confess
with a knowledge absolutely cer^
tain^ though obscure in kind, the.
whole truth which God has frwrf
ed to man. Such is the desaiptui$
which Roman Catholic writers gitc-
of a grace which cannot be defmL
The knowledge of faith is as cc»-,
tain as that of mathematics, btti'
wholly different in kind, inclndnf-
a moral and spiritual power, a&ct-
ing (if it be living faith) tIc
mind and will at once, as light aa#
heat are united in the sunbeaa^
and containing, like the sunbeuSr
many other secret properties als^j
It far transcends the certainty of
any one of our senses, each cl
which may deceive us. It is als«
essentially different from that intA-
lectual vision which belongs to tbt
kingdom of glor)', not of grace or
of nature. Its nearest analogon »
human faith, through which v«

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility,

579

believe that we are the children of
our reputed parents, and on which,
and not on demonstration, the ba-
sis of human life is laid. But it dif-
li||| essentially also from hu^n
mku It is supernatural, not natu-
ral. It is certain, not uncertain,
la its application to supernatural
objects it is wholly independent of
jiBAgination or enthusiasm ; and it
krogs us into real intercourse
with objective truth. False reli-
gions rest on that which simulates
divine faith, and may^ even among
Christians, so fill its place that the
iWcrence is not discernible to hu-
fttn eyes — a mixture of human
futh with aspiration, imagii)ation,
ttd the other natural faculties. True
itligion carries with it the special
fiwulty by which it is capable of
keing realised, and thus makes a
Kvclation which they but seemed
to make. But this faculty is not
inatural one awakened, but a su-
pernatural one bestowed, its ordi-
Ittry antecedents being the corre-
sponding moral virtues of humility
lad purity, ancP the exercise of
\^man faith and other devout af-
fections, themselves stimulated by
I different and inferior kind of
|iacc, bestowed on the whole fam-
\l even of un regenerate man. Be-
Wes the antecedent conditions for-
lecciving, other conditions are neces-
■ty for the realization and right
ipplication of the divine and illu-
Binating grace. These conditions
»e not arbitrary, but spring from
he necessities of our whole na-
urc, both individual and corpo-
^c. They are ordinarily the in-
fividual co-operation of will, mind,
ad heart, and an attitude of wili-
ng submission to God, or the pro-
'hct through whom the objects of
uth arc propounded to us by him.
rhis prophet was the Messiah him-
cU while he walked on earth, and

was the Apostolic College from the
day of Pentecost. He continues
to address us, in a manner equally
distinct, through that church in
whom, as catholic and yet one, the
unity of the Apostolic College (one
in union with Peter) still abides.
That church is the body of Christ ;
and we are introduced at once into
it and him through baptism. The
visible rite corresponds with the
invisible grace bestowed through
it, just as the church itself is at
once the spiritual kingdom of
"Jjeace, and the visible "mountain
of the Lord's house " elevated to
the summit of the mountains,
and as man himself, consists of soul
and body.

That church, inheriting a belief
which it never invented or di^ov-
ered, confesses Christ, and con"s-
es also that she is Christ's repre-
sentative on earth. She challen-
ges individual faith, and proposes
to it the one object of dogmatic
belief. That one object is the
whole Christian faith, as it has
hitherto been, or ever may be, au-
thentically defined. Whether it be
believed implicitly^ as by the pea-
sant, or explicitly^ as by the doctor,
makes no difference whatever, rela-
tively to faith^ though it may af-
fect edification, which needs a due
proportion between our intellectu-
al and moral gifts. In each case
alike (i) the whole faith is held ;
(2) is held bond fide^ as revealed
by God ; (3) is held wholly by super-
natural faith ; (4) affords thus a
basis for the supernatural life of
hope and charity. ** Fundamentals,"
as distinguished from " non-essen-
tials," there are none, /.^., objec-
tively. All Christian truths are
in each other by implication, as
Adam's race was in the first pa-
rent. They are yet more tran-
scendently in each other, for each

58o

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility,

contains ill. To receive one by
divine faith is to receive all. To
deny one, when competently pro-
posed to us by the authority which
speaks in God's name, is to deny
all, unless circumstances beyond
our will have deceived our mind
respecting that authority or its
message. The whole objective
faith will probably never be recog-
nized, till in the icingdom of glory
it flashes upon us in its unity. In
the kingdom of grace (in via^ not
in patrid) it is defined in propor-
tion to the moral and intellectual
needs of the church. It is defined,
not as a science, but from neces-
sity, and to meet the gainsaying of
heresy. The endeavor of the
church is to preserve the treasure
co|^ed to her. // cannot in-
crelRe, but the knowledge of it
must. Subjectively, the knowledge
is progressive as man is progres-
sive ; but objectively it is un-
changing as God is eternal. The
whole, defined and undefined, is
essential and one. The whole is
needed for the race, that the race
may retain Christ, its head. The
knowledge of the whole is needed
by each according to his circum-
stances. The entire belief of the
entire truth, implicitly^ is necessary
for each individual. Ordinarily,'
and except in the case of involun-
tary error, that entire belief of the
whole is realized through a sub-
mission (absolute but free^ filial,
and necessitated by all our Chris-
tian sympathies and spiritual affec-
tions, as well as by obedience) to
her who is God's representative,
visible, on earth.

The existence of that visible
church is wholly irrespective of
our needing an expositor of dog-
matic faith. Its character is de-
termined (i) by the character of
God, whom it images alike in his

unity and his plurality; (2) bv
the character of Christianity, which
is communicated to the race^ and to
the individual in and with the body,
so ^at nothing that he holds z2xAt
held singly^ except what is pcfSh
able ; and (3) by the character of
man, who graduates in a certain
order, and who, as a mixed being,
is taught after a fashion that cter
exalts the meek and raises Ac
moral faculties above the intellec-
tual in endless elevation, howcTcr
high the latter may ascend. But
among its other functions, the visi-
ble church has that of presenting
to the infused habit of faith what
otherwise it would seek for in vain*
i.e., a dogmatic authority which, ia
act, it can rise to, cleave to, and
live by. If Christ reigned visibly
on earth, he would need no such
representative. If Christ, as the
Eternal Reason, inspired each man,
as well as enlightening him, he
need never have assumed flesh. H
the Holy Ghost inspired each man
as he did the prophets and apostles
(instead of commifnicating to him
the grace of faith, planting him in
the church, feeding him with the
Lord's body, quickening his devout
affections, etc.), then there would be
no need for the church, as a dog-
matic authority, nor for theJTi^
Scriptures, If the Bible were a
plain book ; if the nature of truth
were such that it could be divided
into fundamental and non-essential;
if one doctrine could be believed,
while another, involved in it, is de-
nied, then, perhaps, private judg-
ment might extract from the Bible
as much as an individual require
Again, if supernatural faith were
not requisite, but human faith,
founded on evidence, and generatiDi
opinion, sufficed, then private judg^
ment, availing itself of all /farm;-
helps suggested by prudence, coulu

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility,

581

buildup on the Bible, on philosophy,
on ecclesiastical traditions, and on
the public opinion of the day, a cer-
tup scheme of thought on sacred
sBDJects, round which the affections
would cluster, to which devout as-
sociations would cling, which the
understanding might formalize, im-
agination brighten, enthusiasm ex-
nit in, prudence recommend. But
these are all suppositions, not re-
alities. Private " inspiration " is
known to be a fallacy- " Reason "
cannot make reasonable men agree ;
and every one who has any portion
in reason knows that what is dis-
puted for ages is disputable, and
that what is not truth to all cannot
be truth absolute and certain, on
the ground of reason, to any one.
Uncertain opinion cannot be super-
natural faith. Spiritual discernment
cannot lead us to the finer appre-
ciation of doctrine while we remain
ignorant as to whether it be a par-
ticular doctrine or the opposite
doctrine that challenges our faith.

But, on the 'Other hand, if an
authority speaks in God's name, it
may be really commissioned by
him. If so commissioned, it may
be believed by us. If believed, ail
parts of its message are equally
certain. This hypothesis obviously
admits of an objective faith certain
throughout, and only for that reason
certain at all. If a revelation were
to be founded on faithy this would
afford faith a sphere, I speak of it
now as but an hypothesis. I claim
for it that it is reasonable.

It is objected that such belief
could be but an amiable and use-
ful credulity at best, since it would
not be founded on insight and
spiritual discernment. It is thus
that Hindoos and Mahometans be-
lieve; and their belief would be
worthless, but that by God's mercy
lome fragments of truth and some

gleams of reason are mixed up with
their systems. The objection wholly
ovclooks the fact that ex hypothesi
the prophet and her message are
believed, not with a human faith,
but with a divine faith. Faith is
inclusively the gift of spiritual dis-
cernment, though it is also much
more. What faith receives must be
spiritually disceiped. It can dis-
cern in no other way.

But, it is objected, the plain fact
is that multitudes do not spiritually
discern or appreciate what they
thus receive. No doubt. Nothing
is more possible than that they
should receive with only a human
faith what yet is divinely address-
ed to a divine faith. They have,
then, opportunities which they have
not yet used. Multitudes of R#nan
Catholics have doubtless, like mul-
titudes of Protestants, opinion only,
not certainty, while the sensation of
certainty is in both cases illusory,
and proceeds from positiveness of
temper or sluggishness of mind.*
To possess the means of realizing
and maintaining faith compels no
man to 'have faith; otherwise, like
intuitions irrespective of the will,
it would merit nothing and include
no probation. Faith and the guide
of faith are both offered to the
Catholic ; but he must co-operate
with grace, as with Providence, to
profit by either.

But how, it is asked, can we by
such a process have a spiritual dis-

*ThU statement is ambiguous. There are
doubtless many persons, who have been brought
up Catholics, who have never formally lenounced
the Catholic profession, and who are ready to de-
clare their belief of many Catholic doctrines, but
who doubt or disbelieve some one or xsaat, articles of
Oeuth, and have ceased to give unreserved allegiance
to the authority of the church. Such persons have
lost iaith, and are not really Catholics, though they
may call themselves by the name, and still enjoy
seme of the rights of members of the church. But
every baptised member of the churdi has, at least,
the habit of faith, if he has not destroyed it by a
contrary act, >./., by a formal sin against faith.—
Ed. C. W.

582

Church Autliority and Personal Responsibility,

cernment of the doctrine by which
we are challenged ? Are we not in
the position, after all, of Hindoos ? I
answer, Christianity resembles many
false religions in this respect : that it
comes to us on what claims to be au-
thority, and challenges our submis-
sion ; but it differs from them in this
all-important respect : that others
are false, and it is trlie. It being true,
the human mind, which, so far as it
retains the divine image, is in sym-
pathy with truth, has a ///<?ra/ appre-
ciation of its truth, and, when illu-
minated by faith, \\2iS 2l spiritual dis-
cernment of it. No one who, after
years of wandering in erroneous
paths, comes at last to contemplate
the doctrine of the Trinity from a
new point of view, and accepts it
on ^hat he trusts is a spiritual dis-
cernment of it, can doubt that he
could equally have discerned its
truth years before had he been led
by the church to the same point of
view, and gifted from above with
that light which removes the sen-
suous film. He could not indeed,
on the authority of the church,
spiritually receive or hold, with
genuine faith, something in itself
false and absurd. But then pari
of the hypothesis IS that the church
can propound no doctrinal error.
Neither could the definition give
faith. But then it does not pro-
fess to do so ; it but shapes aild
directs faith. As little could the
authority of the church give faith.
It makes no .such profession ; it but
challenges faith. It is the insepara-
ble condition of faith : God is its
source. The human mind, co-oper-
ating with grace, receives faith, and
at the same time is confronted with
a distinct, palpable object of faith.
So touched, it becomes the mirror of
truth ; and its belief is exclusively
a personal and internal act, though
performed with the instrumentality,

not only of an outward agency, but
of dispecific external agency, /Y.,thf
church. The same Divine Spirit
actj at once externally and intenul-
ly — externally in the church, which
it commissions, instructs, and keeps
one; internally in the indindaal
mind, which it kindles, illuminates,
attracts, and (dissolving the tyranny
of self-love) lifts up into freedom
and power. The Holy Spirit, then,
is at once the root of faith in the
individual, and of unity in the
church. This doctrine may be
objected to as ideal ; but surd?
not as carnal. Assuredly it i$
Scriptural.

But, it is rejoined, " supposing
that the divine message may be
spiritually discerned when it is de-
voutly accepted, and thus accepted
as a whole, when it would otherwise
be accepted but in part (and then,
perhaps, with but a partial faitb),
still how are we to know that the
authority is divine ? If no belief,
however sound, is faith, unless it
(ist) believes, and (2d) truly kUeviSy
that it rests on divine testimony and
listens to God himself, how is this
prophet to be recognized? The
world abounds in claimants to in-
fallibility, though the Christian world
has but one. The apostles indeed
claimed it ; but then they wronghi
miracles, and the miracles proted
the authority." I answer that mir-
acles proved nothing by way of
scientific demonstration ; but thnt
they ivitnessed to the supematuriJ
character of the teacher and iht
doctrine. If the divine message
could be proved to the reason, it
would rest on science, not on faiu
and the whole Christian schenit
would be reversed, belief beconiir.:
a necessary and natural act. Mir-
acles challenged faith, but couli
only be received by faith, sina
they might always be referred t:

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility.

583

imposture or evil spirits, both
classes of agency abounding in the
time of Simon Magus as now. It
is begging the question to assume
Aat miracles do not take place
now; but, even conceding thus
much, the church has still at least
as high credentials as the apostles
had. Their miracles constituted
bnt evidence ; and evidence which
cteates opinion can but challenge
faith, not extort it. In place of
that evidence we have now the
** notes of the church": its apos-
lolicity, its catholicity, its tmity,
its sanctity, its heroic history, its
wonderful promulgation, its martyrs,
its doctors, its schoolmen ; com-
munities moulded by it ; races unit-
ed by it; sciences and arts first
nourished by it ; civilization and
freedom produced by it, and, amid
all the changes of the world, the
lame great doctrines and sacra-
ments retained by it. We can hard-
Ij doubt that the one stupendous
f^t of the church is as strong an
•fped to the faith of a man (and
our Lord himself did but appeal to
faith) as that made by an apostle
at Athens, when, rising up in a
mixed multitude of disputatious
Greeks, Eastern sorcerers, Roman
conjurers, and Jewish refugees, he
assured them that he had been
«ent by the unknown God to preach
what to the Greeks was foolishness :
that One who was crucified had
also worked miracles and risen from
the dead, . . . that his kingdom,
and not the Roman, was to crown
the world; and that all this was
the fulfilment of Jewish i^ophecy,
though the Jewish nation disowned
that kingdom, and had slain its
Head. He spoke ofglories to come:
the church speaks of triumphs that
have been. He suggested an ex-
periment : the church has tried
and proved it. He was accused of

blasphemy, superstition, atheism,
insubordination ; so is she. He
must have confessed that inspira-
tion was not given to him alone,
but to the Apostolic College ; atid
he could have brought no imme-
diate and scientific proof that he
and his scattered brethren agreed
in the same doctrine, even as to
" essentials." The church's practi-
cal unity of doctrine is a mat-
ter of notoriety, and is account-
ed for by the imputatioi^ of ty-
ranny, formalism, etc. It is an
understatement to affirm that^ on
the Roman Catholic hypothesis^ that
church challenges faith with the aid
of as strong evidential witness
as an apostle possessed. But the
quantum of evidence is not the
question. The greatest amount of
it cannot give faith, the least may
elicit it ; and at what periods the
.world requires most evidence we
know not. The important fact is
that the church which claims for its
centre the apostolic see, does chal-
lenge faith just as an apostle did,
or as the whole apostolic college
did ; that she is apostolic, not mere-
ly by having the succession, but by
using the authority, and by acting
just as she must act if, as she af-
firms, the whole college, in union
with Peter, lived on in her. She too
claims all and gives all. She too
says, " Through me you may exer-
cise divine faith when you receive,
* by hearings* the message of God ;
for I am his apostle. What I saw
and heard, what L handled and
tasted, that, as a sure witness, I re-
port. It was I who cast my nets
on the Galilean shore when I was
called. I heard that question, * But
whom say ye that / am .> ' I knelt
on the Mount of Transfiguration
when the suppressed glory broke
forth and the law and the pro-
phets were irradiated. I joined in

584

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility.

that Last Supper. I stood beside
his cross, and received his mother
as my mother. I reached forth my
hand, and put my fingers into the
print of the nails. I received the
charge, saw the ascension, felt the
Pentecostal tongues, -delivered my
message, sealed it with my blood,
and still stand up, delivering it for
ever, and sealing it with my blood
and with his." This is the claim
the church makes, and the same
was made by the a|>ostle. Both
alike are subject to the rejoinder,
" High claims do not prove them-
selves ; and the competitors for in-
fallibility are many." Both alike
answer : " If my message be false,
you could not realty and vitally be-
lieve in me, even though you would.
If my message be true, you may be-
lieve in me, but I cannot compel
you to do so." It is not more won-
derful that there should be rival
priesthoods than rival creeds. There
are many false because there is one
true. Authority has commonly
been claimed even by spuriou^ re-
ligions, because the instinct of the
human race, which is reason, per-
ceived that if God vouchsafed a
revelation to man, it would be both
given and sustained through man,
and not merely through a book.

From the above statements thus
much at least is clear: (i) that the
Protestant controversy with Rome
does not respect the uttimaie source
of beliefs which, by the admission
of both sides, is to be referred to
the Holy Spirit alone ; but does
respect this question, viz., whether,
since an external agency is admit-
ted to be in every case instrumental-
ly but absolutely necessary for faith,
that aid be not given to us by God,
and given in the form of one, speci-
fic instrument, not any one that
comes to hand — something easily
known by outward marks which

plainly solicit attention, not a pio-
teus that changes almost as the in-
dividual mind changes. The ques-
tion is whether the something ex-
ternal confessedly essential betlie
church of God and temple of the
Spirit, speaking intelligibly and with
authority, in the majesty of its \'isi-
ble unity ; or be whatever sect or
teacher may represent to plastic
minds the public opinion of die
place and time.

And (2) it is equally plain that
Rome, in denouncing the principle
of private judgment (except so far
as, in dbnormat circumstances, we
are reduced to it, or something like
it, while testing the claims of au-
thority ), is in no degree disparaging
individual intuition, but simply iiW-
ing the conditions, external as weD as
internal, under which it can be ef-
fectually and permanently realized.
To see with another's eyes, not
one's own, is an absurd aspiration
which could not have made itself
good for the greater part of the
Christian era, over the greater part
of the Christian world. But a nun
may use his own eyes, though to-
gether with them he uses a tele-
scope, and his own ears, though he
listens to the voice of a prophet in-
stead of his own voice, or his domi-
neering neighbor's.

The Roman Catholic doctrine of
authority does not assume that we
cannot, even without that authority,
have sonte insight into divine things
We can see the moon without a
telescope, though not the stars of a
nebula. But in theology partid
gleams of intelligence are not suffi-
cient for even their own perma-
nence. Implicitly or explicitly, wc
must hold the whole to hold a part
Truth is a vast globe which we
may touch with a finger, but cannoi
clasp in both hands. It eludes us,
and we possess it but by be n^

Church Authority and Ptrsonal Responsibility.

585

jossessed by it. We must be
Irawn into the gravitation of its
iphere and made one with it We
ire thus united with it if in union
ritii the church, to which it is
pven. We then see it all around
1% as we see the world we live in —
lot by glimpses and through mists,
ts we see a remote star. This is the
i^ailiolic's faith. Everything con-
inns everything in his world. " One
lay telleth another, and one night
:crtifieth another." "Sea calleth
mto sea.'* The firmament above
lis head " declares " the glory of
^k)d, and the chambers of the deep
M» statutes. A Catholic indeed
us his varying moods, and his " dry
Boods," and his eager questionings
an points not revealed ; but his
faith does not rise and fall with
tkis temperament. The foundation^
It least, of his spiritual being, is a
rock.

Neither does the Roman Catho-
lic doctrine deny that a man might
conceivably, though not practically,
without the aid of authority, grasp
the whole of theology as far as it
bas been yet defined. But it de-
dares that such knowledge, if thus
acquired, would not be the know-
ledge possessed by faith, but by
opinion ; that it would rest partly
on science, partly on mere human
faith, partly on enthusiasm (so far
as the sensitive appreciation of it
went) ; and that, not being divine
faith, it could not perform the gen-
uine functions of faith. The intel-
lectual region might feast with
Dives, while the spiritual starved
with Lazarus. This is, in a greater
or lesser degree, the case with many,
both among those who profess the
]>rinciple of private judgment and
those who profess to obey author-
ity. In the very region of faith
opinion may simulate faith, just as
presumption may simulate hope and

benevolence simulate charity. The
most mysterious part o^ our pro-
bation is this: that under all cir-
cumstances and in all things na-
ture may mimic grace, and pretence
ape virtue. We may seem to our-
selves angels, and be nothing;
even as Christ himself, and his
church no less, seem^ to the eye of
sense, the opposite of what they
are, when insight is lacking or the
point of view is determined by pre-
judice or a false tradition.

The Roman Catholic theory does
not deny the force of internal evi-
dence. It but says that such evi-
dence, being a matter of moral /^^Z-
ingy is to be inwardly appreciated ra-
ther than logically set forth, and that
it is often most felt when most un-
consciously. A parent's authority
is not the less attested by the moral
sense of the child and by his af-
fections, though he does not con-
sciously reflect on that part of its
evidence ; while yet he cannot be
ignorant that all the neighbors be-
lieve that those who claim to be
his parents are such in reality.
Catholic teaching does not concede
that, as argument, any evidence is
necessary for those brought up in
the true fold and gifted from child-
hood with faith, which is itself the
evidence of things not seen. It
does not believe that any gifts con-
fined to a few can give a higher
faith than is open to all " men of
good-will." But it does believe that
for simple and learned alike one
external condition is necessary,
viz., that the doctrine to be be-
lieved should be ^\%\\Xiz\\^ proposed
by an authority believed (on super-
natural faith) to speak in God*s
name; so that from first to last
faith should be, not a credulity
founded on fancy, on fear, or on
self-love, but a ^theological virtue "
believing in God^ in all that he re-

586

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility.

veals^ as revealed by him^ and in no-
thing else. Evidences arc not any-
thing that can compel faith or be
a substitute for it ; but they have
commonly a very important place,
notwithstanding, in the divine eco-
nomy. Their place is among the
motives of faith. These intellectual
motives are the character of Christ
and of the faith ; the character of
the church and its propagation — in
other words, internal and external
evidence. The moral motives are
such as the spiritual safety of Chris-
tian obedience, the peace and joy
of believing, tha^ dignity Christian-
ity confers on human nature, etc.

One circumstance which the
Protestant theory forgets is that
all knowledge of divine things is
not necessarily faith. Angelic
knowledge and that of the trium-
phant church is vision, not faith,
and differs from faith either in es-
sence or in inseparable accidents.
The knowledge we have of God
through natural theology, however
true, is not, therefore, identical with
divine faith. Irrespectively of
Christianity, a belief in God pre-
cedes speculations, and comes to
children chiefly by faith in what
they hear from their parents. They
could not, indeed, believe their pa-
rents equally if their own minds
were not in harmony with such a
belief; but in their case, too, au-
thority is commonly a condition of
believing. By faith, says S. Paul,
"we know that the worlds were
made." That knowledge comes to
us both through testimony and by
intuitions. The "heavens declare
the glory of God " ; but they de-
clare it, not prove it scientifically ;
and the Psalmist had the patriarchal
tradition and Mosaic revelation, as
well as his intuitions, and as their
interpreter. Natural theology we
accept by human faith concurring

with natural lights and that k)wcr
degree of grace which compasses the
whole world. Divine faith, S. Paul
tells us, requires an outward ofgas,
too, not for its promulgation onl]^
but for its certainty, "He gave
some apostles, some pastors, etc*
" that we be not driven about wi4
every unnd of doctrine**' Codi
this effect have been realized if
apostle had preached against ^at
tie, and each prophet had said to
his neighbor " I, too, am a prophet,*
and bear an opposite message? Sb
Paul says that the hierarchy is or-
dained not only for edification, bi<
to make faith certain. It can (mlf
do that in its unity. Had certain-
ty been unnecessary, or had ttasm
been its organ, no hierarchy wouM
have been elevated to constitttte
the church representative.

The Protestant theory (it may
be so spoken of with reference to
the great main points included it
most forms of Protestantism) as-
sumes that the one great character-
istic of faith is its being a power of
" spiritual discernment " or an in-
tuition of spiritual truth. This is
to put a part of the truth in place
of the whole. This attribute of
faith is asserted by the charcfa
also; but her conception of feith
is founded on a larger appreciation
of the Holy Scriptures and of nun's
compound nature.

Faith indeed becomes a spiritual
seeing ; but it comes " by hearing'^
Considered even exclusively as in-
tuition, the " spiritual discernment "
is wholly different in kind fwni
moral or mathematical intnitiom
as those two classes of intuitior
differ from each other. A spirttu:
intuition, analogous to that oi rti-
son (though more exalted), wodi
be utterly unsuited to our needs
while still laboring in our probatlof.
and toiling in the " body of thi>

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility.

587

tlcath." The intuition really vouch-
safed to us by supernatural grace
ever retains peculiar characteristics
dnginally produced by the mode in
nrhich we leceive it. Humility,
mbmission, self-abnegation, con-
stitute that mode ; and these quali-
ties are and remain as essential
iharacteristics of true faith as
ipiritual discernment is. No other-
iriic than " as little children " is it
x)^ible for us to enter into the
kingdom of heaven. We must
mter the sheep-fold by the door ;
re cannot otherwise profit by it;
br could we climb its walls, it
rould cease to be the sheep-fold to
IS, since we should not bear in
jur breasts the heart of the Lamb.
Opinion asserts ; faith con/esses*
Assertion includes self-assertion ;
:onfession confesses another, God
>nly can rightly assert himself.
Created beings are relative beings,
ind the condition of their true
greatness is that they forget them-
iclvcs in God. The very essence
>f pride, the' sin of the fallen angels,
rhoni but a single voluntary evil
thought subverted, is self-assertion
Jn the part of a relative being. In
taking self as a practical ground of
knowledge, it, in a certain sense,
:reates its Creator, and involves the
principle that God himself may be
t>ut an idea. Pride is not only our
itrongest spiritual temptation, but
IS almost the natural instinct of
reason, working by itself ^ on super-
natural themes, and it remains ir/r-
ietected by reason^ just as water can-
not be weighed in water. The
higher we soar, the more we need
to be reminded of our infirmity;
therefore the glorious intuitions of
faith are, for our safety, given to us
by the way of humility, and con-
tinued to us on condition of obedi-
ence. Not only faith, as a habit, is
humble, but the peculiar species of

knowledge which it conveys is such
as to preserve that character; for
that knowledge is obscure, although
certain. We see, " as through a glass,
darkly " ; but we see steadily. Im-
aginative reason gets bright flashes
by rubbing its own eyes, but they
are transient. Faith, requiring do-
cility as a habit in us, and involv-
ing obscurity as a condition of its
knowledge, is a perpetual discipline
of self-sacrifice. Christianity is the
doctrine of a sacrifice ; and through
a spiritual act and habit of self-
sacrifice alone can that doctrine be
"spiritually discerned." Christian
knowledge is thus the opposite of
the rationalistic and of the Gnostic.
This estimate of faith is surely
as Scriptural as it is philosophic.
Thus only can we reconcile the
statements of our Lord and of S.
Paul, The most humble and child-
like docility is constantly referred
to by our Lord as an essential part
of that faith which, on condition of
so beginning and of continuing such,
imparts to us as much spiritual dis-
cernment as is an earnest of the
Blessed Vision. Such docility must
look like credulity. Almost all the
instances of it which met his high-
est praise did look like credulity,
and would have been credulity had
not grace inspired them, Provi-
dence directed them, and Truth it-
self rewarded them. What then }
Which part of Christianity is not
thus double-visaged ? What part
of it is not a scandal to them that
"judge by appearances ** and do
not "judge righteous judgment"?
If to all without faith the Master
must seem an impostor, why should
not the disciples seem enthusiasts?
Were they who wished that the
shadow of the apostles should fall
on them, was she who touched the
hem of Christ's garment, fanatics,
because erring nature too can

$88

Church Authority and Ptrsonal Responsibility.

prompt her children to similar acts
under an erring religion ? Before
such a philosophy (if philosophy
can rest on such an assumption)
the Gospel, as well as the church
of the orbis terrarum^ and the
whole ancient church, must give
way, and pure religion must be a
discovery, not of the XVIth, but of
the XlXth century. Credulity it-
self is but a subordinate and ill-
grounded form of human faith, and
is far from suppressing, though it
misdirects, the nobler faculties of
the natural man. Plato and Bacon
had more of it than ^picurus and
Hobbes. Docility (its analogon in
the spiritual world) is the humbler
element in faith. It is absolutely
necessary, and is sometimes un-
distinguishable, in mere outward
seeming, from its natural counter-
part. Milk is as necessary for
babes as meat for the mature. The
mature never cease, in the king-
dom of heaven, to be, inclusively^
children ; it is their very excellence
that they unite the best character-
istics of different ages, sexes, and
conditions. Yet the children of
the kingdom are not fed on mortal,
but on immortal, milk ; and that
milk is meat in a less compact
preparation. As an incredulous
habit is not a mark of true wisdom,
so an indocile habit is incompatible
with an ajithentic faith, which can-
not act except in obedience to an
authentic authority. To the ra-
tionalist the indocile habit, far from
being a fault, is a necessity ; for his
knowledge comes from within otUy^
not from above and from within.

Now let us turn to history and fact.
Had they no spiritual discernment
of Christ who died for him ? Yet
did not the martyrs and the age of
martyrs ^bound in what to Protes-
tantism seem credulities ? The
church of the apostles, of the fathers,

of the doctors, of the schoolmen, iIk
church that built up Christendffls,
invariably recognized the princrpfc
of ecclesiastical obedience, dodlity,
submission, as a part of faith, n«
as inconsistent with the intuition d
faith — its moral element, as tbe
other is its intellectual. It was te
cement that kept the whole iablk
together, though not the amphiorit
power that raised the living stxmes.
Those who branded obedience a
superstition were Arius, and Aeritti
and Vigilantius, and the Albigctt*
sian heretics, not the fathers, the
doctors, or the martyrs of the faitk
The latter knew that the faith of
him who lays hold of Christ, and
of her who but touches " the hem o(
his garment," are in kind the sanit
They knew also, that, when tnA
confronts us and grace is offered, the
spirit which is " offended " at littk
things i§ not edified by great And
how has it been ever since ; how ii
it now with the mass of the world?
How does faith come Ko children emi
to tlu poor, and to the busy and !'>
the dull ? IVhat makes the' Biblt
divine to themf What suggests the
truths which they are to look for in
the Bible.? Authority, everywhere
acting through such representative?
of authority as remain in land^
which decry it ! If docility, obe-
dience, a desire to believe, submis-
sion previous to insight, be not, onder
Christian conditions, characteristic?
of faith, merely because, under pa-
gan conditions, they might be op-
posed to spiritual knowledge, then
have most believers believed in vain.
for error cannot be the foundatioa
of truth. Discernment belongs, bv
universal confession, to faith, anil
baptism is the ** sacrament of iUii-
mination"; but no proposition a'
be more unreasonable than that faith
should begin with, or be identicil
with, an, insight which, in a higJ

Church Autlwrity and Personal Responsibility.

589

egree of conscious developn^enty
bviously belongs to the few, and
> tbem under very special circum-
Kmces.

Let us return to the philosophy
fthe "rule of faith."
Xo one would deny that the will,
ten more than the mind, is the seat
f faith ; but the Protestant theory
Iocs not efficiently and practically
ecognize this truth. Submission
8 in the will ; discernment in the
nind. The latter belongs to the
nan chiefly ; the former to the
ihild equally, and the child living
w in the Christian tr.in. The whole
Catholic system is based on this
ict. From it, for instance, follows,
l>y inevitable consequence, the true
iieory of charity in reference to dog-
laatic error — that, namely, of " in-
vincible ignorance." Protestants,
ind Protestants who repeat the
Athanasian Creed, think this ex-
brcssion but an evasion. But " in-
▼incible ignorance " means involun-
tary ignorance of the truths and is
based on the known principle that
heresy must be a sin of the will, be-
cause faith is a virtue, primarily
belonging to the will, when it sub-
mits to grace. Now, granting that
the internal agency of the Divine
Spirit is that which clears the fac-
ulty of spiritual discernment and
develops faith in the mind, still, as-
suredly, obedience is trained and
faith is rooted in the will by the
same Spirit addressing us through
its outward organ, the church.
"^ Obedience to the faith'* is not a
principle only, but a habit. Habits
are impressed on us, not by precept
only, but by providential circum-
•itance and divine institutions,
^uch as the civil power, parental
fule, the weakness of infancy, the
hindrances of knowledge, those
t^cccssities for social co-operation
^liich train the sympathies.

hnplicit faith in the Bible only
might, for such as entertained it
with absolute and childlike confi-
dence, give rise to no small degree
of moral deference, and does so
with many Protestants, though not
without a c6nsiderable alloy of error
and of superstition. But a book,
though divine, is a book still. It
cannot speak, except with the in-
quirer for an interpreter. It can-
not correct misinterpretations. It
will often reveal what is sought, and
hide what is not desired, but is
needed. It will "find " those who
find in it what they brought to it.
It is plastic in hot and heedless
hands. It may train the mental
faculties, but it will not practically
exercise a habit of submission. If
a country, in place of possessing
laws, with magistrates to enforce
and judges to expound them, pos-
sessed nothing but statutes on parch-
ment, and a vast legal literature for
their exposition, statutes and com-
ments being alike commended to
the private judgment of individuals,
would it be possible that subjects
could be trained up with the habit
or spirit of political obedience?
Every man might be educated till
he resembled a village attorney;
but loyalty would be extinct. The
statute-book would still assert the
principle of obedience, as does the
Bible in spiritual things ; but the
habit could not thus be formed.
To bow exclusively to that which
addresses us in abstract terms, and
to bow when and how our judg-
ment dictates — this alone is not in
reality, though it may be in words,
a discipline of humility. To obey
God, as represented by man, is that
at which pride revolts. The au-
thority of the church in the house-
hold and kingdom of Christ is like
that of the father in the family and
the monarch in his realm. An

590

Church Authority and Personal Responsibiliiy.

authority thus objectively embodied
has also a special power of working
through the affections ; and to train
them to be the handmaids of faith ^
is one of the special functions of the
church. "My little children of
whom I travail again," says S. Paul
to his flock. What living church can
be imagined as thus addressing her
children.' Surely none save that
one which claims apostolic authori-
ty, and does not shrink from pro-
claiming that faith includes obedi-
ence as well as insight. This is
not an idle theory. What men in
the Roman Catholic Church have
entertained the most filial and af-
fectionate reverence for their mo-
ther ? Her saints — those who had
the most ardent love for their Lord,
the deepest insight into his Gos-
pel, and the keenest appreciation of
its spiritual freedom — the S. Ber-
nards, Thomas ^ Kempises, Francis
de Saleses. To retain obedience as
a principle, and yet cheat it of its
object, an authentic and real au-
thority, was the ** Arch Mock " of
the " Reformation."

A faith thus confirmed and stead-
ied by authentic authority can alone
permanently sustain the ardent and
enthusiastic devotion of strong
minds. Faith, or what seems faith,
if resting exclusively on internal
feeling and individual opinion, will
vehemently, if but transiently, excite
the light anti the impulsive ; but
the graver mind will distrust it,
even when visited by the more san-
guine mood, from a painful sense
that it has no power of discrimi-
nating between faith and illusion.
It will be sure of its own percep-
tions and sensations ; but it cannot
contrive wholly to ignore those of
its neighbor when they are opposite.
It will remember that there are
two causes of uncertainty, the first
arising when our own premises ad-

mit of alternative conclusions, the
second when, the conclusions betcg
obvious, the premises are dbpated
and cannot be proved. It will le-
member that mathematical aod
moral intuitions, " though indepen-
dent of evidence, are yet backed
by a practically universal cooscflC
(the result of their being, in a laifi^
measure, intuitions independents!
the will) ; and it may be dispoMl
to say that if it happened tint
most people denied that d^
three angles of a triangle equal*
ed two right angles, I could M
indeed believe that they made
three, but I might come to beli««
that I had wandered into a regio&
in which impressions must alwa|S
seem certain, but yet in which wk
thing could be authentically known."
Men cannot exchange ihtixtasia;
but then they know that tastes arc
subjective ; whereas revealed tniJh
must be^bjective. Some such miib
giving will chill faith commonl^
in large and steady minds, and thus
the whole religious life is struck
dead. Enthusiasm will commonly,
under such circumstances, belong
only to those minds which boil
over before they have taken io
much heat. A church which makes
its censers of paper, not metal, can-
not bum incense. A religion which,
in any form^ includes a " peradvcn-
ture,"'has admitted the formula of
nature and lost the " amen " of
supernatural truth. It is reduced
and transposed. Its raptures are
but poetry, its dogma but science.
its antiquity but pedantry, its fonns
but formality, its freedom bu:
license, its authority but conven-
tion, its zeal but faction, it^ sobrie-
ty but sloth. It cannot admit of
enthusiasm, as it cannot generate
it in its nobler and more permanent
forms, because it can neither bal-
ance nor direct it. Such a faii'i

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility.

S9I

must install reason in the higher
place. A church founded on no-
thing higher must serve, not rule.
It will end by worshipping its bond-
age.

As in theology there is no pos-
sibility of separating dogma from
lograa, so there is no possibility
of separating the religious affections
torn a reverence for dogmas, if the
mind be an inquiring one. What
bAS been called "loyalty to our
Lord," and contrasted with the
* dogmatic spirit," is a sentiment
»hich depends wholly on what we
kiieve concerning him. But to be-
lieve him to be God and man in-
volves an immense mass of pro-
found doctrine which may be held
mpliciily by the many, but which the
student must hold explicitly^ or be in
a condition of doubt. These sub-
tle questions involve metaphysical
speculations ; and had we to settle

tm for ourselves, we must all of
have mastered philosophy before
we had learned the lore of Chris-
tian love. But how many points
are there of a different sort which
yet must be certain, if our faith is
to be certain — points which no man
could settle for himself, and as to*
which no authority save one secure
from error could give us rest !
Such are the questions as to the
mode of administering sacraments ;
what form of baptism is validy and
what is invalid ; the canonicity
of the Scriptures, which, if it de-
pend on our individual estimate
of historic evidence only, can
rise no higher than the level of
opinion, and therefore can never
afford a basis for divine faith. No
reasonable man can suppose that
cither directly or indirectly he can
reach to intuitions on these points.
He may say that they are not es-
sential to him personally; but he
cannot but suspect that they are

essential to the integrity of that
whole scheme of theology which,
cts a whole^ is essential to him. A
leak in the ship is not less danger-
ous because low down and out of
sight; and the strength of a chain
is the strength of its weakest link.
When the principle of authority
ceased to be held, as a revealed
doctrine (the complement of that of
personal spiritual discernment), the
complete circle of faith was broken,
and an element of doubt enter-
ed in. The process was unperceiv-
ed because gradual, the inherited
faith concealing long the ravages
of innovating opinion. Human
faith succeeded also to divine, and
simulated it. Science, imagination,
enthusiasm in its ever-varying
forms, contributed their aid. Pro-
testant churches can hardly now
even conceive of an authority acting
simply and humbly under divine
faith. They can only imagine
anathemas as proceeding from pas-
sion. But S. Paul and the early
church, as well as the Roman Ca-
tholic, thought differently.

Another principle lost sight of
practically on the Protestant theory
of religious knowledge is that it is
necessary to hold the Christian
faith, not only (ist) in its fulness^
and (2d) with certainty^ but also
(3d) in its purity. Now, what-
ever truths individual intuitions
and studies ma> brin^ home to us
(legitimately or accidentally), it is
certain from experience that they
will not exclude many errors, which
apparently have the same sanction,
and are entertained with the same
confidence — nay, are so cherished
that if but one be spoken against,
the whole system of thought is felt
to be endangered. But this con-
fusion of truth and error introduces
Babel into the heart of Jerusalem,
and erects altars to false gods in

Ctmrck AmtAoriij and Personal Responsibility.

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habits of thought that we recur to
them after their fallaciousness has
been ever so clearly pointed out
A wheel of thought moves round
in our head, and the old notions
recur. What convert, for instance,
has not been plagued, while ap-
proaching to Catholic convictiom
by the reiteration of that thouglit
constantly recurring to his mind
" Is it likely that all England shonM
have been in error for three hun-
dred years ?" Though he cannot bu:
feel the weight of the answer, ** It is
at least more likely than that all
Christendom should have been far
more deeply steeped in worse errors
and corruptions, by their nature
affecting individuals as well as tlie
body corporate, for at least tweWe
hundred years." It is thus that in
the question of the " rule of faith *"
we recur to the question, "Is it
not obvious that the individual
mind must lose all freedom an
spontaneity, if obliged to measure
its movements by an outward au-
thority? Is not such obedience
servile, not filial ; carnal, not spinV
ual ? Who could move freely, if
obliged to walk always with another,
though that other were his dearest
friend?" Now, far from all thi^
being obvious, it is obviously found-
ed on a misconception of the hy-
pothesis objected to. WTiy do^?
the soul partake of a higher frc-
d^m as it advances in submission t:
God ? How is it that, in the glo-
rined state, perfect freedom existf
without the possibility of fallicg'
Because the Spirit that works in tfct*
redeemed and regenerate is the
Spirit of God himself. \\Tiy is it
no bondage that our two eyes mjrt,
if in a healthy condition, move to-
gether? Because the same laT
acts freely in both. Why is it the:
a hand that has ceased to obey the
brain is called a powerless hand'

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility.

593

Because its power proceeds from
sympathy with the brain. Now,
)n the hypothesis of the " visible
:hurch/' just such a sympathy,
rtich a law, ar>d such a Spirit work
equally and simultaneously in the in~
prsitual and in the body. To the

iurch the Spirit is given indefec-
if, to lead her into " all truth,"
jfcn to the "end of the world."
rhe individual may or may not
thoperate with the Spirit ; but if
le does, he must needs, ex hypo-
fej/, co-operate with the church,
od he cannot feel as a bondage
rhat is the law of his life, though
be less spiritual part of him may
ftcn feel it as a salutary restraint,
tightly to serve is, in things divine,
^ only possible spiritual, as dis-
bguished from merely natural,
rccdom. The real question, then,
ttpects, not either the stringency
I the law or its character as ex-
Ibal law, but its being or not
Eing divine — a rightful authority,
nt a usurpation.

The place of faith is not deter-
lined by controversial or even in-
^llectual needs only. Its func-
ons are innumerable. It is the
ond between the race and God.
: must affect the whole soul and
t the health of every part. It is
rod's adamant diffused through
rery region of our being, as the
Jck on which the church is built
ilcnds, in it£ solidity, throughout
id under the whole fabric. Our
idividual faith may be weak; but

is the nature of faith itself to
: infinitely strong ; and our faith
ust so come to us, and so stand
'Wards us, as to admit of its own
finite increase, as well as of its
srmanence. It must enlighten
tc mind, erect the will, warm and
':5ten the heart, live in every
fc'.tion, kneel in our humility, en-
Lire in our patience. It is an ar-
VOL XX. — 38

mor that covers us wholly, leav-
ing no spot exposed to the flying
shafts of an enemy, to whom one
spot is as the whole body. Its
shield is a mirror in which human-
ity beholds the whole of its being,
individual and social, imaged after
the stature of the renewed man.
That image is no idol with brazen
breast and feet of earth, but the
likeness, everywhere glorious, of
Him who took our whole nature,
and in it was obedient to " his pa-
rents " and his country's law, as ^
well as to his Father's will. Faith,
in the Protestant acceptation of
the word, is unable to discharge for
us all these high offices. No Pro-
testant community (and many have
been tried) can point to its heroic
triumphs, and say, "Behold its
fruits." They have neither con-
verted heathen nations nor retained
as much of the faith as they started
with on their new career.

The theory of the " Bible inter-
pretedby private judgment "seems,
then, to me to have been novel,
rash, crude, not sincerely thought
Out when promulgated — the only
position that could affect to justify
the revolt from unity, but one not
itself justified by the event. My
reason^ to which rationalism ever
appeals, would not have antecedent-
ly assured me that a book would
have formed even part of a revela-
tion. My reason tells me that if
tlie facts of Christianity be divine,
its dogmatic truths divine, and the
book which records the facts and
announces the truths be divine, it
is not unreasonable that the inter-
preter of that book should be di-
vine. Such is the theory which
Rome maintains, but which no one
will say that Rome did more than
retain^ walking thus in the foot-
steps of the primitive church, and
of the general councils. The pa-

594

Church Authority and Personal Responsibility.

triarchal church had no Bible ; the
Hebrew church but an incomplete
canon, added to from time to time.
The Christian canon was not compil-
ed for two centuries after Christ;
Providence did not allow of its dif-
fusion by printing for fourteen.
The Christian world is still, for the
most past, unable to read. Most
Protestants have therefore ever
been compelled to be guided by
an authority which, without pre-
tending to confer the spiritual gifts
which Rome confers, is exposed to
many of the same objections. All
religious communities say prac-
tically, "Hear me." One only
says, with the apostle, "Hear the
church." One only delivers a dis-
tinct and consistent message. One
only unites parental authority with
maternal solicitude, fear with love,
enthusiasm with steadfastness, per-
manence of faith with progress of
defined knowledge, the doctrines
with the ethical habits of the early
church, the lore of the Fathers with
the propagandism of the early mis-
sionaries and the courage of the
martyrs. It is the church of Him
who was singled from his brethren
as were Judah, Shem, Seth, and
made to be unity, that in his unity
all might be one, in one Lord, one
Jaithy and one baptism.

A. DE Vere.

NOVBMBSR Uy X85X.

Our readers will certainly be
thankful to us for giving them the
pleasure of perusing the foregoing
letter, which is a document of great
interest and value for several rea-
sons. It is the work of an author
whose prose is only inferior to his
poetry. It is a record of the pro-
cess of reasoning by which one of
the many illustrious English con-
verts was aided to make the tran-

sition from Anglicanism to
Catholic Church, given in his c
language at a time when his thou^
and sentiments about the mon]
tons change were fresh in his mi
ory, and remarkably dififerent 1:
any similar production. The m
of such a document, considered
the respect just mentioned, dcpe
on its being given precisely as :r '
written at the time; and wek
been, therefore, scrupulously car^
not to change or modify a sir
sentence, or even a word, in
author's manuscript.

This letter is not, however, mc
ly a psychological and literar)c'j
osity. Though it is the argunK
not of a Catholic theologian, bu:
a man of letters just recently c
verted to the faith, it is a xtvixm
ble presentation of some parts <
Catholic doctrine, more particjli:
of the supernatural certainiv i
divine faith, and the esseniiii ^
ference of faith from human scri
or opinion, even when the ol
of the latter is natural or rcvt.
theology. We think it imponu
however, to add a short exphr;:^i
of our own as a safeguard of puB
natural certitude. Sound Dt:rfj
philosophy establishes the cerJa
of knowledge received throu.li
senses, the understanding, and
discursive or reasoning open
of the mind upon the concept
prehended by both those facd
Physical, metaphysical, and c|
demonstration produce, iher;
true science, not mere op
The rational proof of the
religion rests on these three,
sufficient to produce a ccrtai:
viction. This is not, he*'
identical with divine faith.
act of faith is distinct fri^c-
merely rational assent of the si
Yet these two acts may tend
on the same object. One oij

The Church in F . 595

onvinced, for instance, of the quire an historical certainty of the

pirituality of the soul, by a me- same truth. We cannot be too

iphysical deraonstiation, without careful to maintain the supernatu-

elieving in the divine revelation, ral quality of faith and the superior-

fbe afterward believes in the rev- ity of its divine light to the natural

ation, he will have also a divine light of reason ; at the same time,

iith in the spirituality of the soul, we must be also careful not to

toe may believe by divine faith weaken or diminish the certainty

tat Christ made S. Peter the head and the scope of natural know-

f the church, and afterwards ac- ledge. — Ed. C. W.

THE CHURCH IN F-

BuiLD up the church ! Let its turrets rise,
With cross-crowned summits, to kiss the skies ;
Hollow its centre, in nave and aisle,
From its walls let heaven-rapt faces smile.

Make its fair altars to glow with light,
Where priest and ministering acolyte
May kneel, with incense and book and bell,
The praises of God and his saints to swell.

Let the deep tones of the organ roll
With thunderous music, to stir the soul,
While spirits soar, as on wings of fire,
'Mid the holy chants of the surpliced choir.

But when the crowd has passed away.

And the lights burn low and the church is gray,

And in their solitude aisle and nave

Are still and stern as a martyr's grave,

All is not over of praise and prayer :
The mourner, shrinking from crowd and glare,
May kneel in the shadow, and veil her eyes
Before the Lord of the sacrifice.

The sacred Presence that throws its spell —
An ever-abiding miracle —
O'er the empty fane and the silent shrine,
Is there at all seasons — the Host divine.

596

Are YouMjf Wifef

ARE YOU MY WIFE?

»Y TKX AUTROS OP ** A SALON IN PARIS BBPORB THB WAS, ** NUMBER THIRTBBN.*' * PIV8 ?L,* C!C

CHAPTER I.
A FEW PAGES FROM GLIDE DE WINTON'S NOTE-BOOK.

It was not the reception I ought
to have had ; but that was my own
fault. The old house was not in
the habit of giving such a cold wel-
come to the eldest son who brought
home his young bride. On the
contrary, fireworks and bonfires,
and bells ringing, and flags flying,
and universal rejoicing both inside
and outside the house, bad been
the traditionary mode of proceed-
ing, on such occasions, since the
Conquest, when it first owned a
master of the name of De Winton.
My earliest recollections of a dis-
tinct kind are of my father bring-
ing home my step-mother to the old
place, and of my peeping out from
my nursery-window, and vaguely
connecting the strange lady, who
came in the midst of us heralded
by such noise and splendor, with
the story of the Queen of Sheba that
my nurse read to me very often on
Sundays out of a pictured story-
book. This infantine delusion had
long vanished before I quite lost
the sense of childish bewilderment
that accompanied the occabion. I
was an odd child, I suppose; old-
fashioned, but not at all preco-
cious ; and the dreamy impressions
of childhood held their grasp on
mc longer than usual, probably
from my having no cliildrcn to
play with and keep me from dwell-
ing so long and so exclusively on
the fancies of my own hazy little
mind. I can recall vividly even

now how I hated all the noise and
fuss that followed the wedding;
how I shrank from being dressed
in my scarlet cashmere frock, ani
being sent for to the drawing-roora,
and introduced to strangers, by my
stiff, stately step-mother, as '^dj
son. Master Glide de Winton.**
There seemed no end to the straiv-
gers that came trooping in to shaic
hands with my father and to be
introduced to his wife. And thca
the dinners that were given, aifl
the noise of music afterwards, tM|
usedi to wake me up in the nursery,
and make me dream such notar,
confused dreams when I fell asleep
again ! How I detested it all!
And when I expressed something
of this to my nurse, and wondered
why the house, that used to be so
quiet when we had it to ourselves,
had become so full of noise and
strange people from the monaent ray
new mamma came home, she found
no better comfort than to tcU mc
that that was always the way after
a wedding, and that when I wof
grown up and married myself I
should make just as much fuss, and
a great deal more, because I shooJd
be younger, and my wife too. It
may sound absurd, like so nunf
other reminiscences of childhood
that were once bitterly real to ill
of us ; but this horoscopic view of
life poisoned many an hour of thoae
nursery-days to me. The fact tlut
the dreaded ordeal was yet distici

Are You My Wife?

597

gave me no consolation. I leaped
over the gulf that separated six
years old from five-and-twenty, and
saw myself miserable in the midst
of a par»Jeraonium of noise, and
strange i>eople, and dinners, and
pianoforte-playing. I was no doubt
a morbid little boy, and no doubt
tny nurse discovered this, and
with the unconscious cruelty of
her race took pleasure in playing
upon my idle terrors. I know she
used to terrify me by graphic de-
scriptions of the wedding ceremo-
nial from first to last ; and the more
fl showed that I was terrified, the
more eloquent and inventive — as 1
afterwards discovered — she grew.
She had been three times through
the performance herself, and thus
was peculiarly qualified to speak
of it. I remember once when she
told me I would have to stand up
before all the company at a long
liable and make a speech. I could
'bear it no longer, and I began to cry.
This did not soften her ; she only
laughed at me for a silly little
goose, and assured me that, when
ihe time came, I would enjoy it all
as much as I now enjoyed flying
ray kite and other juvenile amuse-
ments. I ran out of the nursery and
away up to a garret where I some-
times hid myself when I expected
to be sent for to the drawing-
room, and flung myself on the floor,
and literally bellowed with misery.
I stlppose 1 cried myself to sleep,
for when I awoke I was still in the
same place, tired and cold. I con-
sidered quietly what I might possi-
bly do to avert the catastrophe that
M) appalled me in the distance. I
could think only of one thing: that
was to run away before the wed-
ding-day arrived. I had heard
stories about boys running away
from school when they were very
naughty or very unhappy; why

should they not run away from
home, if driven to extremities.^
This resolution soothed me. I
crept down from my solitude a
happier child than I had entered it.
If this account of myself sounds
unnatural, I can only answer that it
is true. If my step-mother had
been a loving, motherly woman, she
would probably have found out
something of these sufferings, and
have sought to modify them by
moulding my character; but she was
not a woman to win a child's confi-
dence, even if she had tried ; and she
did not try to win mine. She found
me shy, reserved, ungracious, and she
left me so. She did her duty by me
as far as she knew how. I was con-
veyed every day regularly from the
nursery to the dining-room after
dinner. I grew resigne.d to the
daily punishment after a time, and
in reply to the usual questions, ** Had
I been a good boy ?" and ** Would
I like an apple .^" I learned to an-
swer boldly that I had and that I
would, and to stand straight on both
legs and without wriggling. My
step-mother patted me on the cheek,
and observed to my father that I
was improving in my manners. She
seldom went further than this in
motherly caresses for the first two
years after her marriage. Then my
father died, and I can remember
that she kissed me often, and was
altogether more gentle in her man-
ner towards me, and that I felt it,
and liked the change, though I could
in no way account for it. I was
still miserably shy, and I retained
the same intense dread of notoriety
and fuss of every description. Per-
haps it was this that partly decided
her on sending me to Eton when I
was barely old enough to be in the
school-room. Other motives may
have added weight to this one, but
I shall say nothing of that now. If

cgS

Arc YouMy Wife?

her object was to cure me of the
painful timidity which still beset
me, it was perhaps a justification for
sending the fatherless and mother-
less boy away from the solitude and
isolation of a gloomy home into the
stir and life of a public school,
where shyness, like so many other
foolish weaknesses, is quickly rub-
bed off by contact with those intol-
erant pedagogues — companions of
one*s own age and rankl I was
happy enough at Eton, in spite of
the dreaded future that still loomed
in the distance. I had forgotten
the spectre of a possible wedding-
breakfast and its accompanying
horrors. I knew now that it was in
my own hands to suffer or to avoid
them. Meantime, my natural tim-
idity still asserted itself in a way
that was much deplored by my step-
mother. I was an intelligent boy,
and might have distinguished my-
self over my fellows, had I chosen ;
but the same morbid folly that had
embittered my childhood now para-
lyzed my ambition, and prevented
me trying for prizes in any depart-
ment of study. Public speaking
comes into play very much with
candidates for honors at school, and
the finest gold medal that was ever
awarded for a Greek and Latin essay
would not have tempted me, if I
foresaw the necessity of reading the
essay aloud before that redoubtable
array of critics, my assembled mas-
ters and companions. I passed for
an oddity, and so I was. My step-
mother sighed over it in her calm,
correct way ; regretted I had not
the honorable ambition to make a
name for myself and conquer a
position amongst my fellow-men,
and so on. To this I modestly re-
plied that I was satisfied with the
name my fathers had transmitted
to me, and which I hoped to carry
honorably at least through life, if

not proudly. Pride of birth was
one of the earliest lessons she had
endeavored to instil into my mind.
and in this respect I did not prove
as stubborn as in others. I remem-
ber saying, in reply to some remarks
of hers as to the advisability of ray
distinguishing myself in some pul>-
lic career, " When a man has the
good luck to be born a De AVinton
he is distinguished enough"; and
I remember the smile of approval
that accompanied her demure shake
of the head.

I left Eton in course of time,
and went to the university. Thr
change from the now familiar world
of school was accomplished with
immense reluctance, and perhaps
would never have been accoraplish-
ed at all without the combined in-
fluence of my step-mother, myunck.
Admiral de Winton, and Sir Simon
Harness, who was one of my guar-
dians and my father's oldest frieoi
1 soon grew to like my new life, and!
to make friends with a few of my
new companions. I was still too shy
to form friendships easily, or to be
what is called popular. Everythipg
however, went smoothly with me till
I was a little over twenty, and then
a circumstance occurred which woke
up the old terrors, and showed too
plainly that much of the puerile fol-
ly of childhood clung to me still
I am almost ashamed to write it
at this lapse of time; but I shall
have more grievous follies to* con-
fess by-and-by, so there is no use
passing over this one. It arose opt
of a proposal to give a farewell dm
ner to a fellow who was one of
our set and extremely ix>pular. I
chimed in heartily with the scheme
the moment it was broached, btfi
when one of my chums, out of pait
mischief as I afterwards found out.
suggested that we should one of a*
make a farewell speech, expressinit

Arc You My Wi/ef

599

the regret and so forth of the rest,
and that I should be the speaker, I
got savage, and was for not appear-
ing at all at the dinner, unless they
gave me a solemn promise that I
should not be asked to open my lips,
even to propose a toast. We were
near quarrelling over it ;, the others
verc so amused at my anger and
fright that they kept up the joke,
and bullied me until I was in a
downright passion. When it was
over, and I had joined in the laugh
against myself, my tormentor said,
iiuile hap-hazard, and not with the
least idea of rousing me again :
• " I say, old boy, how will it be
when you come of age .^ You'll be
giving a grand blow-out at the
Moat, of course, and we'll all drink
to your health with three times
three; but you will have to return
thanks, you know, and address the
tenantry, and that sort of thing.
It will be awful fun to see you
hammering and haw-hawing, and
assuring us that the aficcting occa-
sion is really — aw — too nuich for
)*ou — aw — and so forth. When is.
>t to be.^ About this time twelve-
month, eh V^

I don't know what I said to him.
I think I felt he was too great a
brute to be spoken to, except in a
language which it would not do for
a De Win ton to use. But could this
l>t' true 1 Was I making a fool's
I»nradisc to myself, while every day
hurried me on to this dismal catas-
trophe ?

I feigned a sudden call home on
•aniily business that required my
presence, and started by the six a.m.
train next morning for the Moat.

My step-mother was surprised to
tncet me on coming down to break-
^a^t— surprised, not startled. She
wxs not a woman to be startled.

" Madam," I said, after greeting
her ceremoniously, according to

my step-filial habit, " have you any
plan in view respecting the event
of niy majority V*

** You speak in enigmas, my dear
Glide. Pray explain yourself," re-
plied Mrs. de Winton ; and went on
washing her hands in that deliber-
ate way of hers that always exaspe-
rated me. Perhaps it was this trick
of perpetually washing her hands
that made me think her so uncom-
monly like the picture of Lady
Macbeth hanging over the library
mantel-piece.

" To be explicit, then," I replied,
** do you intend making a Coming
of Age of it.^ Do you purpose
setting the tenantry into fits mak-
ing a fuss over me } In a word
do you purpose calling up the
seven devils commonly called re-
joicings and loyal demonstrations. >
Do you mean to do these things,
madam V

Whether she thought I had gone
suddenly mad, or that, notwithstand-
ing the early hour, I had been in-
dulging too freely in convivial li-
bations, I could not tell ; but she
decidedly thought I was laboring
under some sort of cerebral inflam-
mation. Suspending abruptly the
ablutionary movement, she joined
her hands coldly, and looking at me
with a severe countenance, not de-
void altogether of pity, " Glide, you
surprise me," she said. " I hoped
that you had sufficient respect for
yourself and for your ancestors to
understand . . ."

" Madam," I broke in, trembling
with excitement, "I respect you
and I respect my ancestors ; but as
to making a fool of myself for the
gratification of their ante-dlluvian
crotchets, I won't do it. No; if
every De Winton from the Flood
down were to stalk out of his coffin
and bully me, I won't."

"Won't whal.^" demanded ray

6oo

Are You My Wife?

step-mother, looking now rather
alarmed.

" I won't have those seven devils
let loose over the place," I said
defiantly ; " and unless you pledge
me your word of honor that there
will not be anything of the sort, as
sure as Tm a living De Winton I'll
bolt from the country, and never set
foot in it again !"

" You misapprehend our relative
positions altogether, Glide," resum-
ed Mrs. de Winton. " When the
time of your majority has arrived,
you will, by the very fact of its ad-
vent, be master to deal with it as
you choose, quite independent of
my wishes. I should hope, however,
that by that time you will have
conceived a better notion of your
duty to society in your own person,
and to the traditions of the illus-
trious race from whom it is your
privilege to descend, than you seem
to possess at present. It has been
from time immemorial the custom
in the family to celebrate with pomp
and festive gatherings the majority
of the heir. I am at a loss to un-
derstand why this venerable custom
should inspire you with such irra-
tional fury ; why you should antici-
pate the welcome that awaits every
De Winton on his coming of age
otherwise than with a sense of grate-
ful and honorable pride."

I had calmed down when I dis-
covered that I was my own master
in the matter. Otherwise I should
not have .listened so patiently to
the end of her tirade. When it
was over, I began to feel rather
ashamed of myself. I had been
making a storm in a butter-boat.

" If I have forgotten in the least
degree the deference I owe you,
madam," I observed, twisting my
wide-awake to give myself what the
French call a countenance, ** I
apologize for it."

" I trust you will learn to control
yourself, in future, for your own
sake," observed Mrs. de Winter,
washing her hands again. "Et
assured of one thing : I shall take
no steps towards the celebration of
the event, which is looked forward
to by the tenantry with very differ-
ent . feelings from yours, withooi
having your consent. I would not
expose them or you to such an
exhibition as that I have just wit-
nessed. But you liave Iwdvf
months to wait, and to improve, I
hope, before your coming of age
makes it necessary to remind you
what that circumstance involves."

"If it invoU'es a fuss, madani."
I said emphatically, and waxin;:
wroth again, "once more, I won't
have it. I'd rather ne-ver come of
age !" And having delivered my-
self of this decided opinion, I wisii-
ed her good-morning.

I came of age in due time, and
fearing that, in spite of my com-
mands to the contrary, the tenantn
might get up some insane rejoic-
ings and caterwaulings, I feigned
illness and waited in London till
the anniversary was a week old.
. That Rubicon was no sooner safe-
ly passed than the other, the fear-
ful one that had been the night-
mare of my childhood, threatened
to overtake me. I had so ctnstanl-
ly announced at school my deter-
mination never to marry that my
views on that subject were known
to all who knew me, and the repu-
tation of a woman-hater precede:
me amongst my own people. Stili.
the Moat being a fine old place,
with a clear rent-roll of fiftet:?
thousand pounds a year, and I b«>
ing an only son and in all other
respects what dowagers call an
" eligible young man," the fcm.ilr

mind of shire resented such a

resolve on my part as prcmuiuic

Are You My Wifef

6oi

and absurd, and set to work dili-
gently to bring me to a better way
of thinking. 1 pass over the his-
tory of that merciless campaign
of match-making mothers and en-
terprising daughters. The very
thought of it now is painful to me.
Enough that I came out of it un-
scathed. After two years of com-
parative quiet — for I persistently
refused to bo lured to the sirens*
caves in the neighborhood, and
forced them to beard the lion in
bis den, which gave me no incon-
siderable vantage-ground over the
eneaiy — the fire slackened, and I
was left in peace.

My step-mother did not attempt
to coerce me; on the contrary, she
commiserated my position, and
more than once expressed her dis-
approval of the way in which, as
she said, I was hunted down by all
the marriageable womanhood 6f the
county. She insisted on giving one
ball when I came home, to introduce
me to her own and my father's
friends and such members of the
family as I only knew by name or
very slightly; but after that she
subsided, and my life was as free
from fuss as any life in this fussy
world could be.

"Glide," observed Mrs. de Win-
ton one morning, as we sipped our
tea ov^r the breakfast-table, " do
you think it quite impossible you
should ever marry V*

"Well," I said reflectively, ** as
far as a man can answer for him-
self, I should say quite impossible."

** But how far is that ?" observed
my step-mother with a sceptical
smile. '' You have not yet been
put to the test. You have not yet
come across the woman who could
persuade you that marriage is the
Elysium of man here below. Sup-
posing — I merely put it in the
light of a remote supposition — that

you should come across her some
day . . . r

" I should probably accept my
fate as many a wiser man has done
before me, and capitulate on rea-
sonable terms — namely, that we
should be executed at six o'clock
in the morning, no wedding-dress,
no bridemaids, no speechifying —
no fuss, in fact, and nobody pre-
sent but a beggar-woman and a
policeman. Then, when we come
home, no entertaining, giving and
taking dinners, and that sort of
fuss that comes like the farce after
the tragedy. If I ever meet with a
pretty girl willing to take me and
the Moat on these conditions, then
I will not answer for the conse-
quences."

One year after this conversation
with my step-mother I met that
pretty girl ; the result was what I
tacitly foretold it would be. I
married her. It happened in this
way : I was seized with a desire 'to
travel, and, instead of beginning
with the stereotyped grand tour, I
determined to go first to America.
I had a hunger for grand, wild
scenery. The vast primeval forests
of the far West, the awful grandeur
of Niagara, drew me powerfully ; so
off I set, accompanied by a con-
fidential servant named Stanton.
Shyness went for something in the
choice. I felt attracted towards the
new young continent as by a sense
of homelikeness and kindred. I was
not disappointed. Everything I saw
there was at once novel and familiar.
I could converse with the people in
my own language, and was thus
spared the mortification of stutter-
ing out my inquiries in dubious
French or German, or trumpeting
them through an interpreter, as
must have been the case on the
grand tour.

602

Are You Afy Wife f

Niagara appalled and fascinated
me. Day after day I stood con-
templating the torrents of foam
that surged up to meet the great
sheet of water that flung itself in a
majestic arch of hard green crystal
down into the boiling, creamy gulf.
1 gazed and gazed till sight was
dim and sense was lost in a torpor
of exquisite delight — neither trance
nor vision, but a state that hovered
between both. The thunder of the
rushing waters, the sparkling of the
prism that danced and flashed and
faded with the changing lights, re-
flecting every tint in the sunset,
until the cataract blazed before my
dazzled eyes like a thousand rain-
bows melted into one, then fainted
and died, leaving a uniform sheen
of emerald in its place — all this was
like some magnificent apotheosis
that kept me spell-bound, fascinat-
ed, entranced. I had come in-
tending to remain three days; but
a week slipped away and found me
still at Niagara. At last I deter-
mined to break the spell. I must
tear myself from the spectacle be-
fore it overmastered my reason ;
for there were moments when, after
standing for hours looking down
into the seething abyss of foam, I
felt as if an invisible chord were
drawing me on and on, nearer and
nearer, luring me in a dreamy way
towards the water. Then I would
rouse myself and rush away ; but it
would not do to go on playing with
a danger that was sweet and potent
as a magician's spell. I came out one
morning to take my last look. It
was just after sunrise. The falls had
never looked so beautiful, the
booming of the water had never
sounded so solemn, the light had
never evolved such a fairy tracery
of jewelled glory on the silvery
vapor and the green crystal. The
efi*ect was overpowering. For one

moment it seemed to me that
heard the voice of Jehovah spca
ing in the roar of many water
that I stood within the sanctuar
separated by an impenetrable an
mysterious wall of thunder froi
the outer, visible world. A spocti
neous and almost unconscious id
pulse made me uncover myself ai]
stand bareheaded, as in the prei
ence of the Unseen and Omnipn
sent. How long I stood thus
cannot say; I know that I w3
roused from my revery by a socni
that struck in upon my dreia
deafness with strange and thnilkj
efiect. It was the singing of a hj
man voice ; the words were iaai
ticulate, but I knew the mc-i
well. It was a wild, weird Highia::!
melody ; the rhythm was barcJrci^
tinguishable, as the notes rose ar.i
fell through the roar and booni 1 1
the waterfall, sounding ne^'erthd
less preternatu rally clear and STftrl
like the wail of a spirit or soml
sweet sea-bird's ciy. What v;i
it } Some Undine risen from t^il
spray, and pouring out her L
ment to the wave ? I dared n I
look round, so fearful was I t^
banish the songster. When tt^
voice ceased, I turned ray head icJ
looked. Was I dreaming, or was -1
indeed a spirit that I l>eheld? \
doubted at first. But as I Jccpt ov
eyes steadily fixed on the figure, i:
moved towards me, and I kjie^
that it was neither sprite nor sha-
dow, but a woman, a young jpr
rather — for she seemed hare
emerged from childhood to niaidct
hood — more beautiful than anrpn
ture I had ever seen or that ff •
imagination had ever painle-
She was small, below the midd'-'
height. Her hair fell in profu<
ringlets or coils — it seemed -
accidental arrangement — down htr
back ; it was black and glossy -*

Are You My Wife?

603

jet. Her eyes were lustrous and
dark as a gazelle's; her complex-
ion almost colorless. She was
dressed in dark green, a loose, un-
conventional sort of garment that
draped her something after the
fashion of a Roman stola; her
straw hat had either fallen off or
she had taken it off, and held it
dangling from her arm ; her hands
were clasped, and her eyes fixed on
the fall, as it plunged from the rocky
ledge down, down into the eternity
of waters.

She had come within a few yards
of roe before she seemed conscious
of my presence — of anything but
the majestic spectacle that was ri-
veting her whole soul through her
eyes. She walked on like a som-
nambulist. A sudden dread seized
me. Was she asleep, or was she
experiencing in its uttermost de-
gree the terrible attraction that I
had felt more than once, and
walking on unconsciously to death }
I advanced a few steps, so as to
stand in her path as she drew near.
The effect was instantaneous. She
started as if some one had struck
her. I thought she would have
fallen, and rushed to prevent it by
stretching out my arm. The move-
ment apparently recalled her to
the sense of where she was. With
a sligl^t acknowledgment of my
courtesy, she turned quickly away,
and hurried on out of sight. I fol-
lowed her, and it was with an un-
reasonable thrill of delight that I
saw her enter the hotel where I
was staying. Who was this siren,
or how did one so young and so
beautiful come to be alone in this
lonely place ? Before the day was
over I met her again. Chance
brought us together once more in
the same spot. This time she was
not alone. An elderly man, whom
she addressed as uncle, accompa-

nied her. He was not prepossessing
in his appearance, and I doubt
whether I should have overcome
my natural shyness so f^ir as to ad-
dress him, if he had not himself
broken the ice by asking me if I
had ventured to walk under the
fall, and whether the experience
was worth the risk. I assured him
that it amply compensated for any
imaginary danger that might exist,
and volunteered to accompany him
if he decided on trying it. This
brought us into communication, if
not into sympathy. I did not like
him, consequently he did not like
me. We both felt this instinctively,
no doubt ; there was an opposing
element of some sort between us
that made friendship impossible,
though it did not prevent that kind
of superficial intimacy which is al-
most inevitable amongst people of
the same country who find them-
selves thrown close together under
the same roof in a foreign land.
He was Scotch, as I knew at once
by his name, Prendergast, and by
his accent. He was a thin, medi-
um-sized man, and could not have
been more than forty, though his sil-
ver hair gave him a prematurely old
look, which was perhaps increased
by a settled expression of ill-tem-
per about the mouth, arising, so his
niece affectionately alleged, from
chronic tooth-ache. He seemed
indeed a martyr to that trying com-
plaint, and wore his head tied up
in a woollen comforter, which must
have been miserably uncomforta-
ble ; for the days were hot and the
nights as balmy as June. I fancied
that his beautiful niece disliked him,
or at least feared him considerably
more than she loved him. I noticed
how the merry, bright little creature
started at the sound of his voice
when he called to her sharply, and
how she quailed when his cold.

6o4

Art You My Wife ?

hard eye lighted on her in the midst
of one of her childish peals of laugh-
ter, checking it as by a cold bath.
It struck me even more than once
that she cast a glance towards me, as
if claiming my protection — against
whom or what I could not imagine;
but I was resolved to ascertain, and,
if my assistance or sympathy could
avail her, to let her have them at any
cost. We happened to be alone on
the third day after our first meeting.
Isabel — so I heard Mr. Prendergast
call her — was apparently as pleased
at the opportunity as I was. She
talked to me with the frank, artless
abandon of a child ; and, without in
the least intending it, she told me
enough of her antecedents and po-
sition to satisfy me that I was right
in supposing her not Very happy
with her uncle. She told me he
was her guardian, and had brought
her up since she was quite a child,
her parents having died when she
was five years old. Her mother
was his sister; her father's name
was Cameron. He held a large
tract of land in Canada, and had a
great deal of money — " heaps of
money," was her childish estimate
of it — in banks and things in Eng-
land ; and she, being the only child,
was heiress to all this wealth. Mr.
Prendergast had had the manage-
ment of it up to the present, and
continued to treat her as an infant,
though she was now of age, she said.
He had by nature a tyrannical tem-
per, and it was increased and ren-
dered irritable and fierce by years
of tooth-ache. He had been away
in hot climates to seek relief for
his exasperated nerves, and it was
only on her account that he had
returned to England of late. He
had come out to America to 1*^ jk af-
ter her property, and also for the
benefit of her health, which had re-
quired change and a long sea-voy-

age. I felt grateful to him for this
at least, as the sacrifice bad evident-
ly been crowned with success. Miss
Cameron looked the very picture
of health, and she said the voyage
had made her stronger than she bid
ever been in her life. It had, how-
ever, proved very disastrous to Mr.
Prendergast, whose teeth had not
given him a day's rest since they left
England ; "and of course this makes
him very cross," his niece observ-
ed deprecatingly, with a little sigb.
After this conversation we be-
came perfectly at ease with caca
other, and tacitly watched for oppor-
tunities of renewing it. I need not
say that I relinquished my plan of
leaving the falls, which day after
day grew more beautiful, more ir-
resistibly attractive, to me. A week
passed in a dreamy state of bliss-
fulness, and then a crisis came.
Mr. Prendergast, who had ken
howling all night in the room next
to me with the tOoth-ache, set oJ
after breakfast, in spite of his srell-
ed face, with a party that were b€-
ing taken to walk under the arch or
the fall. He wound a quarter of
a mile of Shetland shawls round bi>
head, and, thus fortified, donned the
leathern costume of the occasion,
and down he went. Everything went
well enough until he was emerg-
ing from the tremendous roar ih^t
had covered him in like a curtain.
and was setting his foot on dry land
above, when he was seized with a
rush of blood to the head, and fell
insensible to the ground. He wi^
carried to his room, and lay there
dangerously ill for several da}^
Isabel was not allowed to see hia
The doctor enjoined absolute qi::^'
as of the first necessity; no one en-
tered the sick-room but thenied.w
man and a nurse whom he sent f r
to the nearest town. This catasu>
phe naturally threw Miss Cameron

Are You My Wife?

605

and me a good deal together. We
wandered out to admire the falls by
sunrise ; we were to be seen there
again at sunset, when the clouds
rolled in golden cascades over the
western sky, and made a spectacle
of rival glory above and beyond the
everlasting glory of Niagara. What
could come of all this but what
canae of it } We loved each other,
and we confessed it. It was a wild
act on my part. I knew nothing
of Isabel's family and antecedents
but what she had accidentally told
me ; but to a man in love, first love,
what rnore was wanted } She bore
a name that was ancient as my own.
As to her fortune, I cared nothing
for that. She told me it was already
legally in her own power ; that she
was twenty-one. I believed this,
since she said it, but it required a
strong effort of faith to credit that
beaming young face with more than
Seventeen years in this cold world.
Those were blissful days while we
walked arm-in-arm through the yel-
lowing forest, and alongside the
river beyond the falls, cooing our
yoang loves to one another, as fool-
ish and as tender as any two Babes
in the Wood. But Mr. Prendergast
was getting well now, and called
Uabel constantly to his side, and
>temly catechised her as to what
^he did when she left him. He was
to be down-stairs to-morrow, and
they were to leave Niagara in a few
days, and sail for England by the
next boat that left Quebec. She
whispered this to me with white lips
one morning, and then rushed up-
stairs to answer the call of the dra-
gon, who was shouting to her from
\m open window. I waited till she
came down again, and then drew
Kcr out into a favorite spot of ourS
at a little distance from the house.
" Isabe'," I said, " does your un-
cle know that we love each other?"

" Oh ! no, no ; he would kill me
if he knew it," she replied, 'speaking
in a whisper, and looking up at me
with an expression of terror and
trust that nerved me to anything.

" What, then, are we to do }
Shall I speak to him at once.?" I
asked.

"There is no use speaking to
him; he will never let me marry
you. Glide. Forgive me for mak-
ing you unhappy," she said, clasp-
ing her hands on my arm, while
the big tears ran down her face.
"I never ought to have let you
care for me. I never ought to have
let myself love you, but I could not
help it; I could not help it."

Her head fell on my shoulder,
and the sobs shook the frail little
figure that leaned against me with
the artless confidence of a child.

" You shall marry me, darling,"
I cried ; " no uncle that ever lived
shall separate us. I swear it ! We
shall be married before we leave
this. Trust to me to do every-
thing; we will arrange it all before
that old Turk knows or suspects
anything. Promise only to trust to
me entirely and to do as I ask yon.
Promise me, Isabel."

She promised, placing her hand
confidingly in mine.

Next morning, soon after sun-
rise, while Mr. Prendergast was
still asleep, we two stole out to
the little church where a few stray
wrorshippers sang their hymns to
the music of the waterfall, and were
married by the old clergyman of the
place. My man, Stanton, and the
sexton were the only witnesses. It
was indeed a wedding after my own
heart, all done as quietly as if mar-
rying a wife were as much an
every-day accident in life as taking
a walk before breakfast. Isabel
was, if possible, more delighted
with the mode of proceeding than

6o6

Are You My Wife?

I \^as. I forget how she came to
make the avowal, but I know it was
quite spontaneous, that she hated
the fuss and paraphernalia of a
wedding in England as she hated a
thunder-storm; and that if she had
been given her choice, she would
infinitely have preferred this quiet
little marriage of ours to the most
magnificent display that could
have been got up for her in Scot-
land. We were as happy as two
children as we walked home to-
gether. But then came the busi-
ness of telling Mr. Prendergast.
Isabel declared she would rather
die than enter his presence now
alone; he would read her rebel-
lious act on her face, and he would
kill her. He was capable of any-
thing when he was roused. I was
not going to risk my treasure with-
in his reach. I sat down and
wrote a respectful letter, informing
him that I had become the hus-
band of his niece, and requesting
his forgiveness for what might
seem a violation of good faith, but
which his own conscience would, I
felt sure, find an excuse for in my
behalf. I stated my fortune and
position more accurately than I
had been able to do to Isabel, who
put her hand to my mouth when I
attempted to speak of settlements
and so forth, saying ^he wanted to
hear nothing about my money. I
now begged of Mr. Prendergast to
let me know what his wishes were
concerning his niece's fortune, and
pledged myself beforehand to con-
form to them, and prove by my
conduct in this respect that money
was the last consideration that had
actuated me in marrying an heiress.
In answer to this I received a curt
line informing me that I had be-
haved like a scoundrel, and that, as
a gentleman, Mr. Prendergast de-
clined to meet me, and that I had

better take myself off with my wil
before chance threw me in his wa
again. Isabel was overjoyed a
this unexpected issue. I was stu:^
by the man's insolence and his un
just accusations, but, on the wholi
it was the easiest way of getting ni
of him and securing myself ani
Isabel from his brutal temper aci
ungovernable violence.

We left Niagara that day.
wrote to my step-mother, acqaain:
ing her that I was a married znan
and announcing the day she might
expect to see us at the Moat ]
wrote for places in the next steamcij
and we were fortunate enough t^
find two vacant ones at nearly tbi
last moment in a splendid vessd
that sailed from New York. It hif)
occurred to me that before Icarinj
America it would have been pru-
dent and rational to make some
inquiries concerning the landd
property which my wife held in
Canada ; but as she did not propose
this, I feared it might strike her
unfavorably if I did, and suggest
that her uncle's insulting insinua-
tions were not as unfounded as I
wished her to believe. I therefore
abandoned the idea, and we left
the United States without my ask-
ing a single question on the subject

The voyage homeward was de-
lightful. Isabel formed plans for
the future that sounded like songs
from Arcadia, and drew a picture
of our life at the Moat that looked
like a vision of the Elysian fields.
We stopped a week in London to
extemporize a trousseau and pc^
chase some trinkets, and then I
took my wife to her Welsh home.
My step-mother gave her a gracious,
if not a hearty, welcome. It was
a very quiet home-coming ; nothing,
indeed, could have been tamer.
There were no tenantry to meet Q3,
no rejoicings either in the village or

Arf You My Wifef

607

It the house. I thought this
strange, though it was strictly in
accordance with the desires I had
dways expressed on the subject to
ny *"tep-mother. Isabel, however,
vas entirely satisfied, and confessed

me that she had been in a ner- *
ous flutter all the way home, fear-
ng to find some horror in the shape
it a deputation from the tenants
)r something awaiting us at our
journey's end.

A few days after our arrival,
rhen 1 came down to breakfast
ilone, ray step-mother said to me,
* Glide, it is time that you thought

1 little of business now. I think
fou told me that your wife's fortune
s in her own right ; this is very
iesirable to begin with, but of
:ourse it cannot remain so. Your
rights as a husband must be proper-
y protected.*'

" My wife's affection and my
:onfidence in her are the only
security I require on that, madam,"
1 replied stiffly.

" The sentiment does honor to
fou both," observed Mrs. de Win-
:on, with an undertone of sarcasm
that did not escape me ; " but you
:io not expect Admiral de Winton
:)r Sir Simon Harness to be satis-
ied with such a sentimental guar-
mtee."

" I understand you, and I respect
your motives," was my cold rejoin-
der; " but as I am not responsible
to any one but myself for the good
3r bad management of myself and
iiy property, I do not recognize
any one's right, trustee or relation,
to interfere with me, and still less
to interfere with my wife."

"Who talks of interfering with
jfour wife ? You tell me she is an
heiress with forty thousand pounds
in the Funds and an estate in
Canada. Your father's widow and
your late guardian and trustee

have certainly a right to ask the
whereabouts of the money and the
land. Admitting that your wife be
as devoted and as disinterested as
you believe, is she entirely her own
mistress } This tyrannical old
uncle who has kept her in such
bondage — how far did he or does
he hold control over her fortune ?
For her sake as much as for your
own you should put yourself in
possession of these facts."

This view of the case had not
occurred to me. I saw the justice
of it, and frankly said so.

" Isabel will put no obstacle in
the way of a just and prudenf ar-
rangement ; I am quite sure of
that," I said emphatically. " My
only fear is that she should see in
this horrid investigation a desire on
my part to count my prize, and
perhaps suspect me of having had
a base, ulterior motive in marrying
her ; and rather than wrong myself
or wound her by such a suspi-
cion, I would sooner never see a
penny of her money or an acre of
her land."

" And does your wife share these
sentiments } Is she quite as indif-
ferent about the matter as you are ?"
inquired my step-mother.

"Every bit!" I answered vehe-
mently.

" Did she tell you so ?"

" Do you suppose I would ask
her?"

"Ridiculous boy!" sneered my
step-mother. " But taking for grant-
ed that just at present she does
share your juvenile folly and poeti-
cal want of common sense, how
long will it last, do you think } A
bride in her honeymoon is a very
different being from a wife of a few
years' standing. She knows nothing
of the value of money now ; but
when she finds herself the mother
of a family, with daughters growing

6o8

Are You My Wife f

up to be married and portioned, she
will awake to the value of it in a
way that will astonish you. And
when a few years hence she asks
you for an account of her own
splendid fortune, what answer will
you make to her ? You were too
delicate to hurt her feelings by any
inquiries about so insignificant a
matter, so you left it to her uncle
to see to it !"

" I said I was prepared to do
what was necessary to protect her
interests,*' I replied. " I will speak
to her on the subject this afternoon.
What am I to do next ?"

*' Write to Sir Simon Harness, and
beg him to ^:^ a day to come down
here ; and when he has done so, you
will write to the family lawyer, and
request him to be here to meet
him. Of course you will write to
Admiral de Winton, as your father's
executor and your nearest relative
now."

** What a confounded fuss it will
be!" I exclaimed impatiently, and,
kicking over a footstool, I started up
and began to walk up and down the
room. " I wish I had married a
milkmaid !"

"Don't talk like a fool, Glide!"
said my step-mother. " 1 do believe
your pretended delicacy and fear of
hurting Isabel's feelings are nothing
but a cloak to cover your dread of
a fuss !"

I was going to protest, but the
door opened, and Isabel walked in.

She looked so beautiful in her
pink cashmere drapery, breaking
into the brown old wainscoted room
like a sunbeam, that even my step-
mother was surprised into an in-
voluntary tribute of admiration ; and
when my wife, coming up to her in
that pretty, kitten-like way that was
so bewitching, stooped down to be
kissed, my step-mother responded
quite warmly, and actually put up

her hand to caress the sunny face
after she had kissed it.

I felt so proud of my lovdy Isa-
bel, and so grateful to my step-mo-
ther for this unfeigned recognitioB
of her loveliness, that I was sciied
with a strong impulse to embrace
them both on the spot. I restrain-
ed it, however, and we sat down to
breakfast ; my wife, as mistress of
the house, presiding over the cups
and saucers.

"Glide," began my step-mother
(she prefaced every remark by my
Ghristian name), as soon as Isabel
had provided us respectively with
tea and coffee, " what are we go-
ing to do to make Mrs. de Winton
welcome amongst us.? Now, don't
answer me with your usual lazy
outcry about fuss. My dear," she
said, turning to Isabel, " you will
have a great deal to do in the way of
reforming him ; and if you succeed,
it will be little short of a miracle."

" Isabel will find out ray \ices
soon enough, without your en-
lightening her beforehand," I pro-
tested. " It's not fair to take atray
a man's character without ^giving
him a chance of redeeming it."

"Then begin and redeem it in
time," said my step-mother. " Here
is a good opportunity. Have some
people down from London to put
the house in order, and then give a
series of proper entertainments to
introduce your wife to her new fami-
ly and friends."

"Oh! please . . ," cried Isabel
pursing up her rosebud of a mouth,
and joining her hands with a dcli-
qious little pantomime of fright.

" What ! are you as silly as him-
self.^ Or has he spoilt yoa al-
ready V*

" I was ready spoilt for him, dear
Mrs. de Winton. I hate being in-
troduced; and as to refurnishing
anything, I wouldn't have it for th^*

Arc Yon My Wife?

609

aorid. I adore old furniture!" de-
lated Isabel.

**Old furniture is one thing, and
shabby furniture is another," ob-
ienred my step-mother, resuming
he chronic rigidity of manner which
[sabers beauty and sweetness had
.hawed for a moment. "If Clide
lad done me the honor of confiding
^intentions to me in time, I cer-
:aiii]y would have taken upon my-
iclf to make the house decently
:lean to receive you. I had for
iome time past urged on him the
necessity of getting new carpets and
rnrtains; it was not surprising he
khrank from the annoyance of a few
Jays' hammering merely to make it
iiabitable for me^ but I fancied for
liis wife he might have undergone
IS much."

" I shall be delighted to hear the
liammers going for a month, if Isa-
i)cl likes it," I replied evasively.

** But I don't like it ; I hate it,
tllide !" exclaimed my wife passion-
ately.

*• Well, then, you sha'n't have it,
my darling," I said. My step-mo-
ther sat back in her chair and
irashed her hands. She said no-
ihmg, but this was sufficiently sug-
iresiive.

** Have you announced your mar-
riage to Sir Simon Harness.^" she
resumed after a pause.

" Not yet. I mean to write to
bini to-day."

"Who is Sir Simon Harness?"
inquired Isabel.

"He was my father's particular
friend and the trustee during my
ininprity," I explained.

" You had better ask him to come
down here for a few days to make
^r wile's acquaintance," suggest-
rd Mrs. de Winton.

"No, he sha'n't !" broke in the
•ingcl in pink. " 1 don't want to
make his acquaintance. He's a

VOL XX. — 39

mean, disagreeable old man. Trus-
tees always are. I hate them !"

I thought this charmingly inno-
cent and childlike, though, it must be
confessed, she put more vehemence
into her manner than the case war-
ranted ; but remembering the type
of trustee on which she had built
her opinion of the class, I could not
resent her prejudice against my old
friends. My step-mother took a
less indulgent view of the sortie.
Seeing me cast a smile of tender in-
dulgence on the culprit, she looked
at me very sternly.

** Do you mean to requite years
of faithful kindness and interest in
your concerns by such a gross
breach of respect and common
courtesy as not to invite Sir Simon
Harness to your house on such an
occasion as this V she demanded.

"Isabel is mistress of her own
house. I cannot insist upon her re-
ceiving any one against her will," I
replied ; " but when I have explain-
ed to her what kind of man Sir
Simon is, I think she will consent
to make .his acquaintance."

Isabel peeped at me from behind
the urn, and made a face indicative
of anything but consent.

Luckily, my step-mother did not
see the little by-play, and, taking
her silence for acquiescence, she
said, addressing me :

"And Admiral de Winton — of
course you mean to ask him down ?"

" Is that another trustee ?" asked
Isabel.

" Not exactly, though he often
acted with Sir Simon in my affairs,
being next of kin," I said. " He was
my father's executor."

" Executor ! Why, that's worse
than a trustee ! I won't have him
come here, Clide ! You're going to
fill the house with horrid old men
who will worry me to death. I know
they will. But I won't submit to it !"

6io

Arc You My Wife?

She pushed away her cup with a
sudden gesture that made the china
rattle, and, flushing up scarlet, walk-
ed away from the table, and flung
herself into a chair near the fire.
If she had flung the tea-pot at my
head, I could not have been more
taken aback. It was impossible to
deny that the burst of temper was
very becoming to her complexion,
hut ... I was conscious of a very
distinct sense of disappointment.
Ves» disappointment; there was
no other word for it. As to my
step-mother, she looked from me to
my wife, and from my wife to me.
Isabel, meantime, sat trembling and
excited, her eyes sparkling, her face
glovvihg like an angry rose.

" Dearest ..." I began, " real-
ly ..."

''Oh! don't," she shrieked, and
burst into a torrent of tears.

Mrs. de Winton, prompted either
by delicacy or by disgust, got up
and left the room, leaving me to
c:onjure as best I could the storm
tliat had suddenly broken out in
my conjugal paradise. I was ut-
terly at a loss to understand Isabel.
She said she was inconsolable at
having vexed me, but to all my en-
treaties and arguments would an-
swer nothing except that she was
frightened at strangers, and above
aH at horrid old men ; and that if
I loved her, I was not to introduce
her to anybody, but to let us live
all our lives alone in the dear old
Moat. She wanted no society but
mine, and surely, if I loved her, I
ought not to want any but hers! This
was irresistible logic to my heart ;
but my reason, being less infatuated,
perversely refused to abide by it.
There was no use at this crisis in
broaching prudential arrangements
.as an excuse for inviting down my
two friends. Such an insinuation
would only have added fuel to the

fire. Yet the new aspect in which
my heiress-wife was revealing her-
self made it clear that some sucn
measures as my step-mother ban
suggested were absolutely neces-
sary to protect Isabel against her
own folly and deplorable ignoroccc
of life.

The storm of sobs and tears sub-
sided by degrees. Isabel declared
she was ready to make any sacrifice
of her own feelings to mine ; thit
if I liked to invite all the tnistees
in Lincoln's Inn and Cha&cen
Lane down to the Moat, she vouid
do her best to receive them proper-
ly, so that I should not be ashamed
of my wife; but of course there
was an end to her happiness. Ar-
cadia was gone. All her dreams
of romantic bliss had vanished into
thin air. She was after all to be
nothing more than a humdram
wife with a house to look after a/Hi
guests to entertain.

" O Glide, Glide ! is this whai
you promised me ?" she cried, her
voice still broken with sobs. "1^
this my dream ? or was it only J
<iri.am, iioibing but the hi&drx
Ubric of a vision ?**

She clasped her handstand, thni*'
mg back \\ti head, fixed htttymm
the ceiling, as if the vision wcit4^
appearing in that direction, aad*^
were straining for a last giiiupsc^i*-

1 was Ro speii -bound by the cv
traordinary beauty that borrowB*-*
n e vv c h a r ni f r o m li e r e motioos fi»4
from the despairing teoderneift ^
her voice and manner thai I tMt^
!y lost sight of every other iiomli*
tlie picture. In fact, I losi '
I \va^ after all no more tli.
and the wisest of us is btii
tliclvands of a vvoinan. ^Vl ■-
I do but what I did do?
upon my knees and swear tta •
sliould h:ue Arcadia back ^p^

Are VouAfy Wife?

idjare her to build up a new vision,
ind^ if she loved me, never to talk
ibotit baseless fabrics and such
ike again ; and as to her sinking
lowR into a humdrum wife, it was
>fcposterous nonsense. She could
wver be anything but an arch-
tngel to me, and that . . . But
t\\y do I bear witness in this wan-
on way to my own folly? We
nade up our quarrel, as all such
luarrels are intended to be made
i|i. Isabel went to her room, and
\ went round to the stables. I had
to fency for meeting my step-mo-
her just now^ and I had a vague
ease of something having gone
rroog with me which a gallop over
be downs would set right.

It was a cold February morning —
littedy cold, but bright and brac-
ii|^ just the sort of day to enjoy
1 ride across country ; so as soon as

was out of the park I set spurs to
ny horse and galloped away, taking
lying leaps over everything, hur-
lic, and ditch, and brook, as if the
Kittnds were aiiead, and my life
laked on being in at the death.
\htx five miles of this going-in-for-
he-Dcrby pace I drew rein at the
Dot of a hill, and walked my horse
9 the top. The hard riding had
»ade him so hot that his flanks
Rtoked like a steam-engine, and
ent up clouds of vapor that envel-
tpcd me in a tepid bath ; but I did
ot feel that the violent exercise
ad produced any effect on myself.

was not clear as to the nature of
he effect I had expected, and still
rw could I analyze the cau^e that
iemanded it. Something was wrong
CNDewhere. I looked about me

Kintly, persistently, as men do
I they feel they ought to look
in themselves for the object of
\\t\t search, and dare not.
I cast my eyes to the sky. It
.M as blue as liquid sapphire, and

as cloudless. But it said nothing
to me. The river winding round
the foot of the wooded hill was ice-
bound and silent as death. The
trees stood up naked and grim
against the blue, like skeleton
giants, and whispered nothing.
There was no rustle of leafy tongues.
They were dead and gone down
into the dumb sod. There was no
ripple of tiny cascades; no buz-
zing of insects holding council iii>
the grass that grew high and free
on the hill-side ; no song amongst
the birds. Nothing spoke to liie.
Everything was dumb. Everything
was cold. Everything was a dis-
appointment. I began to whistle.
The sound of my own voice echoed
merrily through the wood, but it
woke no responsive note from lin-
net or blackbird or robin. Silence
everywhere.

** What can it mean V* I said
aloud, the apostrophe not being
addressed to the birds that could
sing, and would not sing, but to
my own perplexity concerning the
scene at the breakfast-table. There
was something out of all reason in
the passionate energy Isabel had
displayed. Excuse it as my heart
and my vanity would on the ground
of a jealous love that shrank from
any intrusion on our solitude capa-
ble of distracting my thoughts from,
her, which she chiefly urged as her
motive of dislike to my two friends'
visit, I could not see it in a satis-
factory light. Again, it was simply
preposterous that a girl of one-and-
twenty, who had seen even as little
of the world as Isabel had, could
be so morbidly shy as to cry her-
self into hysterics at the mere idea
of being introduced to two old gen-
tlemen in her own house. There
was some motive in the background
which it behooved me for my own,
peace of mind to discover.

6l2

Ar^ You My Wife f

Removed from the magnetic in-
fluence of her beauty, and her dis-
tress, and her pretty, endearing
ways, I was able to look back dis-
])assionately at the morning's enter-
tainment; and the more I Fooked at
it, the less I liked it. The undia-
riplined outburst of temper which
revealed to me the painful fact that
Socrates was henceforth to be my
model, and patience under an in-
evitable evil the sustained effort of
my life, was in itself no snrall mat-
ter for regret. But this, though
the most tangible of my cares, was
not the one that chiefly possess-
ed me. No ; I could have signed
away every penny of my wife's for-
tune on the spot to feel sure that
it had been a genuine outbreak of
mere temper; but it was borne in
on me, not by circumstantial, but
by strong internal evidence that
she was actuated hy fear. Fear of
whom? Of what? What could
her young life have done, or suf-
fered, or known, that she should be
afraid ? Her uncle had been very
tyrannical, and was now very much
incensed with her on accoimt of
her marriage. But she had no-
thing to fear from him now. He
might storm and fume, but she was
out of his reach ; he could not hurt
her. Besides, she 4iad not hinted
at any fear of malice or vengeance
•on his part as a reason for shun-
ning the society or acquaintance of
other men. Who or what was she
•afraid of ? " She hated fuss, and I
])romised her this and that and the
<)ther."

Nonsense ! Two old friends of
my father's sleeping a night or two
in the house did not constitute a
fuss. ** She hated trustees ; they
were always . . ." Stop ! No; I'm
a fool and a brute to wrong the
•cJiild by such a thought. Besides,
1 never hinted, even indirectly, at

anything like inquiries and settle-
ments. I avoided the sulgca
scrupulously. No ; there could be
nothing in that.

The fact is, the dear child is in
love with me, and wants to pli|^ at
Romeo and Juliet for the r^ ot
her life ; and here am I, like t bom
idiot, making a mountain out of i
mole-hill, instead of blessing m
stars for my luck. This, by a na-
tural train of thought, led me to
picture her standing on the balconf
by moonlight, and myself in the
garden below looking up and wor-
shipping.

" What a distracting Juliet she
would have made !*' I exclaimed
aloud, carried away by my imagi-
nation. Then — I can't for the life
of me tell why — but I remembered
how she had looked a while ago
with her hands clasped and her
head thrown back, and how she
had suddenly checked her passioa-
ate complaint to assume the rai>i
attitude, the pose of picturesque de-
spair, and how very melodramatic
the effect had been. If it had jn»t
been the purest nature, it would
have been the most finished pietc
of acting that ever drew down ibe
house to a Siddons or a Kembk.
But it was pure nature. Thenwiif
do I start, and why does my heart
begin to thump against my ccwi:
in this inexplicable way ? Pshaw :
Because I am a fool. I set spur$
to my horse, and galloped home,
whistling defiantly all the way.

My wife was watching for mc
Juliet fashion, from the window of
her turret cliamber, and, as «oon is
she caught sight of my horse enir-
ing the park, flew down to meet me
in the hall. ^

** Why did you stay away W
long, Glide ? Mrs. de Winton * sent
me her compliments to know t
I wouldn't like to go and see the

Ar€ You Afy Wife?

613

dairy'; but I didn't like. I was
iifraki it was just an excuse to get
me bH to herself and scold me. I
kn«v I was naughty this morning,
■n4 you may scold me as much as
roiklike ; but I won't be scolded by
myftody else." And nestling up to
tne in ber childlike way, Isabel laid
tier cheek on my shoulder, and look-
ed up at me with two eyes that would
hare melted a judge and won from
tny twelve men in England an un-
hesitating verdict of — innocent as
A babe unborn. Linking her arm
in mine, and whispering all the
»ay as if we were a pair of lov-
ers stealing a clandestine interview,
9ihe carried me off to her boudoir.
Tbcn, when we were safe in the
room, she turned the key in the
door, and began to skip and dance
about like an emancipated kitten,
giving me chase round the room,
clapping hands and laughing and
singing in frantic merriment. We
kept up this impromptu game of
puss-in-the-comer till she was fair-
ly tired out and allowed herself t^
be taken prisoner and held in du-
rance vile on my knee, while she
panted for breath, and shook back
her hair, that had slipped from its
miprisoning pins, and fell in long,
black ripples down her shoulders.
Thinking the moment opportune,
**Now, my darling," I said, **let
us have a quiet little talk together.
How are we to make it straight
with the dowager ? It won't do to
hare her suspect my dear little
dove of not being as good and as
sweet-tempered as I know her to
be, and I'm afraid that silly pout
at breakfast has put you in a false
light with her."

^ Isabel said nothing for a moment,
Sbt went on shaking her curls.

" Do you wish me to go and beg
her pardon ?" she said at last. ** L
will, if you Hke, Glide."

" My angel ! no. I doubt the wis-
dom of that," I replied, laughing
at the nafveU of the proposal. " It
would be better if we took some
more practical means of pacifying
her. Suppose we give in about
asking down these two old friends
of mine ?"

" Very welL I will do anything
you like. Glide," she answered in-
differently, rolling a curl on her two
fingers, and not looking up at me.

" The admiral is the jolliest old
tar in the world," I continued,
" and will never talk a word of poli-
tics or business, or anything you
don't care about; and as to Sir
Simon, my only fear is that you
will fall in love with him, and some
fine morning elope after him, or
with him if he stays long enough.
He's the most unmerciful lady-kill-
er in the three kingdoms."

"Is he?"

This was said in a sort of absent
way, as if she had been only listen-
ing with one ear to what I was say-
ing; all her thoughts were intent
on the curling operation, that was
again recommenced and completed
for the tenth time.

" Then shall I tell Mrs. de Winton
that we will ask them both for
Wednesday — till Saturday, say ? If
you like them, it s very easy to renew
the invitation."

" Of course," assented Isabel, and
began a fresh curl.

** How proud I shall be introduc-
ing my wife !" I said, pushing back
the heavy veil of hair that partly
hid her face from me.

She shook it down again, not
roughly, but there was a touch of
impatience in the movement that
surprised me. I thought it best,
however, not to seem to notice it.
Suddenly she started from my knee,
fiew to the piano — I had- ordered a
Gottage Pleyel for her private use —

6i4

Are You My Wife ?

and broke out into a gush of
song that made the air literally
thrill with melody. Passionate,
tender, angr)% and entreating by
turns, her voice poured out the
florid Italian music with the full-
throated carol of a thrush. Singl-
ing was as natural to her as speak-
ing. In fact, she appeared to find
it an easier medium of emotion,
whether of pain or pleasure, than
speech ; and when she was excited,
her first impulse was to break out
in thrills and cadences just as a
bird might do. Once started, she
rould go on for ever. I sat a full
hour this morning listening to her
running through a repertoire of va-
ried power and beauty. Schubert,
Rossini, Beethoven, Verdi — she was
at home in every school, and her
rich soprano voice adapted itself to
each as if that one had been her
sole and special study. But while
I sat there drinking in the intense
delight, my mind divided between it
and the beauty of her face, some sud-
den expression of the latter every
now and then startled me. The won-
derful mobility of her features re-
flected every changing emotion of
the music with a responsive fidelity
which it is impossible to describe.
I suppose it was the absence of the
artistic instinct in me, combined
with a total ignorance of the emo-
tional law of music, that made this

appear to me unnatural, and fiBed
me with a sudden and painful oiis-
giving as to the genuine tnitkftf-
ness of Isabel's nature. Wa» it
possible to feign so perfectly, a»(i
to be at the same time thorooghly
truthful .>

But I was cut short in my per-
plexing reflections by the loncbeofl-
bell, that sounded a vigorous canV
Ion at the foot ot the stairs leading
up to my wife's boudoir. Sheshai
the piano quickly, and, passrag ItfT
arm through mine, marshalled me
down to the dining-room, humniins:
the **Valse de Venzano" all Ac
way.

I observed casually during liin*i
that we had fixed on Wednesday to
have Sir Simon and the admiml
down to the Moat. Mrs. dc Wiu-
ton slowly elevated her eyebrows
but gave no articulate indication oi
surprise.

I did not look at Isabel while I
made this announcement, but when,
a moment after, I stole a glance a:
her, she was as pale as the table-
cloth. Instantaneously I grew -
shade paler. I felt I did. M)
heart stood still. What in the name
of wonder was behind this dislic
of hers to see these two men ? There
was a mystery somewhere. She
was afraid of somebody or soffic-
Ihing. At any and every cost 1
must find it out.

TO BB COKTIXUBD.

Religion and State in Our Republic.

615

RELIGION AND STATE IN OUR REPUBLIC.

The great questions which con-
cern the relation of the state to the
charch have already been partially
treated of in this magazine. The
vast importance of the subject,
however, demands that we should
retnm to it once more, and will
serve as a sufficient excuse if we
even repeat many things which
have already been said in previous
articles. The relation which the
slate ought to have to the church
according to sound principles of
philosophy, the relation which it is
intended to have according to the
principles of the Constitution of this
republic, the relation which it ought
to have according to the principles
of the canon law and theology of
the Catholic Church, and the bear-
ing of these various questions
severally toward each other, both in
their theoretical and practical im-
port, make up together a complex
topic which is under a perpetual
and ardent discussion, and which is
felt by all parties to involve mo-
mentous issues. We have no un-
willingness to express fully and un-
reservedly all our convictions and
opinions upon any of the several
l)arts of this question. It is un-
doubtedly much desired by many
who are hostile to the Catholic re-
ligion or suspicious of it, on account
of its bearing upon the science of
politics, that competent persons
should make such full explanations
lof the real and genuine principles
by which all sound and thoroughly-
instructed Catholics of the present
time in our own country, as well as
elsewhere, are and will be guided.

We see no reason why their desire
should not be gratified, but, on the
contrary, every motive and reason
worthy of having any weight with a
sincere and courageous advocate of
the Catholic cause, why the discus-
sion should be brought as speedily
and directly as possible upon the
merits of the case fully exposed.

The leaders of the Catholic body,
and, in due measure, the great body
itself, are credited by many persons
with certain views and intentions
concerning the institutions, laws,
and political destinies of this re-
public which necessarily cause
them to regard the increase of our
numbers and the extension of our
influence in the nation with alarm.
Such persons would like to know
what we would really undertake to
do with this republic, if we had the
power to do what we pleased. We
are willing to let them know precise-
ly what our opinion about the mat-
ter is, and to use our best endea-
vors to explain what those principles
of the Catholic Church are which
must form the conviction of every
one of her devoted and instructed
members upon the right and just
method of applying the dtvine law
to the various conditions in which
a state may exist; from that in
which the church is at her lowest
point of depression, to that in which
she is at the summit of her influence.
In ojir own case, as citizens of the
Unittpd States, the manner in which
Catholic principles require us to
act, as voters, judges, legislators,
with that degree of influence we
now have, and in which the same

6i6

Religion and State in Our Republic.

principles would require us to act
if wc were equal or superior in num-
ber and influence to non-Catho-
lics, if we were in the majority, or
it we were practically the whole
people, b a topic upon which we
:nir.k it desirable that all should be
c=u»^h:eaed, as well those who are
sttea:>e;s of the church as those
w^ck ane al:;as tr,>ai her fold. Stat-
t\i *^. xs i'^-stract frnn, the question
aj< \i r^ i> t^e :i^al Christian state
watx icri^i— roi :^ its perfection,
tT-i m-i,iz s i."ri c-aerencc between
t*^- >viri ti-i tr^ voe which is the
vv: *.-a:zu-i*-' jr >zx real circum-

.? **.sc:s>* ru: I'rls theme we

«u&c :-.*^ ^Tt; .ivi-il5«icc of our

- .».' '^ J tt; ^«*-i a: a considera-

•-c «• —Trnc ^Ljscjaoe from the

•.r,. . .. *- . ir v^f Tt^nd to come

^ ,*--t. **-.' Vm* have to lay

.\ i« : ^ iiit: ^,**Tx;ri^ rr_=ciples about

> • 'sv :.» i^TC :?^ 3Like some ex-

,^>- -.^v ... -.le American Con-

^ % ^v .n; wr^ ci:t grapple

. •:, * a.-iic-i.ZTr. In our

, . «- * . ttuA .:iT> i:>^:>r.y taken

* . ».x-, ^* ^.'v^c*-^ writers,

v . . 'i S. --"viirs, in

^ -. *•. . . c-u. c^r::>:::uiions,

V >^ ,■ - » A-r ,**x. are sbeer

4^ . . , :>.*■- 1 -» -^ Toc bear ex-

S V ^ :'^. : *-i: m gene-

V -- -* -inc tiaaToral or-
•v ^ . ^ : k: urt a-ti ought
, V V . -^ ^. x.*^ i-^tt ^aci other,

. V .. sc-'_v.x-\i ncKirown

.. ,. * > ^ . .. -a. Vx-'sesoph-

^ ^ ,. V »^ V. :; Xxa combal-

.^. . -. V- ^ '^^.t >4> •^x^^uently

-^ , . , . >.^ ^ .i «^ caa scarce-

V . ■ >- v-Tf arv new argu-
, .V . V i '.. vi e\:vv?4aons to

itt he has not
^.. Sonnet imes,
,vtt aa unexpect-
ed :'"e attention
^•vx slaggishly in-

-c *

sensible to a louder and more con-
tinuous booming to which it has
been accustomed for a long tinae.
We trust, therefore, that the au-
thority of a great foreign writer,
who is a Protestant withal, ind
one of the most celebrated histori-
ans of the age, will claim some little
deference from those who may re-
fuse it to any one of ourselves.
And we accordingly resort to Prof.
Leo, of Halle, rather than to anv
Catholic author, for an exposirioo
of the general relation of the sute
to the church, and of the particnbr
form of that relationship in the
United States.

In the introduction to his great
work, Lehrbuch der Unrvanalgt'
schichte^ Leo develops with masterly
force of reasoning the fundameniil
principle upon which his entire
work is constructed, and which is.
in truth, the architectonic law of
the history of the human race. The
history of mankind is the^cTohitioa
in successive and progressive stages
of the grand plan of God to coivduct
the human race to its prefixed su-
pernatural end of beatitude in God
through the incarnation of the Word.
The organization of the various por-
tions of the human race in distinct
nations, with their laws, political in-
stitutions, and governments, is sub-
ordinated to this end, and therefore
subordinated to that higher and
more universal organization in
which all are included, and which
dominates over all — the church. Tte
nations which have been broken of
from the church which God estab<
|ished from the foundation of the
world for all mankind, have been
broken off through sin, revolt against
God, defection from the movemetfj
of the human race on the line
marked out by the Creator towards
its end and destiny. Yet, even in
this defection, they derive all their

Religion and State in Otir Republic.

617

constitutive and organic principles
and forces from their previous
BJEurm with the divine society or
clntrch, and are formed by religious
i<lctts which are merely perverted,
corrupted, travestied imitations of
the revealed dogmas which their
forefathers had received. All true
reform, restoration, renovation, and
improvement must be effected by a
return to unity, a reincorporation
into the church, and a reflux of or-
ganic life from the cenlre into the
chilled and deadened members.

**No religion can unfold itself among
■Ma» extend itself, or maintain its exis-
icikce» without social relations existing
between men themselves. Every religion
presupposes a state originating together
with Jtscif or already previously formed ;
bot it is equally true that no state is con-
cehrable without a religion, for every
Kate includes a system of moral concep-
tions, and is itself a system and manifes-
tation of moral conceptions ; and a sys-
trtn of moral conceptions without a reli-
Kioas force underlying it is something
unthinkable."

Here we have the statement of
the universal principle that the re-
ligious and political orders, the spi-
ritual and the temporal, or, otherr
wise, church and state, are, like
soul and. body, though distinct, in-
i^eparable in living, organized hu-
manity. The author then goes on
to prove the truth of his assertion
by the example of our own repub-
lic, apparently the most notable ex-
ception to his rule, and an instance
safficient to disprove to most men
of modern habits of thought the
universality of the rule as an or-
ganic principle of society.

** In appearance, some particular reli-
ipon may leave the state free to shift for
Jttelf or make itself free from it, and some
jlinicular state act in the same way to-
ward religion ; but this is only in ap-
Iiearance, for when, for example, the
North American state proclaims that the
religious confession is a matter of indif-

ference* in respect to its existence, it pro-
ceeds 6n the assumption that there could
not bo any religious confession, except
such an one as should include in itself
that which constitutes its own proper reli-
gious force. Just suppose that a religion
like that of the Assassins or Robber sects
of the East should make its appear-
ance in North America, and you would
speedily see how the entire body politic
would be violently agitated by efforts to
cast out this foreign religious force, and
to annihilate it within its own precinct.
You would see then at once that the
North American state, in spite of all its
contrary assurances, has- its owrv religion,
and a state religion at that, as the colli-
sion of some of the North American
states with the Mormons has already am-
ply proved. This North American reli-
gion of state only avoids assuming the
name and aspect of a religion or an ec-
clesiastical organization, and manifests
itself rather altogether in the ethical insti-
tutions of the state as they are for the
time being, and consequently permits a
roost extraordinary variety of religious
doctrines and churches to exist alongside
of the state, yet only under the tacit con-
dition that they all acknowledge that
which is the religious force of the state
as their own. If, therefore, the North
American state proclaims that religion
is an indifferent matter, it proceeds from
an absurd imagination that there cannot
be any religion which does not include
in itself that particular religious force
which its own moral subsistence has need
of. In point of fact, religion and the
state form one ethical whole, precisely as
in individual men the soul remains an
inseparable whole, although we separate-
ly consider particular faces of its exterior
surface as special faculties — understand-
ing, will, etc. Religion and state are one
single ethical whole, which, although di-
vided into distinct members, and appa-
rently separated in these, must always
be united in one germinating point and
a common vital root.** *

A singular corroboration of the
doctrine of Leo in its applica-
tion to the United States is fur-
nished by the following extract
from the Ne^v York Herald, If it
seem to any one singular that we

• Lekrhuck tier l/rirversaigttcAiehtt^rrmVr H.
Leo, 3d edit., voL i. pp. 13, 14.

6i8

Religion and State in Our Republic.

cite the Herald on such a question,
it will cease to appear so when we
explain our reason for doing it. This
well-known paper is remarkable for
a certain tact and sagacity in di-
vining and expressing the instinc-
tive dictates of American common-
sense upon questions which concern
practical, temporal interests. We
cite it, therefore, in this instance, as
a proof of the fact that the public
sensibility is stirred by any practi-
cal collision of a foreign and hos-
tile religious force with the latent
religious force underlying our own
legislation, just as Leo says it must
be. Theories and phrases are dis-
regarded; and the mouth-piece of
popular opinion strikes at once,
promptly and surely, upon the very
head of the nail, and drives it home.
It is very singular to see, in the ex-
tract we are about to cite, how the
instinct of self-interest and self-
preservation evolves by a short pro-
cess the same conclusion which the
philosopher establishes as the re-
sult of long study and thought.
Here is the extract in full, with
some passages marked in italics by
our own hand, to which we wish to
call special attention, as containing
the nucleus of the whole matter, and
agreeing almost verbally with the
language we have quoted from Dr.
Leo:

•• BRICHAM YOUNG AND POLYGAMY — WILL
THE PROPUET TAKE SENSIBLE ADVICE?

" Judge Trumbull, United States sena-
tor from Illinois, has just had a conver-
sation with Brigham Young in Salt Lake
City, which, as reported, is of more than
ordinary significance and importance.
It seems that as the judge was taking
leave of Young, the latter remarked that
on returning to Congress he (the judge)
might hear of some persons — obnoxious
federal officials— being put out of the
Terriior>', and, if done, he might be sure
it would bo for just and good reasons.
Judge Trumbull replied by requesting

Young, before he took aiy step «f thit
kind, to make known his griennGei
to President Grant, remarking that the
Preiident was a just man, inteodiqf^ to
do justice to all, but that he wooll Ml
permit a violation of law to go ^^^
ished, and adding that it would 'Mtlie
safe to molest public officers in ibi4ii-
cbarge of tbeir duties.* The judge te
asked Youag if he promised obetoct
to the Constitution and the laws if lb
Union. The latter replied that he vorii
adhere to the Union, but that thefe«l
' one enactment of Congress wfakk tm
Mormons would not obey,* naiielj,tbl
one forbidding polygamy.

" Here, then, is the whole Monnoa^W'
tlon in a nutshell — the^ positive dfldifr
tion on the part of the MormoQ kate
that federal officers, sent to Utah, aakSI
acceptable to himself, should be ha*
ished the Territory, and that there ws^
least one law of Congress be positifi^
refuses to acknowledge or obey. Not.
what is the plain duty of the ettigiil
government in the face of these rcfflJi-
tionary ayerments? It is to sec that the
enactments of Congress arc euforcei
7<n.thoui respect to persons or re^[wu, tsi
that the representatives of the \sissA
government legally appointed (or ihK
purpose shall be upheld and protectti
if it be necessary to employ the whok
power of the nation. This Monnofi ou-
ter demands decisive action on the part
of the administration. * President Grao*
has already declared his purpose of a-
forcing the laws impartially, evta d*
most obnoxious, and there is no good
reason why the Mormons should be a-
empted from the operations of thispoliCT.
The fact is, Brigham Young and his a-
tellites have been treated with t»o nnKk
leniency and good-nature by the CJatsed
States government ever since th^ settled
upon the national domain, and whatetw
they have done for the improvemcat rf
the Wilderness in which they settled thtr
have done for their own benefit, and ha«
reaped the rewards of their indostry vs^
frugality. Among the many other scbW-
roents that have sprung up iothefrea:
West and grown into populous cities aoi
States since the Mormon begin frw
Nauvoo, where can one be sho«a 9
have defied the United Stotes g"*^
ment. and to have treated its laws «»■
its public officials with the contempt ^
insolence the Mormons have? On »v
contrar}', among the most loyal Suics «

Religion and State in Our Republic.

619

tbe Union, and among those which sent
iaia ihe field the greatest annies during
iJie struggle for our national existence,
afe States in which the earlier pioneers
bad to undergo as many perils, hardships,
inii pritations in organising their com-
BUKtltics, in subduing the forests and
dM mr^ge, and in implanting the seeds
•f cH© and religious liberty and consti-
DRiDffid bw, as ever the Mormons did in
eneHn^ their Salt Lake empire, and in
CMMisfaing in the heart of the nation's
puMfc domain a religious organitation the
^mtF-iUne of which is a dogma abhotretU
> modem civilitaHon and in violation of
M the received rules of decent social and
^ tm aHf life and society. Therefore the
iliiiBS of these impertinent and rebel-
IIOM Mormon squatters for immunity
ftBOi the operations of the general laws
tfdte country, on account of the service
Ibiy have rendered in improving a bar-
HBi waste, but more properly in making
brtnnes for themselves out of the Gen-
iRts and the government,* are idle and
lUicuIous. Greater hardships and more
personal sacrifices, we repeat, have been
ndergone by settlers in other tracts of
•writoiy, now become great and prosper-
•tts States^ respecting the laws and fight-
tig for the national flag, than ever these
Mormon adventurers encountered from
Ihe lime when old Joe Smith went into
the tablet business, after the manner of
Mosesy and founded the Mormon sect,
■p to the moment of the conversation
B^K^m Young held with Senator Trum-
boll, as related above. They have no
daifflf for political sympathy, for immu-
nity from legal responsibilities, nor for
ittidly the consideration paid to other
ttligions communities; for the odor of
*tir sanctity is foul, and their moral
fracHces are unlike those of all modem
Christians, We say, therefore, to Brig-
^^ Young and his deluded followers,
that they had better accept the sensible
•dviceof Judge Trumbull, consult with
^wident Grant before they proceed to
«*tremities, accent the laws of Congress in
^ont to polygamy t as well as in regard to
f^^hing else they are required to^ and
^^^ haul in their rebellious horns or pre-
f^ to pack up their baggage for a tramp
iMwwtf distant country outside the boundt^
^ »f the United States. You must obey
^ laWf Prophet Biigham^ or you must
••t^. Uncle Slim has stood your non-
*^K long enough. He will tolerate it no

What is it which is thus asserted
by a paper always considered as ad-
vocating the most extreme modem
notions respecting religious liberty?
It is that there is something in our
civilization, our received rules of
morality, our lawful principles and
acts of administration, intolerant of
certain religious dogmas and tend-
ing to exclude them. This latent
something is what Leo calls our
state religion, the religious basis of
our institutions and laws, of our
whole political and social fabric.

The first point we wish to come
at, in our evolution of the whole
question under discussion, is, what
is this religious basis or fundamen-
tal religious law, essentially and
precisely 1 According to Leo and
excellent authors of our own, it is
the moral law, so far as that law
governs political and social rela-
tions. Whatever is eontra bonos
mores is prohibited and excluded
by it, and nothing more. But
this is too general. We are obliged
to ask what moral law, what stand-
ard or criterion of good or bad
morals, is tacitly understood } To
this we reply that, in our opinion,
it is the Christian law, as embodied
in the common and statute laws
under which we have been living
since the origin of our nation. If
we ask, further, what fixes and de-
termines this Christian law — that is,
what criterion determines that which
is really prescribed or forbidden by
this law — we can assign nothing
more definite and precise than the
common and general conscience of
the sovereign people, as this exer-
ci.ses its controlling power through
legislative and judicial enactments
and decisions. It is therefore n<>t
an unchangeable quantity, but va-
riable and varying in the differ-
ent laws of the distinct States, and
in the different laws of separate

620

Religion and State in Our Republic.

epochs which are the result of the
change for better or worse which
takes place in the moral sense of
the community. We cannot enu-
merate a definite number of moral
canons forming our state religion
in every part of the country during
every period of its history. But
we can, at any one time, designate
a certain number of things required,
permitted, or forbidden by our state
code of morals, without respect to
the doctrines of any particular re-
ligious body. Whatever religious
doctrine professed by any set of
men contradicts any part of this
code, although it may be maintain-
ed and advocated theoretically
with impunity so long as this can
be allowed without immediate dan-
ger of inciting to an open violation
of the laws, cannot be reduced to
practice without bringing the of-
fending parties within the coercive
jurisdiction of the courts of justice.
A Mahometan or a Mormon will
I)e allowed to advocate in speech
or writing the claims of Mahomet
(If Joe Smith as the gr^at prophet
of God, and to defend polygamy as
a divine institution; but if he at-
tempts to keep a harem, the law
will condemn the act, and will pun-
ish it, at least to a certain extent,
l)y inflicting legal disabilities on
every one of his wives and children
who is not regarded as legitimate
by the statutes of the State where
he lives. Any enthusiast may give
himself out as an inspired pro-
pihet; but if he is directed by his
fancied revelations to kill some one,
to set up a kingdom for himself, or
to undertake anything else against
the laws, the laws will avenge them-
selves without regard to his liberty
of conscience or his interior con-
viction that he is executing the
commands of God. A very piquant
and characteristic expression of

this principle was once given bv
General Jackson. After the cafn
ture of the Indian chief Black Ilani.
and his adviser, the Prophet, an m
terview took place between the war-
like president and these dusky pi^
tentates of the forest. The pfe^-
dent demanded of the chief »n ac-
count of the reasons and aoiivc^
which had led him to make waro:.
the United States. The crest£ilicn
warrior laid all the blame on tiic
Prophet, who was in tarn subjcc:^
to the stern glance and iraperiuJ-
demand of the formidable old gene^
ral. Quailing and abject beneiii
the superior moral force of tx
great white chief, the trerablirj;
Prophet excused himself bysayiti;
that he had been deceived by «i^'
he thought was the voice of liif
Great Spirit, but which was onK
the whispering of his own mini'
Upon this the old general, galbc-
ing up all the dignity and force e:
his character into his brow and a* •
titude, and raising his voice tp^
tone of thunder, turned upon t^K
poor Prophet, and anathemaiii<^
hirti with this terrible dogmit''
decree : " If you ever again ^^y
take the hallucinations of yourdi?^
ordered imagination for the inspi
rations of the Divine Spirit, by to-
Eternal! I will send you where u
will be for ever impossible for you fi?
repeat the mistake!" Onr ciiet
magistrate spoke according to tcf
written and unwritten law of out
constitutions and our tradiuoM.
There is a certain point betook:
which the practical carrying oat oi
opinions or beliefs, whatever cUi«
they may make to be derived fr'^
a superhuman source, will be -^
sisted by the entire coercive **■
penal force of the law. Theie jTt
and must be certain inherent prin-
ciples in our laws, whether tttf^
are vague or definite, variable <^

Religion and State in Our Republic.

621

ated, which determine this point
i physical resistance to liberty of
onmeace or liberty of religion.
rbe« constitute our state religion,
rhtch claims for itself a legal infal-
ibtli^, as exacting and unyielding
5 th^ of the Holy See, so far as
itttwiifcd submission and obedience
re colkferned.

Wc come now at our immediate
[uestion, namely, the attitude of
he Catholic religion towards this
bte religion ; and if we are able to
l(signate and define this accurate-
f^ we are able by logical conse-
Ittence to conclude precisely what
legree of agreement or opposition is
jontftined in the essence of Catho-
k and of American principles re-
ipectively to each other. We in-
end to meet this question fairly
irnl squarely, without trying to
wist either the one or the other
let of principles, or to invent a
medium of compromise between
ibera. We take the Catholic prin-
tiples as they are authoritatively
promulgated by the supreme au-
thority in the church, the Roman
Pontiff, particularly as contained
in the encyclical Quanta Cura^ with
its appended Syllabus, and as they
arc taught and explained by the
most approved authors in canon
law. These definitions and ex-
positions alone have authority in
the church, and these alone have
any weight or significance in the
Winds of thinking men who are not
members of the church, but are
more or less positively hostile to
W extension in our country.
Private versions or modifications
of Catholicity count for nothing, for
tl>cy are merely the theories of in-
^viduals, and will have no influence
'over the real development of the
t*hiirch, in so far as they disagree
hv excess or defect with her autho-
niaiive teaching. For ourselves.

we are purely and simply Catholic,
and profess an unreserved alle-
giance to the church which takes
precedence of, and gives the rule to,
our allegiance to the state. If al-
legiance to the church demanded
of us opposition to political princi-
ples adopted by our civil govern-
ment, or disobedience to any laws
which were impious and immoral,
we should not hesitate to obey the
church and God. We should either
keep silence and avoid all discus-
sion of the subject, or else speak
out frankly in condemnation of our
laws and institutions, if we believed
them to be anti- Christian or, which
is the same thing, anti-Catholic in
their principles.

We do not try and judge Catho-
lic principles and laws by the cri-
terion of the American idea, as it is
called, nor do we justify and vindi-
cate these principles on the ground
that they are in harmony with, or
reconcilable to, the maxims and
ideas upon which our political fab-
ric is based. We aim at making
an exposition of the case as it real-
ly is ; and if we take a view of it
favorable to our American political
order, it is for the sake of justify-
ing that order, and proving both to
our own adherents and to our op-
ponents that our duty to God does
not require us to make war on it,
so that all the arguments and mo-
tives for creating a conflict on the
political arena may fall to the
ground, and the battle-field be re-
stricted to the fair, open ground of
theological polemics.

What is it, then, which furnishes
to a certain set of violent enemies
of the Catholic Church in this coun-
try a pretext for making the issue
between Catholic and Protestant
principlesapolitical one, and inclines
a great number of the mass of the
people to believe or suspect that this

622

Religion and State tu Our Republic.

pretext if» valid ? The newspapers,
|)ubIications, and speeches which
have been giving utterance to the
ijentiments of those who dread and
o[)pose the spread of our religion,
ever since it began to show signs
of vitality and growth in this coun-
try, furnish the answer. The pre-
text is that all Catholics who tho-
roughly understand and are loyal
t(» the principles of their religion
wish to change or overthrow the re-
public, and substitute for it a polit-
ical order fundamentally different;
and that, if they ever become strong
enough, they will do what they can
to carry out their design. Is there
any truth in this pretext ? We will
express our own convictions on the
matter as fully and clearly as pos-
sible, and leave them to exert what
influence they may upon those really
sincere and intelligent persons who
may honor us with their attention.
In the first place, as to the repub-
lican form and constitution of our
government. There is no doubt a
difference of opinion among our
( lergy and intelligent laymen in re-
gard to the abstract question what
form of government is the most ex-
cellent and perfect. In regard to
this subject, it is a part of our
American liberty that we should
be free to form and express our own
opinions, and there is undoubtedly
a diversity of opinions regarding it
among non-Catholics, as well as
among ourselves. It is certain that
many of our bishops, clergy, and
educated laymen have a very decid-
ed preference for the republican form
of government, where it can be es-
tablished under conditions favorable
to order, stability, and success. And
as to the mass of our people, they
have suffered so much from tyranny
and oppression that they are in-
clined to go to the extreme left
rather thaw the extreme right in all

questions of political authority a&d
liberty. If we look at the question
closely, we shall see that the difer-
ence of opinion which may exist in
regard to the form of govenuocnt
among those who hold to the difine
institution of the state, and the di-
vine sanction to political autliontr
and law, is really not concemiBg
essentials. S. Thomas teaches that
the best fonn of government is one
which combines the monarchical,
aristocratic, and democratic de-
ments in just proportions. Bellar-
mine maintains that absolute mon-
archy is -ideally the most perfect
form of government, but that, con-
sidering the actual state of men, the
mixed form is the best in practice
It is our opinion that very few men
among the leading classes in tht
Catholic Church could be found,
either in this country or in Europe,
who would not agree with the second
member of Cardinal Bellarraine's
proposition. This is quite enough
for the justification of the govern-
mental order established by our
constitutions and laws in our Unit-
ed States. We have the monarchi-
cal principle in our president, and
governors, and the mayors of
cities. We have the aristocratic in
the legislators, judges, and magis-
trates. The existence of the demo-
cratic element need not be piwed.
The difference between our nwo-
archy and aristocracy and those
which are hereditary is only thai
ours is elective, and the difference
between them and certain other?
which are elective is that oor elec-
tion is only for a certain term and
by a popular vote. The Pope ^
an elective monarch. The govern-
ing aristocracy of Belgium is elec-
tive. The essential principle o\
the mixed government is simply a
stable and legitimate order, undei
which the monarchy, aristorrac)

Retigum and State in Our Republic.

623

id democracy are created and
tstoiAed in the regular exercise of*
:nam functions of government.
atholics are therefore bound by
teir own principles to recognize
te political order in the country as
miM\ and to give it their alle-
ance* Moreover, without any
luslion, apart from singular and
idhriduai opinions which Catholics
\ veil as Protestants may enter-
tia, the Catholics of this country
tt agreed in the conviction that
le republican institutions of the
Itilcd States are. the best and the
ily possible ones for our own
Mmtry. They have no desire to
vinrert theui^ and there has never
ten any conspiracy against them,
iccpt in the malicious or deluded
fains of fanatical anti-Catholic
rriters and speakers and of the
lowd which they have duped,
■enuine Catholics will never con-
|Hre against our government and
iifS but will always be true and
oyal American citizens. If the
M}onty of the people or the whole
feople were to become Catholics,
bty would not use their power to
ubvert our American institutions,
>c substitute for them those of any
European nation. On the contra-
y, nothing could happen which
lould secure the perpetuity of the
tpubhc and promote its polit-
cal prosperity and glory with
Ukythtng like the influence which
He Catholic religion would ex-
cise io producing such desirable
tsnlts. The dangers we have to
tpprehend come from the sectarian
Itvijtions which waste and neutra-
i« the religious sentiment and
orce of the country, from infideli-
ty and radicalism, from vice and
inunorality, from secret societies,
^lom public and private corruption
M)d profligacy, from swindling and
BAladministration in high quarters,

from prmcipbs akin to those of the
conspirators of Europe, from de-
testable books like Lothair^ atheis-
tical magazines and unprincipled
newspapers — evils for which the
Catholic Church alone can furnish
a remedy.

Another part of the subject is
worthy of much more serious con-
sideration, and requires far more
elucidation in order to be present-
ed in its true light. This relates,
not to the outward form of the gov-
ernment, but to its inward spirit ;
to the scope and quality of the
legislation, and not to the manner
of designating the legislators or
judges. All forms of government
are lawful before the church, wheth-
er absolute monarchies or repub-
lics. It is evident that a republic
may be governed in perfect accor-
dance with Catholic principles, and
that an empire may be governed in
complete discordance with the same.
A sensible man would not, therefore,
be likely to consider the form of
our government as the object which
demands his particular solicitude in
view of the progress of the Catholic
religion. He would consider, ra-
ther, that the gist of the matter lay
in the relation of Catholic princi-
ples to that which we have called,
after Leo, the state religion. If we
are correct in our preliminary state-
ments, the Catholic religion always
tends to infuse itself into the siate
in which it exists, and succeeds as
soon as it has become the govern-
ing moral force which constitutes
the soul of the body politic. Now,
what is the relation of the Catholic
religion to the actual state religion
in our country, and, when they come
strongly in contact, what degree of
struggle will ensue between them,
and what amount of change would
be produced by the predominance
of the Catholic force ?

624

Religion and State in Our Republic.

In the first place, let us consider
the case in reference to those things
wliich the Catholic conscience posi-
tively enjoins or positively prohi-
bits. In every case of this kind
a Catholic must obey his con-
science; and if he is subject to a
civil law which requires him to vio-
late it, he must die rather than sub-
mit. Formerly we have had to
make this passive resistance to laws
existing in the American colonies ;
and in some cases — as, for instance,
in regard to certain oppressive laws
passed in the State of Missouri, it
has been necessary to resist some
state laws. On the whole, however,
we may say that our laws do not
put the Catholic citizen into the
alternative of incurring a penalty
from eitlxer the human or the di-
vine law. Tliis part of the case can
be therefore dismissed as not prac-
tical.

In the second place, we have to
• consider those things which are the -
rights and privileges of the Catho-
lic conscience, but which do not
concern its indispensable obliga-
tions. In regard to these things, a
Catholic must obey the law, and he
must refrain from all violent and
seditious conduct. He must sub-
mit to the abridgment of his rights
and liberties so long as he cannot
obtain their free possession and
use by lawful means. But, under
our free institutions, it is the right
of the Catholic citizen, by argu-
ment, influence, and voting, to se-
cure as much as possible of his just
religious liberty without prejudice
to the natural or civil rights of
others. Therefore, as a matter of
course, whenever Catholics obtain
sufficient power to command a ma-
jority of votes, they will, if they
act on Catholic principles, demand
And obtain all their rights and full
equality before the law with other

citizens. For instance, in regard
to schools, prisons, hospitals, ships
of war, fortresses, etc., they will se-
cure the complete right of Catho-
lics in these places to practise cbeir
religion and to be free from the ia-
terference of non-Catholic religious
teachers appointed by the state

But what would be the action oi
Catholics, if they should ever be-
come the majority, in regard to re-
quiring or prohibiting by law tko5€
things in which the Catholic con-
science differs from the Protcstaot
and non-Catholic standard of right
and wrong ? It is always necessary
in such a case for all parties to
exercise the greatest forbearance,
moderation, and fairness toward
one another, in order that these
questions should have a peaceable
solution. Therefore those violen:
and fanatical or selfish demagogue^
both clerical and lay, who seek t«»
exasperate the non- Catholic citi-
zens of this country against their Ca-
tholic fellow-citizens, are the uhk
dangerous enemies of the pubU
peace. We appeal to all candid,
impartial, intelligent American ciu
zens to say who are they who seek
to fan the embers of strife into a
flame; are they Catholic leaders,
or are they the chiefs and orators
of a violent, sectarian, anti-Catboiic
party ? Our Catholic citizens, if
fairly treated, will always reject
the rights of their fellow-citizens.
They will never take part in de-
spoiling churches, societies, col-
leges, or other institutions of their
property or chartered privilefes,
as radicals and infidels most assur-
edly will, so far as they have ant
power. Catholics will not do anr-
thing of this sort, even in case the?
should in certain States become t^
overwhelming majority. They wi ■
never seek to tyrannize over the i
fellow-citizens, to esublish their re-

Religion aitd State in Our Republic.

625

ligioQ by force, or to compel any
)iie to do those things which are
required only by the Catholic con-
tcicnce. The difficulty lies chiefly
in respect to those laws which for-
^ certain things as contrary to
ht divine law. The civil code
ciiDsists chiefly of laws prohibiting
moes against the moral law, and
omexing penalties to the commis*-
wn of them. The law must there-
ive have some ethical standard of
it^ and wrong, and must be bas-
Mi on some interpretation of the
lifine law, or, in a Christian state,
4 the Christian law. Now, if the
alerpretation of the Christian law
tf morals held by one large portion
rf the community diflers from
ti»t of another large portion,
•bit is to be done ? This is the
precise question which we are seek-
«g to answer in reference to the
Catholic and non-Catholic portions
ol the community in any State
»here the former should be in the
preponderance. The case of di-
vorce and marriage is one precisely
b point, and the most important
tnd practical of all others which
could be mentioned. Let us sup-
pose, then, that the reformation of
tke marriage code were to come up
before a legislature in which the
Mtjority were Catholics, under the
leadership of sound jurists who
were also strictly conscientious in
Mfilling their duty of obedience to
the church. Would they make the
canon law also civil law in globo^
•^thout regard to the opinions or
wishes of the minority ? We think
not. In our view of the case, the
fight and the wise thing to do
would be to brmg the law back to
Ihe condition in which it was dur-
ing the earlier and better period of
our existence as a people, in so far
i« the assent of the whole people
'oiild be secured with a moral
VOL XX. — 40

unanimity. As for the rest, it
would be altogether in accordance
with Catholic precedents and Catli-
olic principles not to legislate at
all, but to leave the church and the
other religious bodies to exert their
moral influence over their own
members.*

If we suppose the entire people
of the United States to become a
Catholic people, we must suppose,
as a matter of course, that the en-
tire law of the Catholic Church, in
so far as it is an ethical code, be-
comes per s€ the sovereign law of
the collective people. This fol-
lows by a rigorous deduction from
the principle^ we have laid down
respecting the religion of the state.
The religion of the state, as we
have seen, is its body of ethical
principles. This body of principles
came by tradition from the Chris-
tian teaching which created Euro-
pean civilization. It is, in a vague
and general sense, the Christian
law. It is good so far as it goes,
and in harmony with Catholic
principles. But it is imperfect and
liable to change, for the want of a •
competent tribunal to pronounce
upon its true, genuine sense in dis-
puted cases. This is seen in the
instance of marriage, there being in
courts and legislatures no right or
power to decide from the New Tes-
tament or any other source what
the divine or Christian law really
prescribes. Let the collective con-
science of the country become Ca-
tholic, and it at once, without
changing the fundamental principle
of our organic law, obtains an infal-
lible and supreme interpretation of
that law which raises it to the stan-
dard of ideal perfection. It be-
comes a perfect Christian republir,

* At a case in point, we may cite the law of the
Pontifical Sutes, which kavet the regulation of
marriage among Jews to their own tyoagogue.

626

Religion and State in Our Republic.

passing under the control of a
higher law in all that is comprised
within the sphere of ethical obliga-
tion, but retaining political, civil,
and individual liberty in all other
respects, guarded by more power-
ful sanctions than it ever before
possessed.

Do our fellow-citizens who are
not Catholics think it possible that
this will ever take place ? We sup-
pose not. Nor have Catholics any
certain grounds for expecting it,
whatever they may hope from the
power and grace of Almighty God.
There is no reason, therefore, for
making a controversy about what
the Catholic Church would do in
the United States if the whole peo-
ple were her docile children. The
question of real importance relates
to the action which Catholics ought
to take, and probably will take, as
one factor of greater or less power
in the political community. Our
aim in discussing topics of this
kind is, first, to animate Catholics
to a manly and honorable determi-
nation to secure their own equal
ri<fhts, and to obey strictly their
conscience in all their political and
civil relations. It is, in the next
place, to persuade our fellow-citizens
that conscience and obedience to
the teaching of the Catholic Church
do not require or permit Catholics
to make an aggressive party, to dis-
turb the peace of the common-
wealth, to subvert our laws or lib-
erties, or to invade the rights of our
fellow-citizens, and seek the oppor-
tunity of establishing the supremacy
of the Catholic religion by violent
and forcible means. We have no ex-
pectation of convincing, conciliat-
ing, or silencing the greater portion
of our active opponents. We have
not the slightest hope of seeing them
desist from their utterly unfair and
fallacious method of conducting

the controversy between us. Their
only chance of success lies in soplt-
istry, artifice, appeals to prejudicf,
ignorance, and oassion. and the
evasion of all serious arj^ument.
We have, however, ^freat hopes of
gaining more and more the heinn^
the attention, and the coofidcttce
of that vast body of thinking asd
reading Americans who, if not con*
vinced of the divine origin of tfae
Catholic religion, are certainly ile-
void of all respect for every fonn
of fanatical sectarianism. Ther
know well that these violent par.
ties, however loud in the assertion
of liberal sentiments, are invariably
tyrannical when they have power;
and we hope to convince them that
the Catholic Church, while coo-
demning a false liberalism, is ever
the guardian angel of true right and
liberty

All the foregoing portion of thi*
aiticle was written four years aga
and has been waiting until the pre-
sent moment for a suitable occa-
sion of publication. The contro-
versy aroused by Mr. Gladstones
pamphlet in November of the Us*
year has furnished a better occasion
than we could have hoped for, and
we have therefore offered this con-
tribution to the discxisston no*
going on. The statements we havtr
made in regard to the essestijl
relation between religion and the
state with reference to otir owr
republic are equally applicable to
the European nations. TheycoreT
the whole ground of allegiance doe
from Catholics to an infallible aa*
thority, in respect to the domair
of political ethics. This inCaUihk
authority is the proximate rale ol
faith in regard to what most W
done or omitted in order to obr-
the law of God. It is the hict«(
law, the objective rule, directo^

RiJigion and State in Our Republic.

627

he sabjcctive conscience, or prac-
ical judgment respecting right or
rrong, in the individual. It is, of
imrse, supreme ; for it is an unerr-
n^ promulgation of the divine law.
riie definition of the infallibility of
be Pope has not made the slightest
tacci^ change in respect to his
Mthohty of defining and proclaim-
^ this infallible Catholic rule of
tascience. All Catholics, bishops
Rduded, even when assembled in
ie&eral council, were always re-
(med to assent to and obey his
JHlgments in matters of faith and
iKtrals, as final and without right
If appeal. The assent of the
fcurch could never be wanting,
bee it was obligatory on every
Uiop, priest, arid layman to give
tat once, under pain of excommu-
jiratton. If some were illogical
Eiough to maintain that the infalli-
riiity of his judgments depended
M this assent, the erroneous opin-
to which they held did not sub-
krt them to excommunication as
Brmal heretics before the solemn
Itfioition of the Vatican Council
Od condemned and anathematized
kcir error as a heresy. Yet the
loaan Pontiff always exercised his
l£illibie prerogative without hesi-
ition, and was always obeyed, tx-
IB^ by heretics and rebels. In re-
fect to the promulgation of the
Hvine law to the consciences of all
■en, the Pope has always been, by
bfinc right, just what he now is
"Hhe supreme teacher and judge of
he whole earth, as the Vicar of
Tiirist His power is spiritual, and
u executive is the conscience of
loch individual. Infallibility is
ibeyed only by interior assent,
ifcich is a free act of volition not
nbjcct to any coercive force. It
I utterly silly, therefore, to say
fett this submission is a surrender
rf freedom, or that obedience to a

rule of conscience subsisting in an
infallible tribunal interferes Avith
allegiance to civil authority one
whit more than obedience to any
kind of rule whatever. In fact,
what Prince Bismarck denounces
and wishes to crush is the resist-
ance of subjective conscience to the
absolute mandates of the state, for
which we have his own plain and
express words. His doctrine is the
very quintessence of the basest and
most degrading slavishness — the
slavishness of intelligence and con^
science crouching abjectly before
pure physical force — ki force prime
le dtcit.

Legislative and governing au-
thority in the church is something
quite distinct from infallibility. It
proceeds from the power delegated
by Jesus Christ to his Vicar to ex-
ercise spiritual jurisdiction over all
bishops and all the members of
their flocks, and in general over all
the faithful. No direct temporal
jurisdiction is joined with it by di-
vine right. The direct temporal ju-
risdiction of the Pope in his king-
dom is from human right, and his^
ancient jurisdiction as suzerain over
sovereign princes was also a mere
human right. The indirect juris-
diction which springs from the di-
vine right is only an application
of spiritual jurisdiction, varying in
its exercise as the civil laws are
more or less conformed to the di-
vine law, and depending on the
concurrence of the civil power.
Suppose, for instance, that a bishop '
revolts against the Holy See. The
Pope judges and deposes him.
This act deprives him of spiritual
rights and privileges. If he is to
be violently expelled from his ca-
thedral, his palace, and the posses-
sion of his revenues, the civil mag-
istrate must do this in virtue of a
civil law. If he were one of the

628

Religion and Statt in Our Republic

prince-bishops of a former age, and
were deprived of his principality,
the civil law would deprive him.
If he married, and incurred tem-
poral penalties thereby, it would be
through the civil law. The judg-
ment which pronounces him guilty,
deposed, excommunicated, invalid-
ly married, and therefore liable to
all the temporal penalties incurred
under the civil code, is an act of
spiritual jurisdiction. The tem-
poral effect of this judgment is in-
direct, varies with the variation in
civil jurisprudence, and depends on
an executive clothed with a direct
temporal and civil authority.

Nothing is more certain than
that the church has always recog-
nized the immediate derivation of
the civil power in the state from
( Jod, its distinction from the spirit-
ual power, and its sovereign inde-
I)endence in its own sphere of any
direct temporal jurisdiction of the
Pope. The statements made above
show how the immutable rights of
the Pope* as Christ's Vicar in re-
spect to indirect jurisdiction in
temporal matters have a variable
application in practice, according
to the variation of times, laws, and
circumstances. It is futile, there-
fore, to attribute to the Holy See or
to Catholics in general, on account
of the doctrine of Papal infallibility
and supremacy, the intention of
striving after a restoration of all
that actual exercise of ecclesiasti-
cal power in political affairs which
was formerly wielded by popes and
bishops. Much more futile is it to
suppose that a claim to revive an-
cient political rights derived purely
Irom human laws and voluntary
<:oncessions is always kept in abey-
ance, and to be ever dreaded and
guarded against by states.

Qitholics ought to beware, nev-
ertheless, of regarding the ancient

constitution of Western Cbrisicn-
dom under tbe headship of tbt
Pope as something needing oo
apology, or as a state less perieci
than the one which has supplanted
it. We do not share in or symp-
thize with this view or with the
political doctrines of those whu
hold it, however estimable tbcf
may be, in the slightest degrei:^
Although convinced that the me^i*
seval system has passed awty for
ever, and that the present aai
coming age needs a r^ime suittil
to its real condition, and not to ow
which is ideal only, we ^r; i*
the past which partly realixed thtf
Christian ideal.

France was par exctlUMce Uk
Christian nation, as even Dunif*
advocate though he be of tbc
principles of '89, proclaims with tt
Frenchman's just pride in the Gti^
Dei per Francos. Her golden afr
was the period between Lottis it
Gros and Philippe le Bel. Her
decadence and disasters began wit'*
the contest of the latter sovereign
and the infamous Nogaret, pns
cursor of the Cavours and B:^
marcks, against Boniface VI 1 1
Crecy, Poitiers, and Agincoort^ the
dismemberment of France, the coo-
quests of Edwacd III. and Hcnnr
v., the apparition of Etienne Mir-
cel, the father of Parisian rcvoia.
tionists and communists, were in
logical sequence from Philippe*
rebellion, and the logical antece-
dents of the modem French Rcvoie-
tion and the disasters of 1870. h
that olden time France was rescntn'.
only by the miraculous mi»i<Ki ^
Joan of Arc, a kind of living \<-r
sonification of the Catholic Chnn?
in her three characters as rirgm.
warrior, and victim. So, at a is
ter period, S. Pius V., that pout f
whom Lord Acton has so viW**
cahimniated, saved Europe tr-

Release.

629

e Turkish invasion to which the
creant sovereigns had exposed it
r basely abandoning the Crusades

despoil each other. It needs
It small knowledge of history

see through the sophisms of
cond-class writers like Buckle
id Draper, who seek to despoil the
itholic Church of her glory as
c sole author and preserver of
fdization in Western Christen-
xiL The history of Europe from
le fall of the Roman Empire to
K moment ii only the record
Fan effort of the popes to lead
le nations in the path of true
bry and happiness, and of the
pcr-recurring struggle of the civil
^er, of sophists, and of revolu-
urists to drag them aside into the
ith of degradation and misery,
ff their own base and selfish pur-
ees. Faithless priests, unworthy
i\n of noble names, men who
ivc perverted the highest gifts of

nature and grace, have, during this
long, eventful course of time, been
mix€;d up with the arrogant tyrants,
cunning politicians, bold blasphe-
mers, shameless sensualists, and
their common herd of followers, in
the war against the vicegerent of
God and the spouse of Christ.
What is now, has been in the time
past, and will be until the curtain
drops after the finished drama.
There are similar actors on both
sides now, and a similar struggle*
to those recorded in the history of
the past. We may expect a simi-
lar result. La Pucelle was falsely
accused, unjustly condemned, suf-
fered death by fire, and triumphed.
The Catholic religion is La Pu-
celle. Abandoned, falsely accused,
doomed to the flames, by an un-
grateful world, recreant or cowardly
adherents, and open enemies, it will
be hailed in the age to come by all
mankind as the saviour of the world.

RELEASE.

I SOMETIMES wish that hour were come

When, lying patient on my bed,
My soul should view her future home

With eager, trembling wings outspread
And earnest faith ; that age and pain

Should pass at death's divine behest,
As the freed captive leaves hLs chain

When he has ceased to be the guest
Of prisons — on the dungeon floor
A burden dropped for evermore.

Eternal joy, eternal youth.

Await beyond that portal gray —
Which all must pass that hope for truth—

The lonely spirit freed from clay ;
But suffering only bids us yearn

For that m3rsterious, strange release
Which through the grave, the funeral urn,

Brings such infinitude of peace.
Oh ! in that dread, ecstatic hour
Uphold me. Saviour, with thy power.

630

The VeU Withdravnu

THE VEIL WITHDRAWN.

TIANSLATBD, BY PBRVISSION, PROM THB PRSNCH OP MMB. CRAVBN, AOTBOB OF ** A

*^ PI.XUKANCS," BTC

XXXIV.

I PRETENDED to be vcry much
surprised the next morning when
Lando informed me Gilbert was
obliged to take his departure the
following day in order to join an
English friend of his who was to
accompany him to Egypt and had
sent a despatch he should be at
Malta by the end of the week.

I recollect nothing more con-
cerning that morning except my
depression, which only increased as
the day advanced. Towards night
this sadness assumed a new cha-
racter, and became still deeper in
consequence of a letter from Lo-
renzo, announcing his return the
following day.

He had left Milan, and was now
at Bologna. He was really there
this time, and not pretending to
be, as when he went to Sorrento to
see Donna Faustina I Oh ! what
bitter thoughts, what feelings of in-
dignation, were awakened by the
perusal of this letter, at once de-
void of affection and sincerity !
He doubtless supposed a scandal
published in so many newspapers,
though only the initials of the per-
sons concerned were given, had
come to my knowledge, but he was
in that sort of humor in which the
wrongs one has to endure produce
an irritation against those who
have the most to suffer in conse-
quence. It was evident he felt
some regret for the past, but there
was not a symptom of repentance ;
and though he did not say so di-

rectly, his letter seemed intcDdeJ
to warn me, as he had once dooc*
with regard to questions, ad vice, and
promises, that he was not disposed
to endure the slightest rqifoach.
Not a word that appealed to ray
generosity, not one thatcoukltoodi
my heart ! I could see nothisg to
cheer and console me in that direc-
tion. All was dark and cold.
Such was my conviction on read-
ing this letter. But I did ci»
appear the less cheerful when
evening came to remind me Out
my interior struggle wouki be
over in a few hours, and the ncit
day I should feel at liberty to yifW
without restraint to thoughts I
should no longer be afraid to be-
tray.

The large drawing-room on t'lf
ground floor which opened into iJk
small garden, after the fashion ^\
Pompeii, with its pillared portico,
had been arranged for the occasion
by Lando, who had constructed .
platform, ornamented with light*;
and flowers, where the concert bf
had improvised was to take plar?
varied by speeches.

Gilbert was to explain its obif « :
at the commencement, and at f^
end, AngioUna, for whom Lan^
had begged this exceptionally Ion;
evening, was to go around with
basket to collect the money inie^-
ed for the poor people whose 1*'^
had been saved by her mother

Lando excelled in such ananc -
ments, and, to tdl the truth, ^'

Th€ Veil Wit/idrawH.

631

had left nothing here to be desired.
I must also add that all of our lit-
tle coterie, except Gilbert, Stella,
and myself, eagerly participated in
the work.

My aunt, in particular, looked
with a favorable eye on this mix-
ture of charity and amusement,
which at once satisfied her kind
heart and gratified her dominant
passion. It seemed to her a more
ddightful invention had never been
brought from beyond the Alps.
Besides, she had that very day
node a discovery which put an end
to her maternal indecision with re-
g&rd to her daughter's fate. This
indecision, in consequence of Lan-
do's intentions, which became more
and more evident, was caused nei-
ther by the frivolity for which he
might have been reproached, nor
by ihe extravagance with which he
had squandered his modest patri-
Mony, nor by any other motive
dictated by prudence, but solely
by a difficulty which vanished in
the twinkling of an eye as soon as
my aunt discovered a fact she was
before ignorant of, to wit, that
Ijmdo Landini, like a great many
younger sons of good family in
Italy, had a right to assume, on
marrying, a title he had not hereto-
fore borne. Oh ! from that in-
stant nothing more was wanting.
She had always found Don Landol-
fo nearly faultless, but now he
could oflfer her daughter the charm-
ing title of the Countess del Fiare^
he was perfection itself. After
^uch a revelation, her consent was
not deferred for an instant. Lan-
do, in the midst of the prepara-
tioni he was making, had taken
lime to come in haste to commu-
nicate the news. This explained
the air of triumph, as well as joy,
*ith which my aunt made her ap-
pearance in the evening, and the

unusual brilliancy of Teresina's
black eyes, greatly set off by the
white dress and coral ornaments
she wore. Her sister had also
something in her manner that
evening that differed a little from
the unmeaning placidity which
usually characterized her. She
was not as pretty as Teresina, but
she had a more agreeable expres-
sion, and a better right to the epi-
thet of simpatka which was some-
times given her. Their faces were
b6th flushed with the excitement
produced in advance by the plea-
sure of singing in company when it
could be done without fear and with-
out any doubt of success. And
my cousins had voices of superior
quality, such as are often met witli
in Italy, and harmonized wonder-
fully together. They were, more-
over, very good musicians, and
though their style was not perfect,
every one listened to them witli
pleasure, more especially the young
amateur of music who had been ap-
pointed to accompany them that
evening. For some time, the Bar-
on von Brunnenberg had regarded
Mariuccia in a most sentimental
manner ; butliitherto the handsome
young Englishman, Harry Leslie,
seemed to please her more than
the baron, and consequently she
had always treated the latter with
more or less coldness. It was evi-
dent, however, that Leslie, since the
evening on Mt. Vesuvius, had not
a thought or look, or scarcely a
word, for any body but Stella. I
often wondered if this had any ef-
fect on her, as I observed her
occasionally pensive air so unlike
her usual self. However the case
might be, Mariuccia had drawn
therefrom a practical conclusion
for her own personal benefit : Les-
lie did not care for her ; she must
therefore resign herself and turn to

634

The Veil Withdrawn.

clamations of the audience, and —
shall I avow it ? — I noticed with
pleasure that he left the platform
without the least thought of ap-
proaching her. He slipped away
as quickly as he could through a
little door that opened on the porti-
co, and from the shadowy recess
where I was sitting, I could see
him in the moonlight leaning
against a pillar in the attitude of
one who is reposing after some
great effort or long constraint.

I was for some time incapable of
giving the least attention to what
was going on around me. I vaguely
listened to A ie sacrai Regina^ to
which Mariuccia's fine contralto
voice gave wonderful expression;
and after this duet from SenUramis^
various other pieces were played by
the baron. One of these gave me
a thrill, and brought me back to a
sense not only of the present but
of the past. It was the air of Chop-
in's which Diana de Kergy played
at Paris on that other farewell oc-
casion! Everything to-night seem-
ed combined to overwhelm me
with recollections and emotion !
I could hardly bear to listen to this
music, it so overpowered me with
its heartrending, passionate charac-
ter. My eyes, in spite of my efforts,
were .already filled with tears when
the young amateur abruptly stop-
ped and struck up a waltz from
Strauss, with so much spirit and brio
that Angiolina jumped down, as if
drawn by some irresistible impulse,
and began to whirl around, holding
her little dress up with both hands.
All those in the assembly who
were still in their teens seemed
strongly tempted to follow her ex*
ample; but the waltz soon ended,
silence was restored, and Angiolina
returned to my side as Stella, in
her turn* made her appearance.

The object of the soiree sufficient-

ly accounted for the acclamations
with which she was received— a
marked homage to the noble deed
that had just been eulogized in
such eloquent terms. When these
subsided, the silence became pB>-
found.

Stella remained motionless whik
all these demonstrations were g<»ng
on around her in her honor, and
did not seem to be aware of them.
I can see her still in her white dress,
the flowing sleeves of which display
ed her hands and arms. Her only
ornament was a circlet of gold,
which confined the waving masses
of her thick, brown hair. She did
not look paler than usual, for her
complexion, of dazzling whiteness,
rarely had any color ; her eyelashes
and eyebrows were as dark as her
hair, and her eyes, when nothing
animated her, were of a rather dnll
gray ; but at the. least emotion iht
pupils seemed to dilate, and deepen
in hue, and then nothing could sur-
pass their brilliancy ! This change
was especially remarkable when she
exercised the natural talent for
declamation which she possessed
without having ever cultivated it.
Her sense of the poetic was pro-
found and accurate, and her voice,
full and sonorous, was precisely
adapted to express what she felt :it
the moment in her heart. To this
were added simple, natural gestures,
which the mere movement of her
beautiful hands and arms alway^i
rendered noble and graceful. There
was no affectation about her, imi
yet her face, usually animated by
extreme gaiety, pK)ssessed a strange
tragical power. Such was Stella^
talent — a sufficiently faithful reflec-
tion of the character of her soul.

During the noisy manifestation-
that greeted her appearance, shr
was apparently very calm, as 1
have just described her; but her

The Veil Withdr^Mn.

63s

lands were clasped nervously to-
^ether, and an almost impercepti-
>Ie movement of her lips indicated
nore agitation than she manifest-
:d outwardly. But this repressed
rmotion added to the very charm
)f her voice when she began with
ncomparable grace a sonnet from
i^appi ; and when, striking another
:hofd, she repeated a scene from
ane of Manzoni*s finest tragedies,
there was a genuine thrill of admira-
tion in the audience. I noticed
poor Harry Leslie, in particular,
who was touched, excited, amazed.
I looked around for Gilbert — rand
(pardon nie, O my God I — forgive
me, Stella !) I was glad to see he
was not present. The very power
which each of them possessed in a
different way of moving an audience
seemed to establish a relationship
between them, the bare thought of
which made me suffer, and this
suffering was as harrowing as re-
morse!

Finally, Stella began the canto
at the end of the Dtvina Commedia^
whichcommences with this prayer —
tertainly the most beautiful ever in-
spired by genius and piety : " O
Vergin Madre / figlia del tuo Fig-
//(?/•'* At that moment Gilbert
reappeared. He did not enter the
room, but remained leaning against
the door. Nevertheless, I saw a
slight flush pass over Stella's brow ;
I heard her voice tremble ; and I
knew she was aware of his presence
and had lost some of her self-con-
trol. As for him, I saw he was sur-
prised and astonished. He added
his applause to that of the whole as-
sembly. But when they all rose at
the end to crowd around Stella, his
eyes turned in a different direction,
and it was evident he thought of
licr no longer.

* Vifiiii Mother, daughter oC tbv Soa t

At that instant, little Angiolina,
who was leaning against my shoul-
der, mutely contemplating her mo-
ther, and only saying from time to
time in a low voice, " How beauti-
ful ! Isn't it beautiful ?" as if she
were listening to some musical
strain, was borne away by Harry
Leslie, who, as was appropriate, had
been appointed to accompany the
little quiieuse. There was now a
bustle and general confusion, as is
often the case after prolonged si-
lence and attention, and everybody
seemed wild with gaiety. To this
merriment was added the noise of a
deafening march which the baron
played, as he said, by way of ac-
companiment to the triumphant
progress of the child borne around
the room on Leslie's shoulder to
receive the contributions that were
to end the soirie.

The contrast between the state
of my mind and all this tumult, ani-
mation, and gaiety, only served to
heighten the agitation of my soul to
the utmost. All the doors and
windows of the room were open,
and I mechanically went out and
leaned for a moment against the
same pillar where I had seen Gil-
bert only a short time before.
While standing there, I suddenly
heard his voice beside me :

" Adieu ! madame," said he in a
low, trembling tone.

" Adieu, Gilbert ! May heaven
protect you !" I replied, extending
my hand. He took it, pressed it to
his lips, gave it a slight pressure,
and that was all. . . . He was
gone ! I followed him with my
eyes, by the bright moonlight, till
he disappeared under the trees of
the avenue.

I remained motionless in the
place where I was, looking alter-
nately at the garden around me
bathed in the light of the moon,

636

The Veil Withdrawn.

and at the brilliantly illuminated
saien within. And while my eyes
wandered from one to the other, it
seemed as if everything before me
disappeared never to return, that
these bright lights were about to
be extinguished never to be re-
lighted again, this numerous assem-
bly dispersed never to be reunited,
and it was the last time I was to
mingle in the gay world surround-
ed by all the display that wealth

could afford. The impression was
singular ; but what is certain, I felt
at that very moment all my happi-
ness was over, that which was dan-
gerous as well as that which wai
legitimate, pleasure as well as re-
pose, joy as well as peace, memory
as well as hope ! It was a moment
of agony, but the sufferings <A soch
agony, however terrible they may
be, are they not, like a mothcrV
throes, the signs and prelude of life?

XXXV.

When I returned to the drawing-
room, I found scarcely any one
left. Leslie came to tell me Stella
had gone away without bidding me
good night, because she was in a
hurry to take Angiolina home as
soon as the collection was ended.
Presently nobody remained. Si-
lence once more reigned, and I
found myself alone, face to face
with myself!

But I by no means experienced
the happiness that so often results
from the accomplishment of a duty,
or the consummation of a sacrifice.
On the contrary, I felt a desolation
which was the prelude of a state of
mind which was to render the fol-
lowing days gloomy beyond any I
ever spent in my life — gloomy !
yes, as the profound darkness of
night just before the dawn !

While Gilbert remained, I did
not allow myself to analyze my
feelings for fear of shaking my re-
solution. I was able to maintain it
to the end ; but as soon as he was
gone, I gave free course to every
thought that could aggravate my
sufferings. * I now experienced that
isolation which, from childhood, I
liad dreaded more than death !
Lorenzo no longer cared for me, I
should never behold Gilbert again,
and the friendship of Stella, the

only one who comprehodded and
pitied me, I was not sure of pre-
serving !

I now began to recall, and study,
so to speak, all that had taken
place during the evening just at an
end, but this only seemed to ib-
crease the conviction that had taken
such strong possession of my miad.
I felt determined, however, to as-
certain the truth, I would satisfy
my mind. I would question her
till she told me exactly all that
was passing in her heart.

But Stella, with all her gaiety,
was not a person who could readily
be induced to make a confident!^
disclosure of her most secret
thoughts* Without the least dis-
simulation, she was impenetrable.
She knew how to enter fully into
the feelings of others — their joys
and, above all, their sufieriags*
But if, on the other hand, any one
sought to participate in hers, a
smile, the opening of her large eyes,
or a slight movement of her lips
and shoulders, seemed to forbid
looking beneath the serene expres-
sion of her smiling face. The truth
was, she thought very little about
herself. There was no duplidty m
the habit she had acquired of ne^'cr
lifting the veil that concealed the
inner workings of her heart, for

The Vtil Withdrawn.

^17

she did not try to raise it herself,
and was by no means curious to
fathom all that was passing there.

When I saw her again, I found
her, therefore, nearly the same as
usual — a little graver, perhaps, and
somewhat more quiet, but that was
alL As to questioning her, I did
not dure to, and the query soon
lose in my mind : Have I read
her heart aright ? And to this
immediately succeeded anotHir :
Has she read mine? I dwelt on
these questions a long time without
being able to answer them to my
satisfaction.

What inclined me to decide in
the affirmative was the care we
both took to avoid mentioning Gil-
bert's name, the tacit agreement we
made not to prolong our interview,
and the facility with which, under
some trifling pretext, she excused
herself from driving out with me,
though she consented to let me take
her little Angiolina.

I set off, therefore, with the child,
and drove beyond Posilippo where
the road descends to the water's
edge. There I left the carriage, and
taking the child, I went down to
the shore and seated myself so near
the sea that the waves died softly
away at my feet. I had a particu-
lar fancy for this spot. Seated
there in full view of Nisita, with
I^hia, Procida, Capo Miseno, and
Baja in the distance, Pozzuoli at
the right, and the heights of Posi-
lippo and Camaldoli at the left and
behind, I seemed to be a thousand
leagues from the inhabited world,
in a spot where it was easier than
anywhere else to forget all the rest
of the nniverse.

While I sat there silently gazing
around me, Angiolina was running
about gathering sea-shells to fill
the little basket she had brought
for the purpose. Occasionally she

stopped and clapped her hands
with delight as she looked around.
More than ever did I at that mo-
ment envy Stella the happiness that
prevented her from feeling the isola-
tion and intolerable void in which
I was plunged ! I envied her, and
forgot to pity her ! I forgot, more-
over, to tremble for her! One
would have thought the saying :
" Aux Ugers plaisirs les souffratues
Uglres ; aux grands bonheurs Us
maux inouis" or, at least, the evi-
dent truth they contain, had never
struck my mind !

At that time I only dreamed of
human happiness under every con-
ceivable form — a happiness that
seemed to be accorded and permit-
ted to others, but of which I was
for ever deprived. And while An-
giolina continued to ramble about,
not far off, I ceased admiring the
spectacle before me, and suddenly
burying my face in my hands, I
burst into tears. At the same
instant I felt Angiolina's little arms
around my neck.

" Zia Gina!" she exclaimed (she
had heard her mother call me Gina,
as well as sister, and composed
therefrom the name she always gave
me). ** Zia Gina, what makes you
cry?"

"I am sad, Lina," said I, my
tears falling on her beautiful fair
curls.

"Why?"

" I cannot tell you."

" Can you tell the good God ?**

What a singular question ! . . .
She made me blush, and, after a
moment's reflection, I replied some-
what evasively :

"One can tell him cverythiniz,
Lina, for he is our Father."

" Yes, I know he is our Father :
I call him so every day."

Her attention was diverted an
instant by a butterfly she saw float-

638

TJu Veil Withdrawn.

ing by. She watched it till it flew
away, and then resumed :

*• Then, my dear Zia Gina, you
must pray God to console you."

*' Pray for me, carina'^

After some reflection, she said:
** I only know two prayers — the
Our Father and Ave Maria : which
shall I say for you ?*'

" Say both of them."

**Yes, certainly: Our Father
first ; I like it so much/*

And there on the shore she fold-
ed her hands, raised her eyes, as
blue as the heavens to which she
raised them, and with her clear, sil-
very voice softly repeated the di-
vine words. If ever there were lips
on earth worthy of being the echo
of that voice which once uttered
this prayer that we might learn it,
they were certainly the innocent
lips now repeating it beside me!
I too clasped my hands and joined
in her prayer.

When it was ended, she stopped
a moment with a thoughtful air,
and then repeated: "Deliver us
from all evil."

**But, as I am praying for you,
ought not I to say to Our Father :
Deliver Zia Gina from all evil ?"

" Yes, my darling," exclaimed I,
embracing her : " yes, pray always
in this way for me, and may God
hear and bless you !"

Her angelic face, her piety and
innocence, completely diverted my
mind from my sorrows. I only
felt an infinite joy at not having
rendered myself unworthy to hear
the words she had just uttered. I
had suffered ; I still suffered, of
course ; but I had prayed, and still
prayed, to be delivered from temp-
tation and sin, and it seemed to me
a ray from heaven had fallen on me
in answer to this angel's prayer!

But this impression, though live-
ly and consoling, was only mo-

mentary. I had to return lo tke
reality of life, and this reality was
painful. It became much more so
the following day when Lorenzo
at last returned.

He did not, of course, appear
like a man who returns to the fire-
side he loves and respects* Nor
could he be expected to prescni
himself in the attitude of a pcai-
tent. I was far from being pre-
paifcd, however, for the stand be
took and the complete change 1
found in him, but Lorenzo had
been endowed by Divine Provi-
dence with such rare gifts that, in
giving himself up to evil instead
of good impulses, he had to sofiiier
from the law which condemns those
to stray further away and fall lower
who would perhaps have become
guides to others had they not erred
from the right way. The serious
errors into which he had fallen, less
excusable than they would have been
at any other epoch of his life, w^re
this time accompanied by a shame-
lessness and indifference to scan-
dal that at once wounded and dis-
gusted me. The consciousness of
faults he would not acknowledge
caused him insupportable uneisi-
ness, and this produced a complete
change in the expression of bis
face, his language, and even in bis
manners, formerly so dignified and
courteous, but now liaughty and
not un frequently rude. But what
was specially evident was, the fatal
fascination he did not cease to feti.
The fact was, he had not been driven
from her by disgust : repentance
and duty had not led him to return
to me. She who had forsaken bira
still reigned in his heart, and ibe
influence I had over him so sliori
a time before, was now utterly de-
stroyed !

All this was clearly perceptible
from the first day of his return. 1

The Veil Withdrawn.

639

saw he was even rather irritated
ihan pleased at having no reproach
t.» make noe. In fact, he did not
propose peace, but imposed it, on
the condition of absolute silence on
my part. The slightest reproach
from me, I felt, would have been
\\\t cause of a violent scene and
l»crhaps of open rupture !

Such was the aspect my life as-
luraed at Lorenzo's return. Will
jny one be astonished at the re>^lt
I felt in my heart in spite of my
apparent submission, which was
only a mixture of pride and dis-
dain ? Will any one wonder at the
harrowing regrets, dangerous recol-
lections, and profound discourage-
ment which threw me into the
deepest melancholy, and sometimes
into utter despair? I began my
life over again in imagination with
(lilhert, and dwelt on what it might
have been, that I might suffer the
more for what it was !

I'his remembrance seemed to be
my only resource : these vain de-
sires and regrets my only solace. I
^ive myself up to them with my
wliole heart, and thus, while I con-
sidered myself irreproachable, I was
^u much separated from Lorenzo as
lie was from me, and I allowed my-
self to live interiorly in a world over
which I had no scruple in allowing
another to reign almost absolutely !
The following Saturday I was at
the grate of the convent parlor a
long time before my usual hour.
Ihe anguish of my soul was at its
height, and for the first time, with-
out regard to the place where I
was, and perhaps I ought to say, to
licr who listened to me, I made
linown all my troubles to Livia, not
'»nly Lorenzo's new offences, but
•tlio ray other trials, my inclina-
Hons, my regrets, and what at the
*iJme lime I called my "courage-
ous sacrifice."

She turned pale as she listened
to me, and an expression of grief,
such as I had never seen her wear,
came over her face, which remain-
ed anxious, even when I told her
that she unawares had given me
the strength to accomplish it.

" So much the better," said she ;
adding, with a grave smile, "If
that is the case, I certainly did not
this time play the part of a jttta-
trice / . . . But, Ginevra,. you es-
caped a less fearful peril the day I
saw you borne by that furious
horse towards the abyss. You
were saved when I saw you again,
whereas to-day . . .*'

" To-day ? . . . Are you not
satisfied.^ Have I not obeyed
what I felt were your wishes V*

" Yes, my poor Gina, you have
made an effort, a courageous effort ;
and yet you deceive yourself like a
child. Lorenzo certainly ought to
conduct himself very differently;
but even if he did, you would still
be deprived of the happiness you
dream of. As to that other mi-
rage," continued she with a shud-
der. " O merciful heavens ! do
you not see whence comes the
light that has caused it ? Ginevra,
I can only say one thing to you —
what I have said before : pray !"

" I pray every day."

"With fervor?"

" Yes, Livia, with all my heart,
I assure you, I pray as well as
1 know how. I tell you the
truth."

As I uttered these words, a ce-
lestial smile came over her face for
the first time since the beginning
of our conversation, and she ex-
claimed :

" O dearest sister !" . . . and
then stopped.

Rather vexed than consoled by
the manner in which she received
my communications, I remained

640

TJu Vea Withdrawn.

with my forehead leaning against
the grille^ feeling for the first time
how truly it separated us, that my
sister felt no pity for me, did not
render me justice as she ought,
and that she knew neither the
world, nor its difficulties, nor its
temptations, nor its pains. My
tears fell like rain as I made these
reflections, but it seemed as if
Livia, usually so compassionate,
' beheld me weep with indifference.

All at once she asked :

" Ginevra, is it long since you
went to confession ?"

I abruptly raised my head, my
tears ceased to flow, and I wiped
my eyes with a gesture of impa-
tience. It was certain Livia could
find nothing to say that did me
any good. I made no reply.

**You will not tell me. Why
not, carina f"

Was I really out of humor with
her — with Livia .> And on the
point of showing it .> . . . Oh !
no ; I at once felt it was impossible.
Besides, the touch of severity that
chilled me had disappeared. She
now spoke in a tone I never had
refused to listen to. I therefore
replied without any further en-
treaty :

" Yes, Livia, longer than usual."

No sooner had I uttered these
words, than a lively color suffused
my whole face. It at once occur-
red to me that the time corre-
sponded exactly with the length of
Gilbert's visit at Naples. Livia
did not observe my confusion, and
calmly resumed :

** Listen, Gina. You believe, as
well as I, that the Sacrament of
Penance is a remedy, do you not ?
It has been called, I think, * the
divine prescription for the mala-
dies of the soul,* and you are con-
scious, I trust, that your soul is
really ill."

" Oh ! yes, my soul, my heart,
my mind, my body, my ikholc k-
ing ! O Livia ! I sufiei even
way!"

" Well, if you were physically ili.
you would certainly consult thr
best physician in the city, and, whn
knows ? if there were a better onr
still at the other end of Europe.
you would perhaps, like man?
others, undertake a long joamcv
t(f consult him as to the remedy.**

" Perhaps so ! What then }"

** Listen, dear Gina. I have ju^t
thought of a piece of advice I'l
give you, and as it has occurred to
me in a moment of pity for yon
when my whole heart is filled with
affection and sympathy, perhaps it
is a good inspiration you would d"
well to follow."

" O Livia !" I exclaimed, great
ly affected, for I recognized ihr
accent of affection I had been
so doubtful about — an affectioi
more than human, because it »-^
an emanation of divine charii\
" Yes, tell me, dear sister, what :
is. Say anything you please. Com-
mand me, and I will obey you."

She proceeded to inform me that
a saintly monk had recently ani*-
ed at Naples who was universally
known and respected on account
of his extensive knowledge, and
was ren»arkable for the impretOHi-
ing simplicity of his manners. Hi*^
words went to the heart, led sin-
ners to return to God, and inadt
those who were pious better than
they were before.

"Go to him humbly, I beseo '
you, and open your heart to h\r?.
before God — ^your whole heart. '
feel a conviction he will be aWe :•'
give you the remedy you need, j'*1
if you have the courage to af j^.
this remedy, whatever it be, I if-
the assurance, Ginevra, you will l>:
healed."

The Veil Withdrawn.

641

XXXVI.

Let those who do not wish to
enter the region into which I am
about to lead my readers, now lay
iside this book. I assure them,
liowever, there is nothing in the
pre\'ious portion of this narrative
more strictly true than what I am
^oing to relate. I affirm, more-
over, that it refers to a point that
interests every Christian soul ; I
might say, every human soul, but
[ know beforehand that they alone
»ill comprehend me who have
6iith in these words : ** I believe
in God the Father Almighty," that
» to say, they who with the Catho-
tc Church firmly believe His Om-
nipotence is present, living and
icting in our midst, and there is
Qot a single instant in which the
naterial and spiritual world, the
rorld of nature and the inner
"forld of the human soul, cannot
feci its supernatural and miraculous
rffects. At the mere sight of this
*'urd, I suppose every sceptical, in-
credulous, or scornful reader has
Uken the alarm and made his es-
cape, and I shall henceforth ad-
dress only those who speak, or at
Least comprehend, the language I
im about to employ.

I left the convent without decid-
ing on the hour for following Li-
Ma's advice, and was already on
tny vay home when I took the sud-
ficn resolution to proceed without
Hiy delay to the church she had
indicated. This church was one
>!' the finest in Naples, the only
me, perhaps, in which the eye is
lot offended by any of the incon-
s'niities so often found in It«ily be-
tween the beautiful proportions,
the marbles, the frescos that adorn
i!ic walls, and certain objects of
devotion whose choice or execu-
tion indicates more piety than
VOL. XX, — 41

taste. Here everything harmoniz-
ed, and this harmony was favor-
able to devotion. I took a chair
and knelt against it on the marble
pavement; then, according to the
Neapolitan custom at confession, I
took off my hat and threw over my
head a scarf of black lace I wore
over my silk dress, and patiently
waited for others to enter the de-
serted church. It was nearly three
o'clock.

I did not have to wait long. As
soon as the clock struck, I saw
quite a number of men and women
of every rank and age, as well as
young ladies and even children,
come in and gather around the
confessional, near which by chance
I had stationed myself. I turned
towards a lady who knelt beside
me, and asked the name of the con-
fessor she was awaiting. She look-
ed up with an air of surprise.

"Father Egidio di San Mauro,
of course,** said she. " Do you
not know his confessional ?*'

Father Egidio was the name of
the priest to whom my sister had
directed me. Chance had led me
to the spot I wished to find. I
was obliged to wait a long time ;
but this delay, and the profound
silence around, aided me in con-
centrating my mind on the act I
was going to perform, and enabled
me, I think, to make a good pre-
paration. Besides, I had already
gained a victory over myself by the
very act of coming here, for I had
been obliged to surmount a mix-
ture of timidity and embarrass-
ment one always feels about going
to a strange confessor.

At length the priest we were
waiting for made his appearance.
He came slowly out of the sacristy
and proceeded direcHv to the biirh

642

The Veil Withdrawn.

altar, where he knelt for some time
in prayer. He then rose, and,
crossing the church, passed before
me on his way to the confessional.
He was of lofty stature, but bowed
down by years and still more by
that sanctity which does not spare
the body. His white hair and
bald forehead gave his mild, deli-
cate features a grave, imposing as-
pect, which at once inspired re-
spect, though it was impossible to
feel any fear.

I ought to have been the first to
approach, as I arrived before the
others ; but as soon as Father Egi-
dio seated himself in the confes-
sional, which, according to the
Italian style, was only closed by a
low door, he perceived the children
awaiting him, and, leaving the door
open, he made them a sign to ap-
proach. One by one they present-
ed themselves before him. He
bent down his head as he address-
ed them, and the innocent faces
raised towards him were marked
•by a pious attention that was
touching. He smiled occasionally
as he listened to them, and the
hand they kissed when they were
done, he afterwards placed on their
heads in benediction.

When the children had finished
I was obliged to wait still longer,
for a young man brushed hastily
by me and fell on his knees in the
place they left vacant, and this
time the confession was long.
Father Egidio, resting both hands
on the shoulders of his new penitent,
'bent his head to listen without
Interrupting him, and when the
young man ceased speaking, the
advice he gave in return must have
touched his penitent's heart, for,
as he listened, he bent his head
lower and lower towards the old
priest's knees, and when he rose
his eyes were inundated with tears.

At last my turn came, and I b^
in the place usually taken at con-
fession. My. voice trembled a<4 I
began, but grew stronger by d^ec\
and I continued with clearness and
the wish to be sincere. Mytroj-
bles, alas! were closely connfcied
with my faults, and I not only open-
ed my heart and soul, but laid be-
fore him my entire life, feeling as I
did so, the relief there '"& in the
avowal of one's weaknesses in con-
fession ^that can be compared to w
human confidence, however gr«*
the wisdom or sympathy that whk
it. He murmured two or thr«
times as he listened, ** PoorchiW!*
but did not otherwise interrupt tae
till I had finished.

The words he addressed roe thai
were the mildest and yet roost pow-
erful that ever roused the huiBM
heart to a sense of duty. Bnt whefl
he finally told me that though I bad
banished him whose presence was
so dangerous to ray soul, I mcsi
likewise banish his memory with
equal resolution ; that the recollec-
tions in which I still indulged with-
out scruple ought to be resisted
overcome, rooted out, and rejected,
I felt an insurmountable repugnance,
and replied :

" No, father, I cannot do it."

He again repeated, ** Poor child'"
and then said in a tone of nftingleJ
compassion and kindness :

** You are not willing, then, t-'
give God the place he has a rigft
to in your heart V*

I did not understand hismeanicc-
and replied :

" Father, I cannot help wba: I
think and feel, or what I suffer"

Without losing anything of H*-
mildness, but with an authority tht*
subdued my rebellious spirit, V-
said :

" I know, my child, what is r-
your power, and what docs not de-

The Veil Withdrawn.

643

end on your will; but in the name
f Him who now speaks to you
trough me, I ask you to repeat
rith a sincere heart these words,
'hich comprise all I have just said :

"O my God! root out of my
etrt everything that separates it
com Thee."

These words, the accent with
rhich they were uttered, and the
layer that I have no doubt rose
rom the depths of the holy soul
lom which they sprang, inspired
^ with the wish and strength to

bey.

I my God ! enable me now to
sake others understand what then
00k place in my soul.

I leaned my head against my
lasped hands, and after a moment's
ikncc, during which I summoned

II the strength of my will, I slowly
epeated with the utmost sincerity
be words he dictated :

** O my God ! root out of my
leart everything that separates it
bm Thee." . . .

merciful, divine Goodness!
WW shall I speak of Thee ? how
%U of thy marvellous grace and
ove? While uttering these words,
before they were even ended, I
elt touched by some strange, mys-
terious, supernatural influence. My
^art and soul seemed filled with
tight. My whole being was trans-
formed. I was inundated with a
joy that could not be expressed in

human language, and the source of
this joy, the sensible cause, which I
still feel, and shall never cease to
feel, was the conviction made audi-
ble in some miraculous manner that
God loves me !

God loves me Yes, I heard
these words. I comprehended their
entire signification. The Veil 7vas
forever withdrawn. I'he myste-
rious enigma of my heart was solved
as clearly and obviously as my eyes
beheld the light of day.

I loved, not as we try, but in vain,
to love our fellow-creatures ; I loved
with all the strength of my heart !
and with so much strength that I
could not have loved more without
dying! . . .

All human language is inadequate,
I know, to speak of supernatural
grace. I can only slammer as I at-
tempt it, and will no longer dwell
on the ineffable moment wliich
wrought an entire transformation in
my life. I no longer recollect what
words I then uttered, or what was
said to me. I only remember the
holy absolution I received with
bowed head, and these words, after-
wards uttered in a tone of emotion :
"Be calm, my child, and go in
peace."

I had knelt down overwhelmed
with sadness. I rose up so happy
that I suffered from the great in-
tensity of a joy my heart was too
weak to endure !

XXXVII.

Long years have passed by since
that day, and perhaps long years
still await me ; but whatever be the
duration of my life nothing will
ever efface the remembrance — not of
the moment I have just described,
for that moment is always present,
it can never become a memory of

the past — but of the effect which
the sight of the earth, the sky, and
the sea had on me when I issued
from the church where I had re-
ceived so great a blessing. Every-
thing seemed to have assumed a
new aspect, a new meaning, a more
glorious signification ; for the torrent

644

The Veil Withdraum.

of happiness in my soul seemed
diffused over all nature ! I no long-
er wished for anything. I had found
all. I was freed from all anxiety.
• Hope had become certitude — a cer-
titude more complete than can be
derived from the surest of earthly
things; for great indeed is the cer-
titude of that assurance which no-
thing can deprive us of, except
through our own will / . . .

Nothing could quench the source
from which sprang my joy, or de-
prive me of its benefits: nothings
for my will was henceforth absorbed,
and, so to speak, lost in the most
ardent love !

To love with strength, disinter-
estedness, and passion the worthi-
est object on earth, and learn all at
once we could not be deprived of
it without the consent of our own
heart, would not this induce us to
utter the word never with an abso-
lute meaning that the things of this
world do not admit of.^ It was
thus God gave me the grace to love,
to feel sure of loving always, sure
of the impossibility of ever being
deprived of the object of my love !

The beauty of the natural world
around me now seemed a mere ray
of this joy. Never had I found it
so lovely. And yet (those whom I
alone address now will understand
this, however contradictory it may
appear) I felt an almost equal dis-
gust for all created things, an ar-
dent desire to renounce everything,
a profound contempt for all that
had hitherto seemed worthy of so
much esteem. Wealth, honor, dress,
display, luxury, even the beauty, so
uncertain, which I prized so much —
they all lost their importance and
became worthless in my eyes, not
through satiety, or a feeling of mel-
ancholy, but through the disgust
one naturally feels for the mediocre
after seeing the beautiful, and for

the beautiful after seeing the per-
fect !

On the ot^er hand, in spite of
this fountain of inexhaustible joy,
I by no means imagined I was re-
leased from suffering ; and what was
also strange, perhaps, I did not
desire to be. I already felt there
was a lively, poignant, and some-
times terrible suffering inherent in
the divine love I had just begun to
experience. He who has describ-
ed this love better than any other
human beings doubtless because be
felt it in a greater degree ; he wbo
more than six centuries ago wrote
the following words : ** Nothing is
stronger than love, nothing inoie
generous, nothing more pleasant,
nothing fuller or better in hcarcB
or earth. . • When weary it is not
tired, when straitened is not con-
strained, when frightened b not
disturbed, but like a lively iaae
and a torch all on fire, it mounts
upward and securely passes Ihroogii
all opposition;"* lie who uttered
these and so many other burning
words, likewise said these : ** There
is no living in love without some
pain or sorrow.'* I knew it, and
my heart was as ready to embrace
the one as the other. As to the
ordinary trials of life, it seemcii to
me I had sufficient courage to «»-
counter them all, and that hence-
forth I should have nothing in the
world to fear, nothing to complain
of. . . .

To the reader who comprehend:!
me, and knows all this is perfectir
true, I need not say that the state
I have just described, though a
blessed and rare one, has in all
ages, as well as ours, been one to
which a great number of souls hare
arrived by slow but natural progres-
sion. When, therefore, I speak of

• FotUwing^Chritt^ book S. cfai^^ «*

TIu Veil Withdrawn.

his as miraculous and supernatural,
merely apply the word to the sud-
Icn wonderful grace which shorten-
d the way for me, making me pass
n an instant from a totally different
rame of mind to a plenitude of
lith and happiness !

And now . . . how did they who
rerc much more closely interwoven
rith my life than the natural world
round me, appear in this new light ?
low did I now regard them in my
icart ? — Lorenzo ! Livia ! Stella !
Jilbert ! What were the feelings
\\ my heart and soul towards them
M)w that I was so suddenly brought
see and feel what was clear and
ight? . . .

In order to express my senti-
nents with regard to them, I will
.tnploy an illustration that may seem
Jbscure, and yet I know no better
»ray of making myself understood.
It seemed to me that all the pure, ten-
der, legitimate, and noble feelings of
ny heart found in this luminous
^ime a new^ and powerful aliment,
while all others were consumed by
this flame as quickly as pernicious
weeds cast into a fiery furnace !

Nothing, therefore, was changed
in my feelings towards Livia and
Stella, unless I loved them more
tenderly than before, one seeming
more than ever an angel, and the
other the dearest of friends !

As to Lorenzo, the change was
great, sudden, and profound ! . . .
My affection for him, which he had
mortally wounded and extinguished,
^as now rekindled at the divine
source of all true love, and became
equal to that I had felt at the time
of my brightest hopes. The wish I
once* so ardently felt seemed now
to be the only one worthy of occu-
pying my mind. What did a little
•norc or less of human love matter
to me now ? As Livia had predict-
ed, my heart was satiated ; I was

rich, even if I did not possess the
affection of a single heart on earth.
It was, therefore, no longer through
a selfish thirst for happiness I now
wished to set his soul at liberty,
but from a desire a thousand times
more ardent — so ardent that it
seemed to become my only passion !

And now, Gilbert ! . . . how
shall I speak of him ? How, in the
light of this divine flame, did the
dangerous attachment, the enervat-
ing, subtle afi*ection that had so ab-
sorbed my mind, appear to me
now ? And those vague, false
hopes — those impossible dreams
— those harrowing regrets? And
my foolish and culpable longing for
his return ?

All this was consumed like the
pernicious weeds I have just spoken
of, and I distinctly saw the abyss
on the edge of which I had been
walking. I turned away from the
danger I had escaped with terror.
I felt with profound gratitude that
I was saved ! . . . and like one
who has escaped from the jjerils of
the sea, I looked back with horror
on the waves that had so recently
threatened to engulf me.

This impression was so strong
that it began to render the memory
odious that I so recently thought
the only joy of my life — the joy I
could not make up my mind to
deny myself. The miraculous ef-
fect of the divine mercy had been
in answer to the very essence of my
prayer ; the obstacle that separated
me from God had been completely
rooted out of my heart. In this re-
spect, more than any other, I felt
changed and transformed. But
this powerful impression was modi-
fied by degrees, and I was soon able
to see Gilbert in so clear and true
a light as to think of him hence-
forth without the least disturbance
of mind. I now thought of his

646

The Veil Withdrawn.

danger, and the thought filled me
with regret. I perceived my secret
participation, the primary, and
often the only, cause of others*
faults, from which it is so rare to
be wholly exempt in such cases,
and I prayed God to pardon me
and heal the wounds of his soul as
perfectly as he had healed mine !
Perhaps I have dwelt too long

on this event — the greatest, the
only great event of my life — and
the effect it had on me in so many
ways. But it was necessary to de-
scribe the transfigured state of my
soul in order to explain what I still
have to relate— this day having,
thank heaven! set its ineffaceable
seal on every succeeding day* of my
life.

XXXVIIL

For several days I had some dif-
ficulty in concealing the irrepressi-
ble joy I betrayed in my face in
spile of my efforts, and which there
was apparently nothing to justify.

Lorenzo's attitude, in fact, re-
mained the same. He continued,
as be had done since his return, to
aj)pear only at the hour of his re-
pasts. A part of the morning he
remained shut up in his studio,
which he now rarely allowed me to
enter, and he spent all his evenings
abroad. Mario had returned to
Sicily ; Stella had not yet wholly
resumed her usual ease with me,
and Lando, absorbed in his own
affiiirs, was less interested than
usual in mine.

Our customary reunions continu-
ed, however, and the same visitors
assembled every evening, as before.
I frequently heard my aunt loudly
lament the departure of qi4el Fran-
cese simpatico^ and declare how much
il Kergy was missed by everybody.
In fact, Gilbert's name was conti-
nually repeated, and I sometimes
thought Stella was astonished at
my calmness, which was incompre-
hensible to her, whereas, on the
contrary, I was not in the least
surprised at her silence, which i
understood perfectly. But we con-
tinued our tacit agreement never
to speak of him to each other.
Several days passed in this way.

during which Livia was the onlr
person from whom I concealed no-
thing. How great her joy was
when, on seeing me again, she read
with a single look the recovered
peace of my soul, it is useless to say
here. From that time we seemed
to be united by a stronger tie tiun
that of blood, and to have become
more than sisters. But when, in
the transport of my new joy, I de-
clared that the luxuries of my beau-
tiful home now seemed a burden
and a fetter, and that I preferred
the austere simplicity which sur-
rounded her, she at once checked
me.

"Our tastes should correspond
with our vocation, Gina. Yours is
not to leave the world, or even to
lay aside its superfluities. Endea-
vor to please Lorenzo, to win him
back. That is your mission, which
is as high as any other; and when
you feel your former affection for
liim revive in your heart, believe
me, carifiay it will meet with n*^
opposition from the love God ho?
revealed to your soul ! You havi
dreamed of great things for Loren-
zo. Come, Gina, courage! now i>
the time to realize them !"

It was thus she led me back to :
great but evident truth. I compre
hended it in spite of the diffcreni
feelings I had experienced, anu
trusted time would give me an op-

Tlu Veil Withdrawn.

647

portunity of winning back my hus-
band's heart, which was even sorer
ihan mine had ever been. My eyes
were often filled with tears, in spite
of myself, as I saw the alteration
in his face, his anxious look, his
brow furrowed before the time, and
all the sad indications by which a
>oul that is tarnished betrays the
reaction which has such an injuri-
ous effect on physical beauty itself.
But the time was gone by when it
seemed possible to form some pro-
ject, and achieve it in a day. I
hod learned the value of the words
patience and siUfue,

I rose now every morning as
soon as it was light, and went with
Ottavia to the church of a neigh-
boring convent to seek strength for
the day and, so to speak, draw fresh
joy from the inexhaustible foun«
lain, I afterwards carried myself
the alms which, in my pride and
indolence, I had hitherto been con-
tented to distribute by her hands.
This was the only outward change
in ray way of life, and it was one
that nobody perceived. But it was
not quite the same with the change
that had unconsciously taken place
in my language, manners, and even
in the expression of my face, and
though Lorenzo seldom had an
opportunity of noticing me, I soon
fancied he had recovered a certain
ease of manner towards me. Un-
til now, he had been, not only
wounded in his pride and passion,
but especially humiliated in my
presence ; and it must be acknow-
ledged that the coldness and dis-
dain that constituted the mute form
of my reproach were not calculated
to cor.ciliate him. The freezing
•laughliness of his air in return,
^l*ich seemed to add outrage to
|>crjury, increased my exasperation
Ui the utmost, and irritated me
more than his actual offences did

at the time I gave myself up with
desperation to the thought of Gil-
bert, as a kind of intoxication which
made me at once forget my grief
and my anger. Now I no longer
sought to escape from the one, and
the other was wholly extinguished.
This new state of my soul produced
an outward calmness and serenity
I had never possessed before.

Lorenzo's quick, penetrating eye
soon detected the change without
being able to imagine the cause.
One day, after looking attentively
at me for a moment, a sad, thought-
ful expression came over his face,
and I thought there was something
like affection and respect in his
look.

This did not prevent him, how-
ever, from spending the evening
away from home, and 1 anxiously
followed him in spirit as usual, not
daring to utter a word to detain
him, and still less venture to ques-
tion him. A whole week passed in
this way, in the vague hope of find-
ing some means of influencing him,
but nothing of the kind happened.
All at once, one morning, by some
extraordinary accident we happen-
ed to be alone a moment together, ^
and after causing me some anxiety «
by the gloomy expression on his
face, he gave me a great but plea-
sant surprise by saying :

"What would you say, Ginevra,
if I proposed your taking a journey
to Sicily with me ?**
' I uttered an exclamation of joy.

" What a question, Lorenzo !
You know well nothing could give
me more pleasure than to see my
father again, and Messina, the dear
old palace, and ..."

Here I stopped, too much affect-
ed to continue, and fearing to
awaken remembrances that might
seem like a reproach. He perceiv-
ed it and was grateful.

The Veil Withdrawn.

'* Well, my lawsuit is about to be
tried.- Don Fabrizio desires my
presence, and I would not for any-
thing in the world renounce the
pleasure of hearing him plead. We
will start next week, then, if you
are willing."

This proposition caused me the
liveliest and most unexpected plea-
sure. To leave Naples ! To go
with him ! and to a place where,
more easily than anywhere else, it
seemed to me I could overcome
the fatal remembrance in his heart
I had to struggle against ! And
from there — who could tell? — in-
duce him perhaps to go to some
distant land ; persuade him to let
me follow him, go with him to the
ends of the earth, if necessary, in
search of the pure air he needed to
, restore him to health ! All this
crossed my mind in the twinkling
of an eye, and for the first time for
a long ^. hile I saw a ray of hope
before me.

When I announced the projected
journey to Stella with a satisfac-
tion I made no attempt to conceal,
she looked at me with an air of
surprise.
• ** You have entirely forgiven Lo-
renzo, then V^ said she.

'*Yes."

" Then I conclude he has at
last acknowledged his offences and
begged your pardon."

" No."

" No .> . . . In that case, Ginev-
ra, you have greatly changed."

** Yes, a blessed change has come
over me."

** I have noticed it for some
days, and if I ask what has pro-
duced it, will you answer me sin-
cerely ?"

" Yes, without hesitation. I will
tell you the plain truth."

And without turning my eyes
away from hers, which were fas-

tened attentively on me, I calmlj
continued :

** Between roy violent indignaticm
against Lorenzo^ and my strcmg
fancy for Gilbert, I went very far
astray from God, Stelk« A siagk
instant of extraordinary grace en-
abled me to see this. Everything
is clear to me now. I no kmger
seek happiness : I possess it."

The nK>raent Stella heard me
pronounce Gilbert's name, which
we had invariably avoided of hie,
the pupils of her eyes dilated, and,
as I went on, took that iotensitj
of color and expression which all
emotion imparted to them. Bat
she merely replied :

"I do not wholly andcrstaiwi
you, Ginevra, I confess, but I sec
you are happy and courageoas:
that is sufficient."

After a moment's silence, I re-
sumed :

" And ill you allow me to ask
you a question in my turn, Stella?''

She blushed without making any
reply. I hastened to say that my
question only concerned Harn
Leslie. At his name, she resumeil
her usual expression, and a dou-
ble smile beamed from her qes
and lips.

*' Certainly, ask anything you
please."

" Well, he came yesterday with a
gloomy air to announce his depar-
ture. Am I wrong in thinking you
have something to do with it.^"

" No," replied she, smiling, ** not
if it is true he cannot remain ia
Naples without marrying mc, fori
have not otherwise ordered him to
go away."

Desirous of drawing her out ob
this point. I continued :

" But, after all, Mr. Leslie is kind.
handsome, excellent, very wealthy
they say, and of a good family.
You are very difficult, Stella."

The Brooklet.

649

" Yes, perhaps so," replied she
with agitation and a kind of impa-
tience. Then she continued in a
melancholy tone of anguish :

" Ginevra, never speak to me
again, I beg, either of happiness or
the future. I do not know as I
shall ever be any happier than I
am now, but I know I can be less
$0. . . . Oh ! may what I now pos-
sess never be taken away from me.
1 ask nothing more."

She shuddered and stopped
ipeaking, as if she could not give
ntterance to her fears. It was not
the first time I had seen her seized
with a kind of terror when the
words future and happiness were
mentioned before her. One would
have said she thought there was no

happiness in reserve for her, un-
less at the price of that she al-
ready possessed, and this thought
came over her like a vision of
terror.

Poor Stella ! Alas ! how inse-
cure the joys of earth ! To be de-
prived of them, or tremble lest we
may be — that is to say, to possess
these joys with a poignant fear that
empoisons every instant of their
duration, and increases more and
more in proportion to their pro-
longation ! . . .

Is it, then, really necessary for a
supernatural light to open ouf eyes
to force us to acknowledge that
this world is only a place of pro-
mise, of which the realization is in
another }

TO BE CONTUCirKD.

THE BROOKLET.

PROM THB CBXMAN OP COBTHB.

O BROOKLET silver bright and gay !

For ever rushing on thy way,

I, lingering, ever ask thee whence

Thou comest here, where goest thou hence ?

** From the dark rock's deep breast I come,
O'er flow'rs and moss I toss and roam ;
While on my bosom smiles and lies
The hovering vision of the skies.

" Ask not of me, a laughing child,
Whither or whence my foot steps wild ;
Him do I trust to guide me on
Who called me from the senseless stone.

6so The Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain.

THE COLONIZATION

OF NEW SOUTH
BRITAIN. ♦

WALES BY GREAT

Some few years ago it became known
that the government of Great Bri-
tain were thinking of renewing the
experiment of transporting convicts
to Australia with the object of afford-
ing them a chance of reformation.
This time, however, it was its wes-
tern shore which was to be tried,
and that, too, on a scale not inferior
in magnitude to that on which the
attempt had been so unsuccessfully
made in New Soufh Wales and Van
Diemen's Land. The bare sugges-
tion of such a proposal sufficed to
kindle a flame of indignation through-
out the whole Australian continent —
for such must an island be called
which is as large as Europe. To
judge from a letter which we shall
iiave occasion to quote further on,
the system as pursued in Eastern
Australia, although upon so insignifl.
cant a scale, is fraught with evils si-
milar to those which so signally cha-
racterized its more important precur-
sor in the west. Yet were the eas-
tern colonists, or an influential and
active portion of them, ready to risk
the reproduction of the baheful curse
which for nearly half a century blight-
ed the prosperity and checked the
growth of their western rivals, and
from the consequences of which the
latter are suffering to this day. So

♦ TAf Hittory of New South Walts, With an
account of Van Diemen*s Land, New Zealand « Port
Phillip, Moreton Bay, and other Australasian settle-
ments. By Roderick Flanagan, a vob. London :
Sampson Low. 1862.

Reminhcencts cf Thirty Yeari Retidence in
AVnr South Wales and Victoria. With a supple-
mentary chapter on transportation and the ticket-of-
leavc system. By R. Therry, Esq^,late one of
the judges of the Supreme Court of New South
WiUes. Loodoa : Sampson Low. 1863.

bitter, however, was the remembrance
of this system amongst the wcstcin
colonists, so keen their sense of the
dire mischiefs still resulting from its
action, that they went the length
of avowing their fixed determination
to separate from the mother-country,
if the experiment were attempted, al-
though some thousands of miles in-
tervened between them and the spot
where the experiment was proposed
to be renewed.

What were the causes of a failure
so disastrous ? The objects propos-
ed in the original undertaking were
of the noblest. To colonize a iiewlr-
discovered country of great cxlcni
and promise, to develop its resour-
ces, and to bring it under the s*-ay
of a benign and noble cinlization,
was a worthy object of ambition. To
unite with this a scheme for the r^
formation of criminals, in a land
where they would be entirely remov-
ed from old associations, where they
might enter upon a new career with-
out being ever dogged by the spectre
of the past, was a great and bene6-
cent design. How was it that the
proposed reformatory became a hor-
rible curse alike to the convicts and
the colony, and that no prospect of
progress in any form could be rea-
sonably entertained until the original
scheme was utterly swept away, W
the local administration taken alto
gether out of the hands of the home
government, and placed upon i'>
present independent footing ?

The question of the reformation of
criminals is not only of pressing im-
portance, but one that appeals lo

The Colonisation of New South Wales by Great Britain. 6^1

our higher feelings ; and it has of
late become a subject of special in-
vestigation to the somewhat inter-
ested philanthropy and eminently
shallow psychology of the day. It
is impossible to say that any solution
of the question was seriously attempt-
ed in the original transportation pro-
jea to Botany Bay. It was the one
object, nevertheless, which assumed
a prominent place in the experiment ;
and to the history of its failure we
propose to devote our chief atten-
tion. The colonization of the coun-
try was distinctly announced as form-
ing part of the scheme ; nor, indeed,
is it easy to see how it could very
well have been dissociated from it.
On this subject, therefore, we will
oflfcr a few remarks by way of intro-
duction.

The recolonization of Southern
Europe by the Northern tribes in
the Vth and VI ih centuries of the
present era offers a striking contrast
to the colonization of Australia by a
nation calling itself Christian. Any-
thing but prepossessing is the de-
scription given us by the historians
of those Northern invaders, whose
deeds but too faithfully bear out the
description. Over depopulated pro-
vinces, cities in ashes, and the ruins
of the noblest monuments of rehgion
and art, they swarmed into their new
sclilemenu;. Vandals, Franks, Goths,
and Huns, all alike were distinguish,
ed for an un pitying cruelty, although
the Huns surpassed the rest in licen.
tious profligacy and crime. Yet
amidst the ruin they had made, and
the prodigious havoc with which
tiiey had desolated the fairest coun-
tries of Europe, the winning accents
of Ciiristian civilization stole into
their ears and subdued their untu-
tored souls. In one respect they
had the advantage of the first Eng-
hsh settlers in Australia. They had
not been flung out of their own coun-

try Hke garbage. They came under
no ban of law. They bore not with
them the consciences oi convicted
criminals. They marched to the
spoil under the (to them) legitimate
banners of ambition, or to satisfy
their greed of gain. The untutored
instincts of humanity, grand even in
their lawlessness and ferocity, urged
them on. Deformed, as might have
been expected, with many of the
gross vices of the savage, they were
not wanting in some of the tnore at-
tractive features of the nobility of
nature. Their ears had never hs-
tened to the loving voice of the Vir-
gin Daughter of Sion. Their hearts
had never been disciplined nor their
minds formed by the revelation
from heaven committed to her keep-
ing. Theirs was not the guilt, as
it has been of some of the nations
of this XlXth century, to have apos-
tatized to the barbarous maxim that
"might makes right." They knew
no better. No sooner, however, did
the majestic vision of the Spouse of
Christ — the Catholic Church — meet
their gaze, than, far from treating
her with insult and outrage, they
threw themselves with loving venera-
tion at her feet, bowed their necks
with the truthful docility of children
to her discipline, and arose to prove
themselves her most faithful defend-
ers.

But whilst the men-eating abori-
gines of Australia had no civilization
to communicate, the first invaders
of its shores from Great Britain were,
some of them, of the worst class of
barbarians — the barbarians of civih-
zation. They were of those whose
untamable souls law, civih'zation, and
religion had failed to subdue. They
were the offecouring of the criminal
class of the three kingdoms. The
society they had outraged had cast
them out from itself upon the coasts
of Australia. They stepped on shore

652 The Colonisation of Neitx South Walts by Grsat Britain

convicted as felons. They had for-
feited the citizenship of their own
country; and, although still under-
going their respective sentences, it
was understood that they were to
have the opportunity of making a
fresh start in their new country, should
their conduct correspond with the
clemency of the executive. On a
career that, more than any other, re-
quires a spirit of enterprise, light-
heartedness, and courage, they had
set out under the ban of expatriation,
the burden of shame, and all the de-
pressbg influences of detected guilt.
Of such were the first setders of Aus-
tralia.

On the eveningof the 26th of Janu-
ary, 1788, the English dominion over
what has been called the fifth divi-
sion of the globe was inaugurated by
the solemnity of pledging the king's
health round a flag-pole. His majes-
ty's subjects in New Holland, at the
period of this imposing function, num-
bered one thousand and thirty souls.
Of these seven hundred and seventy-
eight were convicts. The remaining
two hundred and fifty consisted of the
soldiers who formed the garrison of the
new settlement, and their officers, to-
gether with a few civil functionaries.
In this rude germ of future common-
wealths the elements neither of agri-
culture nor of commerce as yet ex-
isted. An encampment of huts was
its first abiding-place. For food it
depended on the stores brought with
it from the mother-country ; amongst
which was neither seed nor other
provision for future crops. At the
moment at which we write, after a
lapse of eighty-six years, the flocks
and herds of a wealthy agricultural
population range over an area as
large as that of Europe ; five splen-
did provinces, each with its own
court and parliament, can boast of
cities equal in size to many Euro-
pean capitals, and constituting com-

mercial marts second to none on tue
face of the globe.

Of the prodigious strides they have
made in material prosperity, Mr.
Therry, in his interesting Amimsuu-
ces^ gives the following striking Iss-
tration :

" It has been ascertained that oor Sou*
Pacific colonies take firom us in topom
for every man, woman, and child of tfanr
respective populations, on the ^xfS3^
from jf 8 to £\o per head per anoisB,
while the United States were only custo-
mers to us in 1859 (before the war b^mX
at the rate of 17s. per head. The anocm
of imports received by Canada, whkfa
comes nearest to Australia, is £s per bnd;
that of New South Wales alone is j(n
3S. 4d. per head ; of Victoria, ;f 25 " (p. 9).

The commerce of these coloi»£s
with all parts of the world is neailj
three times larger in money vabe
than was the whole export commerce
of England less than a century ago;
and they receive from the United
Kingdom upwards of twenty times
the value of exports which the North
American colonies were receiving at
the time of their separation from die
mother-country. To crown the so-
cial edifice, a contented people \x\t
and prosper imder the shadow oi the
freest institutions, in many respects
sm-passing, in this particular, the
much-vaunted model on which they
have been framed.

It is certain that tlie prevatMoi!
motive of the English government ib
despatching a penal colony to Botany
Bay was to supply the place of he
lost American colonies. No d<Mibi
the idea of colonizing the coontrj
was present to their minds. But k
never went beyond words. Not s
single provision was made for colo-
nial development. On the contrary.
the whole constitution of the exiled
community was fatal to such an ob-
ject For nearly half a century the
inherent vices of the system struggled
against and forcibly restrained any

The ColoniMation of New South Wales by Great Britain. 653

dforts to profit by the advantages of
a country of such woaderfol promise ;
nor was it before the original govern-
ment scheme had been quite aban-
doned that the colony rose from its
inaction, Hke an unfettered giant^ and,
as it were, almost at a stride, arrived
at a pitcli of prosperity unexampled,
in so short a period of time, in the
amals of the world, with the single
exception of the American colonies
after they had disembarrassed them-
selves of the yoke of the mother-
country.

The defection of those colonies had
stopped an important outlet for the
criminal population of the three king-
doms. We are told by Bancroft, in
his History of the United States, that

"The prisoners condemned [in Eng-
land] to transportation were a salable
commodity. Such was the demand for
libor in America that convicts and la-
borers were regularly purchased and
shipped to the colonies, where they were
sold as indented servants."

The Irish malcontents, moreover —
of whom, owing to the long misgov-
crmnent of the kingdom, Ireland was
full, and whose disaffection had been
stimulated by the revolt of the North
American colonies — threatened to in-
crease the convict population by a
large and particularly unmanageable
element. It was only a year or two
before that a country happened to be
explored and taken possession of in
the name of England so happily fitted
for colonization, and of which such
admirable use has since been made.
The discovery was the result of sheer
accident, so far as the British gov-
ernment was concerned. The expe-
dition to which it owes it was sent
out by the Royal Society for scien-
tific purposes; the object being to
niake accurate observations of the
transit of Venus from the island of
Otaheite. The islands of New Zea-
land and the east coast of New

Holland were explored on die way
home. The astronomical expedition
returned to England in the midsum-
mer of 1771.

In 1786. the government decided
on establishing permanent settlements
on the coast lately explored* by Cap-
tain Cook, accompanied by Messrs.
Green and* Banks and Dr. Solander.
The colony consisted exclusively of
the convicts and the military in
charge ; of prisoners and their jailers.
Any class out of which a free civil
community might be formed could
only arise out of chance setders, or
of those among the convicts whose
position was the result rather of un-
toward circumstances than of any
irreclaimable criminality of disposi-
tion, and who were prepared to re-
commence in those distaik lands a
career from which their misfortune
or their fault had shut them out at
home.

The constitution of the expedition
was as follows : A governor, lieute-
nant-governor, judge-advocate, com-
missary, and chaplain; a surgeon
and two assistant surgeons ; an agent
for the transports; two hundred
and twelve soldiers and mariners,
including officers; their wives, num-
bering forty, and their children ;
five hundred and forty-eight male
convicts, and two hundred and thirty
female.

The neighborhood of Botany Bay
having been judged unsuitable for
the new settlement, the expedition
landed at a spot situated at the head
of one of the coves of Port Jackson
Harbor, which had been judiciously
selected by the governor as the site
of the future capital. The 26th of
January, 1788, was the day of disem.
barkation, and it was on the evening
of that day that the inaugural rite, to
which we have before alluded, was
solemnized. After a lapse of eleven
days, consumed in putting ufi the

654 Tilr Colonisation of New South WaUs by Great Britain.

poblk: and pnvate structures needfiil
ibr the new colony, the ceremony of
inaaguratioD was supplemented by
one of a yet more Idi posing charac-
ter. On the seventh of February was
held a formal assembly of all the mem-
bers of the new commonwealth. An
occasion of greater interest could not
be imagined. Upon no band of col-
onists was ever lavished a greater
wealth of hope and fortune. No
guilt (^diplomatic fraud or commer-
cial overreaching marred their tide
to the new territory. Through no
bloodshed, no violence, but quite un-
opposed, they had entered on its
peaceable possession. No foreign
power, to whom the new state might
be calculated to give umbrage, threat-
ened its futtve welfare. A raagnifi-
ctrnt hartxxr shek«red its ships and
transports; and it was only one of
many such with which a coast of
vast extent was indented. A whole
continent of virgin soil stretched out
before them, which, under the influ-
ence of the finest climate under hea-
ven, waited only the bidding of man
to quicken within itself an exhaust,
less luxuriance of vegetable life. A
mighty Empire of the South offered
itself to any hands that were willing
and able to grasp it It was only
reasonable to expect that England,
having just lost her supremacy in the
New World, would have devoted her
utmost resources of civilization and
statesmanship to laying deep and
wide the foundations of her new do-
minion. If none of the members of
an aristocracy enjoying more advan-
tages and more power than were ever
possessed by the most privileged class
of any the most privileged nation,
were willing to leave the home of
their ancestral traditions, the softness
of hereditary ease, and an absolute
independence of fortune's caprice, in
order to join in the struggling life of
A young community, we should at

least have expected that the rootber>
country would despatch a contribu-
tion from each of the other classes
of her citizens to assist in the forma-
tion of the new settlement Uer
system of jurisprudence, admiral^
in spite of the inextricable jumble of
statutes and precedents amidst whidi
it has been reared, would be tepre-
sented, one would have thought, by
a sufficient number of lawyers of
character; her merchant priocci
would be encouraged to carry their
spirit of enterprise to so ridi and
promising a field; still more, that
which forms the only true and solid
basis of material prosperity — ^agricul-
ture— would be abundantly cared for
in the shape of a due supply of com-
petent masters and sturdy laborers ;
last, though not least, some provision
would be made, not only for the
moral and religious training of the
people, but for such mental cultivation
as was compadble with the condition
of an infia,nt community. 'WTiat no
one in his senses could have antici-
pated was that the government of a
great and ancient nation should have
sent out as the founders of a new colo-
nial empire a contingent of malefiau>
tors, guarded by a few marines. Up-
on the occasion of the formal inau-
guration ceremony the whole colooy
were assembled around the governor.
Nearest to himself were the Ixente^
nant-govemor, the judge-advocate,
provost-marshal, commissary, adjti-
tant, doctor, and chaplain. The two
hundred and twelve marines, iudud-
ing no less than fifteen commissioo>
ed officers, were drawn up in battle
array. Apart from the rest, as under
the ban of crime, stood the bulk of the
community — ^namely, the convicts.
To this assemblage the judge-advocate
read the royal commission and the act
of Parliament wliich constituted the
court of judicature. Aftertbe readini
of which documents the one hundred

The Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain, 655

and auiet>'-seven marines shouldered
old ** JBrown Bess," made ready, pre-
seoted, and fired three times.

't^^ ceremony was not imposing,
bui;it was on a par with the rest
of the proceedings. The governor,
CapU- Phillip, wound it up with a
speech in which, in spite of gramma-
tical errors which may be pardoned
in a sailor, he displayed considerable
abtlily and eloquence, but a marvel-
lous absence of common sense. In
the course of a somewhat inflated
psmegyric on England and her for-
tuDcSy his excellency went on to por-
tray his native country as the peculiar
£iTorite of heaven, and to ascribe her
successful colonization of New Hol-
land — a matter considered by antici-
pation as already accomplished, and
that, too, in the teeth of the recent
defection of her most splendid colo-
nies on the plea of tyrannical mis-
government-— to a prolonged special
intervention of Divine Providence.

** Nor did our good genius desert us/'
continued the governor, " when we reach-
ed our destination. On the contrary, it
was then tliat hcr(?) crowning favor was
bestowed. Witness the magnificent har-
bor which before us extends its hundred
beaytifui bays. Witness the beautiful
landscape, the islands, capes, and head-
lands, covered witlt waving foliage, rich
Aod varied beyond compare. Witness
every surrounding object which, as re-
gards a situation for our future homes,
our necessities could demand or our
tastes desire. Happy the nation whose
enterprises are thus favored by the ele-
ments and by fortune ! Happy the men
engaged in an enterprise so favored !
Happy the state to whose founding such
propitious omens arc granted !"

It is clear from the following
passage, incredible as it may appear,
that the government of the day did
really contemplate founding a new
sute beyond the seas out of the
criminal population, the moral refuse
of society. Gov. Phillip even chal-

lenges for the scheme the praise of
magnanimity.

'* The American colonies,'* he said
in his inaugural address, '* smariing
under what they considered a sense
of injustice, had* recourse to the
sword, and* the ancient state and the
young dependency met in deadly
conflict. The victory belonged to the
American people, and Britain, resign-
ing the North America continent (?)
to the dominion of her full-grown off-
spring, magnanimously seeks in other
parts of the earth a region where she
may lay the foundations of another
colonial empire, which one day will
rival in strength, but we hope not in
disobedience, that which she has so
recently lost" {Fianagatiy vol. i. p. 30).

It is, however, remarkable that Mr.
Flanagan grounds his own attribution
of magnanimity on the absence of
those very features of the new territory
on whose coiispicuous presence the
governor, standing on the spot, con-
gratulates his fellow.colonists, as one
of the signs of a special interposition
of Providence in their favor.

"To incur vast cApense" writes the
author of the History of New South
IVaUs, "encounter gVeat dangers, and
overcome great difficulties, in order to pos-
sess and colonize a country more remote
than any hitherto brought under subjec-
tion by Europeans — a country presenting
fw pre-efninent attractions in soi/, destitute,
so far as was then known, of the precious
vietals^ and inhabited by a people in the
greatest degree barbarous and devoid of
all riches — while countries possessing all
those attractions which New Holland
wanted were within her reach, is the best
evidence which can possibly be afforded
of national mngnanimity" (Flanagan^ vol.
i. p. 2).

" How grand is the prospect which lies
before the youthful nation V exclaim-
ed the enthusiastic governor to the
new colony in his inaugurative speech.
** Enough of honor for any state would
it be to occupy the first position, both in
regard to time and influence, in a country
so vast, so beautiful, so fertile , so blessed
in dim.ite, so ti^rh in all those bounties

656 The Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain.

which nature can confer ; . . . iis fenU<
plains tempting only the slightest labor of
the husbandman to produce in abundance
the fairest and the richest fruits ; ils inter-
minable pastures, the future home of
flocks and herds innumerable ; its mine*
ral localth, already hnotvn to be so great as to
promise that it may yet rival those treasures
'iv/iich fiction loves to desciibe—txxo\ig\\
for any nation, I say, would it be to enjoy
(liuse honors and those advantages; but
others not less advantageous, but perhaps
more honorable, await the people of the
state of which we are the founders."

'* To these," continued the gover-
nor, addressing tliat engaging instal-
ment of British civilization which the
imperial government had sent forth
from the shores of their country to
lake possession, in its name, of this
new land, and develop its abundant
resources, '* will belong the surpass-
ing honor of having introduced per-
manently the Christian religion and
European civilization into the south-
ern hemisphere. At no distant date
it will be theirs to plant the standard
of the cross and the ensign of their
country in the centre of numerous
populous nations to whom both these
have hitherto been but little known.
Such are the objects which will
arouse the enterprise and stimulate the
energies of the people of this young
country— enterprise and energy, di-
rected not toward conquest or rapine,
chiefly because Australia, rich beyond
measure in her own possessions, can-
not desire those of others, but to-
wards the extension of commerce,
the spread of the English language,
the promotion of thearts and sciences,
and the extension of the true faith.
Such are the circumstances and con-
ditions which lead to the conviction
that this state, of which to-day we
lay the foundation, will, ere many
generations have passed away, be-
come the centre of the southern
hemisphere — the brightest gem of
the Southern Ocean " {Flanagan, vol,
»• PP- 32, 3Z)'

Were these, then, whom CapL fti-
lip addressed the men to introdoct
the Christian religion and Europen
civilizadon in a newly.discoveied
continent? Were a deuchmoitoi
jail-birds and their keepers to •* (i^
velop commerce, spread the Eaglish
language, promote the arts aixf
sciences, and extend the true faith?"
Were such as these the mtsionaiid
to plant the standard of the cross, <v
even that of their own couotrr,
amidst populations alien to batb
alike ? Did the English gOTcmmflU
seriously propose to make a missioB-
ary college out of a refOTroatDry, if
such it could be called ? Wcfc tbc
Barabbases of England to be ^
pioneers of civilization, the ArtKi
Dodgers of the metropolis the fctr-
aids of the Christian feith ?

The truth is that the only ol^
directly provided for by the govern-
ment to which England was indcM
for this " magnanimous " deed cf
colonization was the establishmcct
of a secure and distant depot for the
worst criminals of the country.

The noble object to which the a-
haustless resources of the contiKPt
they had just taken possession d
were to be devoted was left to tl«
chapter of accidents. A picture 01
the future greatness of the cquivori
colony was, it is true, dashed o€
glowing colors, by Commodore Phi-
lip, but no provision of any kind «2>
made for its realization.

There was nothing whatever '
hinder the attainment of both thft
objects, or at least an attempt to*:
tain them. On the contrary, oe^-
was a fairer opportunity for an t\
periment of the kind offered to a pc>
pie. Before them lay the wide,i-
most limitless landscape in ril ^'^
exuberant beauty and unexhattsie^'
fertility. There it lay, as a kind ^^
treasure-trove, at their feet, with i-
one to dispute its possession. 1^'

The Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain. 657

irst object ought assuredly to have
wen to bring a large portion of the
oil under cultivation; agriculture
idng that on which more than on
tnfthing else the prosperity of a
ouotryy and especially of a young
wintry, depends. Not one shilling
llth^ original and eccentric colo-
Kts invest in the soil of that vast
liad continent, every acre of which
tai theirs, with all its latent wealth,
Ikether that wealth consisted in its
I yet untried productive powers, or
\ the hoard of precious metals which
light be locked up in its secret
kl|>chs.

Tht home government thus had
!» their power to oflferto a superior
hss of yeomen inducements of the
lost persuasive kind to try their
munes in the new colony. Sufficient
pea being left for the development
I a splendid capital, they should
ave been planted in middling-sized
urns as closely around the reserved
rea as seemed desirable, and stretch-
»g out into the continent in gradual-
f-cncroaching circles. A small con-
Dgcnt of married men, of good
epotation amongst their neighbors,
ad of superior capacity and attain-
icnts, should have been encouraged
»tbrow their fortunes into the colony.
'0 these a greater extent of land
lould have been granted. These
Stlcrs would have formed the nu-
teus of a class from which could have
een selected men fitted for holding
)e most responsible positions. The
oung colony could very well dis-
cnsc with hereditary titles of honor,
'lit it could not so well dispense with
class such as we refer to, if it was to
ecome a country to which men of
hanuster and position would not
estate to resort A class was want-
d other than the emancipists — the
cry worst that could have been
hosen — to supply persons of stand-
>g, aoqoirements, and, above all, of
VOL. XX. — ^42

reputable experience for the magis-
tracy, and for other, national, so to
speak, as well as loca,, offices of
trust and administration. Such a class
of yeomen having been thus provid-
ed, the staflf of government officials,
the military and naval forces, and
the continually increasing influx of
convict laborers, added to the popu-
lation of those classes themselves,
would have supplied a considerable
population, ready to hand, of cus-
tomers and consumers. The mer-
cantile and professional classes would
soon have sent their contributions
fix)m the overstocked mother-country,
not in arrear, at all events, of the or-
dinary course of supply and demand.
A manufacturing class would have
developed of itself quite as soon as
the interests of the colony required
it. And, lasdy and most imperative-
ly of all, had the mother-country
been Catholic, the interests of reli-
gion would have been the very first
consideration. Priests and a nu-
cleus of one or more religious orders
would have been despatched with the
expedition. Churches would have
been the first structures raised. Land
would have been set apart for their
support, and for the appropriate
splendor of Christian worship. And
hospitals, attended by religious of
both sexes, would have been erected,
aud endowed with sufficient land for
their perpetual support.

Nothing of the sort was so much
as attempted. Thirty years after
the memorable inauguration day, a
period of time embracing nearly one-
half of the entire age of the colony,
the then governor, Macquarie, we
are told by Mr. Therry, '* considered
the colony was selected as a depot for
convicts; that the land properly be-
lotted to them, as they emerged from
their condition of servitude } and thai
emigrants were intruders on the soil,**
Ten years afterwards, little more

6s8

A Sutmner in Rome.

than seventy years ago, the state of
*' the brightest gem of the Southern
Ocean," in spite of the encourage-
ment given to emigration by Mac-
quarie's successor, Sir Thomas Bris*
bane, during the three years of his
administration, is thus described by
the very competent authority just
quoted : '* The majority of the com-
munity Ju (Sir Thomas Brisbane)
ruled over were of the convict class^
who were not respectable nor right*
minded. It consisted of very inflam-
mable materials^ composing two-thirds
of the whole community^ which it re-
quired the exercise of a stern authority
to repress,^^

Natural advantages have tri-
umphed over the obstacles offered

by human folly. The present co^
dition of the AustraUan cdon^>
more than realizes the gloving ex
pectations of the head-jailer of tht
first ccmvict gang th^ landed oo
their shores. Indeed, if those iKter-
ances of Commander Phillip w«e v-
be judged by the results, we might x
tempted to ascribe them to tiie r
spiration of even prophebca] s;
gacity. One merit, at all events, mx\
be accorded to the enthusiastic saHc:
He did not overestimate the bocDi.
less resources and advantageous jv^
sition of the noble country of whidi b-
and his prisoners were assomiagtb
proprietorship "on behalf of the Bnt&
people," utterly incapable as tljc.
were of taking advantage of them.

TO BB CONCLITDBO NKYT HOKTH.

A SUMMER IN ROME.

BY TUB AUTHOR OF " TRB H3USB OF TORKB."

Of course all our friends exclaim-
ed, when we intimated the possibility
of our remaining in Rome for the
summer :

We would suffocate with heat.

We would be poisoned with ma-
laria.

We would have chills, and con-
sequently fevers.

The fruit would make us sick, the
wine would turn sour while we were
pouring it out, and we would be
kept awake all night by people in
the street.

We would have no one to speak
to, for everybody would be gone out
of town.

Besides, and above all, it was not
the proper thing to do.

I do not beheve that either of us
was serious in first making the pro-

posal, unless Bianca chenshed soc^
a wish under her pensive sikDcr
but so much opposition led is '
look at the project, and we <fid ik
find it so bad as might have bec"
expected. Besides, no one witi •
particle of spirit likes to be soKa^
and talked down ; and all of as i^^*
spirit enough to feel a little fcxf.
at the storm of opposition we ^^ *
brought about our ears — aH ckc<
Mr. Vamey. He was too indolr'
to resent anything.

** I do not believe that there b -
least necessity for having a fcKi *
Rome," said Isabel. (It was bo^
always Isabel who ^>oke.) ^^
has but to select a cool apaxtmt^
and use a litde prudence. If *"
were to do as I have seen peo^ ^
here — go fix)m the oven to the re

A Sumnur in Rome.

659

"crator — ^we should know what to
xpect To walk in a sunny street
ill you are in a perspiration, then
it on a shady stone to cool off, is
ot only inviting a fever, but send-
jg a gendarme to fetch it. As for
cat, New York is ten times hotter;
sd I once passed a whole summer
I New York, and was quite com-
DTtable ; wasn't I, papa ? Then, how
ay one can say that we shall have
o one to speak to I cannot ima*
joe. Here are four of us ; and I
&e perfect delight in talking to my-
eK The most interesting conver-
itions I ever had in my life were
rith Miss Isabel Varney."

■Besides," said a clear voice from
be window, " what we came to
tome to see doesn't go away in the
ammcr."

We all looked at Bianca, who had
imed her head toward us to speak,
nd was gazing out the window
gain, the lace curtain wrapped about
er like a bridal veil, and the per-
^ne half closed to shield her from
be many eyes in the piazza.

^May I ask what you came to
ee ?" inquired a visitor, who always
ried to make this silent one talk.

She only half turned to answer.

"The Holy Father; the shrines
ad homes of the saints; all the
oly, and all the beautiful, and all
lie famous places here; and the
kies that are above them. And,
gain, the Holy Father. He is the
Christian Prometheus, bound to the
Tfttican as to a rock, and we are a
tile chorus of American Oceanides
rho are come to bewail him, and
rho have no mind to go away for
leasnre."

** Brava V* said papa.

*• And as for the * proper thing,' "
aid another member of the family,
we have bored ourselves to death
wbter trying to do that."

^ Besides," struck in Isabel, with a

bright thought, "we want to learn
the language; and that we never
could do going about from place to
place. Here we can sit down quiet-
ly, and study the four or five hun-
dred irregular verbs at our leisure,
and settle the genders of things, and
learn to pronounce properly all their
undulating and circuitous strings of
vowels and the little curly tails to
their ridiculous words."

" Don't include me in your class,
if you please," Mr. Vamey said. " I
would as soon shave off my hair and
wear a wig as drop my own lan-
guage and speak another. I shall
speak English when I say anything ;
and if people do not understand me,
it will not be my fault. We can al-
ways find interpreters ; and I do not
approve of— of — er— of deserting
your own tongue for another," he
concluded rather weakly, not having
measured his strength before com-
mencing this speech.

The truth was that he never did
approve of anything which cost him
the least effort; but we listened as
gravely as if we believed him to be ac-
tuated by the most heroic patriotism.

" You are quite right, papa," Isa-
bel said emphatically. " Still, since
interpreters may not always be hon*
est, you know, it is better that some
of us should imderstand and be able
to protect the family."

" You will not find the verbs so
difficult as you may imagine," re-
marked an Italian. "The irregu-
larities are chiefly in the preterite.
Preterites are always ragged. They
are never a part of the original lan-
guage, I think, but were interpolated
when it was discovered that a nicer
expression of thought was needed ;
and then the grammarians had to
accommodate themselves to circum-
stances, and use what was left. You
will take pleasure in learning so mu-
sical a language^ Miss Isabel."

66o

A Summer in Rome.

<<0h! I think English quite as
musical as Italian," replied the young
woman with composure.

" When you speak it, sigrwrina^^
said the Italian, after a momentary
pause of astonishment.

". I find the phrases and words I
learned in music very useful,** she
continited. ** The other day I said
' alUgfo^ ma nan iroppo^ to the coach-
man, and he drove perfectly. That
is on millions of pieces of music,
you know, papa. It quite pleased
roe to talk to a coachman as if
he were a fugue. And when I said
' andanUl he actually put down the
brake."

" But you know we were going
down-hill then, Bella,** remarked her
sister. \

" I can make the servants imder-
stand perfectly well,** continued Isa-
bel '^ But in churches and galleries,
and catacombs, and such places, the
people are very stupid.**

This is the way in which Miss
Isabel Vamey made the servants un-
derstand perfectly :

" Angelina,*' she would say to the
domna^ in English, ^' I want you to
black my thick walking-boots. The
dust has made them look dingy.
But first bring me another pitcher
of water. It is strange that in a city
that would be a lake if all its aque-
ducts were to burst at once one can-
not get more than a quart of water
at a time. Make haste^ now, for I
wish to go out immediately.'*

Angelina stood immovable, a pic*
tuie of distressfiil doubt Tl^ time
had gone piet when she would have
ventured to remind her mistress that
English had not been induded in
her education.

"Oh I to be sure," says Isabel
'' What a bother it is when one is in
a hurry] What is the Italian for
water, Bianca ? Acqua f Well, An-
gelina, bring me some ac^ut^^

Tlie dmna began to lift her apron
toward her eyes.

*< Apportez moi some acqua f said
her mistress distinctly and amhorita-
tively.

The donna shrank bacL " Sgm>-
rina mil," she began pitifully.

"Don't talk!** cried the youn^
lady. "What is the use of your
talking to me when I cannot imdcr-
stand a word you say? It is too
absurd. Besides, it is the sennnt*t
place to obey without speakio^
Bianca, do look in the dictiooarj fbr
the Italian for wish or wiU, the
strongest word you can get; then ia
the grammar for the first peisoOf
singular, indicative of it — or, no, the
imperative. And be quick, or I
never shall get out. VogHot Ange-
lina, I voglio a pitcher of acpia—
what is the word for quickly ? Ftie-
menif No. That isn*t Italian. It
must be vita. That is an Italian
word, I know, and it sounds as if it
meant quickly. Angelina, I vo^
acqua vUa,^'

" Sty si^ signorina /' exclaimed tk
poor little donnOy and ran ofi^ glad to
get out of the room.

" And, after all, she hasn't taken
the pitcher," said Isabel " But may
be she will bring a pailful. Sbc
knew quite well that I was finding
fault because we have so little.
They understand what we say, To
sure they do. Their ignorance b aH
a pretence."

Five minutes passed, and ten
minutes; and when the young Udj
had exhausted herself in impatia^
exclamations, Angdina entered tk
chamber, all out of breath, \M settl-
ing in confident triumph, and pUoed
in her band a bottle on wbidi was
an apothecary's label with acpmef^
neatly inscribed on it

Tliere was a ^«r»i;$sSm passffig tk

bouse at that moment; and I to*
always thought I would like to bio«

A Summer in Rome.

66i

r he ever suspected that the hand
Id^papalina flung that bottle which
h'ghted safely on the great tuft of
ying feathers in his hat. I am
ore that if the bottle had contain-
d anything but acquavite^ the mili-
uy would have been called out.

This feat accomplished, Miss Isa-
d seized the empty water- pitcher,
nd thrust it into the hands of the
%htened girl with one word, " Ac-
m r* uttered in a tone which prov-
d her to have tragical abilities.

Angelina returned in a trice with
lie water, and found her mistress
tanding in the middle of the room,
fith a stem countenance, and a dic-
bnary in her hand.

** Now, nero my guadagtioP

Tlie girl lifted her eyes to the ceil-
ing-

" Profitto^ I mean," was the hasty

onrection.

Tears rolled down Angelina's
hecks.

**lt couldn't be that boot is sti-
•aZf.^' said the young woman in a
ow tone to a third person in the
oom. •« That sounds as if it meant
omething three-cornered."

*• You might try," was the sugges-
ion.

•* Stivale /" demanded the young
roman of the donna,

" 5/, sigtwrina^' said the girl eager-
y, glancing at the articles in ques-
ion.

"Well, nero my stivale ^^ ordered
he mistress haughtily.

•* O Dio mio r sobbed Angelina.

Isabel lost all patience and dig-
lity. She flew at the boots and
^ught them in one hand, flew at
he toilet-table and snatched her
ooth-brush in the other, then, rush-
ng at the terrified donna^ performed
before her face a furious pantomime
)f polishing her boots with the tooth-
brush.

" Capisco /" cried Angelina joyfully.

** It is worse than Robinson Crusoe
with his man Friday," sighed Isa-
bel, sinking, exhausted, into a chair.
" These scenes are positively ruining
my disposition. You know, Bianca,
I used to have a very good temper,
and the servants at home were al-
ways fond of me. But here I- am
becoming a scold and a fury. We
must get setded in another apart-
ment, and have a teacher right
away."

A cool summer apartmenc was
found near the Esquiline, a teacher
engaged, and our parting friends
went their several ways, taking dole-
ful leave of us.

And here it may not be amiss to
make the reader better acquainted
with the family who desire the plea-
sure of his acquaintance and com-
pany for a time.

Mr. Varney, the son of a Boston
merchant, had, when he was young
and venturesome, made a voyage to
Spain in one of his father's ships.
The ship came back without him ;
but, after six months' absence, he re-
turned, bringing with him a young
Spanish wife, whom he had wooed
and won during that brief visit.
She lived only ten years, pining ever
for the sunny land of her birth, and
dropped away finally before they
had begun to fear that she was
dying, leaving two daughters, Bianca
and Isabel.

Her death quite uprooted her hus-
band from his accustomed life, and
gave him a shock fix>m which he
never recovered. He had alwa^'s
promised, and had meant, to take
her back to Spain ; but, between the
calls of business and a habit of pro-
crastination, had put off" the visit
from year to year till it was too late.
Then the New England which had
killed her became distasteful to him,
and, after lingering a few years to
settle up his business, he went abroad

662

A Summer in Rome.

for an indefinite time, taking his
daughters with him. He seemed to
fancy that by this tardy journey he
was proving to his wife his regret
and the sincerity of his promises.

They avoided Spain, however, un-
willing to hasten at once to that
land which she had longed in vain
to see. There was even an idea of
self-exile and punishment in going
so near without touching its beauti-
ful shores. They visited England
and France, then came directly to
Rome.

"I do not believe that we shall
ever go away from Italy for any
length of time," Bianca said. '* It is
the true land of the lotos, and we
have eaten of the charmed plant,"

** Would you like to live here al-
ways ?" her father asked, looking
earnestly at her.

There was a certain pensive mel-
ancholy in her face and attitude
which constantly drew his anxious
regards.

** Yes !" she answered slowly.

" I think Bianca is changed from
what she used to be," he said after-
ward to one of the family. "It
seems to me that I remember her
gay and bright, like Isabel ; but she
has grown quiet and gentle, little by
little, and so gradually that I do not
know when the change began."

The person whom he addressed tried
to give him the comfort and reas-
surance which his anxiety evidently
pleaded for. She pointed out that
one had but to look at the two girls to
see at once the difference in their tem-
peraments; that Isabel's shorter and
more compact form proved a strong-
er and more aggressive vitality than
her sister's willowy slendemess was
capable of; that the very shape of
their faces — a delicate oval in the
one and a full oval in the other —
was another proof of difference ; and
that, moreover, Bianca, being the

elder, had been of an age to be im-
pressed by her mother's death, while
Isabel was still too young.

" And I find yet another reason,"
the comforter continued, turaicg
mentor. " Your frequently-expresi-
ed regret for your wife, and the
habit you have of referring to her
love for Spain and her home-sicbcss,
cannot fail to sadden so sensirive a
heart as Bianca's, while Isabel thtnh
that it is merely a ' way you have got
into,' as she would express it"

It was, perhaps, rather a scrcrc
speech ; but when a person contracts
a habit of making a mournful laxniy
of his troubles, and of perpetoaRr
setting up his mourning standard In-
side the red, white, and Wue of those
who at least try to be cheerful, it
does no harm to let him know thil
the effect is not enlivening.

Well, we were settled in our suid-
mer quarters, and had just finished
our first dinner there, when the his-
torian of the party made a predem
suggestion.

" Since we are beginning a ne»
life with new people, I thmk that
we should have a clear understand-
ing about everything, so as to ^ve
trouble at the end," she said.

Her ears were still ringing with
the din of battle which had aaom
panied their exit from their former
home — the loud voice of ti^tpdtJrona
demanding payment for broken
chairs and tables that had dropped
in pieces the first rime they were
touched ; the vociferous porter, ri^
insisted on having money because
he had snatched IsabcFs reticu*
from her hand, in spite of her, anJ
carried it a dozen steps; the sroaii
but very shrill boy, whom they kiv.
no recollection of ever having se^;
before, and who wanted to be p^
for they knew not what; the bn-
terical donna^ who expected thai btf
heart, lacerated because her scrvico

A Summer in Rotne.

663

lad not been re-engaged, would be
»x>thed by the gift of a few extra
V/v / and a half-dozen beggars cry-
\\^ for " quale he cosaJ*

And so "it might be as well to
lave everything arranged at the be-
^nning," remarked this prudent per-
son.

" I settled about the furniture be-
bre you came in to dinner," Isabel
KakL ** I had the whole family up,
uid before their eyes, with papa as
witness, I shook and leaned on
ETcry table and cabinet, and sat
iown in every chair as hard as I
»>ta]d. Two chairs dropped, and
we taken out for repair, which will
cost us nothing. And I have or-
[lered out all the paper bouquets
with tall glass cases over them, and
all the ornamental cups and saucers.
But I think we may as well tell
them that if they send begging peo-
ple up to us, we will deduct what we
give from the rent. Papa says he
has made a careful reckoning, and
finds that if we give a soldo to each
ragged beggar in the street, and half
a Ura to each well-dressed beggar
who comes up, we shall be ourselves
reduced to beggary in six months."

Bianca turned round on the piano-
stool, hcir face full of expostulation.
^^Oh'I but those dear Capuchins I"
she exclaimed.

** It isn't likely that I meant to re-
fuse a Capuchin," answered Isabel
indignantly. "They are an excep-
tion; and so are all religious. No
one can say that religion costs them
much in Italy. I am ashamed to
give so little and* receive so much."

" Having an imderstanding at the
beginning will make no sort of differ-
ence at the end," Mr. Vamey said.
'* Every stranger here expects to have
a fight with the family he is leaving.
it is a part of the play which cannot
be left out by particular request, like
the Prince of Denmark out of Hamlet.

Let us put off explanations till they
are forced on us. I would like,
though, to say a word or two to Giu-
seppe about the table."

Giuseppe was a new servant, whom
we considered ourselves very fortunate
in engaging, as he not only spoke
English, but had lived in England
several months, and might therefore
be supposed to know something of
Anglo-Saxon ways. He came in im-
mediately.

*' There are two or three directions
which I wish to give once for all,
Giuseppe," Mr. Vamey said in his
slow, languid way. " I hope you will
remember them, for I do not like to
repeat orders."

" Yes, sir !" said Giuseppe, with a
stiffness of bow and attitude oddly in
contrast with his sparkling Itahan
face.

" In the first place," resumed his
master, "when I .say that I want
breakfast, or dinner, or the carriage
at a certain hour, I mean that time
precisely, and not an hour or a half-
hour later, nor even five minutes
later."

A second bow and "Yes, sir!"
worthy of May Fair.

Mr. Vamey went on argumenta-
tively, bringing his fingers into play :
** Secondly, I want my wine brought
in with the seals unbroken. If I find
a single bottle of the winel have put
up opened, I will " — he paused for a
suitable threat.

" Break the bottle over your head,"
struck in Isabel. " Remember, papa,
all tlie watered wine we have paid
for, and don't be too mild. Remem-
ber the horrible stuff for which we
paid three times the market price all
last winter. Don't be too mild. You
may depend upon it, Giuseppe, we
shall not permit of any tampering
with wine, or fmit, or candles, or
anything. We have had too much
of that."

664

A Summer in Rome.

** Y^ "^i»s !" says Giuseppe.

" I hate to be called ' miss/ " re-
marked the young lady. " Call me
signorina. Of all titles I think miss
the most disagreeable. And Mrs.
and Mr. are not much better. The
Italian language has that one advan-
tage, I will own."

" Be careful about the fruit you
give us," Mr. Vamey went on. " We
want ripe fruit. The figs to-day
were itot quite perfect. Figs," said
Mr. Varney with solemn deliberation
— " figs should bejust right, or they are
good for nothing. When they are
just right, there is nothing better, and
you can give them to us three times
a day. They must be ripe, but not
too ripe ; fine-grained, but not salvy ;
cool, crisp, intensely sweet, and on
the point of bursting open, but not
quite broken."

Giuseppe forgot his English train-
ing long enough to inquire, " Hadn't
you better speak to the trees about
it, sir ?"

'* That will do," Mr. Varney con-
cluded with dignity. " I have no
more to say now. You can go."

The setting sun, shining on the
new walls opposite, was reflected into
our drawing-room, lighting it beau-
tifully, touching Mr. Vamey's gray
hair and pleasant face, as he sat in a
huge, yellow arm-chair by the window
and diving into Isabel's bright eyes,
as she leaned on his shoulder, and
looked over with him the Diario Ro-
mano^ trying to make out the holy-
days.

" Here is the anniversary of the
coronation of Pius IX.," she said. '* I
wonder if we shall be arrested if we
wear yellow roses in our hats, Bianca ?"

Mr. Varney pored awhile over the
book in his hand, and presently asked,
with a general inquiring glance about
the room, "Does anybody know
what time ofday or night twenty-three
o'clock is ? Here is a function an-

nounced to begin at twenty-tbree
o'clock. Do people go to church
at that hour ? 1 sliould thinkit wodd
be very late at night"

" It might be some time the bcxi
day," suggested a member of the
family.

The gentleman arranged his glasses^
and looked puzzled. "Then, wba
a function is announced f(V tweoty^
three o'clock on Wednesday, it take
place at some hour oe Thursday," he
said.

No one ventured either to aqai-
esce or to dissent, and it was coo-
eluded to put this difficulty on the
list of questions we were making oa
for our Italian teacher to answ« the
next morning.

" He will be such a convenience
to us!" Isabel said. "People as-
sure me that he knows everythmg,
and is never at loss for an answer."

Mr. Varney took a pinch of snoft
He had always shown an inclination
toward that indulgence, but had not
dared to yield to it in America.
Now, however, with such eminent
examples constantly before his eyes,
he could carry his snuflf-box, not
only with impunity, but with a kind
of pride.

" Have you reflected, my daagh-
ter," he asked, "that your Italian
teacher knows not a word of En^t
and that, since you cannot very wcJ'
fly at him, as you could at Angelina,
and extract his meaning at the sword's
point, his explanations, ho^^^vc^ ex-
cellent they may be, are not likely lo
profit you much for some time to
come ?"

** Oh ! we will make out some
way," she replied carelessly. "Ow
can always understand a clever p^-
son. Besides, if worse comes to
worse, I don't know why I sbouldn i
fly at him, if necessary. He will be
paid for his time ; and one can alwaj^
scold a preson whom one pay's."

A Sufmner in Rome,

66$

The last sun-ray faded away, and
the golden globe of the new moon
ihone out over Santa Maria Mag-
jiore, shining so low and full in the
ransparent sky that one almost
eared it might strike the tower or
lomes of that dearest of churches
n passing, and break itself like a
wbble.

We were silent a little while, then
Mr, Varney said, " Sing us that song
fon arc humfning, my darling."

When he said "my darling," he
ilwa3rs meant Bianca.

She made a motion to put away
the music-sheet before her, and take
mother, but replaced it; and pre-
wntly we heard her low voice, which
lialf sang, half spoke, the words :

" Friend, the way is steep and lonely,

Thickly grows the rue ;
AQ around are shadows only :
May I walk with you ?

ScA. too near ; for. oh ! your going

Is upon the heights,
Vhere the airs of heaven are bkvwing

Through the mombg lights.

* Dare I brush the dews that glisten

AD about your feet ?
Can I listen where you listen ?

Meet the sights you meet ?

** NoC too far— I faint at missing

You from out my way.
Vain is then the glory kissing
All the peaks of day ;

** Vain are all the laughing showers

Leading in the spring ;
All the summer green and flowers,
All the birds that sing.

** At your side my way is clearest :

Tell me I may stay I
NoC too near-and yet, my dearest.
Not too far away ! '*

•* What does it mean ? " asked Mr.

Varney. "It seems to me very ob-
scure."

** Oh ! a song isn't expected
to mean anything but melody,"
somebody answered rather hastily.
" All that is required of the lines is
that they should be of the proper
length. Sing the other, Bianca— the
one I looked over to-day.**

The speaker knew that nothing
suited Mr. Varney so well as a gen-
uine love-song.

Bianca sang

*^ O roses dewy, roses red and sweet 1

Tinting with your hues the summer air.
Give my checks your blushes, gire my mouth

your breathing,
Add such rounded beauty as is meet,
Wrap me in the graces all your tendrils wreath-
ing*.
For he loves me, and I would be fair.

** O sunshine . playing with the swinging vine.

Sift your gold through all my dusky hair.
Gild each braid and ringlet with a softened
glimmer,
Hint the crown his love has rendered mine.
Than the brightest eyes, oh ! let not mine be
dimmer;
For he bves me, and I would be fair.

*' O lilibs ! in a drift of scented snow,
Willing all your sweetness to immure

In a Mify cloister, waves alone caressing.
Give my soul your whiteness ere ye go.

That its stainless beauty be to him a blessing ;
For he loves me, and I would be pure.

*' O faithful stars 1 1 pray ye, touch me so

With the virtue given unto you
That I fail him never, living, nor yet dying,

Howsoe*er the days may come and go.
With a steadfast tenderness his life supplying ;

For he loves me, and I would be true."

The first stroke of the Ave Maria
broke off the last chord of the song,
and there was silence in the room
till the bells had sung their evening
chorus.

666

Matter.

MATTER.

VI.

Consiitution of bodies, — We have
hitherto explained and vindicated
those facts and principles which ex-
perience and reason point out to us
as the true foundations of a sound
philosophical theory of matter. We
are now prepared to examine the
much-vexed question of the constitu-
tion of bodies ; nor are we deterred
from our undertaking by the very
common belief that the essence of
matter is, and will ever be, an im-
penetrable mystery ; for although the
different schools of philosophy have
long disputed about the subject with-
out being able to agree in their con-
clusions, we are confident that these
very conclusions, every one of- which
contains a portion of truth, wil^flford
us the means of reaching the true
and complete solution of the question.

The opinions at present entertained
by philosophers about the constitu-
tion of matter may be reduced to the
three following:

Some affirm that the first consti-
tuents of natural bodies are \}cit first
matter and the substantial form^ as
explained by Aristotle and by his fol-
lowers. This view, which reigned
supreme for centuries, we shall call
the scholastic solution of the question.

Others affirm, on the contrary,
that the first constituents of bodies
are simple elements y or points of mat-
ter, acting on each other from a cer-
tain distance, and thus forming dy-
namical systems of diflferent natures
according to their number, powers,
and geometrical arrangement. This
second view, which, after Boscovich,
found a great number of advocates.

we shall call the dynamic solution of
the question.

Finally, others affirm that the fim
constituents of bodies are moUcula,
or chemical atoms. This view, basd
entirely on chemical consideratioas,
originated with Dalton, of Manches
ter, early in the present century, and
it was very favorably received by all
men of science as the true interpreta-
tion of chemical facts. This third
view we shall call the atomic solution
of the question.

The investigation of the grounds
on which these three solutions are
supported will soon convince tis tkt
none of them can be entirely rejected,
as each of them has some foundatioa
in truth. To begin with the scholas-
tic solution, all true philosophers
know that God alone isafur^a^l:
whence it follows that all creatures
essentially consist of act gjid poitfur
This act and this potency, when there
b question of material things, art
called the substantial form and /^
matter. It is therefore an cviden:
truth that material substance is essen-
tially constituted of matter and sub-
stantial form. Against this doctrine
nothing can be objected by the advo-
cates of the dynamic or of the atomic
solution.

On the other hand, the doctrine
which teaches that bodies are made
up of chemical atoms, or molecules,
which have a definite nature aa:
combine in definite numbers, is very
satisfactorily established by cxpen-
mental science ; and nothing can be
objected against it by speculative
philosophers. But, to prevent mis-

Matter.

667

conceptions, we must observe that
this theory does not consider the
chemical atoms as absolutely indivisi-
ble, or as absolutely primitive, or as
so many pieces of continuous matter.
The word " atom " in chemistry sig-
nifies the least possible quantity of
any natural substance known to us.
Atoms are chemical equivalents.
Their chemical indivisibility, on ac-
count of which they are called
'' atoms," is a fact of experience ; but
they are absolutely divisible, owing
10 their physical composition ; for we
know by the balance that atoms of
difl^ent substances contain different
quantities of matter; and their vi-
brations, change of size, and varia-
tions of chemical activity with the va-
riation of circumstances, unmistakably
show that their mass is a sum of units
substantially independent of one an-
other, though naturally connected to-
other by mutual actions in one dy-
namical system. Their matter is
therefore discrete, not continuous.

As to the doctrine of simple and
unextended elements, we have no
need of saying anything in particular
in this place, as such a doctrine is a
tmnple corollary of the thesis concern-
ing the impossibility of continuous
matter, which we have fully develop-
ed in our last article.

From these remarks it will be seen
that to the question, What ate the
primitive constituents of bodies ? three
answers may be given, and each of
them true, if properly interpreted,
as we shall presently explain. Thus
it is true, in a strictly metaphysical
sense, that the primitive constituents
of bodies are the matter and the sub-
stantial form; it is true again, in a
certain other sense, that the primitive
constituents of bodies are chemical
atoms ; and it is true also, in a still
diflPcrcnt sense, that the primitive
constituents of bodies are simple and
unextended elements. Hence the

scholastic solution does not necessa-
rily clash with the atomic, nor does
this latter exclude the dynamic, but
all three may stand together in per-
fect harmony, or rather they are re-
quired by the very nature of the ques-
tion, in the same manner as three
solutions are required by the nature
of a problem whose conditions give
rise to an equation of the third de-
gree. The duty, therefore, of a phi-
losopher, when he has to handle this
subject, is not to resort to one of the
three solutions in order to attack the
others, as it is the fashion to do,
but to investigate how the three can
be reconciled, and how truth in its
fulness can be attained to by their
conjunction.

This may appear difficult to those
whose philosophical bias in favor
of a long-cherished opinion prevents
them from looking at things in more
than one manner; but those whose
mind is free from prejudice and ex-
clusiveness will readily acknowledge
that whilst the atomists determine
the constituents of bodies by chemi-
^tf/ analysis, the dynamists, on the con-
trary, determine those constituents by
mechanical analysis, and the scholas-
tics by fnetaphysical analysis. Now,
these analyses do not exclude one
another ; they rather prepare the way
to one another. Hence their results
cannot exclude one another, but rath-
er lead to one another, and give by
their union a fuller expression of
truth.

If we ask of an atomist, " What are
the primitive constituents of a mass
of gold?" he will answer that they
are the atoms^ or the molecules, ofgold^
as chemistry teaches him. This an-
swer is very good, as it points out the
first specific principles of the compound
body ; for we cannot go further and
resolve the molecule without de-
stroying the specific nature of gold.
For this reason the atomist, when he

668

Mattit.

has reached the atoms of gold, stops
there, and declares that the analysis
(onnoi gofurikrr. He evidently re-
fers to the ckewdcal analysis.

If now we ask a dynamist, ** What
are the primitive constituents of a
mass of c-ovi f he will answer that
they are r*r sn-^fCe ciemtmts of which
the tac"ic:£e$ c4 rcli are made up.
Tcjs aiFw^sr, too. zs ^^ery good, as it
pvi-s c« i^-e r:^/*7si-J.' principles
•: t>f c--.:i-»:is:ii roiy ; ior wc can-
not r^ ruT'-inar js.-! resci-re the simple
<;irrn;.ic -v'Z-rror i*scr.^j2z: the phy-
sitjI Jtrr;r For t::^ rcasoo the
.-Tu:nii<; vi-n le *sjs reached the
s::: *.c rcnfiTi. srrrs :J!<re; and de-
.-.arj^ :T«i /It tn^" -^s -c« sv m^ fur-
3^" A . ursc w iie.i:3 'a^pkyst-^

..- ^ T-.-Jv EHt zi X schoolman,

• V -. -.t .:.; "' ii-r- - ccttstiruents

■ , "-^^ . ^- -' Hi wH answer

• -"^ . ^- -;. ^.j:T.:ir-*_vrstand

fx »i. • . " ^ . r .:i< ^:nis occained

V * '- '--^~— i^a-.'sis of sob-

^- .- > .s. i.'>i»':fr also is very

> . • , .V r^: -"e irst muUt"

- '. .* • -'.-c^ -» >?i:iCince. It

^ , , ^. -c' -, ,^; -cne ai Blind

, ■ - >>c«" .^xrf :joc r.r-y to the

•,. >* •- ■- "--.^ rs aiiOU =--"€ to its

^ ^ ,>s. ■•■•-* nci ^^nouave

, .. .. • 1 .-. i: .:e n ass and in

.. . ^^ ■, "i-^ jvVT. as we

^ . ■ I i: me. '<z plice.

^ .^ X . .*: I'l^ <ubsMntial

-. • .'.^•'. - *<? ic.xvlaian

. .-.' -.^-s v-jLt the

. • ^ .. 1.. .- He Cleans

^ ^ : * .. -^^ woich re^

^^ , *>vv'i V .\: u:co meta-

" . ^, , .> .V --^tc ot wrtiier

^ ., , >^ . : ■*t"<e c-:ree an-

. . >^ V .^.. -V ' i:.oo not clash

. V' v.x^-^cingly, the

^ , , ^,aid::ieschool-

, vv » wichiHg truth,

^, .>: .*.xtcat answers.

The fact is, they do iM>t look at the
question from the^ame point of view,
and, rigorously speaking, they solve
different questions.

The first answers the question,^'hat
are the first spec^ principles of gcdd
or the first gold^i particles ; and b€
affinns that they are the moUcuin or
atinns of gold.

The second answers the question.
What are the fiX^X. physical prindples
of such golden particles ? and he af-
firms that they are untxteniid de-
ments OTpfimitive substances.

The third answers the question.
What are the first metaphysical prin-
ciples of those primitive substances ?
and he affirms that they are the mti-
ter and the substantial form.

This being the case, it may be
asked how it came to pass that the
atomic, the dynamic, and the scholas*
dc solutions have hitherto been con-
sidered as irreconcilable. We reply
that the three solutions would never
have been held inreconcilat^e, if
their advocates had kept within rea-
sonable limits in the expression of
their views. But as philosopfaens
like other people, are often exclusive,
narrow-minded, and ready to op-
pose whatever comes from a scbooi
which is not their own, it fircqucnily
happens that they are too casalv
satisfied with a partial possession of
truth, and disdain the views of others
who regard truth under a different
aspect. By such a course, instead of
promoting, they hinder, the advance
of philosophical knowledge; and
whOe fighting under the banner of a
special school, which they mistake
for the banner of truth, they alk)v
themselves to be carried away by a
spirit of contention, the unyielding
character of which is the greatest
impediment in the way of philosq>hi-
cal progress. The constitutioo of
bodies is one of the subjects which,
unfortunately, have been and are

Matter.

669

still handled by different schools with
remarkable unfairness to one another.
'I*he atoioist fights against the dyna-
inist, and both despise the follower
of the schoolman ; whilst the school-
man from the stronghold of his me-
taphysical castle looks superciliously
on both, confident that he will even-
tually drive them out of the field of
philosophy. This attitude of one
school towards another is not worthy
of men who profess to love truth.
If the atomistic philosopher cannot
go beyond the chemical analysis, we
will allow him to stop there, on con-
dition, however, that he shall not
daim a right to prevent others, who
may know better, from proceeding
to further investigations beyond the
boundaries of chemistry. In like
manner, if the dynamist cannot rise
to the consideration of the metaphy-
sical principles of substance, let him
be satisfied with the consideration
of the primitive elements of matter,
and dispense with further inquiries ;
but let him not interfere with the
work of the metaphysician, whose
method and principles he does not
understand. As to the metaphysician
himself, we would warn him that,
however deeply conversant he may
be with the general truths concerning
the essential constituents of things,
he is nevertheless in danger of erring
in their application to particular cases,
unless he tests his conclusions by the
principles of chemical, mechanical,
and physical science ; for it is from
these sciences that we learn the true
nature of the facts and laws of the
material world ; and all metaphysical
investigadon about the constitution
of bodies must prove a failure, if it
lacks the foundation of real facts and
their correct interpretation.

It is obvious, after all, that truth
cannot fight against tnith ; and since
we have shown that each of the three
sohitions above given contains a por-

tion of truth, we cannot reject any
of them absolutely, but we must dis-
card that only which troubles their
harmony, and retain that through
which they complete and confirm
one another.

We therefore admit the substantial
points of the three systems on the
constitution of bodies, and recognize
the general principles on which they
are established. The analysis of
bodies carried on through all its
degrees leads to the following re-
sults:

First, by analyzing the body chemi-
cally, we find the atoms ^ or molecules,
endowed with a determinate mass
and with specific powers, correspond-
ing to the specific nature of the body.
Such atoms are not absolutely in-
divisible, though chemistry, as yet,
cannot decompose them : hence at-
oms are further analyzable.

Secondly, by analyzing the atom,
or the molecule, we discover its
components, or primitive parts, called
primitive elements, and primitive sub-
stances, which are physically simple
and unextended, and concur in defi-
nite numbers to the constitution of
definite molecular masses.

Finally, by analyzing the simple
element or the primitive substance,
which can no longer be resolved in-
to physical parts, we find that such
an element consists of act and po-
teiuy^ or, as we more frequently ex-
press ourselves, oi form and matter^
neither of which can exist separately,
as the first physical being which ex-
ists in nature is the substance arising
from their conspiration. According-
ly the form and the matter of which
the simple element consists are not
physical, but only metaphysical,
principles, and they constitute a
metaphysical, not a physical, com-
pound.

These three conclusions are scien-
tifically and philosophically certain;

670

Matter.

and while they afibrd a sound basis
to our reasonings on material objects,
they reconcile modern physics with
tlie principles of old metaphj-sics. We
say -with the prindpUSy not with iJie
ccKciusums ; for we must own that the
old metaphysicians, owing to their in-
sufficient knowledge of the laws of
nature, not onfrequently failed in the
appucatioo of their principles to the
i.iterpretatioQ of natural facts. Thus
the chemical, the dynamical, and the
scholastic views of the constitution
cj ixxi:« cease to be antagonistic,
xsA each of the three schools is
i«"iris»i ali it can claim consistently
a :.t :~e r -hts of truth.

As w^ '^:e=d to speak hereafter
-vcr.- jr .:iul oi the constitution of
:o- isv wTf $.*all content ourselves at

-.><'*; «-::i f^esejcncfal remarks on
, ^ >^ . .vi. I: s manliest from what

%\^.' ,?< :hi: Ixxijcs and molecules
. :s* r-,— i s^:r.:;e elements, and are
-^.^^Jx^T?^ roi on account of their
.V X 1 or nxvecxiiar composition, but

.r.\ Ivcjtuse ihcir primitive phy-
^•.,:. ccrj^.xxients, the elements, are
-^L>Cdnvi;rs. Hence the question
cvactframg the constitution of mate-
ruu substance^ as such, does not neces-
>aruy require any further research af-
ter the constitution of bodies, but
luay be directly settled by the con-
:>;dcriiCion of the elements themselves.

We have already seen that the
yiiiiuiive elements of matter are rig-
v^ivxtsly unextended ; that each of
thciu t> endowed with acth*i/}', passi'
:.i>. and t'ur*tui^ and is thus fitted to
\vxiuc^^ receive, and conserve local
^: o\v;iK'ii: ; Aiid that the elementary
avu\ ::\\ whether attractive or repul-
X \e. w evervised in a sphere accord-
i \; tv^ A ix^rmaaent law. And since
. c v>j^ciuuil cvnutitution of things
1 'uxi vv ^ u.ured trom their essential
'^ v^ NK c^ It IN ot the utmost import-

^ N^ .v^ i:s to ascertain whether the
1 V. s \v v^* the material element

may be fully determined by itsknovn
properties, or whether the element
may possess occult properties which,
if known, would modify our notion
of its principles; for it is only after
an adequate knowledge of its pcina-
pie of activity, of its principle of pa^
sivity, and of the relation of the ont
to the other, that we can safely prc»-
nounce a judgment about the essence
of a primitive being.

We may ask, therefore, in the first
place: Docs a simpU element p^susi
any occult power besides its huwn
power of attracting or repelling J

This question must be answ^cd io
the negative. Occult powers and
occult qualities have been admitted
by the ancient philosophers, and are
admitted even now, in compound sub-
stances, not because any unknown
power resides in the first elements of
which they are made up, but because
the manner of their composition, and
consequently the manner of det«miii-
ing the resultant of their elementary
actions, transcends our concepbon
and baffles our calculations. Thus
the phenomena of chemical affinit),
cohesion, capillarity, electricity, and
magnetism depend on actions whicn
science cannot trace to y)x€\x primihu
causes — viz., to the simple elements —
but only to their proximate causes,
which are complex, and, as such, fol-
low different laws of causation cor-
responding to the different modes of
their constitution. Before we arc
able to trace such phenomena to their
simple and primitive causes, it woukl
be necessary to find out the intrinsic
constitution of every molecule; the
number, quality, and arrangement of its
constituent elements; the arrangement
and distance of the molecules in the
body ; and the mathematical formobs
by which every movement of eac:^
particle could be determined for every
instant of time. As this has not been
done, and will never be done, ^

Matter.

671

determraation of the causality of
molecular phenomena reuiams, and
will ever remain, an insoluble problem,
and the complex power from which
any such phenomenon proceeds re-
mains, and will ever remain, unknown
so far as it is the result of an un-
known composition, though we know,
at least in general, the nature of the
primitive powers from which it re-
sults. In other terms, there are no
occult powers in matter, but only un-
known resultants of known primitive
poweis.

To prove this, we observe that an
occult power is to be admitted, then,
only when a phenomenon occurs
which cannot proceed from powers
already known. This is evident;
for, when phenomena can be ac-
counted for by known powers, there
is no ground for any inquiry about
occult causes. In other words, to
look for occult causes without data
or indications on which to ground
the induction, is to propose to one's
self a problem without conditions ;
which no man in his senses would
da Now, no phenomenon has
been observed anywhere in material
things which cannot proceed from
the known powers of attraction and
repulsion ; nay, it is positively cer-
tain that all phenomena proceed
from the same powers. For each
material point, when acted on, re-
ceives a determination to local move-
ment, and nothing else; and there-
fore the effect of the action of mat-
ter upon matter is nothing but local
movement, one element approaching
to or retiring from the other. Now,
this is precisely what attractive and
repulsive powers are competent to
da Hence it is that in all the
works of science and natural philo-
sophy the causaUty of phenomena
of every kind is uniformly traced to
mere attractions and repulsions.
Again, if any occult power, be-

sides that of attracting or repelling,
be assumed to reside in a primitive
element of matter, such a power will
remain idle for ever, inasmuch as it
will never be applicable to the pro-
duction of natural phenomena. On
the other hand, it is obvious that a
power destined to remain idle for
ever is an absurdity. It is therefore
absurd to assume that there is in the
elements of matter any occult power
besides that of attracting or repell-
ing. In this argument the minor
proposition is evident, because all
active power is naturally destined to
act; whilst the major proposition is
evidently inferred from the fact that
matter has no passivity, except with
regard to local motion, as is ac-
knowledged by all philosophers, and
as we shall presently show from in-
trinsic reasons. Whence it follows
that, if there were in matter any hid-
den power not destined, as the at-
tractive and the repulsive are, to
produce local movement, such a
power would be absolutely useless,
as absolutely inapphcable to any
other matter, and would remain in
this absurd condition for ever. We
need not, therefore, trouble ourselves
with the absurd hypothesis of occult
powers; and we conclude, accord-
ingly, that the principle of activity of
a primitive element is merely attrac-
tive or repulsive, as explained in one
of our past articles. '

It may be asked, in the second
place : Is the centre of a simple ele-
ment to be identified with the principle
of passivity of the element f

This question must be answered
in the affirmative. For the princi-
ple of passivity is that to which the
action is terminated ; but the action
of any one element of matter is ter-
minated to the centre of any other
element ; therefore the centre of any
element is its principle of passivity.
The minor proposition of this syllo-

6/2

Matter.

gism might be proved by metaphy-
sical considerations*; but we may
prove it more clearly in the follow-
ing manner : Locomotive action im-
plies direction, and no direction can
be really taken in space except from
a real point to another real point.
Now, that by which any two ele-
ments, A and B^ mark out two dis-
tinct points in space, is the centre
of their sphere of action. The di-
rection of the action is therefore
from the centre of A to the centre
of B^ and vice versa — that is, the ac-
tion of the one is terminated to the
centre of the other. And thus it is
evident that each single element re-
ceives the action of every other ele-
ment in its central point, which is,
accordingly, the passive principle of
the element. I'his conclusion may
be expressed in this other manner:
In a material element the matter
(passive principle) is a point from
which the action of the element is
directed towards other points in
space, and to which the actions of
other material points in space are
directed.

We may remark, also, that mate-
rial elements, whilst they are always
ready to receive movement from ex-
trinsic agents, cannot apply their
own power to themselves, because
they are inert. This being the case,
it obviously follows that the action
of an extrinsifc agent on an element
is terminated there where the action
of the element itself cannot be ter-
minated. Now, a little reflection will
show that the centre of the element is
just the point where the action of
the element itself cannot be termin-
ated. For as locomotive action im-
plies direction, and as no direction
can be had from the centre of activ-
ity to itself, but only from a point to

* See Thb Catholic World for March, 1874^ ]>•
S<8.

a distinct point, the action of the
clement upon its own trciito m i
iiietaphysiical impossibility. Vitorc
we conclude lliat the prinoik td
passivity, or that in i^hi^b iliefniiB-
tive element is iiabk to rcocwt *
determination to local raovciiiciK, ■
nothing else than the iutrui^ii; 1^
of its essence, the cuilfe ^om vliU
ii direas its aclion in asphCTCii^ii
other terms, the m:itt€r itidlas^l^
iradistinguished from the ^ybitalii
form.

Ill the tbinl place, it vag§ fe
asked : Can it if^ priyped thatawtt^
rial tkmeni is susc^f4ii^ii »J MriHif
btH i4>cai mm^fmenif

We answer : Ves, For tie km
shown that tlic pai^sivily of ihi Ofr
icrial elemeut resides in a wm
mathematical pointy whidi, liiiii
no bulk, cannot be liable lo
changes, and therefore is
of such determi nations only ai i^
bring about a change of f^cimatm-
klions. It is bnrdly DeccMllJ W
explaitt that such a change of o-
trill Bic relations is always TmiifC
about by local movement; fof fP*
relations either are di^iaacei ^
fkpend on distances j and dbtip»
cannot be modified except byto^
movement It is tims ptaBifalte
material elements are suscepdllrii^
nothing biJ t locn 1 m o vement line
the pasi^ivity of matter is C€ilipd*>
tlie reception of loeai mcff^t^
alone.

From this well-known tnidi »
may again confirm our pito^
solution of the question ojmxxmt
occult powens. For the ws3kti!f
aud the passivity of a simpJe ekli0i
essentially respond to one anottait
the same manner and wich as met 1
necessity ss givini^ and rf\-€hv^^^
since they spring from ihc pfioCfl^
of one and the same primiiiit ^
sence, they must belong to oee wU
the same kind* !/» thciij theft wm

Matter.

673

CD the material elements any occult
aower besides that which produces
ocal movement^ there would be also
I correspondent passivity not des-
incd to receive local movement ; for
without this new passivity the occult
)ower couki not be exercised. And
once the passivity of matter is lim-
ted to the sole reception of local
novementy none but locomotive
x>wer can be admitted to reside in
natter,

Esunce of material substance, — We
ire now ready to answer with all de-
irtble precision and clearness the
question, '*What is the essence of
material substance ?'' — a question not
It all formidable, when the active
uul the passive principle of matter
tiave been properly defined and elu-
cidated. Our answer is as follows :

The essence, or quiddity, of a
thing is really nothing else than its
nature ; hence if we know the princi-
ples which constitute the nature of
ihe material element, we know ii^
uct the essence of material sub-
fiance. Now, the principles which
constitute any given created nature
are an act of a certain kind — that is, a
certain principle of activity; and a
corresponding potency — ^that is, a cor-
responding principle of passivity.
Whence we conclude that the prin-
ciples of a material nature are the act
h which such a nature is determined
^' act in a sphere and to cause local
movement^ and the potency on account
i which the same nature is liable to
meive local movement. And since
ihe said act is called " the substan-
tial forna," and the said potency " the
tnalter/* we conclude that the es-
^nce of material substance consists
i matter and substantial form.

This conclusion is by no means
"ew; it expresses, on the contrary,
the universal doctrine of the ancient

philosophers on the essence of mate-

rul subsunce. But it must be ob-
voL. XX. — 43

served that we limit this doctrine to
the essence of primitive elements,
which alone can be rigorously styled
" first substances," whilst the ancients,
owing to their imperfect notions of
natural things, applied the same doc-
trine to compound substances, which
they believed to arise by substantial
generation instead of material com-
position. Thus our conclusion is
more guarded and less comprehen.
sive than that of the old metaphysi-
cians. Moreover, the ancient phi-
losophers, who did not know the
primitive elements, but assumed the
continuity of matter, could not pic-
ture to themselves the intellectual
notions of matter and substantial
form in a sensible manner, and cer-
tainly were unable to find any true
sensible image of them ; and for this
reason their speculations about the
essence of material substance re-
mained imperfect and their expla-
nations obscure and unsatisfactory.
We, on the contrary, thanks to the
investigations and discoveries made
in the last centuries, have the ad-
vantage of knowing that all matter is
subject to gravitation, and acts in a
sphere according to a constant and
very simple law, which presides over
the molecular and chemical no less
than the astronomical phenomena;
and we are thus enabled to form a
true and genuine conception of the
matter and form of the primitive
element, founded on ascertained
facts, and free from false or incon-
gruous imaginations. Hence the
words ** matter " and " form," as em-
ployed by us, have such a clear and
precise sense that no room is left for
their misinterpretation.

We therefore know, and clearly too,
the essence of primitive material sub-
stance, whatever may be said to the
contrary by some admirers of the old
philosophy, who spurn the discove-
ries of modern physics, or by some

674

Mutter.

modern thinkers, who revile all meta-
, physical analysis as mere rubbish.

The essential definition of material
substance, as such, is therefore the
following: Material substance is a
being Jit to cause and receive merely
local motion. This definition is fuller
than the one adopted by the ancients,
who defined matter to be " a mova-
ble being " — Ens nwbile. Of course,
when they spoke of a " movable "
being, the ancients referred to
** local " movement ; but, as there
are movements of some other kinds,
none of which can be produced or
received by matter, we prefer to keep
the epithet ** local " as prominent
as possible in our definition, and we
add the adverb ** merely " as a fur-
ther limitation required by the na-
ture of the subject. The old defini-
tion mentions nothing but the mobil-
ity of matter. This is owing to the
fact that the ancients had no notion
of universal attraction, and consider-
ed the activity of material substance
as dependent on movement, accord-
ing to their axiom : Nihil movet nisi
motum. But as we know, on the
one hand, that the specific differences
of things must be derived from their
'formal rather than from their mate-
rial constitution, and, on the other,
as the constituent form of the mate-
rial element is an efficient principle
of local motion, we include in the
definition of matter its aptitude both
to produce and to receive local mo-
tion " as the complete specific differ-
. ence " which distinguishes material
substance from any other being what-
' ever.

It seems to us that our definition
of matter wants iicither clearness nor
precision. Indeed, we would be un-
able to make it clearer or more ac-
curate ; and as for its soundness, let
our readers, who have hitherto fol-
lowed our reasonings, judge for
themselves.

In the opinion of most modtn:
philosophers, the essence of matter
consists of extension and reusktuf
From what has preceded it is c\>
dent that this opinion is attedy ^
Extension is not a property of male?
as such, but only of physical com-
pounds containing a multittwk of
distinct material points ; and, ercs
in this case, it is not the matter,
but the volume, or the place drcnffl
scribed by the extreme terms of dt?
body, that can be styled " extended,"
as we have shown in our last artide
As to resistance, it suffices to itmk
that no accidental act belongs to tb
essence of substance ; hence resift-
ance, which is an accidental act, caa^
not enter into the definition of mat
ten Some will say that, if notr^
sistance, at least the power of remO^t
belongs to the essence of matte
But not even this is true. Tbc m^
terial element has the power of ar
tracting or of repelling ; but such -
power cannot be considered is ib?-
mally resisting. Resistance is a pai
ticular case of repulsion, when lt<
agent by its repulsive exertion grad-
ually lessens and exhausts the fd^
city of an approaching mas of flwi-
ter ; but resistance may also be i
particular case of attraction, ioas-
much as the agent by its altrtcd??
exertion gradually lessens and ex-
hausts the velocity of a mass of Kil-
ter receding from it Hence aB ma
terial substance has a motive power,
either attractive or repulsive; ^^
neither of them can be described ^
a resisting power; for attracthirr
does not resist the movement rf a
approaching l>ody, nor does rq^
sivity resist the movement of i *^
ceding body. It is scarcely nece-
sary to add that the notion of ar
sisting power essential to matter is *
remnant of the old prejudice con*^
ing in the belief that, when t*'
bodies come in contact, the mstf

Matter.

675

)f the one precludes^ by its materi-
ility, bulk, and inertia, the further
idvance of the otlier. NoChing is
nore conEunon, with the followers of
he ancient theories, than the as-
nmption that the matter of bodies
ir Us quantity and by its occupation
>f spase resists the passage of any
Hhcr matter. We have shown else-
there that resistance is action, and
iiarefore is not owing to the inert
natter standing in the way of the ap-
poaching body, but to the active
^wu of which the inert matter is
becentee.

To complete our elucidation of the
tttential definition of matter, some-
lung remains to be said about the
nertia of material substance. We
^1 see that inertia is not a consti-
aent, but only a result of the consti-
nitioD, of matter ; whence it follows
hat no mention of inertia is needed
n the essential definition of material
mbstance. In fact, the notion of
this substance includes nothing but
the essential act and the essential
term, that is, the principle of activity
Bid the principle of passivity, both
concerned with local motion only.
To have a principle of activity and a
principle of passivity is in the nature
rf all created substances, and con-
stitutes their generic entity ; hence
the mention of these two principles
to our definition serves to point out
the genus of material substance;
vbilst the intrinsic ordination of the
same principles to local motion serves
to point out the essential dijference
v^*hich separates matter from any
other substance.

Iftertia, — Many confound the iner-
tia of matter with its passivity, and
' ODsider inertia as one of the essential
constituents of matter. It is not
•iifficult, however, to show that inertia
And passivity are two distinct proper-
tics. Those who reduce the princi-
ples of real being to an act and a

ierm^ without taking notice of its
essential complement,* reduce in
fact the intrinsic properties of real
being to activity and passivity, the
one proceeding from the act, and the
other from the potential term; and
thus the inertia of matter, for wliich
they cannot account by any distinct
principle, is considered by them as
an attribute of matter identical wiili,
or at least involved in, its real pas-
sivity. The truth is that, as the act
and the potency, which constitute the
essence of a material being, are the
formal source of its actuality, so also
the activity connatural to that act,
and the passivity connatural to that
potency, are the formal source of the
inertia by which the same being is
characterized. This will be easily
understood by a glance at the nature
of inertia.

That inertia is not passivity is clear
enough ; for passivity is the potenti-
ality of receiving an impression from
without, whereas inertia is the inca-
pability of receiving an impression
from within ; passivity is that on
account of which matter receives the
determination to move, whereas iner-
tia is that on account of which mat-
ter cannot change that determination,
but is obliged to obey it, by moving
with the received velocity in the given
direction. The determination to
move is received only while the agent
acts, that is, as long as the passivity
is being actuated, and no longer;
whereas the movement itself, which
follows such a determination, con-
tinues, owing to inertia, without need
of continuing the action, so that, if
all further action were to cease, liic
moving matter, owing to its inertia,
would persevere in its movement for
ever.

Moreover, whence does the passi-
vity and whence does the inertia of

• Sec The Catholic World for March, 1874, p.
831.

6;6

Matter.

matter proceed ? Matter is passive,
because its substantial term, whose
reality entirely depends on actuation,
is still actuable or potential with re-
gard to accidental acts. Passivity is
therefore nothing but the further
actuability of the substantial term ;
whilst, on the contrary, matter is inert,
because its substantial act and its
substantial term are so related to one
another that the motive power pos-
sessed by the former can never ter-
minate its action -to the latter ; for
this is the only reason why a ma-
terial element cannot modify the
determinations which it receives
from without. Hence inertia is
nothing but the result of the spe-
cial relation intervening between the
principle of activity and the prin-
ciple of passivity in the constitu-
tion of material substance; or, in
other terms, inertia is a corollary of
the essential correlation of form and
matter, and, therefore, is to be trac-
ed, not, as passivity, to the essential
term of the substance, but to its
essential complement. This shows
that, in the phrase matter is inert^ the
word " matter " stands for the mate-
rial substance itself, and not for the
matter, or potential term, which is
under the substantial form, and whose
character is passivity.

The question we have here discuss-
ed may seem of very little impor-
tance; yet we had to give its solu-
tion, not only because the confusion
of distinct notions is a source of
difficulties and sophisms, but also
because the given solution confirms
the necessity of admitting the essen-
tial complement as the third princi-
ple of real being, and because in
spiritual substances there is passivity,
though not inertia; which shows
how indispensable is our duty of dis-
tinguishing between the two.

From the preceding remarks we
infer also that inertia belongs to the

essence of material substance, \(K
however, as a constituent piDcipk,
but only as something implied in the
nature of its constituent piinq^
As it is impossible to alter the nature
of such principles without destHniDg?
the essence of matter, so also it is ob-
possible for matter to cease to k
inert so long as its essence remis!
unchanged. In a word, wh-ak^
matter is a metaphysical impo^
bility.

Lastly, we may add * tlm incfii]
does not admit of degrees; u^
therefore all material elemeiits -re
equally inert. In fact, when we sat
that matter is inert, we mean, as b»
been explained, that mataial solr
stance is entirely and absolatelj u:
capable of imparting motion to itsdi
Now, absolute incapacity is perfe:
incapacity, and does not admiu!
degrees. Hence we may find in ci^
ferent bodies more or less of iiwr
matter, but not more or less ot in-
ertia. This is true also of the \^-
sivity of matter; that is, we inaj
find in different bodies more or 1&-
of passive matter, but not more c:
less of passivity ; for passivity, as cc4h
sisting in an absolute liability to aca
dental actuation, cannot admit ot ct
grees.

A few conclusions. — It may be u«
ful, and may prove satisfactory too*
readers, to cast a glance over *u t
ground we have trodden and tt re
suits so far reached. The sum s-
subsl|Lnce of the doctrine *P^^
we have endeavored to cstablan c
contained in the following prq^^-'
tions :

I. Matter is not continnoie* :
divisible in infinitum^ nor has k ^^
intrinsic quantity connected in -^'
manner with its essential consul-
tion.

II. All bodies are ultimately m^;|
up of primitive elements, pb)'SiC3-'
simple and unextended, which \:^^

Matter.

677

reached, the physical division of
bodies cannot go further,

III. The primordial molecules, or
so-called " atoms," of all substances
are so many systems of simple ele-
ments dynamically bound with one
another by mutual action.

IV. The continuous extension, or
geometric quantity, usually predicat-
ed of bodies, is the extension of the
place comprised within the extreme
limits of each body. It is, in other
terms, the extension of the volume,
Dot of the matter. Nevertheless,
such an extension may be called
"material," not only because the
terms of its dimensions are material,
bot also because in most bodies the
elements and the molecules are so
dose that their action on our senses
produces the appearance of material
continuity.

V. The extension of bodies is real,
though their material continuity is
merely apparent; hence only the
volumes of bodies, and not their
masses, can be properly styled ex-
tended.

VI. The true absolute mass of a
l>odyis the number of primitive ele-
ments it contains.

VII. The primitive elements are
of two kinds, some of them always
and everywhere attractive, others al-
ways and everywhere repulsive. The
matter, however, is the same in both
kinds, and bears the same relation to
its form, whether this be of an at-
tractive or of a repulsive natui;ip.

VIII. There are no other powers
in the primitive elements than that
of attracting and that of repelling.

IX. All primitive elements have a
*»phcre of activity, throughout which
they constantly act according to the
N^ewtonian law — that is, in the in-
verse ratio of the squared distances,
even when the distance is molecular;
and no distance, however great, can
be designated where the action of an

element will not have a finite inten-
sity.

X. The active power of primitive
elements cannot be exerted in the
immediate contact of matter with
matter, distance being an essential
condition of all locomotive actions.

XI. The elementary power acts
immediately on all distant matter
throughout its sphere, independently
of any material medium of transmis-
sion or communication. Movement,
however, cannot be propagated with-
out a material medium.

XII. The term from which the ac-
tion of any given element is directed,
and the term in which the sama ele-
ment receives the motion causea by
other elements, is one and the same,
viz., the real centre of its sphere of
activity ; and it is called the matter.
The act from which such a centre
receives its first existence is called
the substantial form ; and it has a
spherical character, inasmuch as it
constitutes a virtual indefinite sphere.

XIII. The essence of a primitive
element of matter is by no means a
mystery. The essential definition of
such an elen)ent is " a substance fit to
cause and to receive mere local mo-
tion."

XIV. Inertia is an essential prop-
erty of material substance, no less
than activity and passivity. Inertia
admits of no degrees.

XV. The so-called " force of in-
ertia " is neither the inertia itself nor
any special motive power; but it
merely expresses a certain exercise
of the elementary powers dependent
on the inertia of the matter acted
on ; for bodies, on account of their
inertia, cannot leave their place be-
fore they have received in all their
parts a suitable velocity. Hence
while such a velocity is being com-
municated to a body, the body which
is acted on cannot yield its place
to the impinging body; and conse-

6/8

Matter.

quenlly, during the struggle of two
bodies, the one which impinges loses
a quantity of movement equal to that
which it imparts to the mass im-
pinged upon. The loss of move-
ment in the impinging body is there-
fore caused, not by the inertia of the
body impinged upon» but by its ele-
mentary powers as exercised by it
during the reception of the momen-
tum.

The foregoing conclusions, as
every attentive reader must have
noiice<], have been drawn from no-
thing but known facts and received
jjiinciples; we may therefore con-
sider them as fully established. The
more so as we have taken care to
examine both sides of each question,
and have given not only such direct
proofs of each conclusion as would
suffice to convince all unprejudiced
minds, but also every objection that
we have been able to find against
our own views, and have thus found
the opportunity of confirming, by
our answers to the same, the truth
of the doctrine propounded. There
may be other objections which did
not occur to our mind ; yet it is like-
ly that their solution will need no
new considerations besides those
already developed in the preceding
pages. Should any other difficulty
occur to the reader which cannot be
answered by those considerations, we
would earnestly entreat him to pro-
pound it to us, that we may try its
strength. We are always glad to
hear a new objection against what
we hold to be true. For objections
either can or cannot be solved. If
they can, their solution will throw a
new light on the doctrine we defend;
and if they cannot, their insolubility
will show us some weak point, or at
least some impropriety of our lan-
guage, and will thus cause us to
correct our expressions or modify
our opinions. Whatever helps us to

regard things under some new pobt
of view is calculatetl to enlarge cm
conceptions, to make our language
clearer and more precise, aai to
strengthen our philosophical convic-
tions. Those alone need to bcjfei
of objections who draw ihdr mr
elusions from arbitrary hypolboe,
instead of established truths.

We conclude the present anid:
with a short answer to a queslics,
which has often been rabed bi
timorous people, concerning ubi
may be styled the cardinal point m
our doctrine on matter— riz^ t^V.
simplicity of material elements. Tc;
question is the following: If ^'-
admit that the elements of m^'J:?
are physically simple, is there not .
serious danger of setting at la^^-^
the essential difference between li:
spiritual and the material substmcr.
and are we not drifting thus ini
materialism ?

We reply that no such dao^t:
needs to be apprehended. For it a
not true that physical simplicity co>
stitutes the essential difference x
tween spirit and matter. Y^^^^^
primitive being is physically simp.c
and yet it does not follow that i:
primitive beings belong to the sanir
species. On the other hand, spir'
and matter, notwithstanding ^^
physical simplicity, evidently bdc£^
to different species. The demec: >
matter is inert — that is, though acta.
all around itself, it cannot cxctcl-*
its activity within itself; whereas ^a-
spiritual substance exercises its ad*
ity within as well as without ice
and continually modifies its owTi c
terior state by its \ntal operautv
Again, the element of matter is ti»
cated in space, and marks a Ix-
point, from which it directs its actijc
in a. sphere; whereas the spinru*
substance neither marks a loc
point in space nor acts in a spbcx
but determmes both the direct.^

Matter.

679

and the intensity of its action as it
pleases. Moreover, the element of
matter has nothing but locomotive
power; whereas the spiritual sub-
stance possesses not only the loco-
motive, but also, and principally, the
thinking and the willing powers, by
which it vastly transcends all mate-
rial being. 40rhis suffices to show
that spirit and matter, though pliy-
sically simple, have an entirely dif-
ferent metaphysical constitution— that
is, a different substantial act, a dif-
ferent substantial term, and a dif-
ferent substantial complement. Hence
the simplicity of the material element
does not set at naught the essential
difference between matter and spirit.
Those whose metaphysical notions
about material substance still hang
u[>on the physics of the ancients will
be loath to admit that our unextend-
ed element can be physically simple ;
for they have been taught to believe
that wherever there is matter and
fomi, there is fhysicat composition.
Hut such a notion is evidently wrong;
for where in the element are the
physical components, without which
physical composition is impossible ?
Can we say that the matter and the
substantial form are physical compo-
nents ? Certainly not ; for the form
without the matter cannot exist, nor
can the matter exist without the form.
Both are absolutely required for the
constitution of the //iwri^/i/^ physical
being. How, then, can they be
conceived as physical beings, if no
physical being can be conceived be-
fore their meeting in one essence and
in a common existence ? A physi-
< al compound is a compound whose
components have a distinct and in-
«lei)endent existence in nature; for

physical beings alone can be physical
components, and nothing which has
not a distinct and independent ex-
istence in nature can be called a
physical being, except by an abuse
of terms. The physical being is a
complete being — that is, an act mate-
rially completed by its intrinsic term,
and formally completed by its indi-
vidual actuality. AJl beings that are
incomplete, and whose existence de-
pends on other cognate beings, are
no more than metaphysical realities.
Hence the substantial form of the
element, which has no separate ex-
istence, is not a physical, but only a
metaphysical, being ; and in the same
manner, the matter to which that
form gives the first existence is not a
physical, but only a metaphjrsical,
reality. Whence it follows that the
composition of matter and substantial
form is not a physical, but only a me-
taphysical, composition ; and, further,
that the primitive element is indeed
a metaphysical, but not a physical,
compound.

On this subject we shall have more
to say when explaining the peripa-
tetic theory of substantial generations,
which assumes that the substantial
form can be changed without chang-
ing the matter. It is on this assump-
tion that the physical distinction
between matter and form has been
maintained. We shall prove in the
most irrefragable manner that the
assumption is based on an equivoca-
tion about the meaning of the epithet
** substantial '* as applied to natural
forms, and that no form which is
truly and strictly substantial — that is,
which gives the first being to its
matter — can leave its matter and be
subrogated by another substantial
form.

TO BB COtrmiVBD.

68o

Robespierre.

ROBESPIERRE.

CONCLUDSD.

We know how the son of S. Louis
passed his last hours on earth ;
let us see how the men who sentenc-
ed him — against their consciences —
prepared for that solemn passage.
One, named Valaz^, on hearing the
sentence, stabbed himself, and fell
dead in the court; he was dragged
back with the others to prison. The
remaining twenty-one passed their
death-vigil in riotous singing and
drinking and making merry ; in im-
provising a comedy where Robes-
pierre and the devil conversed in
hell ; the dead Valaz6 meanwhile
lying in his blood in the same room.
Vergniaud, who so hesitated to vote
"death" for the king, is now bent
on escaping the block by poi-
soning himself; but he has only
poison enough for one, so he throws
away the dose, too generous to de-
sert his companions in their last
journey. They will all go together ;
so, after a night of bacchanalian
shouting and carousing, they all set
forth in the fatal tumbrel; even
dead Valaz6 is flung in to have his
head cut off, that the guillotine may
not be done out of its prey. They
jolt on, singing the Marseillaise and
crying Vive la R6publique. One
by one the heads fall, the chorus
grows weaker, and at last ceases to
be heard. The Girondists are gone.
Robespierre is King of the Revolu-
tion now, and reigns supreme over
its destinies. Now let him prove
what truth there is in the plea put
forth by his apologists that he was
only cruel from necessity, from the
pressure put upon him by his fellow-

demagogues. His acciHton toundi!
vided responsibility was, on the con-
trary, the signal for greater slangb-
ter, and we see the number of tic-
tims swelling in proportion to tbc
growth of his individual power.
Look at the lists of the Memkxf,
In July, 1793, there were thirteen
persons condemned by the rcvola-
tionary tribunal of Paris, and in July
of the following year the Dumber
sent by it to the guillotine was dght{
hundred and thirty-five !

But this system of legal assassina4
tion was beginning to recoil on tbd
head of its inventor. The murder of
the Girondists was an impoUiic Kt
that Robespierre soon repented of
He had made a precedent in attack
ing the representatives of the nation,
hitherto inviolate ; and now that thel
longing for vengeance was satisied.
he wa3 clear-siglited enough to per-
ceive what the cost was likely to b&
He had sacrificed his rivals, but be
had imperilled his own head. From
this day forward he seemed haunted
by the shadow of coming retribth
tion. He had poured out the Wood
of those who stood beside bira, and
now he was sUpping in it ; his foot-
ing was no longer secure ; the words
" assassination " " victim of the poign-
ard of revenge," etc, etc, wetc
continually on his lips, and there
is evidence that his life was poiscHied
by the constant dread of being mur-
dered by some of the friends of his
victims. Those who had hitherto
aided and abetted his atrocities
now began to look with suspicion
and terror on him; even Dantoa

Robespierri^

68i

tried to back out of the partnership,
and to talk of " the joys of private
life " in a way that suggested he had
had enough of the glories of public life.
He had just married a young and
beautiful woman, whose influence
was said to have already exercised
a humaoizing effect on his ferocious
nature. Si^Mtad brought him inde-
pendence, too, so there was every
inducement to him to quit the sham-
bles, and leave Robespierre there
ik)ne in his glory. He withdrew
ircMn the Public Safety Committee,
and ceased almost altogether to at-
tend the meetings of the Conven-
IMML Robespierre understood this
significant change. He saw his ac-
complices were deserting him, and he
trembled. The Revolution, Saturn-
like, Has devouring her own chil-
dren; why should not the hunters
be devoured by their own dogs ?
Every one was falling away from
the t}Tant Camille Desmoulins and
Hubert, lately his devoted friends,
were gathering up a rival faction
dubbed Ultra-Revolutionists, and, aid-
ed by Hubert's abominable newspaper,
Phre Duchisne, they and their follow-
ers set to work to hnnt down the
popular idol. Robespierre was known
to harbor a sneaking prejudice in
favor of some sort of religion, and
once even openly declared his opinion
that some such institution was neces-
sary for governing with effect. The
Ultras used this admission as a
means of insulting him, and at the
same time weakening his prestige.
They got hold of an unfortunate,
half-witted man named Gobel, an
apostate priest, dressed him up as an
archbishop, and, surrounded by a
crowd of mock priests and prelates,
ihey led him, riding on an ass, to
the Convention; here he made a
burlesque and blasphemous abjura-
tion of his former state and belief,
and solemnly pronounced the Credo

of athdsm, and the worship of the
goddess Reason. The law-givers,
thereupon, amidst the frantic enthusi-
asm of the crowd, decreed that " God
and all superstition were abolished/'
and the worship of Reason substituted
in their place. A monstrous cere-
mony was at once organized to cele-
brate the new religion : an actress
was carried to the cathedral of No-
tre Dame, dressed — or undressed — as
the goddess of this adoption, enthron-
ed on the consecrated altar of the
living God, while the populace passed
before her in adoration. The walls
of the sacred temple re-echoed to
the hymn of liberty, the Marseillaise,
and were profaned with horrors that
no Christian pen may retrace. Simi-
lar scenes were enacted in the other
churches. Venerable old S. Eus-
tache was turned into a fair ; tables
were spread with sausages, pork-pud-
dings, herrings, and bottles ; children
were forced to sing songs and give
toasts, and to drink to the half-naked
goddess; and when the little ones
— the precious little ones of Jesus —
got drunk, there was huge merriment
amongst the spectators.

The shrine of S. Genevieve was
torn down and desecrated. The
tombs of the kings of France at S.
Denis were broken open, and the
ashes scattered abroad with every
species of insult. The Moniteur thus
describes the spectacle the streets of
Paris presented during the Festival
of Reason: "Most of the people
were drunk with the brandy they had
swallowed out of Chalices — eating
mackerel on the Patens I . . . They
stopped at the doors of dramshops,
held out Ciboriums, and the land-
lord, stoop in hand, had to fill them
thrice." Other things are recorded
of this demoniacal saturnalia which
had best be left unsaid — ^if happily
they be yet unknown to Catholic
hearts.

6te

Robtsfiirre.

The provinces follcnred suit
Lyons sacked her churches, and
drove a mitred ass through her
streets, trailing the sacred volumes
at his tail. The Loire was polluted
with drowned bodies of priests. At
Nantes ninety priests are embarked
at dead of night under hatches; in
the middle of the stream the boat is
scuttled, and goes down with her
human cargo. These are the noy-
odes. Then follow others of more
than a hundred at a time. Oh!
these priests, these men of the Gos-
pel of Christ, at any cost they must
be got rid of! The guillotine is too
slow ; >Jet us have fire and water to
the rescue ! So there are the fusil-
lades; men, women, priests, and
nuns fall under the showers of grape-
shot as fast as they can be gathered
and ranged in line — mothers with in-
fants at their breasts, children clinging
to one another — five hundred at a
batch they go. The mother Revo-
lution herself is turning sick of it.
Robespierre alone shows no signs of
squeamish ness; but, whether fix>m
sagacity or some latent moral — ^per-
haps even religious — instinct, he repu-
diated the sacrilegious excesses which
inaugurated and followed the instal-
lation of the new goddess. He saw,
too, that it was an arrow pointed at
himself. He denounced Hubert at
the Jacobin Club, ridiculed his new-
fangled divinity, and declared that if
" God did not exist, a wise law-giver
would have invented him." Hubert
winced ; Camille Desmoulins started
the Vieux Cordelier^ and began to
broach the doctrine of clemency and
the savage stupidity of useless blood-
shedding. Never since the Revolu-
tion began had such theories been
hinted at. The country was grow-
ing nauseated with wholesale butch-
eries ; the daring words of the Vieux
Cordelier were heard with wonder
and welcomed with deep though si-

lent applause. Robespieire mi^t
have t olcT rt ed Uie hMmaneAytrinrt
of the newspaper, if it had abstained
from personal aggression; bsl Des-
moulins used hiB weapon of sarcasm
unsparingly a^nst the tyrant, oe
one occasion twitting him, half hst-
tiously, with hisanstoaaticQTigin,as
proved by the discard|^jd^ fonsexiy
prefixed to his name^Kobe^pcnc
grew pale — ^paler than his usual so-
green hue — on reading this, and Des-
moulins' doom was sealed. H^
bert went first ; he, with nineteen of
the faction, perished in one bouroa
the scaffold, in March, 1794, Ten
days later Camille and Dancon fell
It is yet a mystery why Danton wss
thus quickly sacrificed ; he was Ap-
parently on good terras with Rcte-
pierre, and had pointed no witti-
cisms at him like the editor of ibc
Vieux Cordelier. The tyrant himseif
gives no explanation in his kmg-
winded speeches on the hard nece-
sity which compelled him ^ to sacn-
fice private fiiendsh^) to the good 01
the country," and so on. But what-
ever the mptive may have bcca, the
act drew upon its perpetrator tbe
aversion and contempt of those who
till then had been his stauochest ^
lowers and suppoztars. Every one
was terrified for his own head. Dan-
ton's fall seemed to bring the axe to
every man's door. Robe^uene ns
now alone, more terribly alone toi
the lost traveller in the desert He
fellows shurmed him, or shuddercii
when he passed. He lived in per
petual fear of being assassinaw?-
though it is doubtful whether as)
attempt was ever made on his liic.
Several were trumped up with -
view to uplifting his tottering popa
larity ; but though the accused p^
sons were guillotined with grea:
pomp and Ulai^ the proofe d tbcir
intended crime were extremely doul:
ful. A last expedient yet remained

Robespierrf.

683

Robespierre would re-establish the
L*xisC€J&ce of God, and thus be a pro-^
[)het I& well as a king. He decreed,
iccofdrogiy, a great meeting which
diould atone for Hubert's Feast of
Keas^ and annihilate its brief tri-
amphL' It was to take place in
the TuHeriea gardens. Robespierre,
M'hile xfdiSJt^ the axe so assiduously,
never bes^Kered himself with the
blood of his instrument. In a time
when sa/is-cuiottism made dirt and
Bohemian gear the fashion, he re-
nuiuted a dandy, powdered and friz-
ried in the midst of legislators who
firideil themselves on dirty hands
and begrimed linen. For this gala-
day of his new religion he ordered
a tine sky-blue silk coat, white-silk
waistcoat embroidered with silver,
white stockings, and gold shoe-
buckles. Thus equipped, the Pro-
phet of the Mountain sallied forth to
patronize the Omnipotent and decree
the existence of a Supreme Being.
He ascended the rostrum with a
bouquet of flowers in his hand, made
a fulsome discourse in a vein of sen-
timental deism, and then proceeded
to unveil the effigy of atheism, a
hideous caricature, made of paste-
board, besmeared with turpentine
and other inflammable stuffs, to which
he applied a lighted torch. The
flame leaped up, and Atheism, amidst
shouts and cracklings, burned itself
to dust ; then from the ashes rose up
another effigy, the statue of Wisdom,
supposed to symbolize the new reli-
gion, but sorrily smutted and be-
grimed by the subsiding smoke of
\theisni. No wonder Billaud should
exclaim, " Get thee gone ! Thou art
a bore, thyself and thy Etre Su-
fthnv /"

O merciful God ! may heaven and
earth praise thee, and all the crea-
tures therein, for thou art verily a
(iod of love, long sufifering and pa-
tient !

And now that Robespierre has
duly installed his Eire SuprSme, and
decreed, moreover, " that consoling
principle, the immortality of the
soul," and obHterated from the graves
of murdered citizens the hitherto ob-
ligatory inscription, " Death is an
eternal sleep," what is there left for
him to do ? Nothing, apparendy, but
to go on killing. The revolutionary
tribunal must be made to work with
greater speed, and so it is split into
four fractions, each with its president,
and empowered to try and condemo
as fast as it can. Even the Moun-
tain quaked when this proposidon
was uttered at its base ; but the law
was carried, and henceforth the
guillotine quadruples its business.
Fouquier-Tinville sets up one of
" improved velocity," and boasts of
bting able to make room for a batch
of one hundred and fifty at one lime.
He wants to establish one in the
Tuileries itself, but CoUot protests
that this would " demoralize the
instrument." It did not matter, ap-
parently, how much the instrument
demoralized the people. These sit
at their windows watching for the
tumbrels to pass, criticising the oc-
cupants, joking and enjoying them-
selves. Women fight for seats near
the scaffold, where day after day they
sit knitting, counting off the heads, as
they fall, by the prick of a pin in a
bit of card-board. These are the
*' furies of the guillotine."

But to make the new law, called
22m€ Frairial^ more fully available,
it was necessary to provide extra
work for the executioners. Fou-
quier-Tinville was equal to the oc-
casion. He got up an accusation
against the occupants of the prisons
for " conspiring against the Conven-
tion." Let us cast a glance into
these prisons, where, at this crisis,
twelve thousand human beings lie
literally tvitiug to death. The me-

684

Robespierre.

moirs of the time agree in describing
the twelve houses of arrest (the
original prisons had long since been
increased to that number) as dens
of noisome horror never equalled in
any other clime or period. Noble
dames, maidens of tender years, were
huddled pell-mell with the worst and
jmost wretched of their sex ; nobles
and shoe-blacks, priests and ruffians,
nuns and actresses, crowded by day
and night into the condemned cells,
where every night the tunikey came
and read his list for the morrow's
" batch." Then followed scenes such
as no pen or painter's brush could
adequately describe. " Men rush
towards the grate; listen if their
name be in it ; . . . one deep-drawn
breath when it is not. We live still
one day! And yet some score or
scores of names were in. Quick
these ; they clasp their loved ones to
their heart one last time. With brief
adieu, wet-eyed or dry-eyed, they
mount and are away. This night
to the Conciergerie ; through the
palace, misnamed of Justice, to the
guillotine to-morrow." These were
the persons whom Tinville's ready
wit accused of getting up a plot
to overthrow the Convention ! But
what did it signify whether the story
was an impossibility as well as a lie ?
The four tribunals must have work,
the guillotine must have food. In
three days — the 7th, 9th, and loth
of July — one hundred and seventy-
one prisoners were executed on the
charge of conspiring from the depth
of their squalid dungeons to over-
turn the state. So much did the
newly-discovered Eire Suprime do
towards softening the rule of Robes-
pierre.

But, oh ! are we not sick of the
ghastly tale ? It is now hurrying to
a close.

Barfere, one of the fiercest of the
revolutionary gang who had so far

escaped the guillotine, gavei bache-
lor's dinner at a suburban villi on a
warm day in July, Robespierre being
among the guests. The weather was
intensely hot, and the company, un-
shackled by stiff contentiooalities,
threw off their coats, and sauBtereu
out to sip their coffee ui\der the trto
in easy d^shabilU. Ca^t wanted b^
pocket-handkerchief^ aro went id
doors to fetch it. While looking for his
own coat he espied Robespierre's &&•
tastic sky-blue garment, and, prompt-
ed by a sudden thought, put bis hand
into the pockets, wondering if any
secret might be lurking there. Wliat
were his feelings on discovering 1
list of forty names told off for tv
guillotine, his own amongst the nam
ber ! He carried off the paper, showei;
it discreedy to his friends, and thc)
agreed that Robespierre must \x
made away with. Two dayslaternc
appears at the Convention, ami e
met by dark faces that scowl wbea
he ascends the tribune, and shov no
docile acquiescence when he speaitv
Terror for their own lives has at la^t
stirred these dull, brutalized accom
plices to raise their voice and protes:
against the tyrant. Heisirapexhc':
by common acclamation. He •;«
fends himself in a passionate baran|;u^.
accusing Mr. Pitt and King Geoac
of having bribed the Convention 1 1
arrest him, after sowing calumnies
against him in the minds of the [«i-
pie. The charges against him «xre
numerous and heavy; he answered
them all with vehemence and a cer-
tain wild, disjointed eloquence, and
wound up by the following dcDunda*
tion : " No, death is not an eiend
sleep f The nation will not submit t >
a desperate and desolating doctrxf
that covers nature itself with a fiinerea
shroud ; that deprives virtue of hope,
and misfortune of consolation, and
insults even death itself. No; »e
will efface from our tombs your saci

Robespierre.

685

legions epitaph, and replacse it with the
consoHng truth, * Death is the begin- .
ing of immortality T " The speech
produced an effect on the AssemWy,
but it did not secure a real success.
The next i!ay Saint-Just mounted
the tribune to defend Robespierre;
but he had ^dl y begun his discourse
when cries aH)o wn with the tyrant T'
forced him ^^ve it up. Robespierre
stood at his place, utterly abandoned
by the members of the Assembly,
where twenty-four hours ago he ruled
wkh despotic and unrivalled sway.
Not a voice was raised in his behalf.
He strove to obtain a hearing, but his
words were drowned in shouts of
" Away with him ! down with him I"
He stood dumb and petrified at the
sound of those words, bowed his head,
and slowly descended the steps of the
tribune ; suddenly he looked up and
cried, *• Let me die, then, at once !"
The younger Robespierre advances
and takes his brother's arm, asking
to sliare the same fate with him.
This generous movement excites the
Convention to still greater rage; it
yells and bellows, gesticulating like
so many madmen. The president
j)uis on his hat, and calls for order ;
a temporary lull ensues. Robespierre
again tries to make himself heard,
but his voice is again drowned in
shouts and hisses ; he rushes up and
down the steps and about the hall,
clenching his fist and breathing mena-
ces that now fall powerless and are
met with taunts of triumphant hate.
At last, over-mastered by his own
emotions, he drops into a chair. The
arrest of the two brothers is voted
unanimously. The elder one en-
« leavers to resist, but is seized and
< arried forcibly down to the bar. In
the midst of this stormy ebullition,
one of the deputies, seeing Robes-
pierre unable to speak from the vio;
lence of his rage and terror, cried out :
•It is Dan ton's blood that is choking

him I" Stung by the taunt, Robes-
pierre found breath and courage to
retort, "Danton! Is it Danton that
you regret? Cowards! why did
you not defend him 1" These spirit-
ed words were the last he ever utter-
ed in public. He and his brother
were now removed in custody to a
hall close by the Convention, and with
them Saint^Just, Couthon, and Le-
bas. It had been an arduous day's
work for the Convention, and it is not
surprising that the deputies ** clam-
ored for an adjournment, that they
might repose themselves and dine " ;
for whether men live or die, legislators
must dine. They were thoughtful
enough to remember that the ^\^ in
custody would also like to dine, even
for the last time; so the guilty
deputies had a good dinner provid-
ed for them, and immediately after
were transferred to separate prisons :
Robespierre to the Luxembourg, his
brother to St. Lazare, Couthon to
Port Royal (dubbed Port Libre since it
had been turned into a prison !), Lebas
to Le Force, and Saint- Just aux Ecos-
sais. Henriot, who commanded the
troops devoted to Robespierre, was
seized in the act of attempting an at-
tack on the Convention, bound, and
locked up in one of the courts. Two
bold friends of his rallied the soldiers,
stormed the Convention, released
him, and placed him again at the
head of his men. Meantime, the
jailer of the Luxembourg had refused
to admit Robespierre, and the bailiffs
had to take him to the Mairie, where
he was received with acclamations
of respect as the " father of the peo-
ple.*' Henriot and his band by
midnight had set him and the other
four deputies free, and they were in-
stalled at the Hotel de Ville, with a
large body of soldiers drawn round
the edifice to protect them. But the
Convention, on its side, had not been
idle. Barras was placed in command

Robespitm.

at oil iat ttoopB that could be mus-
t 3x covpuij with twelve
k'ai^prv at the head of the
ao&i tae aitiHery, march-
1SL aa tne ^ixsx de YiDe, dispersed
7-fmnuc s xcccac aad penetrated into
-ce juiii.TTiii. vizeve thej found the
TTc itr:uaes and captured theoi.
Tie r.juiuar B.::bcspiezTe flung him-
>ctt iur JL X wuuiow ia a firantk ef-
cir ru THTine die More tragic death
:n:tf vos 3UW a. cataintj ; he was

OBC*! 13 Jcrr-itT maulatedy but
t:;^ .ire incu.;'! yet to reahze the
r.r?t.7s jt jis posron. Lebas, on
;-ac*ci -xan ^riJMrwry bartering on the
*.vT ji *:«i :r>:ai^ biew his brains out
«:.'i i 7sr-*u Siist-Jttst was seized
w:^i ^ ca.re js ois hand, which he
vss^ ^- •■ 'c :•-■ zixi^ inio his heart;
^ ^-. - r X' wx^oQt a word, and
i^. •■=•: i-jiscT r-^ L< jound. Cou-
:-.•;;. * ' ■ *;ii ie^ % I.' nd and half-

„ . t tLV. . c*r^ rcwericss to offer
:.v >. -. ^^^ -x:^.i>:^:of. was flung

•.V 1 • *'^-:.'^%t:''0* l:j: chanced to
1^ *j '^v ^- -."--* or* L Robespierre

••:jc , "-tf -X "tr oi \\\s group of
>^ V ?.^ " ^- -ii-^itnifx attempted
•, -■^»>* v ^^. -.*:.!«; .u> Lebas had
.C' <, . .i. . . o ; > Ovj'varulr hand
•\.»i ^v.** .. \. N.\r:i^-^'^i Iit> will or
*. a. X. v>. .> u; •uuvT^i t'.ie trigger,
, ^. ^w .< >*;:uc virou^a the
,v».». -vi KV4 H :vvu'4^ii the fbre-
•v^' * * *"v -'•* *-t^^ tt:^:::uIS nractur-
v*^ t-*- V »^ vx**e rr,^ai rie £ftce,
V j'v f^c desh* Some
V. jnr i^i'iia^tDT to help

V ■. . •' . *c i.aa ?> re It up with
. . V »* .'^ tiK: a r^^ttusenble

,, V ■-•. 1 :y ^"-.nrr-oaaons were
* .^*s.** . .vvjc "^ooVivx^k in the
.... ^ •* *c V Mn:w.::e^ of Public
.,,v. V. ,'.!x u. re»vict of the

. ,..,v < vt.v**.*4: graphic de-

..••** ^.ic : ^en occurred :

V .Ss^'N^'C >%.fcj^ livught in on a
^ >% >v^vtji artiilery-men

^ ...*vv. .v.v-r^ He was placed

on the taUe of the t|i&e.^iuuiiba
which adjoins that where the Com-
mittee holds its sittings. K deal
box, which contained some sampks
of the a9munition4}read sent to the
army du Nord^ was pat under bis
head by way of piUow. He was for
nearly an hour in a state of insessi*
bility which made us ^||^ that be
was no more; but afterai hour he
opened his eyes. Blood was miming
in abundance from the wound be
had in the left lower jaw; the jav
was broken, and a ball bad gone
through the cheek. His shirt was
bloody. He was without hat or
neckdoth. He had on a sky^^hie
coat,* nankeen breeches, white
stockings hanging down at his heek
... At six in the morning a sur-
geon who happened to be in tbe
court-yard of the Tuileries was
called in to dress the woimd. By
way of precaution he first pot a
key in Robespierre's mouth. He
found the left jaw broken. He pil-
ed out two or three teetli, bandaged
up the wound, and got a basin of
water, which he placed at bis side. '
All this time no word was spoken
by the wounded man ; not even a sigh
escaped him when the teeth were
being extracted, yet the agony he
endured must have been terrific.
There he lay, a spectacle to gods and
men, in his sky-blhe coat, a tiger
caught in his own lair, barked at aal
cursed and triumphed over by a bami
of wolves. Who could pity him— «
who had never known pity for roau
or woman ? For more than iweoty
hours he lay there in this mental aad
bodily torture. Once he made a sigr
which was understood to cxpre^
thirst. The burning fever of his wouoi
had parched him till he gasped y^
breath : but no one was so merot^-S

• By a strmnge irony of fiue the same p«o^«
coat he had worn on the feast of th^ Etre 5*y«^
•xactly six weeks before I

Robispurre.

6%7

IS to get him a glass of water. Vine-
gar and gall they gave him in abund-
mce. Many cursed him as the mur-
derer of their kith and kin^ and bade
lim drink his own blood, \i he was
hirsty.

All this while the tocsin is ringing
mt the glad news to Paris. Crowds
0^ out on|^ house-tops, and wave
(igods to the prisoners in the Con-
iergerie that the hour of deliverance
s at hand. The prisoners cannot un-
terstand; ttiey think the tocsin is
be signal for a new September mas-
acre. The word flies from cell to
reUy and all fall on their knees aind
>repare for instant death.

Others, too, are making ready for
leath, but not thus. The tumbrels
jolt up to the Convention, and col-
ect for the last time their *' batch " ;
his time there are but twenty-three
victims. Amongst them, by an ex-
quisite touch of retributive justice, is
Mmon the Cordwainer, going to die
vith Robespierre! And n6w they
ire ready, and the tumbrels move
yci. The corpse of Lebas is flung in
with Robespierre, as that of Valaz^
flras with Brissot; the other three
«^cre so disfigured with blood and
he traces of the death-scuffle in the
own-hall that they are hardly to be
recognized. The entire city is out,
houting itself hoarse with joy. The
roofe of the houses are alive widi
iiuraan eyes, all watching for the
figure of Robespierre. When it ap-
[>ears, the soldiers point to it with
tlieir swords — show the tyrant, bound
and gagged, to the people. The
'^ight causes a frantic thrill of exulta-
tion that finds utterance in a yell of
something too unholy for joy, too
tierce for laughter. A woman breaks
through the crowd, dashes aside the
bayonets of the escort, and leaps to
the side of the tumbrel. " Ah ! thou
demon," she cries, waving her hand
above her head, " the death of thee

is better than wine t9 my heart
Wretch, get thee down to hell with
the curses of all wives and mothers !"

Surely this is hell already begun.
The wretched man opens his eyes,
glued together with blood ; a shade
of deadlier hue passes over his livid,
sea-green face; he shudders, but ut-
ters no sound. The tumbrel reaches
the Place de la Revolution. The
furies of the guillotine rush round it,
and execute a dance of fiendish joy,
the crowd making room for them
and applauding. Now the cart
stops, and the -condemned alight.
In the first are the two Robespierres,
Couthon, Henriot, and Lebas. Maxi-
milien Robespierre is the only one
Who has strength left him to ascend
the scaffold without help. He stood
on the fatal step whither a few days
ago his nod sufficed to send the no-
blest heads in France ; within a few
yards of the spot whdre only six
weeks ago he had decreed the exis-
tence of the Omnipotent, at whose
judgment-bar he was now going to
appear. Seldom indeed does that
silent, inscrutable Judge allow us to
behold the judgments of his justice
accomplished here below, and amidst
circumstances so palpably impres-
sive, and to our human eyes so fear-
fully appropriate, as was this death -
scene of Robespierre's. He showeil
no sign of terror or remorse, but,
dumb and self contained to the last,
yielded himself to Samson's hands.
Only when the bandage was wrench-
ed brutally from the broken jaw, let-
ting it drop from the face, he uttered
a piercing cry that rang above the
yells of the multitude. It was tiie
last sound his voice emitted in this
world. Samson did his work, and
Robespierre was no more.

One long, loud shout of gladness
went up to heaven, and carried the
tidings to the ends of France on wings
quicker than words. It penetrated

688

Robespierre.

the iron doors of the prisons, like the
sweet beams of the golden dawn, and
bade men hope and rejoice, for the
Reign of Terror was at an end and
ihe gates of their dungeons unlocked.

The guillotine has been so promi-
nent a figure in the foregoing sketch,
as indeed throughout the whole span
of the Reign of Terror, that a word
on its origin may not be uninterest-
ing. It is popularly supposed to
have been invented by Dr. Guillotin,
but this is a mistake. The first idea
of it emanated from him, and he had
the unenviable .glory of giving it his
name ; but these are his only claims
to its invention. The guillotine
would seem to be almost a creature
born spontaneously of tlie Revolution,
a cruel offspring of the self-devouring
monster. It is strange that, until the
" Sainte GuUlotiru " was enthroned as
the agent of that murder-mad reign,
no mention is ever made in the re-
ports of the time of the exact kind
of machine used in capital punish-
ment. We read of persons being "con-
demned " and " executed," but there
is no more definite account of the
manner of execution. The lanieme
was the mode of capital punishment
up to tlie Reign of Terror, and the
n.ob could always do summary jus-
lice on its victims by making a gal-
lows of the nearest lamp-post; but
wlien speed became the primary object,
this was found too tedious, besides be-
ing troublesome. Towards the close
of the year 1789 Dr. Guillotin was
elected to the States- General. He
was such a mediocre, insignificant
person in every way that his appear-
ance in tiie Assembly caused general
surj)rise and laughter. In the Por-
traits of Celebrated Persons^ a contem-
poraneous work, we find him thus
treated : " By what accident has a man
without either ability or reputation
obtained for himself a frightful immor-

tality ? He ftUhered a work wiittQ:
by a lawyer — Hardouin — who ha'.
too much character to prodKC it b
his own name ; and his work luvin:
been ensured by the p^jjtuu^
Guiliolin, who assumed the t^s^^is^
biliiy of it. became the man « m
day, and owed to tt that glaoEiU'
reputation which eiisiM|| his ckcae
to the Siates*GeneraL He n^ «
truth, a noimiy who made tuiwSf i
busy-bmiy^ and by meddling wiihcftP
thing was at once mischievous mdxik
culous.'' This meddUog penoBfr
niade himself extremely rtdindo^^
the one occasion to which may Ex tn^
cd his iH-starred celebrity. He|«iy«^
ed in the Assembly thai some nudic
more humane and expediiiom tnii
tlie process of hanging, ^kmiH br
invented for capital punishnMUC^id-
afuT describing the idea tkil vi
in i lis mind, he proceeded id iUiORs:
it by a pantomime with his tofir-
straightening out the left ind^ 1^
bringing down that of the right ll»-'
over ilie thumb with a $iiap. ** TbsEt
now, I |:ut your head here; till
falls, and it is cut off; you fod n^
tiling ; it IS ihe affair of a mofflon*'
Roars of laughter followed ihktac^^
aud cheerful explanation^ ao^ i'
tiext day the ballad-mongers di^r^i
IViris with a song, the bojid<?.
ivhich was "a. machine that irJJ *
v\% right uflT, and be cluisteosi ^'
i^utihilfte r The doctor soid »
niijic about his idea, but, joook^'
pruiicnted as it was, it ncvcrUidec
11 jade an iin[*ression on the A^enl^
who adopted v three yejLrs i«r
Mean lime J they were beset by t^
pLiiiils from the Tiers &^^
toulil not reconcile it to tneir
that I he bi^ur^emte should be haafrf
wihle the natkue were bcacnifll
Let it be hanging all ruun^t thef fi^
and tbey woultl be saiiatieii ; bilC «!•
should nobles have li^eir lieatl c<
ufi^ wjiilc x^let^ciaiKs *">*uiig it ^

Ro&espurre.

68s

lantern ?" The grievance met with
cold sympathy, however, until the
times were ripe for reform, and it
became urgent to find some more
expeditious means of despatching
both nobles and plebeians into the
other world. Dr. Guillotines pro-
posal was reconsidered ; an officer
of the Cri^pinal Court, named La-
qutante, designed an instrument,
which was approved of by the au-
thorities and confided for execution
U> a piano-maker — a narive of Stras-
bourg, we believe — named Schmidt.
There was a good deal of haggling
over the cost. Schmidt, in the first
instance, wanted nine hundred and
sixty francs, which was found exor-
bitant and refused. In consideration,
however, of his having suggested
some improvements in the original
design, they consented to let him
uke out a patent, and to give him an
order for eighty-three machines, one
for every department in France, at
five hundred francs each, and to be
made as quickly as possible. They
were three months quarrelling over
the bargain, and all this time an un-
fortunate criminal, of the name of
Felleiier, was lying in prison, waiting
to be executed; when at last the
price was settled and the first ma-
chine ready, he had the miserable
distinction of inaugurating it on the
35th of April, 1792. The prejudice
had been very strong against the
i»ew mode of decapitation, ih'e clergy
cs|>ecialiy arguing that " the sight of
blood would prove highly demoral-

izing to the people." Samson, the
executioner, was one of the staunch -
est opposers of the innovation on
the same grounds, and also because
of the shock the spectacle would
give to many spectators. His letter
to the Assembly embodying his opin-
ions and experience on the subject
is a curious bit of literature, highly
creditable to the hangman, as indeed
aU that has come down to us con-
cerning him seems to be. The hu-
mane desire to abridge the sufferings
of the criminal overcame, however,
every objection, and hanging was
formally abolished and replaced by
decapitation. The new instrument —
most unjustly, as we see — was called
the guillotine, in spite of a semi-official
mention of it as Louisotty and some
efibrts to make that name adhere.
The worthy doctor was doomed to
notoriety on account of his having
first mooted the aflfau: and made
Paris laugh over it Nothing se-
cures immortality with the Parisians
like a joke.

Apropos of the guillotine, we may
mention that the Samsons were a
respectable family of Abbeville, and
held the office of ** Executioner of
the High Acts of Justice," by de-
scent, from the year 1722. Charles
Henri Samson, who beheaded Louis
XVT., came into office in 1778, and
retired on a pension in 1795. He
was succeeded by his son in his
formidable functions, the latter hav-
ing resigned the grade of captain in
the artillery to undertake them.

VOL. XX. — 44

690

Robert Cavdier de La Salle.

ROBERT CAVELIER DE LA SALLE.

The pious hyrans of the good and
noble Marquette and his companions
liad not ceased to reverberate over
the waters of the Great River, awaken-
ing the echoes of its banks and over-
hanging forests, when a bold and de-
voted spirit, fired by the fame of
previous explorations, was meditating
on the shores of Lake Ontario the
prosecution of the grand work begun
by the illustrious missionar}'. The
Avorld was startled with the news
that the waters over whose bosom
the missionaries and traders of Can-
ada drove their canoes at the north,
after meandering through the vast
plains and forests of the continent,
poured themselves into the Gulf of
Mexico. This great physical problem
was settled by Father Marquette and
the Sieur Joliet, who, after having
explored the course of the Mississippi
for eleven hundred miles, returned
to electrify the world by the reports
of their brilliant success. But as yet
comparatively little was known of
this gigantic stream. The imagina-
tion of the most sanguine and the
hearts of the boldest were appalled
at the task ; but it was a destined
step in the onward march of religion
and civilization. A Catholic mission-
ary had gloriously led the way; a
Catholic nobleman no less glorious-
ly advanced to complete the work.
Til is was Robert Cavelier de La
S;ille.

He was bom at Rouen, in Nor-
mandy, of a good family, but the
date of his birth has not been trans-
mitted to us. He spent ten or twelve
years of his early life in one of the
Jesuit seminaries of France, where

he received a good education, aod
he was well acquainted jrith mathe-
matics and the natural scieoces.
His renunciation of bis patrimcDr
and his long sojourn amoog the
Fathers of the Society of Jesus yst
tify the belief that he was intended
for the priesthood Providence, how-
ever, destined him for a somewhat
different sphere of labor and useful-
ness, but one in close co-operation
with the great work of the chwc'i
among mankind. He carried with
him from the seminary of the Jcsoits
the highest testimonials of his supc^
riors for purity of character, unblem-
ished life, and exhaustlcss energy.
By his own high qualities and noble
achievements he has won a diploma
for himself, inscribed on the brightest
pages of our history, and more hon-
orable than man can confer.

Emerging from the scminaiy fc^
of youth, intelligence, and daring
spirit, he joined one of the numcroas
bands of emigrants from France wb«T
came to seek adventures and fortttnes
in the New Worid. He came 10
Canada about the year 1667, and
embarked with great energy in th;
fur trade, then the prevailing rottis
of obtaining an exchange of Euro
pean wealth and merchandise. H«
enterprising spirit soon carried biw
to the frontiers, and in his frail ^'
noe he traversed the vast rivers am
broad lakes of the continent, miogiin.
with the aborigines, and acquiring '^
formation and experience of the:^
modes of life, character, and 1:^*
guages. He explored Lake Ontario,
and ascended Lake Erie. The af
tivity of his mind and the restlessness

Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

691

of his genius could not be satisfied
even with the vast and adventurous
field of trade presented to him ; for
he shared largely in the prevailing
ambition of discovering a northwest
passage across the continent to China
and Japan, an evidence of which he
left behind him in the name of La-
chine, which he bestowed upon one
of his trading posts on the island of
Montreal He saw in that extended
chain of lakes the link that united
America with Asia, and indulged in
the fond and proud dream that, as
&e discoverer of the long-sought
passage, his name would be inscribed
beside that of Columbus on the scroll
of immortality.

Seeing the advantages of the posi-
tion selected by the Comte de Fron-
tenac, the Governor of Canada, in
fortifying the outlet of Lake Ontario,
La Salle erected one of his trading
posts under the protection of Fort
Fontenac. He acquired the favor
and friendship of the governor, and
soon rejoiced in the esteem and con-
fidence of the public. Up to this
time his efiforts were apparently
chiefly expended in bold and ener-
getic eflforts to build up his fortunes.
But his resources were inferior to the
grand enterprises which he contem-
plated. He accordingly repaired to
France in 1675, where, aided by the
influence of Frontenac and the re-
commendations of the minister Col-
bert, he obtained from his sovereign,
lx»uis XIV., letters-patent, granting
him Fort Frontenac and the seigniory
of a large tract of land about the
same, upon condition that he would
rebuild the fort of stone, garrison it
at his own expense, and clear up
certain lands. Ihis grant secured
to him a large domain and the ex-
clusive traffic with the Five Nations.
The king also raised him and his
family to the rank of nobility as a
reward for his services and noble

actions. His patent of nobility bears
date the 13th of May, 1675.

Returning to America, the Cava-
lier de La Salle took possession of
his seigniory, and soon proved how
well he merited the confidence and
favors he enjoyed. He fulfilled all
his stipulations with the king. In
two years Fort Frontenac reared its
massive walls and bastions of stone
which cast their shadows on the
waters of Ontario. A number of
French families clustered around the
fort; the Recollect missionaries in-
duced their Indian neophytes and
catechumens to pitch their tents and
ofifer up their newly-learned devo-
tions under its shadow; the rugged
wilds were supplanted by cultivated
fields, gardens, and pastures, and the
new lord of Cataraqui was at once
the pioneer of civilization and the
friend of religion. Such was the
origin of the present city of Kings-
ton.

At the same time La Salle prosecut-
ed his commercial enterprises with
renewed vigor, and these, in return,
seemed at first to promise to repay
his perseverance and energy. Now
for the first time the rapids of the
St. Lawrence were stemmed, and
the waters of Ontario ploughed by
the keels of three small barks with
decks erected on them. Had all de-
pended on energy and zeal, success
and prosperity would have followed,
and the young nobleman would have
achieved a fortune, fame, and power
that would not have been long in
winning for him a position among
the proudest and most powerful no-
bility of France. But his fame was
destined rather to be associated with
the foundation of a great republic
than with the more limited work of
founding a noble family, to whom
to transmit a princely fortune, and
with building up the power of a
brilliant despotism. His enterprises

692

Robert Cave Iter de La Salle.

failed, wealth eluded his grasp, and
he found himself oppressed with vast
debts, incurred in the great undertak-
ings in which he had embarked.
Turning from this field of disaster,
his vigorous mind again became fill-
ed with visions of the northwest
passage and with his darling projects
of discovery. He studied the ac-
counts of the Spanish and other ad-
venturers and discoverers on the
continent. Joliet, in 1674, passing
down from the upper lakes, had visit-
ed Fort Frontenac, of which La Salle
was then commander under Gov.
Frontenac, and thus La Salle was
one of the first to learn of the bril-
liant achievements and discoveries of
the illustrious Marquette and Joliet,
and was probably one of the first to
see the maps and journal which the
latter lost between the fort and the
next French post These did not
seem, at the time, to have deeply im-
pressed the mind of La Salle, who
was then engaged in other plans ; for
it was after this that he embarked in
the project of founding the seigniory
of Cataraqui on the shores of Ontario,
and in the vast trading operations
above referred to. On the failure of
these he began to plan new adven-
tures and discoveries. His study of
the reports of Spanish and French
explorers led him before all others to
identify the great river of Marquette
and Joliet with that of De Soto.
Blending the taste for commerce with
the thirst for fame, he saw in the
vast herds of bison, described as
roaming over the prairies that extend-
eil from the banks of the Missouri
and Illinois rivers, the means of
shipping cargoes of buffalo-skins and
wool to France from the banks of
those rivers zu the Mississippi and
the Guif of Mexico. Nor did he yet
relinquish his trading projects at the
north ; for these he expected to con-
nect with his contemplated trading

posts on the Missssippi, Foit Fron-
tenac still remaining bis principal
post. Nor dkl he yet abandon the
hope of discovering fi^om the kcad<
waters of the M^ssippi a passage to
the China Sea,

Filled with these grand and nobk
views, he returned to Fiance in 1677,
and still enjoying the recommeiMia-
tion of Frontenac and the favor ot
the great Colbert and of his son awl
successor in the ministry, the Mar-
quis de Seignelay, he succeeded to
obtaining from the king, on the nth
of May, 1678, new letters-patent, con-
firming his rights to the fort and the
seigniory of Cataraqui, and authoriz-
ing him to advance as far westward
as he desired, to build forts wherever
he might choose, and prosecute hb
commercial enterprises as hikK,
with the single exception that be
should not trade with the Hurons
and other Indians who brought tbe^
furs to Montreal, in order that there
might be no interference with other
traders. At the recommendation of
his friend, the Prince de Cooti, La
Salle took into his service as hs
lieutenant the veteran Chevalier d?
l^onty, an Italian by birth, who prov-
ed a great acquisition to the wort
and was the ever- faithful friend an^i
companion of the great captain.

In two mouths La Salle completed
his work in France, and in the automn
of 1678, sailed from Rochelle, ac-
companied by Tonty, the Sieur de b
Motte, a pilot, mariners, ship-carpen-
ters, and other workmen. He «5
well provided with anchors, saili
cordage, and everything necessarr
for rigging vessels, with stores of
merchandise for trading with the
Indians, and whatever might \<
useful for his projected expcttoioc
Arriving at Quebec in Septenobcr.bs
immediately pushed forward to Fort
Frontenac—but not without hitinj:
to sonnount great difficulties afid la-

Robirt CavelUr de La Satte.

693

boi5 b getting his heavy canoes and
freight over the perilous rapids of the
Se. Lawrence — ^where he arrived ex-
hausted and emaciated by his fatigues,
but full of courage and hope.

As the winter approached La Salle
pressed forward the preparations for
his grand enterprise, which he re-
solved to enter upon in the spring.
On the i8th of November, 1678, he
despatched the hardy and faithful
Tonty, accompanied by Father Louis
Hennepin, to the Niagara River in
one of his brigantines of ten tons,
with workmen, provisions, imple-
ments, and materials, to undertake
the construction and equipment of a
vessel to bear his party over the
upper lakes — a work which was to
be accomplished with a handful of
men, in the midst of winter, at a
distance of hundreds of miles from
any civilized settlement, and sur-
rounded by savage tribes, whose
enmity had been enkindled by the
malice of La Salle's enemies, who,
actuated by the rivah^ of trade, liad
induced the Indians to believe that
he intended to monopolize their
trade upon terms dictated by him-
self at the cannon's mouth. Tonty
set to work with a cheerful heart.
He encountered perils and hardships,
winch overcame the endurance of La
Moite, who abandoned the enterprise,
and retired to Quebec to seek ease
and rest from such labors. Tonty
persevered until the 20th of January,
when La Salle by his presence inspir-
ed him and his companions with new
ardor and courage. About this time
the brigantine was cast away on the
southern shore of Lake Ontario, in
consequence of dissensions among
the pilots ; and several bark canoes,
with their valuable freight of goods
and provisions, were wrecked and
lost His difficukies with the Senecas
also compelled La Salle to rehnquish
the fort which he had begun to build

at the falls of Niagara as a protec-
tion to his ship-builders, and to con-
tent himself with a mere shed or store-
house. A spirit less brave and firm
than La Salle's would have quailed
under the misfortunes which, through
the inclemency of the season and
the malice of men, surrounded his
steps. But these only nerved him to
greater exertion. In six days after
his arrival the keel of his vessel was
laid, the cavalier driving the first
bolt with his own hand. " When he
saw the snow began to melt," he
sent out fifteen men in advance of
his exploring expedition, with instruc-
tions to pass over the lakes to Mack-
inac, provide provisions for the ex-
pedition, and await the arrival of
the main party.

Leaving Tonty now to conduct
the building of the vessel, La Salle
made a journey of over three hundred
miles of frozen country to Fort Fron-
tenac, to arrange his financial busi-
ness before setting out in the spring.
His only food was a bag of corn ;
his baggage was drawn over the
snow and ice by two men and a dog.
At the fort lie had to exert all his
ability and energy to counteract the
malicious efforts and practices of his
enemies for his ruin. His creditors
at Quebec became alarmed by the
reports and calumnies of his foes.
His effects at that town were seized
and sacrificed, while the property
which he was compelled to leave at
Fort Frontenac was in value double
all his debts. But the delay of his
expedition would be to him a greater
evil than the loss of property, so that
he could not stop to remedy or resist
these proceedings. In the midst of
such harassing cares he bore in
mind the necessity of providing for
the religious wants of his companions
and of the benighted heathen nations
which he intended to visit. He
sectured the services of three Recol-

694

Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

lect missionaries, Fathers Gabriel de
la Ribourde, Louis Hennepin, and
Zenobe Membre. He had already,
while connmanding at Fort Frontenac,
built for these good missionaries a
house and chapel ; he now bestowed
upon their order eighteen acres of
land near the fort, and one hundred
acres of forest -land.

Tonty having faithfully complet-
ed his task, the ship was launched,
receiving the name of Griffin^ as a
compliment to the Comte de Fron-
tenac, whose armorial bearings were
adorned with two griffins. Tonty
was next sent in search of the fifteen
men who had previously set out.
The Griffin, with La Salle, the
missionaries, and the remainder of
the party on board, sailed on the
7th of August, 1679, on the bosom
of Lake Erie. The artillery saluted
the vessel, as she dashed through the
waves, and the missionary and crew
chanted a grateful Te Deum in ho-
nor of Him who had speeded their
work. The Senecas gazed with
wonder at a bark of sixty tons rid-
ing the lake with greater ease and
grace than their own canoes. Reach-
ing in safety the straits connecting
Lakes Erie and Huron, he consid-
ered the expediency of planting a
colony on the majestic Detroit, as he
glided between its islands; and on
the 1 2th, S. Clare's Day, as he tra-
versed its shallow waters, he bestow-
ed upon the little river the name of
that saint. While the ship was pass-
ing over Lake Huron, she was over-
taken by a terrible storm, which
caused even the bold captain to fear
for the safety of all on board. Unit-
ing with the missionaries in petitions
for the intercession of S. Anthony of
Padua, he made a promise to dedi-
«-'\te the first chapel built in the
countries he was going to discover
in honor of that patron saint, in case
he should escape. The province

from which the luissionan^ <jf tk
expedition had come was thai of &
Anthony of Padua, m Anob; Nno;
the selection of this saiat as ibdr
protector on this occasion, as wdl n
for tlie reason that he is frcqucMlif
invoked as t'le patron of in^inrri
The storm abated, and o« llic r
of August, the GriJUn^ aidcti
friendly winds, entered a safe h^*
in the island of Mackinac

Here again the *' great wooda
canoe " was an object <^f adniir.«:
and dread to the natives, b eight - '
by the roar of the cannon on U-
La Salle, cbd in a cloak of m^.^
and gold, visited the nearest v21i|8,
and the pious priests offered tip 1
Holy Sacrifice for the beneft'
those benighted savages, '[
posite bank liad been tjie s . • ..
the missionary labors of the ittMStn-
oils Marquette. The captain -^kati
this spot, endeavoring there «id n
the neighboring country 10 propiL
the friendship of the natives x^
advanced. His cneuotes bad bac
too been at work, i>obonir)g the
iiijnds of the Indians against htm %iM
and near^ i\\\\\ tatniiering nitli i*^-
advanced corps of fit teen meo w!
he had sent out, and who,, it
such influences, became filthier-
their leader ; some of tbcm de^sn
and Dtliers squandered the fic
sions which he had entrus|«»i
them. Again setdng sail, the Gri^
bore them to Green Bay, whesn Li
S:dlc hati tiie satis^faction of mcciii^
some of his advanced party wh4>lMd
coniinueii hiiihful to biin and ility
duty, and \\\\o now' retunieHi vkki
goodly quantity of fur^j the resdt 4I
jjucceasful traffic with the In^A^MA.
After two weeks be loaded the fiW-
Jin witli the rich furs brought in by
his nion, and sent her widj the|tGyl
and five mariners back to the Niifi-
r.i, amifUt the murmurs of his mr^
who tireaded the rork of procet -

Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

f95

ing in light canoes. It has been re-
marked* that had he adopted the
Ohio as his condait to the Missis-
sippi, one vessel would have answer-
ed his purpose, and much suffering
and delay been saved, for this river
had been known to the missionaries ;
by his present plan, he had to build
two vessels, one above the falls of
Niagara, and one on the Illinois
River. He now set out to descend
1-ake Michigan in four bark canoes,
September the 19th, the party con-
sisting of La Salle, the fathers,
and seventeen men; and they con-
tinued their perilous voyage along
the west side of the lake. They
were overtaken before nightfall by a
\'iolent storm, and for several days
tliey struggled through wind, rain,
sleet, and waves, until they landed
with great danger near the river
Milwaukee. Seeing their perilous
situation. La Salle leaped into the
ivater, and with his own hai\ds help-
L*d to drag his canoe ashore. Those
n the other boats followed his ex-
ample, and soon the landing was ef-
ected and the canoes secured.

La Salle was accompanied in his
:xpedition by a faithful Indian, who
>rovc4 a useful member of the parly :
01 his unerring gun frequently re-
ieved the hunger of the travellers
nth game from the surrounding
3rests. They also procured corn
rora the natives, always paying its
ill value ; and even when they had
3 take it from villages temporarily
bandoned, where there was no one
J receive payment, its value in
oods was left in its place. At this
leak landing near the Milwaukee
le Indians, moved with sympathy
»r their exhausted and weather- beat-
1 condition, brought deer and com
T their relief, smoked with them the
ilumet of friendship, and entertained

them with war dances and songs.
Cheered on their way by the kindly
offices and generous sympathy of
the natives, in which they felt that

" KiadneaB by secret sympathy 13 tied.
For noble Knik in nature are allied/*

they pushed on with renewed
courage to encounter again the perils
of the elements. The voyage from
this point to the end of the lake was
one continued series of hardships and
dangers. They found it frequently a
relief from the fury of the waves to
drag their canoes over the rugged
rocks; and as they pulled them ashore
the heaving surf dashed the spray
over their heads. They encountered
a wandering party of Outagamies, or
Fox Indians, near a green and re-
freshing spot, where they stopped to
rest and refresh themselves, and it
was only the address, deliberation,
and iron courage of La Salle that
prevented a bloody conflict with
these treacherous savages. On the
first of November the entire party
came safdy into the mouth of the
Miami River, now S. Joseph's, pre-
viously appointed as the rendezvous,
at which the several companies were
to meet.

Here La Salle was sorely disap-
pointed at not finding the Chevalier
Tonty. Suffering from want of food
and the increasing severity of the
winter, the men began to murmur ;
but La Salle's bold spirit of command
kept them in subjection, especially
when they saw him sharing every
hardship, privation, and danger witli
them. He kept them busy in build-
ing a fort for their protection from the
savages, and in exploring the country
and neighboring rivers. The mis-
sionaries caused a bark chapel to be
erected, in which the divine service
was attended by both Europeans and
Indians. But La Salle's apprehen-
sions for the fate of the Griffin began
to increase. At length Tonty arrived,

696

Robert Cave Her de La Sd/le.

and, wbfle he relieved his captain and
men with provisions and reinforce-
ments, he confirmed their alarm for
the vessel. The Griffin had not
reached Mackinac, no tidings could
be obtained from the Indians of her
safety or fate, and it became, alas ! too
certain that she, the first to ride tri-
umphantly, with her proud sails spread
and her streamers unfurled, across
these great lakes, had been the first
to fall a victim, with her hardy crew,
to the avenging waves of Lake Michi-
gan.

The cavaKer now prepared to go
down the Kankakee River to the 11-
linois. The distance to the portage
was se\"enty miles, and much time
and labor were spent in endeavoring
to 6nii the proper ponage. La Salle
started out himself to explore the
country, and to discover, if possible,
the eastern branch of the Illinois.
IVtained till evening in making the
circuit of a large marsh, his gun, fired
as a signal, was not answered, and he
resolveii to sj>end the night alone in
that fearful wilderness. He fortu-
naid Y descrieil a fire, and on approach-
ing saw near by a bed of leaves, from
which some nomadic son of the for-
est, startleii at the report of the gun,
had just fleii La Salle scattered
leaves and branches around, in order
that he might not be surprised in the
night, aiui then took possession of
the lndian*s rustic beil, in which he
slept peacefully till morning. To the
great joy of his friends, he returned
in the following afternoon, with two
opossums hanging from his belt. At
length the Indian hunter of the ex-
pevliiion found the }X)rtage. Leaving
four men in the fort, the expedition
set out on the 3d of December; the
canoes and all the baggage were car-
ried over five or six miles to the
head- waters of the Kankakee, and
about the 5th of December the com-
|VAny» consisting of thirty-three per.

sons, commenced their paaa^ <iowD
the dreary and marshy stieaiB,iender-
ed yet more gloomy by the rigocs of
mid-winter. At length, after endur-
ing hanger and cold, they came to a
more genial and aniling country, and
soon their canoes glided into U^ii^tf
Illinois. On the banks of the livcr
they discovered and visited the lar-
gest of the Illinois villages, composed
of four or five hundred cabins, io
each of which resided five or six £uDi-
lies, not far below the present tovn
of Ottawa, in La Salle County, Illi-
nois. But the place was deserted;
the inhabitants had all gone U> the
hunting-grounds for wild cattle and
beaver, leaving their com stored away
in their granaries. Yielding to the
necessities of his condition, and trac-
ing to fortune ^ an opportunity to
make ample compensation, La Salle
appropriated fifty busliels ofcorafrom
the immense quantities stored away
in the capacious granaries of the v9-
lage. Re-embarking on the 27(h of
December, the party proceeded down
the current. On the ist of JaDuarr,
1680, the feast of the Circumcbion o!
Our Lord was solemnly and appro-
priately celebrated, the salutations of
tlie New Year were exchanged, and
we may well imagine with what heart?
and earnest good- wishes those brave
voyagers blessed each other. On the
same day, after passing through Lake
Pimiteony, now Lake Peoria, our voy-
agers came suddenly upon an lodian
encampment on both sides of the
river. Having heard that the Illinois
were hostile. La Salle arranged his
flotilla for the emergency; the men
were armed, and the canoes were
placed in battle array across the en-
tire river, La Salle and Tonty occu-
pying the two canoes nearest the
shore. Observing that the Indians
were somewhat alarmed and dispos-
ed to parley, La Salle boldly landed
in the midst of the innumerable bands

Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

697

rf dusky warriors, prepared for either
rar or peace, and by his skill and
ivincibk courage soon succeeded in
(laking them his friends. After smok-
3g with them the calumet of peace,
le explained the circumstance of his
laving taken their corn, and then paid
hem liberally for it, to their great
atisfaction. He also told them that
le came amongst tliem in order to
jive them a knowledge of the one
rue God, and to better their condi-
ion. An alliance of friendship was
mtered into, and all retired apparent-
y to rest

Bat during the night emissaries
rom La Salle's enemies arrived. A
^nd council was held, as that is the
favorite time with the Indians for
transacting their most important bus-
iness. The poison was infused into the
minds of I^a Salle's recent allies ; and
on the following morning his keen
eye soon saw that the intrigues of his
enemies had not failed to follow him
to that distant region, and it was only
his brave, frank, and determined bear-
ing that enabled him to surmount
the countless obstacles that were thus
thrown in his way. The effect of
this intrigue, however, was not whol-
ly lost on his own men. Six o( them
deserted him at this trying juncture.
Severe as was this loss, his proud spi-
rit bore up manfully under it; but the
loss of his vessel was a severer trial to
him, but one that failed to dampen
ihe ardor of his enthusiasm or the
determination of his will. He select-
ed a spot for a fort half a league from
the Indian camp and near the pre-
sent city of Peoria; and while he
bestowed upon his fort the name of
Crivecoeur — Broken Heart— under
the sad influence of the loss of the Grif-
fin and the machinations of his ene-
mies, the vigor with which he raised
its walls and arranged its armament is
ample proof that he still possessed a
heart full of courage and hope.

In the middle of January the entire
company took up their residence
within the fort. Father Membr^ re-
mained with the Indians, was adopt-
ed into the family of a noted chief,
and* devoted himself to the task of
winning the Illinois to the Christian
faith. Father de La Ribourde exer-
cised his ministry at the fort, where
he erected a chapel ; and Father Hen-
nepin is said to have " rambled as his
fancies moved him."

La Salle engaged a portion of his
men in building a brigantine forty-
two feet long and twelve feet broad,
in which to descend the. Mississippi
On the 29tb of February, 1680, he
sent an expedition under the direction
of Father Hennepin, accompanied by
Picard Du Gay and Michel Ako, to
explore for the first time the Missis-
sippi above the mouth of the Wiscon-
sin, the point from which Father
Marquette's voyage down the great
river commenced. In six weeks the
hull of the brigantine was nearly ready
to receive the masts and rigging, but
the necessary materials were want-
ing to complete the equipment. An
abundance of such materials had been
placed on board the GtiffiUy but these
had b*en buried beneath the waters
of the lake with the ill-fated vessel
Gloomy indeed was the prospect be-
fore our brave cavalier; but bold
resolves are rapidly conceived and
speedily executed by daring spirits.
He placed Tonty in command of the
fort, and, in order to procure what
was necessary for the new vessel, he
determined to return on foot to Fort
Frontenac, distant at least twelve
hundred miles. His journey lay
along the southern shores of Lakes
Erie and Ontario, through vast for-
ests ; innumerable rivers intervened,
which he had to ford or cross on rafts,
and this, too, at a season of the year
when the drifting snow and floating
ice threw extraordinary dangers and

698

Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

fatigues in the path of the traveller.
For food he must rely entirely upon
the hazards of the chase. The his*
tory of our race contains the record
of few such undertakings as this; y6t
the spirit of La Salle faltered not.
On the 2d of March the bold cava-
lier shouldered his musket and knap-
sack, and, with three Frenchmen and
his Indian hunter, started upon his
perilous journey :

" My heart is firm ;
There*s naught within the compass of humanity
But I would dare and do."

After La Salle's departure the
brave and faithful Tonty began to
experience in turn the frowns of
fortune. While superintending the
erection of a new fort at a spot se-
lected by La Salle, Tonty received
the news of an insurrection at Fort
Cr^vecoeur. This, too, was insti-
gated by La Salle's enemies. De-
serted by more than half his party,
Tonty took up his quarters' at the
great Indian village, where he was
treated with hospitality. After a
residence there of six months a war-
party of Iroquois and Miamis ap-
proached the village, and for a long
lime Tonty and Father Membr6, at
great peril and with much ill treat-
ment at the hands of the invading
savages, endeavored to negotiate a
peace. Failing in every effort, and
tinding that dangers and perils were
gathering thick and fast around him,
Tonty resolved to make his escape
with his remaining fwt companions,
which he succeeded in accomplish-
ing, in an old and leaky canoe, on
the 1 8th of September. On the
following day, about twenty-five
miles from the village, they drew
the canoe to the shore for repairs.
While thus engaged they had the
misfortune of losing for ever the
great and good Father Gabriel dc
La Ribourde, who, with a mind fond

of the beautiful in nature, as well as
with a soul that loved all men, had
wandered too far up the banks of
the river, drawn on by the pktnr.
esque scenery that lay before him,
was met by three young Kidapw
warriors, and fell a victim to the cd-
sparing tomahawk. After passing,
with heavy hearts, over ice aal
snow, rambling for some time ahnos
at random in the woods, and endar-
ing hunger and delays, they foita-
nately reached a village of the Pk-
awatamies, where they were re-
ceived with hospiulity. Tonty wfi
detained at the village by a severe
and dangerous illness. Father Mm-
br^ advanced to the missionary sta-
tion at Green Bay ; here they ail mci
in the spring, and theh proceeded to
Mackinac to await the return of Li
Salle.

In the meantime La Salle, after
stopping twenty-four hours at the
Indian village which he had pr^
viously visited, and finding that the
two men whom he had despatchd
fi-om the Miami River to Mackinac
had obtained no tidings of the Gn/
fitly now abandoned ever)' lingciis:
hope for her safety. He prcssai
forward on his great journey, ODly 10
hear of new disasters and loses u
Fort Frontenac. The ikcx that fcf
accomplished such a journey nndef
such circumstances is sufficient toil
lustrate the endurance and uubcjid*
ing resolutioij of this great explorer.
Of this chapter in the history of U
Saile Bancroft thus writes :

"Yet here the immense power erf -i'
will appeared. Dependent on himsc*.
fifteen hundred miles from the ncan-
French settlement, impoverished, pc^
sued by enemies at Quebec, and iot>«
wilderness surrounded bjr uocenain »
tions, he inspired his men with rcso^^
tion to saw trees-into plank and prepa';
a bark ; he despatched Louis IleDMp«
to explore the Upper Mississippi; ^
questioned the Illinois and their socth

Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

699

m captives on the course of the Missis-
ippi ; he formed conjectures concerning
^c Tennessee River ; and then, as new
Lcruils were needed, and sails and cord-
gc for the bark, in the month of March,

ith a musket and a pouch of powder
nd shot, witli a blanket for his protcc-

on, and skins of which to make mocca-
ins, he. with three companions, set ofi on
:>oi for Fort Frontenac, to trudge through
tiickets and forests, to wade through
tiarshes and melting snows, having for
\\% pathway the ridge of highlands which
I i vide the basin of the Ohio from that of
iie lakes — without drink, except water
rom the brooks; without food, except
lappties from his gun. Of his thoughts
m that long journey no record exists.''

He arrived safely at Fort Fronte-
^aCy but his affairs had all gone
ATong in his absence. In the de-
struction of his vessel and cargo he
bad sustained a loss of a large por-
lion of his means; besides this, his
agents had plundered him in the
fur trade on Lake Ontario ; a vessel
freighted with merchandise for him
liad been lost in the Bay of St. Law-
rence; his heavily-laden canoes had
i)een dashed to pieces by the rapids
above Montreal; some of his men,
corrupted by his enemies, had de-
serted, carrying his property among
the Dutch in New York, and his
creditors, availing themselves of a
report, gotten up by his enemies,
that he and his companions had been
lost, had seized on his remaining ef-
fects, and sacrificed them in the
market. But one friend^remained to
him in all Canada — the Comte de
Frontenac. The undaunted La Salle
•^till pushed forward his work ; hav-
ing arranged his affairs as well as he
could, he secured the services of La
lorest as an officer, and engaged
more men. On the 23d of July,
1680, he set out on his return.
Detained more than a month on
Lake Ontario by Kead-winds, he
reached Mackinac in the middle of
September, and the Miami towards

the end of November. Proceeding
to the spot where he had left Tonty,
he found his forts abandoned, the
Illinois village abandoned, and could
hear nothing of the companions
whom he had left behind him. He
now heard of the Iroquois war, and
spent some time and effort in en-
deavoring to effect an alliance of all
the neighboring tribes against the
IlHnois. Finding it impossible to
accomplish his purpose for want of a
larger force, he returned to the Mi-
ami River late in May, 1681, and
about the middle of June he had the
happiness of saluting Tonty and his
companions in the harbor of Macki-
nac. The two cavaliers sat down to-
gether, and related to each other
their respective misfortunes and
hardships. Thus another year's de-
lay was occasioned; but in the
meantime the trade with the Indians
was prosecuted with vigor. Some
idea may be formed of the material
of which these two men were made
when it is related that even now,
when all their plans had failed and
all seemed lost to them, the ardor
with which they first commenced
this wonderful task remained un-
broken and undiminished. In order
to renew their preparations for the
exploration of the Mississippi, they
all set out in a few days for Fort
Frontenac, from which La Salle had
already twice departed with the bold
and lofty purpose of exploring and
laying open to the world the interior
geography of the continent. An eye-
witness to these interesting confer-
ences between La Salle and Tonty
relates that the former maintained
" his ordinary coolness and self-pos-
session. Any one but him would
have renounced and abandoned the
enterprise; but, far from tliat, by a
firmness of mind and an almost un-
equalled constancy, I saw him more
resolute than ever to continue hi)

700

Robert Cavtlier de La Salle.

work and to carry out his discov-
ery." •

As already mentioned, Father
Hennepin had been commissioned
by the captain to explore, with his
selected companions, the Upper Mis-
sissippi, probably the last aspiration
of La Salle after the discovery of
the northwest passage to the China
Sea. Proceeding down the Illinois
to its mouth. Father Hennepin di-
rected his canoe up the unexplored
stream, and on the eleventh day he
and his companions were near the
Wisconsin River. Turning up this
river, they proceeded nineteen days,
when the grand cataract burst for
the first time upon the view of Euro-
peans.

^* It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,
Of grandeur, or delight,
And every heart is gladder made
When water greets the sight."

It was called **11ie Falls of St.
Anthony " in honor of the holy foun-
der of the order of the Recollects.
Falling in with the Sieur Du Luth,
the two parties, nine in number, ram-
bled and messed together till the end
of September, 1680, when they all
set out for Canada. Father Henne-
pin sailed from Quebec to France,
where he published, in 1684, an ac-
count of his travels and discoveries.
Thirteen years after this, and ten
after the death of La Salle, he pub-
lished his New Discovery of a Vast
Country in America^ behueen New
Mexico and the Frozen Ocean ^ in
which the love of the marvellous is
regarded by historians as having far
transcended the limits of authentic
and trustworthy narrative, and as
conflicting with the recognized and
just pretensions of La Salle.

Upon his return to Fort Frontenac
La Salle lost no lime in preparing
for another effort. He arranged his
affairs with his creditors, pledged

• Narrative o/ Father Afemhr/*

Fort Frontenac and the a^Qaceat
lands and trading privileges for h\>
future expenses, and enlisted forces
for his expedition. On the sSih of
August, 1 68 1, the company set cu
in canoes from the head of me
Niagara River, and on the third a'
November they had arrived at tht
Miami. The constant and c^c
iauljlul Tonty and the goyd Yj^ti
Mcmbre accompanied the expolkioft.
which cotisisled of My-four pcfioti
of whorn twenty -three were Ftm^
men, eighteen Abnakis or Loiqj 1*
diLtns^ ten Indian women whomttK
Inflians in^i^tcd should go aloogii
order to do their cookings andtlne^
children. Six weeks were conyi^
at the Miami in Miakiug iheneccaail
armiigcmciUs. The Sieur Tom| lai
Father Membre proceeded wiili leaf*
ly the entire company aloof tfe
sautht^m border of Lake Mic^gtt
to the mouth of the Chic;igo Kitff^
dniggitig their canoes, baggage, aji»*
provisions for about eighty Icaftfi
over I lie frozen waters of the lEiM
on sle<lges prep:ired by ihc ixiikli&
iijl^e Tonty. La Salle travelkd >
fnn from the Miami Rivefi «sd
joined the company oa th« 4^
of January, i6)^z. They coausuvii
their journey in the same way ttptcs
Chicay;o to Lake Peoria, whcfc »
caiuies were carried upon tdc vr
ters, and on ihe 6tk of Febm^iyte
greLit river, ti)en called the *^Ctk^
bert;' received n^ eXi^orejs Jitaf
U|>nii its waves. They were deis^
uil liy the floating ice till abouK ibt
i9lh,wlicn thelloiilki cornmemcisdo
e veil tkil vo V age. O n ih © saote ^My
SIX kM^ues lower dawn. Uiey ^msol
the n^imth of the MLS^oaii, Iks
calleii the Osage. They sio|»pc4^'
a (k'seiteil village of the TAtn^m*
In*ii:U!s, whose ] people were aJji^t
on ihc f linse, an* I then slowly f^aec
oil for foriy Icjgaes till they usacbaS
tlie ()hio» sLojipiiig lre':iiieiitlir oa ^

Robert Cavtlier de La Salle.

701

route to replenish their stock of pro-
visions by hunting and fishing. Leav-
ing the Ohio, they passed through
)ne hundred and twenty miles of
tow, marshy river, full of thick foara,
rushes, and walnut-trees, till, on the
26th of February, they came to
Chickasaw Bluffs, where they rested.
Here a fort was built and called
Fort Prudhomme, in memory of
Peter Prudhomme, one of their com-
panions, who was lost while hunting
in the woods, supposed to have been
killed OT carried off by a party of
Indians, whose trail was discovered
near by. Afterwarrls, by the untiring
and determined efforts of La Salle,
and after nine days scouring the
country, Prudhomme was found and
restored to his companions ; but the
fort long retained his name. Proceed-
ing about a hundred miles, they heard
the soimd of drums and the echo
of war-cries, and soon they came
abreast of the villages of the Arkan-
sas Indians, whose inhabitants were
informed at one and the same time
that the strangers were prepared for
war — as was evidenced by tlie erection
of a redoubt upon the shore ; or for
peace — as was manifested by their
extending the calumet of peace.
They found the Indians peaceable
and friendly, and here our voyagers
stopped to rest. Two weeks were
spent amongst these gay, open-heart-
ed, and gentle natives in smoking
the calumet, partaking of feasts, and
obtaining Indian com, beans, flour,
and various kinds of fruits, for which
they repaid their entertainers with
presents which, however trifling,
pleased their fancy much. Father
Membr^ erected a cross, around
which* the natives assembled ; and
though he could not speak their
language, he succeeded in acquaint-
ing them with the existence of the
true God and some of the mysteries
of the true faith. The Indians

seemed to appreciate all he said, for
they raised their eyes to heaven and
fell upon their knees in adoration;
they rubbed their hands upon the
cross, and then all over their own
bodies, as if to communicate its holi-
ness to themselves ; and, on the re^
turn voyage, the missionary foimd
that they had protected the cross by
a palisade. La Salle also took pos-
session of the country with great
ceremony in behalf of France, and
erected the arms of the king, at which
the Indians expressed great plea-
sure.

On the 17th they proceeded on
their route, and were received and
entertained most hospitably at an-
other village of the same Akapsas
nation. On the 20th they arrived at
a small lake formed by the waters
of the Mississippi, on the opposite
side of which they found a gentle
tribe of Indians, far more civilized
than any they had yet met, whose
sovereign ruled over his people with
regal ceremony, whose houses were
built with walls and cane roofs, were
adorned with native paintings, and
furnished with wooden beds and
other domestic comforts. Their tem-
ples were omarfiented, and served as
sepulchres for their departed chiefs.
La Salle being too fatigued to visit
this interesting people, he sent the
Sieur Tonty and Father Membre on
an embassy to the king, to whom
they carried presents, and who re-
ceived them with great ceremony.
The king next returned the compli-
ment by a visit to the commander,
sending his master of ceremonies and
heralds before hira, and coming two
hours afterwards himself, preceded
by two men carrying fans of white
feathers, himself dressed in a white
robe beautifully woven of the bark
of trees, with a canopy over his head,
and attended by a royal retinue.
The king's demeanor during the in-

702

Birth^Days.

terviev was grave but frank and
friendly. Resuming their route on
the 26th of March, thirty or forty
miles below this they came among
the Natchez Indians, whose village
La Salle, with some of his compan-
ions, visited by invitation, sleeping
there that night and receiving hospi-
tality. A cross was erected here,
too, to which were attached the
arras of France, signifying that
thereby they took possession of the
country in the name of their sover-
eign. The Holy Mass was also of-
fered, and the company received the
Blessed Sacrament. They next visit-
ed the village of Koroa, and then,
advancing over a hundred miles, on
thQ 2d of April they came to the
country of the Quinipissas, a bellig-
erent tribe, who answered a proposal
to smoke the calumet of peace by a
shower of arrows. But having no

object to attain by difficidtics with
the natives, La SalU passed on to
the village of the Tangiboas, three
of whose deserted cabins he saw full
of the bodies of Indians who, fifteer.
or sixteen days before, had fiajkn
victims in an engagement in whkrh
file village w^:, .^.iv ^.^v* ^^.^* pillaged.
Speaking of La Sailc while thus de-
scending the great river, Bancroft
writes^ "' His sigacious eyediscCTi-
ed the miagnificent resourres of the
country. As he floated down its
flood ; as he framed a cabin oo the
first Chickasaw bluflf; as he raised
the cross by the Arkansiu; as he
jilanti^d the arms of Frnnce near the
Gulf of Mexico, he aotidjiated the
future affluence of the emigrants, and
heard in the distance the footsteps of
the advancing multitude that were
coming to take possession (^ the
valley."

TO BB CONCLUDBD MBCT MOMTH.

BIRTH-DAYS.

•» Who abb just dork, BBmG dbad.**

Who weeps when love, a cradled babe, is bom ?

Rather we bring frankincense, myrrh, and gold,

"While softest welcomes from our lips are rolled
To meet the dawning fragrance of a mom
Of checkered being. Even while the thom

Keeps pace with rosy graces that unfold,

Do we with rapture cry, " Behold, behold,
A heaven-dropped flower our garden to adorn !"
And yet when from our darling fall the years

As from the rose the shrivelled petals rain,

And into newer life the soul again
Springs thornless to the air of purer spheres,

So blinded are we by our bitter pain
We greet the sweeter birth with selfish tears.

The Future of the Russian Church.

;03

THE FUTURE OF THE RUSSIAN CHURCH.

BY THB REV. CiGSARIUS T3NDINI, BARNABITB.

II.

CONTINUED.

Let it only be borne in mind
what are those things which are re-
quired of her members by the faith
and discipline of the Orthodox
Churchy and it will be granted us, at
least face to face with unbelief, that
her priests need something more
than the ordinary respectability of a
worthy man, an obedient subject of
his sovereign, a good father of a
family, faithful to his wife and de-
voted to his children.*

This something more is possessed
by the Catholic Church. The Rus-
sian Church has lost it. Whatever
may be thought of the ecclesiastical
law on the ceHbacy of the priest-
hood, we think it cannot be denied
that a priest, living as an angel upon
earth, exercises an influence which
is always lacking to a married priest.
This "magnetism of purity," as it
has been called, has inspired one of
the noblest odes of the great Eng-
lish poet, Tennyson ; t and they who
in good faith argue against sacerdo-
tal celibacy do so because, in their
opinion, the purity required by the
Catholic Church is a virtue too ce-
lestial to be met with here below;
thus reasoning as did that Jew who,

* With regard to the Anglican clergy, it may be
obienred that the sUte church of England is al-
BOM eodrely for the benefit of the aristocracy.
vhich sees its younger sons enter her *' orders " all
<h< more gladly b^use their nubsistcnce is thus
prarided for without the patrimony of the head of
the Cunily being much diminished — the children of
the aristocracy thus aiding to maintain an institu-
tioa to which in a great measure iu influence is
owing. As to the German Protestant clergy* they
tre neither so influential nor so respected as the
Anglican.

t" Sir Galahad."

after reading a treatise on the Holy
Eucharist by the Abb6 Martinet,*
said to us, ** This cannot be true, be-
cause it would be too beautiful!"
Those who reason as did this Jew
conclude too easily from difficulty —
what virtue is not difficult ? — to im-
possibility ? We do not undertake
to convince those who have not faith,
and who refuse to allow the efficacy
of supernatural means; for the task
would be a hopeless one. But if
they have faith, we will submit to
them the following consideration,
which will not be without some
weight.

And this is that the Catholic
Church earnestly invites all her
priests to celebrate daily the holy
Mass, and makes it their strict duty
to recite every day, with attention
and piety, the divine Office. In un-
dertaking the defence of the Rus-
sian clergy M. Sch^do-Ferroti says :
*' Hypocrisy is a vice unknown
among them, their piety being of a
genuine stamp, and only giving out-
ward expression to the sentiment
which is really felt — namely, a belief
in the sanctifying virtues of the cere-
monies which they are called to per-
form." f Let it, then, be permitted
to us also to express here our firm
belief in the sanctifying virtue of the
Mass and the divine Office. The
Holy Eucharist is called in Scrip-
ture frumcnium electerum et vinnm

♦ Martinet, V Emmanuel^ ou le r€*^tid« i Una
MPS maux. Paris: Lecofire. 1850.
t Sckddo-Ferr0tiy of, cit. ch. xr. p. 593,

7o4

The Puture of the Russian Church.

gfrniinans virgines — " the wheat of
the elect and the wine which makes
virgins spring forth " (Zach. ix. 17).
With regard to the divine Office, it
is the prayer par excellence of the
cliurch. As the Lord's Prayer,
taught and recommended by Jesus
Christ himself, has a power which is
special to it, and a particular effi-
cacy, so also is a sanctifying virtue
attached to a prayer chosen and
placed daily on our lips by the
church. The Mass and the divine
Office, in a manner, force the priest
to have always about him some
thoughts of heaven. If vanity or
worldly seductions acquire over him
a momentary ascendency, the Mass
and the divine Office recall him to
tliose salutary truths which never
change.

We will not dwell longer on this
point; the reader will^e well able
to make its practical application.
We will only now add that, if to
have been capable of an act of great
generosity is a title to indulgence for
many defects; if the remembrance
of an heroic action in favor of one's
country or of humanity surrounds
with an aureola of glory the whole
existence of him who has performed
it; and if, in short, people hesitate
to pronounce sentence against him,
even when he has deserved blame,
let it also be remembered that every
CathoHc priest, whoever he may be,
has accomplished, at least once in
his life, an act of the greatest gener-
osity. He has sworn, on being ad-
mitted into Holy Orders, to renounce
every affection which, by dividing
his heart, could hinder him from de-
voting himself solely and without re-
serve for the good of souls ; and sole-
ly with that intent has he voluntarily
chosen the path of self-denial and of
conflicts which are the consequences
of his generosity. This being con-
sidered, there is nothing surprising in

the fact that a certain influence b
invariably exercised by the Catholk
priest who is faithful to his duties
even if his learning and educatioQ be
defective.

Now, this influence, doubly nccfr
sary in Russia, on account of th;
social inferiority of the orthocj
clergy, is entirely wanting to all u
portion of the clergy which is ia c.t
tact with the people ; * and the i^
consequences of this want will mx\i
themselves especially felt in thit c^
when nothing shall be unimpon^
that can help to keep alive faiu '
tlie Russian people.

And this is not alL In the poc^
alluded to above Tennyson p-
these words into the mouth of &
hero, the virgin-knight :

" My good blade carres the casqoes of sa.
My tough lance thrusteth cure,
My streogth is as the strength of tee.
Because my heart is pure." t

He who thus reveals to us tiw iT
mate relation existing between parr
and strength is not a Catholic .
we had expressed the same tho:::
as originating from ourseh-cs. *
might have been charged triih n
ticism ; this is why we have qt-*
the great poet. He would not fe.
being called upon to justifv
thought ; let him therefore be ih; :
attacked.

* It is not without reason that ve tiubt sptf* '
drcumstanoe of being in c&ntiut voitk tk* f*
If indeed the Russian Church were to vsbb^ s-"*
to the Catholic Church, and the btter, ^J^-
the toleration granted to the muted Grrri
lowed the secular Russian clergy hberty ti r-~
the inconveniences we have noticed voidd •
felt, for the reason that, besides the fact tint -^
tholic Church would merely f€rmit—«s^^ >
directly or indirectly, r^nff/r/— -f^iects toB
would always be a regular and celibate
by side with the secular and^ married i
equally with them in contact with the peofot.

However, the barrenness in apostdic im^^'
the inferior condition of all the Chitstias cmc---
ties of Oriental rite among whoa a nisnwi t -
hood is permitted, oblige us to rccngpigia^ '
mis«on a simple cooceasa p n to hnnua &■*"
their condition is a powerful argument at fe''^
the immense advantagp, if not of the bkm* »-^
ty, oi ecclesiastical cdibacy .

t Tennyson, Po€tir<d IVtrkt^ "Sir

TJu Future of the Russian Church.

705

But whatever may be the weight
which experience gives to this
thought of Tennyson's, there is no
need to wait for the time when the
Russian clergy shall be waging war
against unbelief, to judge of the
strength they are likely to have for
the combat. In a chapter devoted
to revelations of the state of the
"orthodox" clergy, M. Sch^do-Fer-
roti takes praiseworthy pains to ex-
hibit their good qualities. " I have
found," he writes, " with some re-
grettable exceptions, that the Rus-
sian priest possessed two valuable and
truly Christian qualities, the frequency
of which constitutes in some sort a
characteristic feature of the class.
The Russian priest is pious without
any ostentation, and he is gifted with
a wonderful faculty for supporting
misfortune, . under whatever form it
raay overtake him."* We have
already made some observations on
tiie first of these two qualities, and
will now do the same for the second.

To be endowed with a marvellous
power of supporting misfortune —
what better preparation, apparently,
could there be for supporting the
struggle of the future ? It is to
patience that our Lord Jesus Christ
promises the possession of our souls
for a happy eternity when he says :
Inpatientia vesira possidebitis animas
Vfstras — ** In your patience you shall
possess your souls " (S. Luke xxi. 19).
These divine words, alas ! cannot in
any way find their application in
the patience of the Russian clergy.
The patience whereof our Lord
speaks is that which fills and sus-
tains the soul, and which places in
our mouths words whose wisdom
puts our adversaries to silence.

This explanation is not our own ;
it is that of Jesus Christ himself.
"They will lay their hands on you,

• Sckddo-Ftrroti^ o/. cit. p. sgf.
VOL. XX. — 45

and persecute you, delivering you up
to the synagogues and into prisons,
dragging you before kings and gover-
nors, for my name's sake: and it
shall happen to you for a testimony.
Lay it up, therefore, in your hearts, not
to meditate before, how you shall
answer. For I will give you a mouth
and wisdom, which all your adver-
saries shall not be able to resist and
gainsay. And y<S[|j shall be betray-
ed by your parents and brethren,
and kinsmen and friends : and some
of you they will put to death. And
you shall be hated of all men for
my name's sake : but a hair of youi
head shall not perish. In your pa-
tience you shall possess your souls '*
(S. Luke xxi. 12-19). The patience
here described corresponds exactly
with the patience of which the Catho-
lic bishops and priests of Switzerland,.
Germany, and elsewhere are offering;
us at this very time so edifying and
admirable an example.

The patience taught by our Lord,,
then, is not wanting to the Catholic
clergy ; can we hope to find it in the
Russian clergy in the day when or-
thodoxy shall be threatened ? Let
us well consider the words of our
Lord which we have just quoted,
bearing in mind the energetic spirit
which they suppose, and let us then
compare them with the following
words of the most cjevoted advocate
of the orthodox clergy in Russia:
"This readiness to bear, without,
murmuring, the sudden reverses of
fortune," says Sch^do-Ferroti, " this
spontaneous submission to the de-
crees of Providence, is too Christian
a virtue to allow us to refuse it the
admiration which it deserves; but it
seems to us that the combination of
circumstances which has contributed
to develop in the Russian clergy
this mute resignation has also exer-
cised a depressing influence upon
their moral strength, in paralyzing

yo6

The Future cf the Russian Church.

the powers of their will by rendering
its free exercise utterl|r and invariably
impossible. It is the natural conse-
quence of excessive suffering, whether
physical or moral, to end in the
enervation of the patient, by depriv-
ing him of the faculty of* action, by
destroying all his energy, and leaving
him destitute even of any belief in his
ow,n strength; allowing him to re-
main in possession of but one single
conviction, that of his powerlessness
to struggle against fate — ^a convic-
tion that finds its expression in
this mute and absolute resignation
which we find in the lower Russian
clergy." *

Poor Russian clergy! They are
all that they can be expected to be,
considering what the czars have
made them. The sufferings of the
Russian priest are not forgotten by
God, neither does he forget his resig-
nation. Far* from desuing to cast a
stone at him, we gladly point out all
that we can find in his favor. Re-
duced to such a degree of indigence
that he is compelled to maintain
himself by laboriously toiling in the
fields, the pressing needs of life bow
down not only his brow, but his soul
also, towards the earth. What right
have we to expect that he can devote
to the interests of souls the time and
thought imperiously demanded by
the daily necessities of his own exis-
tence ? And even could he forget
himself, and in self-devotion taste
the sublime joy of sacrifice, he is not
alone; and will his wife and chil-
dren also become so many victims of
his zeal for souls?

This feebleness, this helplessness,
these bonds — these are the very things
which many would desire to see also
:in the militant ranks of the Catholic
* Church. *• But wherefore, then, is it,"
asks the church, in pointing out the

^ Schid^Ferrotiy o/^. cit. pp. 995, 896.

armies of this world, " that the secu-
lar governments will that the soldiers
called to defend tlieir country ^uhl
be alone and free ?" ♦

But if to be single and free is an
element of strength lacking to the
Russian priest, already by long hali-
tuation to suffering and slavery rcdoc-
ed to the state of which so strikiog a
picture is drawn by Sch^do-Ferroii,
another support is also wanting to
him,« the power of which is evident in
the Csttholic clergy. In our day, and
under our ver}' eyes, every circum-
stance concurs to encourage apostasy
among the latter. Priests who fail in
their duty gain the favor of govern-
ments, a considerable portion of the
press, the secure perspective of honors
and offices; they are proclaimed the
only honest, the only true mini^rs
of Jesus Christ, who alone compre-
hend his interests or succeed in caus-
ing him to be loved by souls. In
all this there is something sednctive,
not only for the ambitious and
such as wduld free themselves from
the severe discipline of the church,
but for those also who, in pre-
sence of the ravages which unbe-
lief is making, persuade themselves
— not With much humility — that if the
church would act according to their
ideas, the interests of God would be
better secured. In spite of all these
things, the number of apostates is a
mere nothing when we take into con-
sideration the number of Catholic
priests. Did those who have under-
taken to make war against Cathoii-

• There arc limes, in the history of natioas, w^
the moral necessity of certain instztati.m ffl t^«
Catholic Church makes itsdf telt, erea by tke w*
incredulous. It is in Germany, as is weD kw^
that the ecclesiastical law of the cetibacy of pne<»
has been most eageriy attacked ; and it is from Oa-
many that has come to us the most spkndiri apctaCT
for the firmness displayed by the Catholic Ciwti
with regard to this point of disdpUne. Those pden
who arc at this moment so valiantly wrestling •pso't
penectttion and braving the los of inctwic, fa»*^
fines, prison, exile, and death itsclf-can ooe «iW
they would be «^ually intrepid, did the eaistwer
of a wife and lamily depend upon thdr owb ?

The Future of the Russian Church.

707

cily expect this check ? — which, we re-
mark in passing, witnesses plainly
against the alleged prevalence of
abuses. Have they well calculated
the forces of the enemy which they
flattered themselves they were about
to annihilate ? Unless we are mis-
taken, they think that its strength is
the same in the present day as it was
in the time of Luther, and that, if
whole nations were then withdrawn
from the church, there is no reason
why they should not be so now. But
the Protestantism of those days al-
lowed a true faith in God, in Provi-
dence, in Jesus Christ, and retained
a baptism in every respect valid. It
is allowable to believe that if God has
permitted that whole nations should
be snatched from the immediate care
of the church, his providence will
keep them from ever falling back in-
to the state in which they were before
the redemption ; though this is the
logical result of modern Protestan-
tisfu. Besides, tlie social and politi-
cal situation of Europe, the habits of
the various nations, and especially
the difficulty of communication, then
[permitted sovereigns to raise, as it
were, so many walls of China round
tiie con&nes of their states. They
could at that time isolate their sub-
jects, and Oi^ly allow them just so
mucli intercommunication with the
rest of the world as t/uy might choose
to consider suitable to the interests
of the state. If thought itself could
not be chained, its manifestations at
least could be circumscribed or stided.
ITiis is no longer possible in the pre-
sent day; a pamphlet, a journal, a
si>eech in parliament, even to a sim-
ple word of a bishop, can now, from
the other end of the world, trouble
the repose and di:>;urL the plans of a
powerful conqueror. For thought
there are no longer any barriers pov-
sible, nor yet police; and ihougWt
makes revolutions.

Now, amongst the thoughts which
escape the vigilance of all police, and
which pass through every barrier,
there is also that of the constancy
which, in no matter what period of
the existence of the Catholic Church,
is shown by men living under differ-
ent climates, ruled by various institu-
tions, but brothers in the faith. If to
bear the same name, to be born on
the same soil, and to speak the same
tongue, creates bonds so powerful
and so devoted a defence of common
interests, fraternity in the Catholic
faith yields the palm in nothing to
any other fraternity whatsoever for
the powerfulness of its effects. The
humble curtf of a poor parish hidden
among the gorges of the mountains
learns that a priest in a distant land
has been imprisoned for refusing to
betray his conscience. He is moved
by the tidings, and takes a lively in-
terest in the fate of the priest, follow-
ing anxiously in his journal the narra-
tive of the struggles of this confessor
of the faith. During this time, with-
out his being aware of it, a salutary
work has been going on in his mincl.
Soon afterwards he finds himself in
the same case — namely, of being calletl
upon to suffer for the performance of
those duties which his quality of priest
imposes upon him. His adversaries,
judging him by the gentleness of fiis
language and his life, expect to in-
timidate him by a word ; but, to tlieir
amazement, they find in him the firm-
ness of an apostle. From whence;
did he gain this courage? 'i'hey
know not, neither does he; that whicn
impressed his soul and prcparcfl it
for the conflict was nothing cImt than
the story of the s jff':rings of his broth-
er in the faith and in tne prie,thoo'!,
in a distant snA U}Tt\%i\ land.

Well, l;.<n, thi^t vj staining thoj;^ .t
wijicli ftipports the Cat .ohc pnct
by making him feel iiimsclf a nicui-
ber of that family which is as vast '^%

70S

Tlu Future of the Russian Church.

the wodd and a brother in the faith
with martyrs — this support will be
wanting to the Russian clergy when
upon it alone will depend the fate
of orthodoxy. The Russian priest,
who, not being alone, will have need
of a courage so much the greater as
there are beings dear to him whose
existence is bound* up with his own,
will seek examples to encourage
him ; but will he find them ? The
same causes which have produced
the mute resignation spoken of by
Schedo-Ferroti authorize us to think
that the Russian clergy wiH not
have its martyrs, or, if there should
l>e some, that their number will be
too small to counterbalance the ex-
ample of the general feebleness.
And yet here again we will under-
take the defence of the Russian
clergy ; for who, in fact, could* require
an act of heroism of a man " ener-
vated by excess of moral and phy-
sical sufferings, deprived of the fac
ulty of action, and not only possess-
ing no longer any energy, but hav-
ing also lost all belief in his own
powers"? Now, this is, word for
word, tlie condition of the Russian
priest, as depicted by his most zeaU
vHis defender.

** But," it may be said, " the Or-
thodox Church is not confined to
Russia ; the orthodox priest will
itnd brethren in Austria, in Rouma-
nia, in Turkey, and in Greece." This
is true ; but it is not enough to find
brothers only. The Russian priest will
need brother-martyrs ; and where will
he find them ?

Besides, strange to say, the various
branches of the Orthodox Church
live almost strangers to each other,
useless some political interest awak-
en the sentiment of fraternity in their
common faith. Without entering
into details on this point, we will
only make one remark. It is easy
to find several histories of the differ-

ent branches, taken separately; but
is it so easy to find an umveisal
history of the Orthodox Church?*
In Catholic countries the reverse of
this is always the case; it is, com-
paratively, difiicult to meet wkh
particular histories of t^ Cathofic
Church in France, in Italy, in Ger-
many, etc. ; but everywhere is fouiai
and taught the universal history
of the Catholic Chiu-ch — a history in
which that of a nation, however
great or powerful, figures, if not as
an episode, certainly as but a simple
portion, a contingent part, of a ne
cessary whole.

We one day read in an English
journal that has a wide drculatioa
the following remark : " A church
which counts among its members
men like Archbishop Manning and
Dr. Newman is a church which b
not to l>e deq[)ised." English com-
mon sense thus did justice to the
"coal-heavers* faith," as peopie are
pleased to call the adhesion of Cath-
olics to the doctrines proposed to
them by their church. In fact — to
speak only of the last named of
these two personages — the author
of the Grammar of Assent does iK>t
yield in intellectual power to aay
of his Anglican adversaries ; from
whence we may infer, by a series ot
logical deductions, that neither docs
he yield in this to any of the adver-
saries of the Catholic Church. To
speak plainly, we have never p«-
ceived that these adversaries havt
shown any alarming degree of intel-
ligence, at least with regard to the

* Wc shafl be exctssed from coosidenni^ as n ■>>-
versal history of the Orthodox ChUrch certain &tk
mannnV which we have found bdtcated ia tfcr
catalogues of Rusuan bibli<^p-aphy. Besdcs. it h
not only of Russia, but of all the co mi t ne > of tka
Orthodox commvni«n, that we ask fer eae mm^
ecclesiastical history like those ef Ftrarr, Rakr>
bachcr. Hcnrion, the Abb«5 Dains, etc (» qaote
French names only.) The Bjt«A)j«^«»Ti«^ T*'"^'"
{EccUsiastical History) <d Mjr. McleCi«sl~
poUtan of Athens (Vienna, tjCj-^sX (
ly l>e compared to thea.

The Future of the Russian Church.

709

application of the rules of logic. In
any case, as, since Porphyry and Cel-
sns, men have never been wanting
who have represented the faith pro-
pounded by the Catholic Church as
an abdication of reason, so also, since
Justin and the first Christian philo-
sophers, the church has never lack-
ed doctors who, in defending her,
have at the same time been the de-
fenders of reason. The apostolate
of learning is not less fruitful, per-
haps, than that of virtue and of mar-
tyrdom. Without pronouncing upon
the relative necessity and advantages
oi these three apostolates, nor ex-
amining whether it is possible to ex-
ercise 2itrue apostolate by learning un-
aided by self-denial and virtue, nor
even doing more than call to mind
how God in the Old Law, and the
church in the New, have always made
learning a part of the duty of a
priest, we will confine ourselves to
remarking that many souls are led to
embrace the faith, and othei^, tempt-
ed to doubt, are quieted and confirm-
ed, by a simple reflection analogous
to that of the English journal just
quoted. " A faith," they say, " pro-
fessed by minds so much above the
ordinary dass as such and such a
writer ought not to be lightly reject-
ed." It is a preliminary argument
of which the effects are salutary, and
grace does the rest.

If we now take into account all
that eighteen centuries and innumer-
able writers of all lands have accumu-
lated in the way of proofs and testi-
monies irt favor of the Catholic faith ;
and if we at the same time consider
the immense variety and the infinitely-
multiplied forms of error, each in its
turn combated by the church, we
shall comprehend that it is scarcely
possible to imagine any error of which
the refutation has not already some-
where appeared. In the same way
the struggle still goes on in all parts

of the globe, and among peoples who
have advanced, some more, some
less, in learning and civilization ; in
all parts of the globe the defence
also continues, and by men brought
up among the same surroundings as
their adversaries. In short. Catholic
productions are not the exclusive
appanage of any single diocese, any
single country, any single nation ;
they are the family treasures, belong-
ing to the whole Catholic Church.
Facility of communication brings us,
together with their names, the works
of those who are waging war against
various errors in various lands. To
take time, to enquire, to make some
researches — this is the worst tliat
could happen to a Catholic priest
who might find himself, for the mo-
ment, unable to solve an objection.
But the objection is already solved,
even if it be drawn from some scien-
tific discovery of yesterday, if indeed
(as it often happens) it cannot be
solved at once by the simple use
of common sense, and especially of
logic, the most necessary of sciences,
and the least studied of all.

Thus we see what happens in the
Catholic Church, and we see, there-
fore, why it is that in those countries
where formerly the clergy may have
been at times taken by surprise, and
not well prepared to meet a sudden
adversary, they now struggle bravely ;
and also we see why earnest Catlio-
lics have been able without difficulty
to distinguish between true and false
progress, and between true science
and false.

Will it be the same in Russia ?

We do not wish to exaggerate
anything, and will even admit that
the complaints which are so general
of the ignorance of the Russian
clergy may be much overstated.
Nevertheless, in looking through the
bibliography of that country, we find
ourselves forced to acknowledge that

7IO

The Future of the Russian Church.

whenever the day shall arrive for un-
belief to have free course there, dec-
orated with the seductive appellations
of science, of progress, of the emanci-
pation of reason, etc., the Russian
clergy will either find themselves
without arms wherewith to defend
orthodoxy, or with such only as shall
prove insufficient.

In fact, the reader is perhaps not
aware that, from the year 1701,
Peter the Great had been obliged
(according to Voltaire) to forbid the
use of pen and ink to monks. '* It
required," says the apostle of science,
**an express permission from the
archimandrite, who was responsible
for those to whom he granted it
Teter willed that this ordinance
should continue." * The successors
of Peter likewise willed the same,
although we do not venture to affirm
tliat the ordinance is still observed.
Let us, then, be just, and refrain from
blaming the Russian monks. If,
since the time of Peter the Great, they
have not extraordinarily enriched the
literature of their country, the fault is
none of theirs.

Neither have we any right to blame
the secular Russian clergy if few
writers have appeared among them,
nor yet any one of those whose name
alone exercises an apostolate. All
the Russians who have written on
the ecclesiastical schools of their coun-
try are unwearied in their complaints
against the badness of the method
and the insufficiency of instruction
which the young Russian levite takes
with him on leaving tlifi seminary.!
We do not in any way accuse the
commissions charged with the in-
spection and reformation of the

* Voltaire, Histeire de Pierre fe Grand^ part ii.
ch. xiv.

t In the greater part of the country-places the
popes have not been in any seminary at all. They
have been taught to read and write, to make them-
selves acquainted with the ceremonies of the church
and the regubtions of the crars, and then they
have been ordadned priests.

ecclesiastical schools. Wc arc con-
vinced that these commissioDS have
done their best ; if the evil stiU con-
tinues as before, it is because they
have not the power to touch its root.
Besides, how can it be expected thai
a priest, poor, burdened widi a family,
and in very many cases necessitated
to maintain himself and his &mih
by the work of his hands, can either
have the necessary fireedom of miml
or sufficient leisure to devote himself
to study ?

It remains for us to consider tbe
bishops. These are taken from tbe
monastic orders, and if, since Peter I.,
all of them have not been archiman-
drites, yet to all has, at any rate^
been granted by the archiman-
drite, of their convent, at bis own
risk and peril, the use of pen and ink.
Of the two hundred and eighty
ecclesiastical writers who have ap-
peared and died in Russia from the
conversion of that country to Chiis-
tianity down to the year 1837, and
whose biographies may be found in
the Dictionary of Mgr. Eugenim,
MetropoHtan of Kief,* one hundred
and ten belonged to the episcopate;
and ever since 1827 that episcopate
has continued to reckon among its
members men remarkable for their
learning. Everything, however, b
relative. These bbhops have s1k»c
in Russia; and there has bccB a
desire to make them shine as fiw as
France by translating into Yic^
the Orthodox Theology of Mgr. Maca-
rius. Bishop of Vinnitsa; a collecnon
of Sennons^ by the late Mgr. PiiiU
rete, Metropolitan of Moscow ; aw!
perhaps some other works. It is abo
to be supposed that some care must
have been shown in selecting from
amongst the productions of ccclcsLis-

• Mgr. Eugenius, Httioricmi Dktimtrj 9/ ri
Ecclesiastical Writers #/ tH Cr«c»^Rm^^
Church who have livtel in Russia. (In ^
St. Pctcnbuig,ad.cd., xSa?.

The Future of the Russian Church.

711

tical literature in Russia, the best there
were to be found of what she possess-
ed. Without criticising, we think there
is reason for saying that hitherto the
Russian episcopate has not by its writ-
ings furnished orthodoxy witli a sup-
port proportioned to the dangers with
which it is threatened, and we doubt
very much whether it will be equal
to furnishing her with it very quickly.
The Russian prelates renowned for
llieir learning are but few in num-
ber; besides, so long as the faith
and the church are protected by the
Penal Code, and judicial prosecution
would be the consequence of any at-
tack, neither priests nor bishops have
much chance of finding themselves
face to face with any adversaries of
importance. The latter, in fact,
would be exceedingly careful to avoid
the men who could denounce them ;
and the result of this is that, for
want of exercise, neither the bishops
nor priests can state what is either
their strength or their weakness. To
this we must add the thousand hin-
drances placed by Russian censor-
ship to the manifestation of religious
thought. There is nothing, even to
llie sermon preached by the pope in
his parish, which must not be sub-
mitted to censure.* As for pastoral
letters of bishops, we should be very
glad if any could be quoted to us.
The formalities and delays which ac-

* We are so fStr from objecting to the exercise of
^tomst upon writings which treat upon religious
«nitter» that, in a note to the R^gtemtnt Ecclisi-
^ffn* (p. 178), we in some sort express a desire
for it, even with regard to what is uttei«d in the
pulpit. Only we require as a condition that this
censure should be exercised by a com/^eteht au-
thtriijf. Now, in Russia it is no longer the bi-
•hops, but the state, which, not as protector, but as
lord and master of the church, rules and measares
the manifesution of religious thought. It is against
this illegitimate censure that we contend. Very far
reaored is the sentiment which bows its head be-
fore the religious autocracy of the czais from
the Sttbmiision of the Catholic, who bows before
Ujc church btcaus* h» 0wns in her a divine
authority. The submission 01' the Catholic b that
vUch is due to the truth and to God. It elevates

company the revision and approba-
tion of every work destined to ap-
pear in print are of a nature to dis-
courage the most intrepid. The ex-
amination of ail the ecclesiastical
productions destined to appear in the
immense empire of the czars is con-
fided to the committees of ihQ four
ecclesiastical academies of Kief,
Kasan, Moscow, and St. Petersburg.
If no exceptions were allowed, at
any rate in favor of periodical works,
the cotnplaint of Jeremias might be
truly applied to Russia : Bxrvuli pe-
tieruni partem, ei non erat^ quifrange-
ret eis — '* The little ones asked for
bread, and there was none to break
it for them " (Lament. Jer. iv. 4).
Finally, we will not stop to consider
the manner in which ecclesiastical
censorship is exercised in Russia,
nor yet its tendencies nor its object ;
but we say, to single out one point
only, that it is impossible to find in
all Russia a single work that is able
to throw any light upon the recipro-
cal relations of the church and state.
More than one reader will join us
in acknowledging that in Russia a
true, apologetic literature has yet to
be created.

To complete the picture of that
which will inevitably take place in
Russia on the day when the Ortho-
dox Church shall there lose the sup-
port of the Penal Code, and will have
to struggle alone, and abandoned to
her own strength against heresy and
unbelief, we ought to observe that,
since the general confiscation of the
goods of the clergy which was ef-
fected under Catherine II. (1762),
the Russian Church has no longer
anything to supply its needs but that
which is allowed it by the state. It
is the state which provides for the
keeping up of churches and monas-
teries; the state which furnishes the
expenses of the orthodox worship,,
and which assigns to the ministers

712

The Future of the Russian Church.

of that worship the piece of land
from which they roust find a main-
tenance for themselves and their
families, or else which supplies them
with a salary proportioned to the
functions they are to exercise. It is
not, after all, impossible that, in the
day of which we speak, the state,
while continuing to retain a budget
for the orthodox worship, may never-
theless extraordinarily reduce it ; and
also it is not impossible that conditions
which cannot be conscientiously ac-
cepted will be attached to the pay-
ment of the salary, already so mode-
rate, of the ministers of this church.
In either case, more even than to
combat heresy and unbelief, it will
be necessary for the Russian Church
to consider how her priests and their
families are to find bread and shel-
ter. Now, the only classes which
can then effectively help them — are
they not the same which at this day
show so great a contempt for their
popes ?

And this is not yet all. In the
day of which we speak who will se-
cure to the bishops the obedience
of the secular clergy ? This clergy
trembles now before them, because
it sees them armed by the law with a
despotic power ; • but no one can
foresee what will happen in the day
when popes and bishops shall be
equal before the law. The bishops
being all drawn from the monastic
state, the result has been that hither-
to the secular clergy have lived in
subjection to the regular; and this
fact, united to other causes, has
created a powerful antagonism be-
tween these two orders of the clergy,
which not unfrequently betrays itself
by venomous writings. One portion
of the press makes common cause

•We could mention cases in which the pope who
wishes to speak to his bishop must falJ on his knees
at the door, even , of the room, and drag himself
along thus to the prebte, to whom he roust only
speak kneeKng.

with the secular clergy ; and, ii we
may judge by certain tendencies, the
admission of the secular dergy to
the episcopate will probably be one
of the consequences of the changes
that will take place in the relatioDs
between the church and state. But
it is not possible that this change
can be peaceably effected ; the dis-
orders which, at times, arise in the
application of the principle of uni-
versal suffrage, show, in some degree,
how, in this case, various elections
of bishops would be brought about
And then, in the confusion and wild
disorder of conflict, where would be
found the authority which coold
have power to settle these diflcrenco
and claim for itself adhesion and re*
spect ? The bishops, moreover, who
or a century and a half* have all
been equal before the czar, and only
distinguished by the titles and decor-
ations granted or refused according
to the good pleasure of* the monarch
— will these submit themselves to
an archbishop, to a metropolitan, to
a patriarch — in a word, to one from
amongst themselves ? Will they, for
the love of coacord, invest him with
a superior authority, and obey him ?
And were they to reach this point,
would not St. Petersburg contest the
primacy with Moscow ? And would
Kief forget her canonical jurisdictico
of former times ?

Yet more, would not Constantino-
ple vindicate any right over Rus»a?
And the other Oriental patriarchs—
wouid they forget that their coDCitf-
rence was formerly sought for the
erection of the patriarchate of Moi^
cow, and thejr approbation to sanc-
tion the establishment of the Synod?

We may thus, in its principal kk
tures, behold the state to whicli the
czars have reduced the faith and the
church of which they entitle them-
selves the guardians. The picture
is a gloomy one ; nevertheless, we do

The Belli of Prayer. 713

not believe that we have exaggerated tempests, many a Catholic sovereign

anything. Before proceeding further designated by appellations indicative

we would even say a word of excuse of the highest degree of attachment

for the czars. to the church would long ago have

If the Catholic Church were not reduced her to the same condition

built upon a rock, proof against all as the church of the czars.

TO BB CONTINUBO.

THE BELLS OF PRAYER.

DuiUKC the prevalence of the great plague at Milan, " at the break of day, at noon, and at night a beO of
tbe cathedral gave the signal for reciting certain prayers which had been ordered by the archbishop, and
this was foOowed by the bcDs of the other churches. Then persons were seen at the windows, and a confused
blmdnig of voices and groans was heard which inspired sorrow, not, however, unmixed with consolation.*'

Stem Death, the tyrant, had swept along
With trailing ^obes through the dusty mart.
And laid his hand, that is white and chill.
On the city's heart.

The Lombard City of olden ways
Over its sorrow and wild despair
A cry sent up to the unseen Throne
In an earnest prayer.

A lord that is dead as a peasant is,
And a peasant dead is as a lord ;
The angel stood at the city's gate
With his lifted sword !

The tongues of bells in the steeple-tops
Sent on the breath of the baleful air
A call for the people far and near
To evening prayer.

At the sound of bells the weeping ceased,
The heart of the thousand stilled its moan,
The name of God was uttered aloud
With the bells' sad tone.

And the gleaming crosses pointing up,
Like the gold of crowns that princes wear.
Seemed in the gray of the changeless sky
As signs of prayer.

714

New Publications.

And the women's eyes were wet with tears,
Their desolate souls were wrung with pain.
For the dead asleep in their silent graves
Through the sun and rain.

In the dawn and noon and dusk it rose,
Threading its way up the narrow stair —
The Catholic cry — when the bells were rung
For the people's prayer.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

The Prisoners of the Temple ; or, Dis-
crowned AND Crowned. By M. C.
O'Connor Morris. (Eleventh volume
of Father Coleridge's QiMrtcfly Series.)
London : Burns ^iOates. 1874. (New
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica-
tion Society.)

This is a republication with additions
of papers from that excellent magazine,
The Afonthy which is especially valuable
for its historical articles. It gives an ac-
count of the imprisonment of Louis XVL
and his family in the old tower of the Tem-
plars, together with sketches of other parts
of the history of that noble and unfortunate
group of victjms to atheistic and revolu-
tionary fury. The chief interest centres in
the history of Louis XVIL, commonly
called the Dauphin. The tragic tale of his
horrible sufferings and death is minutely
told. At the end of the volume we have
a report of the judgment in the famous
case of the Naundortfs, who pretended to
be the heirs of the Dauphin. This is one
of the many tales of an escape of the
Dauphin from the Temple and the substi-
tution of another child in his place. The
utter falsity of all these stories is amply
proved, pretenders and prophets to the
contrary notwithstanding. Whoever looks
to the brAnch of the Capets for the deliv-
erance of France must find him in the
Count de Chambord. We cannot too
warmly recommend this charming and
pathetic narrative to all our readers.

Meditations on the Life ahd Doc-
trine OF Jesus Christ. By NicboUs
Avancinus. S.J. Translated from iIk
German Edition of the Rev. J. E. Zdl-
ner, by F. E. Bazalgette. With a Pre-
face on Meditation, by George Pot-
ter, S.J. 2 vols. London : Burns i
Gates. 1874. (New York: Sold bj
The Catholic Publication Society.)

The Meditations of Avancinus were
specially adapted to the use of relifioos.
The German editor modified them for
the use of all persons indiscriminiieir
They are prepared for every day in tbe
)'ear, are short, simple, and well fitted for
use, both in community and in private.

The Nobleman of '89. By M. A. Quir
ton. Translated by Prof. Emcsi U-
garde, of Mt. St. Mary's College. Bx'
timore : Kelly & Piei. 1874.

Some of our readers have doubtless
read the Quaire- Vingt- Treiu of that ir«i
magician of language and fiery geniiso*
revolution, Victor Hugo. It is an apolop
for the French Revolution ; yet, to ac)
person whose mind and hean are v(^
already corrupted by bad principles a«i
passions, it must seem like an apofogT
which makes the crime worse and less
excusable. The romances of Erckmann-
Chatrian arc more subtle and plausibk
One or two of them are, if taken stigtr-

New Publications.

71$

quite inofiensive, and a translation of
them was some time ago given in our
own pages on account of their vivid il-
lustration of most interesting historical
epochs. A contributor, quite unsuspect-
ingly, even proposed to translate them
ill. and the necessity of reading the whole*
^t before accepting the proposition, first
opened our eyes to the scope and object
which their authors have always had in
Hew, and which is exposed in some very
piaialy ; as, for instance, in WaUrho, the
sequel to 77/^ Conscript, The end of
these writers is to extend and popularize
batred of the church, the clergy, and the
classes enjoying wealth or power in the
(tate ; to foster the spirit of liberalism
either in its extreme or moderate form,
ind thus to help on the revolution. The
inljuencc of such books teaches us a val-
uable lesson concerning the polemic
strategy to be employed on the opposite
side. Historical romances have an ex-
traordinary charm for a multitude of
readers, and they can be made the vehi-
:Ie of conveying historical knowledge
logcther with the valuable lessons which
jistory teaches. In order that they may
^rfectly fulfil their highest purpose, they
should present true, authentic history,
using fiction merely as an accessory. M.
[Juinton has done this, and has given a
rorrect and vi?id historical sketch of one
f)criod in the French Revolution, which
IS included in the plot of a novel of gen-
uine dramatic power and descriptive abil-
ty. Its size is very considerable, making
\ volume of eight hundred pages, closely
printed in quite small type. Fearful as
ihc scenes are through which we are hur-
ried in following the adventures of the
fMjrsons figuring in the story, we are not
ieft without some compensation and aU
ieviation in the episodes of quiet life
A'hicb relieve its tragic gloom. Some
lurming characters are portrayed, the
i>est of which are three individuals of
ow station but high heroism — Louisette,
Drake, and Cameo.

The characters of Marat, Danton, Ro-
l)espierrc, Philippe Egalit6, and other
caders of the Revolution, are well por-
trayed. The author's special success,
iiowcver, Is in describing the low ruffians
who led the mob in the work of assassi-
i.Kion. Maillefer, Lepitre,Boulloche, and
Raifool are like Dante's demons. We
^lavc never read anything more infernally
ttorrible than the description of Aunt
Magloire and the band of women who

were trained to yell at the royal family.
We recommend the perusal of this de-
scription most especially to the strong-
minded young ladies who are inclined to
dabble in infidelity. In Mme. Roland
they may see themselves as they are now ;
in Aunt Magloire and her frenzied band
they may see where womanhood is
brought by the abandonment of faith,
when the lowest stage of degradation is
reached.

The translator has done a great service
to the public by putting this admirable
historical novel into English. We take
the liberty of recommending to him an-
other one — M. Barthelemy's Putre U PHI-
larot. The multiplication of such books
will go far to counteract the evil influ-
ence of those which falsify history and
instil bad principles. We have vainly
endeavored to persuade some of our pub-
lishers to undertake the translation of
Conrad von Bolanden's historical novels,
which are far superior to the heavy pro-
ductions of Muhlbach. If these latter,
in spite of their dulncss, obtained so ex-
tensive a circulation, why not the admira-
ble works of Bolanden which depict the
thrilling scenes of the Thirty Years' War?
A series of small, popular histories of
certain important epochs is also very
much wanted.

Purgatory Surveyed, etc. Edited by
W. II. Anderdon, S.J. Reprinted from
the edition of 1663. London : Burns
& Gates. 1874. (New York : Sold by
The Catholic Publication Society.)

The original ofthis treatise was written
in French by Father Binet, S.J. As it now
stands it is the work of Father Tbimelby,
S.J., who used the work of Father Binet as
a basis for his own. It is quaint, rich, and
in one respect more directly practical as a
spiritual book than some other excellent
treatises on the same subject, inasmuch
as it shows the pious reader how to avoid
purgatory.

Lessons in Bible History for Cath-
olic Schools. By a Teacher. New
York : P. O'Shea. 1875.

Experienced teachers usually prepare
the best school-books. The compiler of
these Bible lessons is a lady of remark-
able talent, who has spent many years of

7i6

New Publications.

most successful labor as a teacher in an
academy for young ladies which deserv-
edly enjoys the highest reputation. Her
book is one which has been prepared
during this long course of teaching, and
thus practically tested, as well as contin-
ually improved. It is now published
with the direct sanction of his Grace the
Archbishop of New York, after a careful
revision made under his authority. The
author has not attempted to go into ques-
tions of difficult critical erudition in re-
spect to chronology and similar matters,
but has simply followed the commonly-
received interpretation of the text of Scrip-
ture history, where there is one, avoid-
ing the difficulties and doubtful topics
which beset the study of all ancient his-
tory, sacred as well as profane. In this
respect she has shown uncommon tact
and judgment, and has always kept in
view her true object, which is to prepare
a text-book suitable for young pupils of
from ten to fifteen years old. The style
and method are admirable for brevity,
clearness, and a graphic, picturesque
grouping of events and characters. The
delicacy with which every narrative,
where immoral and criminal acts are in-
volved, shuns the danger of shocking the
innocent mind of children by contact with
evil of which it is ignorant, is exquisite.
The questions about morals which neces-
sarily suggest themselves to the quick,
inquisitive minds of children, and which
the author has often had to answer in
class, are solved prudently and correctly.
The interval between the sacred history
of the Old Testament and that of the New
has been filled up from profane authors,
particularly Josephus, which is a great
addition to the value of the book, and
throws light on the narrative of the Gos-
pels that makes it much more intelligible.
In the history of the life of Christ the
words of the evangelists are for the most
part employed, without other changes or
additions than such as are necessary to
make the narrative continuous. The
parables are arranged by themselves in a
series. A summary of the Acts of the
Apostles concludes the work, which is
of very moderate size and copiously illus-
trated by woodcuts. As a school-book
this is the best of its kind, in our opinion,
and we expect to see it generally adopt-
ed in Catholic schools. We cannot too
cordially recommend it to teachers and
parents for their young pupils and for fam-
ily reading. Many adults, also, will find

it the best and most suitable compeadiuci
of Bible history for their own rfadtng
and even if they are in the habit of read
ing the sacred books thercsclves in iheii
complete text, this manual will jiid ibca
to gain a better undersLindingof thiir
historical parts than ihej can otherwise
obtain. We trust the good cxampk <?i
by the pious and accomplished ambct
will be followed by many of her assocatn
in the holy work of religious educatioo,
to the great advantage of both icackn
and pupils. Thousands of lovely diil-
dren whom she will never sec thissk'f
of heaven will bless the hand that bis
prepared for them so much delighifol it;
struction, even if their curiosity is neve
gratified by knowing her name.

EXCERI»TA RX RlTUALI RoMANO. NOVAH

AucTiOR Editio. Baltimore: Ktu?
Piet, ei Soc. 1874,

This is a lovely little ritual, a rrr
pretty present for any one to make to 3
priest, especially to one just sent oia
from the seminary to a poor and aidora^
country mission.

Letters of Mr. Gladstoxe a?cp Oni-
ERS. New York : Tribum Office, iS;*

The London TnhJei epigraininatica^:^
remarks that Mr. Gladstone kiad!td •
fire on a Saturday which was pot oti
on the following Monday. Mgr. Op?
has very satisfactorily answered hiic
Every person not an ignoramus in theo-
logy and jurisprudence, knows that tf
Catholic Church teaches the dcriraoo-
of the stale from a divine institBtkn
immediaUly^ and not mediately ibroftrf^
the church ; moreover, that she teache*
what follows by logical sequence, i^k
duty of allegiance to the state. N-
Christian, no moral philosopher, and c •
person holding the principles on wfcidr
the American fabric of law is based, a"
hold that this allegiance is unlimited.

The New York Herald, remaxkaH^
both for extraordinary blunders and K'
extraordinarily just and sensible stait-
ments, has well said that there is a •bis^
er law" recognized by every one wV'
believes in the supremacy of conscic»-~-
and duty to God. It is a very base a*
inconsistent thing for an AmericiB t
profess a doctrine of blind, slavish osf

Ncv) Publications.

717

Iicncc to civil magistrates and laws,
lowcver wicked these may be. The Ca*
hoHc Church has always claimed to be
he infallible judge in morals as well as
n faith. The Pope has always exercised
tie supreme power of proDOuocing the
afallible judgments of the church, and
lie Vatican decrees have added nothing
ti that power. Thej' have embodied the
»erpctual doctrine of the chDrch in a
oleron judgment with annexed penal-
ies, as an article of Catholic faith ; and,
XX consequence, whoever refuses obedi-
nce and assent to that judgment is ipso
facto a heretic and excommunicated,
t is therefore idle for Lord Acton and
-ord Camoys, who have stained their
lobility and their Catholic lineage by an
.ct of treason and apostasy, to pretend
be CAlboIics. They are no more Cath-
>lics than is Mr. Gladstone, and the £ng-
ish Catholics have repudiated them and
heir doctrine with indignation. It is
utile to pretend that the Pope claims any
jure divino temporal power directly over
•tatcs or citizens in their political capaci-
y. or pretends to retain ^ny jure humaiio
Mivereignty beyond his own kingdom.
The reader will find the general subject
>f this notice discussed at greater length
elsewhere in this number.

Oi-TLiNES OF Astronomy. By Arthur
Searle, A.M., Assistant at Harvard
College Observatory. iCmo, 415 pp.
Boston : Ginn Brothers. 1874.

A new interest has within the past few
years been given to the science of astro-
nomy by the recent discoveries which
liavc been made in it, principally by the
use of the spectroscope and by the new
tield which has been opened and which
IS siill opening before astronomers, of
physical research into the construction
of the celestial bodies. A short time ago
the science seemed nearly as complete as
u was ever likely to become ; now, while
retaining its old ground intact, ft is ra-
pidly developing new resources, and, be-
sides being itself perfected, it is contribut-
ing no small share to the solution of the
Rrcat problem of the day in purely physi-
ul science — the constitution of matter.

Many new and txcclient works have,
accordingly, as might be expected, lately
appeared on the subject, called forth by
the reawakened interest in it, both in the
wot Id at large and among scientific men.

The book forming the subject of this no-
tice is certainly one of the best of these.

It is not a mere condensed summary
of what is known and has been discover-
ed. Such summaries, of course, are of
great utility, both for reference and as
text-books, and serve excellently in the
latter way, if the object of the learner be
to memorize for a time a large number of
facts, or, in other words, to cram for an
examination. They may serve, for stu-
dents of good memories, even a perma-
nent purpose ; but they require close ap-
plication, and labor under the difficulty —
too often a fatal one — of not being inter-
esting, unless helped out by startling re-
presentations of nebulx, comets, clusters
of stars, and other beautiful objects at
which many people seem to suppose
astronomers to spend their lives in idly
gazing.

Fine writing, on the other hand, about
the grandeur and magnificence of the
celestial orbs, etc., is indeed often inter-
esting; but, though edifying and useful
in its way, it fails to instruct. One really
knows little more after it than before.

This book has to a great extent, and
perhaps as far as possible, avoided both
of these difficulties, which usually stand
in the way of people who wish to know
something of astronomy, but not to be-
come practical astronomers. It is more
on the plan of Ilerschel's treatise than of
any other which we remember, but is,
though this is saying a good deal, supe-
rior to it in two respects. One is, as is
obvious, that it is brought up to the pre-
sent state of the science ; and the other,
that in the first part the geometrical dia-
grams usually considered necessary arc
dispensed with, and supplied by inge-
nious popular illustrations borrowed from
facts of daily life, and familiar to all,
which attract, instead of terrifying, the
reader. It is true that the fear which
most people have of mathematics is to a
great extent unreasonable ; but allowance
must be made, even for ill founded preju-
dices. Iltustrations and explanations of
this kind, for which the author has a re-
markable talent, are a feature of the book
throughout.

The last half of it is intended for those
who have a real desire to understand the
work which astronomers do, and how
they have done it ; the nature of the prob-
lems which they have to solve, and the
means employed. It does not presup-
pose any really mathematical education ;

718

Nnv Publications.

what geometry is needed is explained as
it is required, and with a great deal of
originalit}', as we may observe by the
way. But to this branch of the subject
there is no admission, except by New-
ton's key of ** patient thought." Those
who do not care to use it must dispense
with the knowledge to which it opens
the door. The chapter on the " History
of Astronomy " is, however, easy reading,
and much the best short sketch of the
progress of the science of which we are
aware.

The illustrations are excellent, not
being copies on a traditional type, but
taken from photographs or careful origi-
nal drawings. A copious index, appended
to the book, facilitates reference.

The work is mainly intended for the
general reader ; but there is no reason
why it should not be a text-book, espe-
cially for academies and colleges, as Sir
John Herschel's, already alluded to, has
proved to be. We have no hesitation in
recommending it for this purpose, and as
being worthy to take the place of any
now in use.

We regret that the words on page 384,
expressing a mere hope in the existence,
or at any rate in the providence, of God as
the author of nature, should have been in-
serted. We have not noticed anything
else in the book to which Catholics can
object, unless it be the use of the word
infinity in the sense common to Protes-
tant authors, which is, in fact, the one or-
dinarily given to it by mathematicians.

The Testimony of thk Evangelists
Examined by the Rules of Evi-
dence Administered in Courts of
Justice. By Simon Grecnleaf, LL.D.,
late Dane Professor of Law in Har-
vard University, author of "Treatise
on the Law of Evidence," etc. Nevp"
York : James Cockcroft & Co. 1874.

Prof. Grcenleafs reputation as a writer
on jurisprudence is too well known to
need any comment from us. In bringing
his judicial calmness and legal acumen
to bear on the Christian evidences, he
has conferred an obligation which all
Christians must acknowledge. He writes
as a Christian scholar should write, with
learned gravity, yet with reverent sim-
plicity ; and as he belicMes the divinity of
Our Lord, and raises no disputed point
of doctrine, his work may be accepted as

orthodox. It is in reading the produf.
tions of such minds as his that the reallj
ephemeral character of works like Re.
nan's Life of Jesttt is best apprecialed.
Renan holds a brief, and his argnmenis
in support of it are only fiowery and
super^cial rhetoric. R-enan's stents aft-
very dramatic — the apparition of oar
Lord to Magdalen, for instance, is work
ed up with great elaborateness of effect,
but when he comes to face solid en-
dence, he fails most deplorably. Thus,
in treating of Our JLord's appearance i^
the apostles after his resurrection, vsA
the conviction of the doubting Thomas,
he merely says that at the first interview
S. Thomas was not present, adding in a
careless way : "It is said {on dit) ibt
eight days afterward he was satined.'
A cavalier way this of disposing o( a
most circumstantial piece of history!

This ample and elegant volume is a
new edition of a work published, wc be-
lieve, some thirty years ago, and no*
oat of print. One of the best parts oJ
the book is the Appendix, containing,
among other things, M. Dupin's "Rcfa
tation of Salvador's Chapter on the TriaJ
of Jesus."

Sins of the Tongth: ; ok, Jealoust in
Woman's Life ; followed by discourses
on rash judgments, patience, and gnct
Boston : Patrick Donahoe. 1874.

The Vallant Woman : A series of dis-
courses intended for the use of woraea
living in the world. Boston : Patrid
Donahoe. 1874.

Two very practical books written br
Mgr. Landriot, late Archbishop of RhciiES,
and translated from the French by He-
lena Lyons. After having passed throcyii
four editions in England. Mr. Donabor
presents them to us in an American drc<^
for circulation and perusal in thiscoinv
try. The print is clear, the tnin5lat;08
good, and the binding in keeping.

Both of these books will be found verr
useful to clerg}'men who have the spin?-
ual direction of women living 'n tie
world, and will assist them in prepafjf^
sermons to decrj- those most raischicroBS
of sins : env}% jealousy, rash judgn:eat^
and sloth.

Although these books were written ior
females, j'et they will be very bcneScjt
to many of the opposite sex, who are net
unfrcquently in great need of cultivaiipf

New Publications.

719

reserve and charily. The first one, par-
ticularly, roay be read with advantage by
Fome writers for the press, who seem to
f»rget that calumny, detraction, and vitu-
peration are mortal sins, which are even
nore aggravated when published to the
Aorld than when only privately indulged
n, and that, moreover, they exact repara-
ion.

Jipo DiviNi Officii Recitandi Miss^e-
guE Cei.ebranDjE, juxta Rubricas

BrJEVIARII AC MiSSALIS ROMANI, AnNO

1875. Baltimorx : apud Fratres Lucas,
Bibliopolas, via vulgo dicta Market,
No. 170.

We beg pardon for having misquoted
he title of this work. The title-page
ontains the word ** Rectandi," which we
avc supposed to stand for " Recitandi,"
ind " Celebrande," for which we have
ubstituted " Celebrandae."

It would be well if the mistakes in
his important publication were all on
he title-page, and if they were all merely
aisprtnts. We will, however, begin with
iiesc. The proofs do not seem to have
fcen read at all.

The following, then, are some of the
nisprints. Feb. 4, " S. Andnc Corsini."
'cb. 10, ** Dom, Fossion" Mar. 10, *• A
unctus.^* Mar. 20, ** fueii heri** and
pnrsente Candav*' Mar. 28, " DoM. Re-
VRF.CT." This last is, if we remember
ighily, an old acquaintance. Apr. 13,

S. Hemencgildi." May 2, **S. Antha-
lasii." May 5, ** prase nU cadttv^ May
q, *• S, Prudentianx." May 23, ** Fcs-
um SS. Trinitatatis." The superfluous
at ** here has perhaps come out of

Sfaiui," on June 8, which reads " Mut'*
une 13, **Vcsp."

These will suflica as specimens of
rjcrc typographical errors. The follow-
ng cannot be considered as such :

On January 16 we find the feast of S.
•{arcelUnus. The Breviary has Marccl-
us. Similarly, on July 13, we have S.
^nicetus for S. Anacletus.

The feast of S. John Nepomucen has
lisappcared altogether. Unless it has
•ren suppressed, it should have the day
I) which that of S. Francis Car.icciolo
as been transferred. This requires the
dI lowing changes:

June 15. For S. Francis Caracciolo
cad S. John Nepomucen.

June 17. For S. U bald us read S. Fran-
is Caracciolo.

June 18. For S. Bernardine read S.
Ubaldus.

June 22. For S. M. M. of Pazzi read
S. Bernardine.

June 23. For the Vigil of S. John read
S. M. M. of Pazzi.

The assigned feast of S. Leo comes, it
would seem, this year, on July 3. Until
now it has been on July 7. Moreover,
we do not find it in the Breviary on the
27th of June, as stated this year, but
rather on the 28ih, as previously.

We must do the Ordo the justice to
say that it has itself corrected one of its
mistakes. It put in the feast of S. Justin
on the 14th of April, and has inserted a
slip saying that this is only for the Ro-
man clergy.

Cannot we have a better Otth next
year? It has been getting worse and
worse for some time. And if we have a
change for the better, would it noi be a
good idea at the same time to separate
the part peculiar to the Diocese of Balti-
more entirely frorh the rest, for the con-
venience of the clergy? Since writin;[»^
the above, our attention has been called
to the omission of the anniversaries of
consecration of some of our bishops.

There may be some other errors ; it is
not probable that we have noticed all.

Reglement Ecclesiastique de Pierre
Le Grand. Par le R. P. C. Tondini,
Barnabite. Paris : Libr. de la Soc.
Bibliogr., 75 Rue du Bac. 1874.

F. Tondini has sent us two copies of
this curious and valuable document, for
which he will please accept our thanks.
It contains the text of the Regulation in
Russian, Latin, and French, with other
pieces and notes, and is prefaced by an
introduction. There is a great deal of
political talent and skill exhibited in this
code of the Russian Peter, which is the
foundation upon which the modern schis-
matical Church of Russia is founded.
There arc also many things in it most
whimsical and amusing. Thfe Emperor
Paul wanted to celebrate a Pontifical
Mass in vestments of sky-blue velvet.
Peter did not care about performing any
such childish escapade as this, but he
was resolved to exercise the governing
power of a supreme pontiff, and he car-
ried his resolve into execution. The one
salient feature of his regulation is the
systematic effort to degrade the hierarchy

720

New Publications.

and clergy of the Russian Church, to
make them impotent and contemptible.
The able despot, aided by his unscrupu-
lous instruments, succeeded but too well.
The ultimate result has been that Russia
is worm-eaten and undermined by infi-
delity and its necessary concomitant, the
revolutionary principle. There is no
salvation for it, even politically, except
in a return to obedience to the See of
Peter, the Prince of the Apostles. Our
Episcopalian admirers of the Russian
Church will find some wholesome read-
ing in this interesting and learned work
fif F. Tondini.

SAi>LiKRh* Catholic Directory, Alma-
nac, AND OrDO for the YeAR OF OUR

Lord 1S75. New York: D. & J. Sad-
lier & Co. 1S75.

In the cursory glance we have been
able to give this publication, we are glad
to notice an evident effort to improve on
the issues of previous )-ears. We do not
look fcr* perfection in such difficult com-
pilations, and anything approaching it
is to be commended.

hKNK OF Armorica. By J. C. Batc-
inan. New York: D. & J. Sadlier &
i^o, 1S74.

This work, reprinted from Father Cole-
ridge's admirable Quarterly Scries^ was
noticed, at the time of its original pub-
lication, in The Catholic World for
June. 1S73. We have also received from
ll»c sair.c house : Moore's Irish Mdodies^

with memoir and notes by John Sarage ;
Carleton's Redmond Count (THanim, Tkt
Evil Eye, and TAe Black Banmet; the
latter reprints, we believe, of works here-
tofore published by Mr. Donahoc o(
Boston.

The Milwaukee Catholic Macazixi,
January, 1875.

We welcome to our tabic this new cos-
temporary, an octavo monthly of ihirtr-
two pages, just come to hand. Tbeeditc^
having beautified the churches and dwell-
ings of his locality with the produc-
tions of his pencil and crayon, nowtak"
up the pen professional ; though he has
heretofore made occasional contributiors
to the press, which have reccniljr beei
put into book-form. He brings to h^
task a refined, poetic taste, a genuine ap
preciation of the beaiuiful in art andaa-
ture, and a sturdy good sense, which wi..
doubtless serve him well in Jiis new rela-
tions. We wish him all success.

Announcement. — TThe Catholic PoUi
cation Society has in press, and wii:
soon publish from advance sheets, iw©
very important works in answer to Mr.
Gladstone's late pamphlet; one by tht
Very Rev. John Henry Newman, DJ)^
and the other by His Grace Archbishop
Manning. The fonner is entitled A
Letter to the Duke of Norfolk, en tie ec^^-
sion of Mr, Gladstone's recent ExfrntnUU^-
and the latter. The Vatican Decrees ^
their Bearings on Civil Alleiiavxe.

ITERARY

ULLETIN.

PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENT.

Th« CAfBOLlO PirBUOATIOH DOCIETT hM in

?fm^ <Dd will publUh early in 1875, the fol-
lo^i»g Boolu: Very Roy. Dr. Newman's Beply
to C H ad t on e ; Arctobithop Mannirg on The
▼alioan Beeree* axkl iihsir Bearings on
OMlAllA^iaBoef TheMistnMof NoTioes
•■Ittfktenad upon her Dwtiee, tranaUitcd
tr • Bi«Utr or Mercj, price H' 90; Deharbe's
Oiwni>l > i e Oatechiam, transUted Anm the
0«ai«n by FWther Fnader. 8.J.. price 76 cents ;
n* Tonnir Ctaktholio's Fifth Beader ;
The 7onnir OatiioUo's Sixth Header;
Tonne Xadiee' High Olass Beader;
ZAIto of Father Bezoiard, 0.S9.B.) trans-
lated from the Freoch. $160; Xiife of Bt.
Jobn the BvanveUst, translated from the
VrcBcb, $9 1 Holy Week, Latin and Bnglish,
a new, rerlred, aikl enUived edition, largje type,
75 ceats. ThU it the only complete and correct
edition of the oMcee of Holy Week, extending
fton Palm Sanday to Bsster Taeeday, pnb-
lilted in Bafdtsh and Latin; The Veil With-
drawn, by Mme. Crateo.

KeUy, Piet & Co.. of Ballimure, aunoance the
follow In/^ books as in press :

** 1 he C'ereioonial.; fur the Use of the Catholic
Charches in ihe United btatos. Four h edi-
tion. Kevisi-d by the Bight Rev.T. A. Becker,
Bishop of Wilmington.** ** The Sacristan's Man-
Bal; or, Handbook of Cbnrch Furnitnre, Oma-
nent, etc" ''Seven Stories,'* by Lady Geor-
Klana Fallerton. "Snmore: A Tale of Home
Life.** '' The Life of Margaret Koper ; or. The
nunocilor and his. Daoghter.'* "Little Com-
panion of the Sistera of Mercy.**

Father HewU*s last beok,The JLing *8 High-
way, la noticed by the OUMie Btcord as fol-
lows:

^From that most charming of sommer re-
twsla, whose every breeze Is redolent with
•ctnic beauty. Historic memories, and as»ocia-
tiooadear to every Catholic heart, St. Mary*s of
Uk Lake, Lake St. Sacrament (vnlgariter Lake
Cleorge), Vat her Hewlt sende lOrth to the strag-
xHnf world of Ignorant doubters this little work
like a dore of peace from the ark to tlH> etorm-
tossed rellglom world. Its author's name Is the
KUraatee of the excellence of the Hterary
Bsrtu of the work. It may be asked, Have we
Mt, In all ^omt^tnct^ eaoogh reilgloosand eon-
trover»ial works ? What need for another T Wr
■tight reply that Father Hewit, as a priest oi
«}od, and one who has the care of vast numbers
^ •ools. Is a sentinel placed on the watch-towers
of the Chorch, mnreying Uw field of her oombatt

and straggles, and is therefore ab'e lo discern any
parts of the detences that need str«ngtheniDg, or
any of the enemy's forces that need enconisge-
ment to f nter the ttue fold, and he therefore is
the best judge of the means for either end. He
distinctly declares in his prefiice that, while a
large number of our costroveisial woiks are
written for the wavering members of the High
Church portion of Protestants, who need persua-
sion rather than argument to make their * Ro-
manising* tendebcies bear the good ficit of
oonve/eion, yet there Is not so much attention
given to the sincere seekers for truth, who,
having doubts of their religious position, are so
totally befogged by the radical vspors of evan-
gelicalism, that they reqnlre a dogmatic explana-
tion of their own ftindamental err.rs ; but who,
because they belong to the despalred-of aects,
receive nothing but abuse or sarcasm.

**The office, therefore, of the King's Highway
is manifest, and we think Father Htwit has done
well in turning his atteLtion tu a class of good
people who are really the flower of our conveits
when once thty embrace the truth. Nor is it
without instruction for those of the household
of the faith ; for, If the) would win their sepa-
rated brethren to their Faiher*s house, they must
possess themselves of the means appropriate for
the various clashes of individuals whom God
may send in their way for the purpdse.

'*May its glad inspiration exhilarate the souls
of its readers like the visions of beauty that en-
rapture the visitor around sweet Lae St. Saors-

The London TubUt says of Orapee and
Thorns that, "Not spuming 'sensation,* In
the legitimate sense, this author la graceful and
refliied. The combination is rare. There is as
much Interest in this story as Is t>rdioariiy to be
found in the works of ficton of tlie most popular
writers ; but there is al vsys a gt>od motive— a
motive well sustained, ; <'t uc%'er intruded on our
notice. Among the churaictt.rs that are really
ably drawn are those of a wife aud a mother ; but
in what way thes^ two characters are blended, or
how the story revolves on their nnion, we think
it not fair to mention. There is a priest, too,
who Is typically heroic, in the true chivalrous
sense of the word ; and his treatment of suffer,
ing, and his triumph over death, are among the
deHcate tonohes of the book. Perhaps the main
gift of thia wiiter isdeUocatlon of character, with
the happy art of Interweaving * edification,* with-

i ont ever forcing it upon ns. Sermons in novels
are extremely objectionable, and so, as a rale, is

, raligiona controversy ; nor do we like what are

Literary bulletin.

called pious novels, that is, novels whose affec-
tation le piety. The difflcnlt point for renlly
weil-meanfng wri;.er8, Ik to make the piety objec-
tive, BO that th.{ interest and the moral of ti«e
story run toffether without any preaching. In
Orapett and Thorns ^e have jnst this snccos*.
The reader is pleased while reading it. and hie
after- thoughts are pleasanter still."

The Christian Union says of it that '* it has at
least two exccptinnaliv well-drawn characters',
one being a priest and the other a Jew. There is
sufBcient of plot and incident for a novel of the
mo<«t sennational order, but the author resists the
temptation, and writer, instead, a quiet, refined
story whose purpose is largely religious and very
slightly denominational. There is no lack of
lovers in it. but the most exqnicite affection that
is portrayed is that existing between a man of
forty and his mother. Such lovers seem usually
beneath the notice of novelists, and are therefore
very delightful surprises when found in print."

And the New York Tahiti adds' its quota of
praise as follows:

** The beaatirul ulo of Grapes and Thorns,
whose prc)};ress the readers of Trb Catbolic
World have been following with ^ver-increaslng
interest for over a year. Is now before u* in book
form, and we hasten to announce its appearance
to our readers as one of the very be*t Catholic
novels of the day. The accompli 8h<;d author,
who modestly hides her real name nnder the ini-
tia's M. A. T , has already con tribute d 77ie House
of Yorte and several minor tales of great beauty
and merit to our growing American Catholic
literature; bat Grapes and TTutms^ although its
name is not by any means attractive, is, as
yet, her must successful effort. The House qf
Torke was good, and very good as an American
Catholic novel, but Grapes and Thorns is still
better. The descriptions of American, of New
England scenery, and a*soof Rome, its churches,
its ruins, its radiant skies, its religious influ-
ences, are worthy of all praise. We have very
great pleasure in recommending the book to onr
readers who have not yet seen it, knowing that
they will read it with as much pleasure as we
ourselves did. The author must abready be
placed side by side with Lady Georgiana Fuller-
ton as a Catholic novelist."

Says the London Register of the Life of 8.
Oatherine of Q^noa : '" This is a m^st interest-
ing lire of the great S. Catherine of 0«noa— that
privileged saint whose pure and illuminated soul
affords a realization of the beatitude, * Blessed
are the clean of heart ; for they shall see God.*
The work is written with a simple eloquence of

style that It very attcactiTe, and it hai bees i4
mlrably translated into English. The nasc eT
neither antlior nor tianalator is givw, bat we an
told that the 1att«r b now do more, istheiatn^
dnction, written by Very Rer, I. f . Backft;
arid dated Annecy, it ia very trvthfady fODttks^
that the life of S. Catherine of Gen** tfi«d» t
striking answer to those 'who think tk&l tb«
Church festers a i-anctity which Is not c o tc tDi^
with this present life.* 'Read the ttf c «f S.
Catherine,' exclaims tht« wrtt^, * and in
tiun fancy her in the dty bnrpital of
rhargod not only with the saperriskm
sponsibility of its finances, bat also
the care of its sick inmate*, taking aa
personal part in its duties as one of tti
and the whole establish mcnt coodncted alft
strict ecr>nomy, perfect order, and the tmtisA
care and love !* Side by side witli tlw reoort i#
8. CathTine's practical labors In the osas tf
Christian charity we have, in the vodoiBt bctai
us, a collection of her most spiritual writli^
namely, hor Spiritual IHatoffuts^ in three |0ll.
and h* r TVsoliss on Purffotcry^ which iMte^hii
said S. Francis de Sales was accustomed to mi
twice a year. Schlegel, who translated tbeilto-
loffues into German, regarded them as an^qesM
in t)eanty of style ; and we learn tn the jHmt
of this work (which is originally pabliskid bt
New York) that, such has been the effect «f ibt
example of Christian perfection in this MJnt,
the American Tract Society have included a shot
sketch of her life among its tracts, with the ito
of her name "by marriage. Catherine Adcra"
English Catholics will not fad to wekome vitft
dspecial interest this very excellent issae Ik^n
the Transatlantic press placed within their reict
by Messrs. Bnme A Oatea."

The London WMkip RtffitUr saya that " Onty
a Pin is truly, as its title-page infurras B^ aa
instructive moral story,* teaching us hu« ton^
verence the word« of a parent, to be canfal is
all things, even to the picking up of a pin. * Tk«
Pin * tells its adventures, and the share it kal a
the rise and proapecta of a young maa wha M
remembered his lost father's advice, and picM
it up when poor and needy ; and to that dipte
act he always attributed his after-happiaefitti
success in life. The work is translated fraa tk
French of J. J. de Saint-Germain, by a gninK
of St. Joseph's, Emmittsbnrgh "; and of Xhl
Froffres8ioniBt« and Angela, thai the; *■«
two attractive and intereating tales la («em^
ume, both translated from the German of CmBA
Von Bolanden. The former is a story of ttei*^
called progress of religion and science dnriof ia
ter years ; and the scene is laid tn Otmaa^
'Angela' is o^a different atamp^ bni Qitlte«4sa
in interest."

Literary Bulletin.

BOOKS OF THE MONTH,

m tbia head we intend to give a list of all

<>atbolio Books pnblialied in this country

as well aa all those published in Rng-

for sale here. Publishers will pleaae

send a special copy to the publisher for the pur-
pose' of having its title inserted here. All the
books mentioned below can be ordered of Ths
Catholic Publication Soaarv.

FOREIGN BOOKS.

t^.

Conirowertf, ** i. '— Expostula-
la Extremis; or« Kemarks on Mr. Glad-
Political Expostulation on the Vatican
in their Beariniton Civil Allegiance.
Right Hon. Lord Robert MonUgu,
Sf 00

Conirorer^y, '**."— The Vatican
BSftnd Catholic Allegiance. A Reply to
4 r* Gladstone's Political Expostulation. By
L%fo«lt of St. Augustine's, Ramsgate.i^& e/#.

I» ^rU^ner9/iA€ Ttmpie; or. Discrowned
mA Crowned. By M. C. O'Connor Morris.

S» 95

. tor Sitiofy of ike Tnsurreeiion of
^00. ^//s

Wi »0u ioty Surr^ed; or, A Particular Ac-
iMfeot of the Happy and yet Thrice Unhappy
lUfee cf the Souls There. Edited by Dr. An-
kttfdon... St 60

U9w*^rei Xoptr f or. The Chancellor end
lis Dftughter SS 00

M CMoi<€9fa Siaie of Life. By the late
Makop of Bruges Sf SO

fmn9 0ftMo Ckurek. Translated from the
>riciii«l into English Verse. By Rev. John
nrallace.D.D S2 25

"oiewiani JoumatUm, By the author of
' My Clerical Friends." x vol. 8vo ^5 00

ft ofS. ^ior. Cotombini, By Feo Belcan.
Pruttlmted from the editions of 1541 and 183a.
>Dwn 8to, with a Photograph Sf 75

^•kdatt'a Monasficon Mibemieon,
£dited by Dr. Moran. Vol. I SfO 50

b^ ofiMt IrUh Saini$. By Rev. J. O'Hanr
Ml. Noa. 1, 3,3, 4,5 now ready. Price per No.

60 eit.
wiures CM CuikoUe Faith and IVaeiiee.
iy Rev. J. N. Sweeney, O.S.B. 3 vols. ^4 50
^rteioty for ^oricot of epery Xeiipioug
Ordtr, pariieutar^y ihoto Deroied io ike

Sdueaiion of Touik Sf 25

fmmer TatJts aboui Lourdes* By Miss

:«dd«U Sf 00

mr^meriie Mibberi, A Memoir. By Very

Kev. R. Cooke, O.M.I 50 et».

\ 90m€ fhpular Srror$ Concerning
ToUHee and Setigion, By Lord Robert
tfontairu, M.P. z vol. lamo, S3 00

Compariton Ifeitreen ike Mitioty of ike
*knrtk and ike f^ropkeeiee ofilke Apoea-
lypee. Translated from the Crtrman by
Edwin De LislOk Paper Sf 00

ttpere of ike Moty Sainit. Who and what
tbey are. With some account of the Life of
their Poundreaa. By Rev. Charles Garside.

« 75ois.

2ke ZeiierSookt of Sir Amiat Toutei,

Keeper ot Mary, Queen of Scots. Edited by

John Morris, S.J. i vol. 8vo S5 25

Mqy faprre; or. Thoughts on the Litanies

of Lorettii. By Edward Ignatiu» Purbrick,

SJ.
7ke Diaioffues of S* Gregory ike Great.

Edited by Henry James Coleridge, S.J. .SS 00

Tke Zife of Luita De Carrajai* By Lady
Fullerton S2 50

Tke Question of Angiiean Ordinations
Discueted, By E. E. Estcourt, M.A.,
F.A.S., Canon of S. Chad's Cathedral, Bir.
mingham. With an appendix of original doc-
uments and photographic fac-similes. z vol.
8vo S7 00

A hundred Meditations on tke Love of
God* By Robert Southwell, of the Society
of Jesus, Priest and Martyr. With Portrait.
An entirely original work, now lirst published.
Edited, with a preface, by F. John Morris,
S.J. X vol. lamo SS 00

Meditations of St» Anseim. A new Trans-
lation. By M. R. With Preface by His Grace
the Archbishop of Westminster $2 50

Tke Life of tke Stessed Jokn Serekmans.

By Francis Golde. i vol. lamo S2 SO

Dr, Newman's Lectures on Justification.

X vol. lamo S2 25

Dr. Jfewman's Eeclesiasiieat and Tkeo*
togieat Tracts. A new volume of the reissue
of Dr. Newman's works SZ- 00

Tke f^pe and tke Emperor,- Nine Lec-
tures delivered in the Church of S. John the
Evansrelist, Bath. By the Very Rev. J. N.
Sweeney, O.S.B..D.D Sf OO

Wko is Jesus Ckrist ? Five Lectures deliv-
ered at the Catholic Church, Swansea. By the
Right Rev. Dr. Hedley, O.S.B., Bishop Auxil-
iary of Newport and Menevia. .65 cts.

Life of Anne Catkerine Emmerick. By
Helen Ram. t vol. lamo S2 SO

T^ace tkrougk tke Trutk / or. Essays on
Subjects connected with Dr. Pusey's Eireni*
con. By Rev. T. Harper, S.J. Second Series.
—Part I.— Dr. Pusey's First Supposed Papal
Contradiction ; or. The Levitical Prohibitions
of Marriage io their Relation to the Dispens-
in|{ Power of the Pope. z. The Prologue, a.
Fundamental Principles. 3. The Issue, con-
taining a detailed examination of Dr. Pusey's
evidence respecting Marriage with a De-
ceased Wife's Sister. 4. Doctrinal Postil. 5.
The Epilogue, z vol. 8vo SfO 00

Tke Engtisk Catkotie Virectoty, Eccle-
siastical Register, and Almanac for 1875.

75 eis.

Meditations on ike Life and Doctrine of
Jesus Ckrist. By Nicholas Avancinus, S.J.
Translated by George Porter, S.J. a vols,
zamo ^ S2 55

ROYAL CANADIAN

Iiisui-aiice Company of Moutreal, Canadi

$200,000 m U, 8. Bouds deposited with the lu&urance Depart mept of ilw Stos

New York.

HON. JOHN Yi^UNO. Pnefjiijor, J. RSINCENVFA VkislYiii^i .

AklUL'K UAGNUN, ^rLieliiry iiDil Trejiraft'n ALFIiEI> VKUBX , G^Mm^ Mm^

KEW YORK OFFICE: S4 %VILL1AM STEEET, OORNSB PINE.

JCISKPI! B. ST JOHN J vj^„^^^^ ^,^^^,^
WILLIAM J. HtTtiaES,f-^*°*«***^«^****^
NEW YORK 31IRECTOR8 :
K1CT?ARD BELL. Affrtj! Bfluk of ^L^thtl-aI. DAVIB 1>0W8, Bivia Don* « C*k

ELtiKNJ^ iUiLLY, Euti-iif Keilv ^ C^v JOHN t^. WOUO* Woyd, lUt»«« A €««K-

D,^ Nlh L i ORE 1 NCE. Prc^Sik Dt Oiiiu nod MieAtMlppl BuiinaHl

t?r" Tht& Company nmken « [<pi'cSiiiLv of Siifturi^g Chiirftfc**, Aud^mj^. J^l*
iQ^^ IfHUi^e KEJfutture, ^lort^a aud ihi'lr caaicole, tti;., si mtrt ts low ■« fitudftMe

Michael H. Sullivan,

wrra

DUIS^H^M, BUCKLEY & CO

Suce essoin i^f

EIdridg3, Dunham & Co.,

Importers and Jobbers of Foreign and Domestic Dry Gni

No. 340 BKOADWAY, NEW TORK*

Tbe imdersip:ied hiis Imjoq ten veara with the old hoM&B ot Georpfr.
their succeshoi'^, ot wbit'U tliu nthive finti m the latesL Oidens for Dry Q'
to hiui will bt^ cinefuUy iittonded to.

Michafl H. Sullivan, with Dunham, Btickley & Co., 3W

li, i^. FAR BE Lis

(i*ATK u, a cojienL at cadie)^

Attorney & Counsellor-at-Law

No. 7 Warren Street, New York.

Reference : THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCISTT,

The Improved Catholic Simday-School Ciao-j

THE CATUOLIC PUBLICATION? SOCIETY, S Wamn gtrwt Stw f *

FSB» 1875.

or This supersedes aU previeus Catalogues. .J^

BOOKS PUBLIS H E D

ha Gatholic Publication Society,

9 WAKBEN STREET, NEW TOEK.

" Attention is called to the following Catalogue of our Books. The
prices given are the retail ones. A large discount is allowed
to Clerp^men, Booksellers, Religious Institutions, and Library
Societies.

" AH the books in this list sent by mail, postage paid, on receipt
of price.

" All the publications of the several Catholic Publishers, both in
this country and in England, kept in stock.

■A wonderful book."— ^m/m Pilot,

COevlcal Frie&d% and their Rela-
«• to Modem Thought Contents : Chmp.
Il« Vocation of the Clergy.— II. The

Hfy at Home— III. The Clergy Abroad.
iV: Tht Clergy and Modern Thought

rol.

By the tame author.

mk IMbncat Report of a Conference
i the Present Dangers of the Church.
r tha mathor of "My Clerical Friends."
glitr iof Uie Conference: Canon Light-
Md« Archdeacon Tennyson, Rev. Cyril
Eioker— Ritualists. The Kegius Professor
Chaldee, the Bishop of Rochester, Rev.
tbeodary Smiles— High Churchmen. The
^•Dof Brighton, Archdeacon Softly, Rev.
tuTrumpington— Low Churchmen. Dean
tnaioo. Rev. Prebendary Creedless—
»ad Churchmen. Rev. Mark Weasel— An-
Un Unattached, t voU x8mo, cloth, 60 cU.

ft OooMdT of Convocatloii in iho

aglklL Church. In Two Scenes. Edited
r Archdeacon Chasuble, D.D.. and dedi-
tsd to the Pan-AngUcan Synod. 8vo,
oth. . . . .'^ . .100

^ Bf y phfai Caifaolica Americaiia.

Ust of American Catholic Books published
? to the year 1895. By Rev. J. M. Finotti.
foLlTo, . .... .500

lUa Nettendlle) or» One of the

rsiitplaDted. A Tale of the Times of Crom-
«U In Ireland. By Miss Caddell. 1 vol.
t«o. cloth, extra, . . 1 50

ioth,gtiu . . . .2 00

M TioMO* A Tale of the Days of Queen
Sttheth. By Cecilia Mary Caddell. First
JU^ican edition. 1 vol. lamo, . 1 50

*«*h,gm,

Wthe

and

erman of Bolnnden.

t voLi

1. 8vo.

■. HmIUIo I or, A Mother's Last Reguesi,
>»d Other Tales. 1 vol. lamo, . . 1 25

iMi Jonmeyy and Othor Tales

^ Wtlfulne«» and its Consequences, x vol.
S^^^tisplece, . . J50

Little Piene, the Pedlar of Alnoe

Translated from the French, and illustrated
by 97 first-class woodcuts. (Tbhi maOies one
of the handsomest premium books ever
issued in this country.) Cloth, extra, 1 50
Cloth, full gilt 2 00

MMgg^n Bosary, and Other Talet.

(CoNTBNTs : By the author of** Marlon Hov-
ard.'* Maggie*s Rosary— The White Angel
—Mabel— Old Morgan's Rose-Tree. From
the French of Souvestre. translated by Emily
Bowles : The Sawyer of the Vosges— A Meet
ing on the Alps— The Godson.) 1 vol. xsmo

1 00

The Threshold ^ t)ie Catholic

church. A course of plain instructions tor
those enterine her communion. By Fr.
Bagshaw. With preface by Mgr. Cspcl.
X vol. x9mo, 1 50

Sermons on Bccleiiaetical Snigects.

Vol. I. By Archbishop Manning. Cloth,

extra, 2 00

The same, Vol. IL, . . . 2 00

A Winded Word, and Other Storiee.

By the author of ** The House of Yorke,"

etc 1 50

Cloth gilt. . . ... 2 00

The Lilb of Saint John of the Gtoml of

the Order of our Lady of Mouoi Carmcl. x
vol. i6mo, 1 2t5

Lift and Docteine of Saint Catherine

of Genoa. TrankUted trom the Itslian.
n vol. lamo, 2 00

A Tale for Little
cts

Catherine Bamilton. A Tale for Li

Girls. iSmo. . . . OO

The Farm of Mmoeron, and ^

Agnes. Translated from the French,

8vo, cloth, extra,

Cloth, gilt, ....

t vol.

iSS

The Prenoh Pruoner^ >a„Bii

«'ranslated from the French by P. b.
illustration, t vol. t6mo, cloth, extra, 1 00
Cloth, gilt, 1 50

Olorj and Sorrow, and Selim the

Pasha of Salonique. Trsnslated from the
French by P. S. x vol. x6mo, cloth extra.
With two illustrations, • I 00
Cloth, gUt, I 50

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THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XX., No. 1 20.— MARCH, 1875.

ITALIAN DOCUMENTS OF FREEMASONRY.

Wh£K Elias Ashmole and his
Iriends amused their learned

at Brazenose in the construc-

Ml of abstruse symbols and mystic

^j that passed through their
r associates to the first Ma-
Mfe lodges, they could never have
faoicen the result of their invention.
^Il Im than two centuries the asso-
■Mba that sprang from tlie union
^Aiew Royalist officers in England,
" accompanied the exile of King
followers to France, has
||Kad itself over the two hemi-
^plires, a mystery where it is not a
taor. Its history has been written
\ff many pens and in many colors.
ftMie have ascribed to it an origin
IMI m fabulous antiquity, or traced
bfrnealogy back a thousand years
b^^ the Qiristian era.* To some it
h$ti ftbsurd system of innocent mys-
<ifeitiuu, without any capacity for
tki Mod it promises, and powerless
ifiy we evil with which its intentions
I HI audited. But others discern un-
dor its mantle of hypocrisy nothing
|1m than a subtle organization for
tbe destruction of all established or-

der, and a diabolical conspiracy for
the overthrow of religion. Between
the two descriptions our choice is
easily made. The voice of the Ro-
man |K)ntiffs, our guardians and our
teachers, has been neither slow nor
uncertain. Clement XII. and Bene-
dict XIV., Pius VII. and Leo XIL,
Gregory XVI. and Pius IX., have
unequivocally condemned Masonic
societies as hot-beds of impiety and
sedition. This judgment was not
lightly pronounced. It proceeded
from an examination of the manuals,
statutes, and catechisms of the order,
from undoubted evidence of its prac-
tical action as well as its speculative
principles. Since the close of the
last century many writers, both
Catholic and Protestant, have con-
tributed by their researches to justify
the sentence of the popes, and no-
thing has more powerfully aided these
efforts than the publication from time
to time of the authentic documents
of this secret societv.

A signal service nas just been ren-
dered to the same cause by the pub-
lication in Rome of the General

tfti H«*c to Act of CtegrMB, in Uu year 1875, by Rev. I. T. Hsocn, in the OAce of Um
libnriM of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

722

Italian Documents of Freeinasimry.

Statutes of Freemasonry, and of
two rituals for initiation into the
first and thirtieth grades of the craft.*
It would be a mistake to suppose
that the organization of Freemasonry
is everywhere identical, or that it has
been always harmoniously dereloped
to the same extent in the different
countries where it has taken root It
has been tern by schisms from the
beginnmg, although its divisions,
which concerned rather matters of
form and detail than general princi-
ples, have never prevented its com-
bining for common purposes of de-
struction. The two great factions
which divide the brethren take their
name from the riic which they pro-
fess. The orthodox Masons, who are
the great majority, give their alle-
giance to the Scottish rite, which at
one time, they say, had its principal
seat in Edinburgh. Now, as Do-
menico Angherk, Grand-Master of
the Neapolitan Orient, tells us in a re-
served circular of the 2 2d of May last,
which has found its way to the pub-
lic papers, the acknowledged centre
is established in Maryland under the
specious designation of Mother-Coun-
cil of the Worid. In the Scottish
rite the grades are thirty-three : eigh-
teen symbolic, twelve philosophic,
and three administrative. The Re-
form of Orlfeans, which distinguishes
the followers of the French rite,
abolishes all the philosopliic and
higher grades, and reduces the sym-
bolic to seven. The reformers are
reproached with clipping the wings
of the eagle of liberty, forbidding the
introduction of political and religious
questions into the lodges, and can-
celling at a stroke two-thirds of the
Masonic programme. Equality and

^Siaiuti Gtfurali td altri dccumenti dei
Frameusoni pubblicati per la prima v»lta c«n
ncte dickiarattve. Roma: x874«
. RUn€tli Mtu$9nici dtl prim* t ditirtniexitw
grado detti di Apprtndista e di Cavalier e Ka-^
^A , per la prima volta pubblicati § commentati,
kt 1874.

Liberty, making Fraternity sole i
of the order.

The documents published are those
of the orthodox Masons of the Scot-
tish rite, which is almost exclosifdj
followed in Italy. Of their aatbemi-
city there is no doubt The statoies
are printed from the latest edition
clandestinely prepared for Masoflk
use at Naples (Tipografia ddV In-
dustria, 1874). They are distributed
into five hundred and eighty artides,
and in the Roman reprint are foUov-
ed by thirty-seven supplemeotixy
statutes for Italy agreed to in the
Masonic convendon held at Roiae
in May. The rituals, equally authen-
tic, are also copied from tht mosi
recent editions. Without the ritaab,
the statutes cannot be understood.
The latter are put into the hands of
all Freemasons, and the langu^e,
when not positively misleading, is
studiously ambiguous, only to be ex-
plained as the initiated proceeds in
his graduation. It is necessary to
give their substance at greater leogtb
than the plaUtudcs and general pro-
fessions of pl>ilanthropy they contain
would warrant, in order that the
commentary afibrJed by the o&a
manuals may bring the hypoax^
and imposture of the system into fofi
relief. As far as possible these doc
uments shall be allowed to speak for
themselves. They are their own in-
dictment.

The General Constitutions of tbc '
Society of Freemasons of the Andcot
and Accepted Scottish Rite in ihrir
first paragraph declare that the scope
of the order is the perfection of mai^
kind. Embracing in its scheme tbc
whole human race, the grand aim of
the institution requires its meznbcD
to devote all their material mea&s
and mental faculties to its furthcraoct
The brethren, whatever be thcr
nationality, to whatever rite of Ma-
sonry they owe allegiance, are mem-

HaiiaH Decmnents of Freeniascnry.

Mnof tt great famSy, oftc ts is the
ipedes to which they belong, as the
|^0be they inhabit, as nature which
tbif contemplate. For this reason
INbttasons of every country are to
itteamong themselves the deaigna^
tfHH>f brothers, and bodi in and out
tf fteir lodges show, in their deport*
MK to each other, true fraternal af-
IWiOB. The venerable president of
llWhKige is required to see observed
te strict equality which ought to
«ll among brothers. He is never
ll^ftrget that the simple quaHty of
Wm. in the eyes of a Freemason
fMmands the highest respect, and
llftoshow deference only to such as
re it by their virtue and superior
nic acquirements. He roust
permit a brother to assume
\ superiority over another on ac-
\ o( rank or distinctions he may
Uliym the profane world. He him-
WKt ^^ ^is admission to office, is re-
HMed that he is but primus inter
JtaVf, that his authority lasts only
it a time. He must never make
III superiority be fdt by the others.
Be ought to reflect that he is chosen
tlbad because he is considered pos-
MM of the necessary prudence,
M that only gentle and kind de-
Mtnor can secure the harmony that
dMd reign among Freemasons.

Ivery member at his initiation, be-
4des his entry-money paid to the
ftCasorer, must deposit a sum for the
tlinulent fund. At every meeting
tf the lodge a collection is made for
At poor. This is so essential that
tVf meeting where this duty has been
floitted is declared not Masonic, ir-
Rjpdar and null. All fines imposed
ttl ddinquents or absentees go to the
Nine fund. The grand almoner is
clttrged with the distribution of the
AHngs among the more indigent
of Ae fraternity, and even the pro-
faie are sometimes admitted to share
in d>e Masonic alms. Every appli-

cation for assistance must be made
through a member, and is discussed
in the lodge. Preference is to be
given to those cases where distress
has not been produced by idleness or
vice. Certain circumstances justify
the president in authorizing an alms
without consulting the lodge, but an
explanation is to be given at the first
meeting. He has also power to
exempt the poorer brethren from the
payment of the regular subscription,
but this he is enjoined to do with
such precautions as may conceal the
exemption from the other members
of the lodge. Were he to manifest
the favor, he would be expelled the
order.

In every lodge there is an offi-
cial styled hospitaller, whose duty it
is to visit the brethren in sickness
daily, and supply them with medi-
cines and whatever else they may
happen to need. All the members
of the lodge are obliged to visit the
sick brother, one each day by turns,
and also during his convalescence.
A remarkable provision is added,
obliging the sick Mason to receive
the visits of his brethren. If the ill-
ness is dangerous, the sick man must
hand over all his Masonic papers to
those who are deputed to take
charge of them. The funeral ex-
penses of a deceased member are
defrayed by the lodge, when cir-
cumstances require it, and he is ac-
companied to the grave by all his
brethren of the same or lower grade
in Freemasonry. The lodge ora-
tor, where practicable, pronounces a
discourse over the tomb, enumerate
ing the virtues and praises of the de-
ceased ; within the lodge the oration
must never be omitted.

In keeping with the professedly
humanitarian scope of the order are
those articles of the statutes which
regulate the admission of new mem-
bers : " If the end of the institu-

lUUioH Dacununts pf Frnma^gnry.

litta is the perfection ci maakiodi it
is Mu)i^>eiisaUe that the Freemason
should practise true morality, which
supposes the knowleidge aqd practice
of the duties and rights of man. He
oiighty accordingly* to be upright, hu*
n^ne, sincere, beneficent to etvexy
strt of persons, and, above all, a
g09d father, a good son, a good bro-
ther, a good husband, and a good
citizeii. A Freemason must be a
citisen in full enjoyment of his civU
rights, of acknowledged probity, and
of at least ordinary intelligence. No
one is admitted who has not the age
required by the statutes. No one
m|iy be admitted or may remain in
the order who has once been employ-
ed; or engages in servile, mean, and
dishonorable trades or professions,
or who has been condemned to suf-
fer punishment for crime. The ex-
pilition of any such sentence gives
no claim for readmittance."

The retiring warden, handing
over the keys of the Masonic tem-
ple to the warden-elect, admonishes
the. latter to exclude from its pre-
cincts all who have not laid aside
every profane distinction, and who
do not seek to enter solely by the
path of virtue. Every precaution is
tak/en to prevent the admission of
unworthy subjects. The age for re-
ception is fixed at twenty-one, but
tli^ son of a Freemason may be initi-
ated at eighteen, or even at fifteen
if his father is of the upper grades
of the order. The candidate must
be proposed in the lodge by a mem-
ber. Three commissioners are secret-
ly appointed to separately inquire
into the antecedents of the postulant,
each inquisitor concealing his man-
date from his fellow-commissioners.

" The investigation," it is prescrib-
ed, " should chiefly turn on the con-
stant integrity of the profane in his
habitual conduct, on the exact dis-
charge of the duties of his position,

on. the rectitude and safisoess of Ui
prinqplesy on the firmness of bis
char^ter, on his activity and abilitj
to penetrate, develop, and fully under-
stand the pirofound sciences ^lidi
the m:'stic Masonic institute ofo
to X\\t consideration of its k^Jow-
ers."

The three reports of the ioqaisi-
tors must agree in recoromeiMiisg
th^ candidate ; otherwise the subfect
drops. But even when the comaus'
sioners ummimously approve of ibe
proposal, the question is put to tlie
secret votes of the lodge in threcsev-
eral meetings. Two negative voces
in the first ballot are sufficient U> de-
lay the next trial for three rooatiis,
while after three negatives it is pat
off for nine ; and if at the eod o^
that time three black balls are a^
found in the urn, the candidate is
definitively rejected, and commoDi'
cation is made of the result to the
Grand Orient, which informs all the
dependent lodges of the excluaoo,
to prevent the admission of the ^^
jected candidate among the breth-
ren of its jurisdiction.

Having secured by these striogeet
regulations the purity of selectioo,
and put the mystic temple hcjooA
the risk of contamination by uo-
worthy neophytes, it is not sorprii'
ing that the statutes should tdl "os
(paragraph 444) <' that the character
of Freemason does not admit the
supposition that he can commk a
fault." Nevertheless, considering the
weakness of human nature and the
force of old habits imperfectly sob-
dued, certain violations of deconua
are contemplated in the statutes whi&i
constitute Siasonic faults, and areeoa-
merated with the penalties attached
each. Among these peccadilloes xx
mentioned perjury and treason against
the order, the revelation of its mys-
teries, embezzlement of its funds, ia-
subordination and rebellion against

IfaUan l>0€nmtnts cf FreefHas&nry.

72$

its CQthority, daellingdmwwif ^Miv»,
ittd i)reaches of hospitality.

Out of the lodges the conduct of
Ae brethren is to be closely watched.
It iff the duty of the president to ad-
otmish any one whose conduct is
fqffdiensible. This he must do in
secret, and with due fraternal ten-
derness endeavor to bring back the
wnderer to the path of virtue.
trcTf corporation has to see that its
imfividual members do nothing to
fiyrfeit the good opinion and confi-
dence of the world at large. When,
therefore, a brother is subjected to
% crirotnal prosecution and proved
gmhy, the lodge is to take immedi-
ate stq)s for his expulsion.

Promotion from the lower to the
higher grades of Masonry is regulat-
ed on the same principles of merito-
rious selection that govern the first
admission of members. Irreprehen-
siUe conduct, both in his civil and
Masonic capacity, are requisite in the
aspirant ; and he must have acquir-
ed a thorough knowledge of the
grade which he possesses before he
can be advanced to greater light.
Certain intervals must pass between
each successive step, that the spirit
and devoledness of the brother may
be fully ascertained and his prbmo-
tiofi Justified.

Minute rules are laid down in the
statutes to regulate the proceedings
in lodge. The arrangement of the
seats, the order of business, the
method of discussion, all is provided
for in a way to promote harmony
ind social feeling. Unbecoming
[>ehavior and offensive language are
ieverely punished. "Among Free-
masons everything must breathe wis-
Jom, kindness, and joy." Any bro-
hcr may signify his dissent from a
proposal while it is under discussion;
>ut when it has received the appro-
>ation of the majority, he must ap-
plaud the decision with the rest, *• and

not be so foolishly vain as to think
hi^ own opinion better than that of
the greater' number." When the
ritual practices have been observed,
and necessary business despatched,
the presiding dignitary may invite
the brethren to suspend their labors
and engage without formality in con-
versation or amusement. After this
relaxation the ceremonial is resumed
for the remainder of the meeting,
and the lodge is dosed in the usual
manner.

Prominent among the observances
instituted for the cultivation of
Masonic feeling are the Agapa of
Masonic banquets. Some are de
rigeury as those on the Feasts of S.
John the Baptist and S. John the
Evangelist, and on the anniversary
of the foundation of the various
lodges. Others may be given ac-
cording to circumstances. In the
regulation banquets the lodge orator
makes an appropriate address. Toasts
and songs enliven the entertainment,
and dancing is not prohibited. Be-
tween the toasts a poet, if there be
one, may offer some of his produc-
tions. " Mirth, harmony, and sobriety
are the characteristics of a Masonic
feast." Officials are charged to
maintain order and decorum in these
reunions. They are instructed to
observe a " moderate, fraternal aus-
terity " in their superintendence.
Venial slips may be corrected on the
spot, and a trifling penance imposed,
which must be accepted with the
best grace. A brother who m'ore
gravely offends against any of the
social decencies is to be rigorously
chastised at the first subsequent
meeting.

After the claim of Freemasonry to
represent a universal brotherhood,
and its professed purpose to effect a
general diffusion of its principles and
influence, we are not surprised to
find the sututes enjoin the most abso-

Italian Dccumints 0f Fr^enunenry.

hite respect for all political opinions
and all religious beliefs. The 32Sth
article says : " It is never permitted to
discuss matters of religion or affairs
of state in the lodges."* We are not,
however, to interpret toleration into a
denial of the foundation of religious
truth, or into a wicked connivance at
subversive agencies in the body
politic Every Masonic temple is
consecrated to the " Great Architect
of the Universe." In the name of
him, " the purest fountain of all per-
fection," the election of the office-
bearers is proclaimed on S. John's
day. By him they swear when, with
their hands on S. John's Gospel, they
promise fidelity to the order. All
their solemn deeds are inscribed
** to the glory of the Great Architect
of the Universe," in the name of S.
John of Scotland (S. John the Bap-
tist), or of S. John of Jerusalem (S.
John the Evangelist), according to
the rite. The Bible is always
reverently placed on the warden's
table when the lodges meet, and the
proceedings are always opened with
an invocation of the Deity. If the
craft admits among its adepts men
of all persuasions, it professes to do
so because it does not search con-
sciences. Its toleration, it declares,
does not proceed from atheism, but
from enlightened liberality. Nor
has the state anything to apprehend
from the brethren, if we believe the
admonition addressed to a novice at
his initiation. " Masons are forbid-
den to mix themselves up in con-
spiracies." The first toast in all
Masonic banquets is to the head of
the nation. It would be strange
indeed if, notwithstanding the enlight-
ened scope of the institudon and the

* The Frencli Reformers were reproached for in-
sertiBg this article, but it is found in the statutes of
the Scottish Rite printed at Naples, the centre of
Italian orthodoxy. Perhaps it was left an innocu-
ous r^c of bygone servitude, when royal Freema*
•Qos insisted on fettering the craft with this clause.
But iti raliit was as veil understood then as now.

jealous care with which it profeeo
to exclude all those who arc tiwAte-
some to society or have given cuse
of complaint in their civil coodtct
any government should find ihattbc
Masonic body was not one of tiie
firmest stays of order. Virtue, phftaa-
thropy, benevolence, brothcrhoed—
these are the watchwords of Masoaiy,
and its statutes appropriately tcnni-
nate in the following paragraph :

" The Freemason is the faithful fti€«J
of his country and of all men. He ina«
not forget that by the oath he took alte
initiation he stripped himself erf erwr
prc^ne decoration and of all that is »ri
gar in man, to assume no other disiiic*
tion but the sweet name of brother, let
his conduct correspond to ihe iiiIc,»wJ
the scope of Masonry is aiuincd."

We have hitherto drawn on Ac
General Constitutions, which are biad-
ing on ** all Masonic lodges, tfd
on all JFreemasons, of whatever giadf,
throughout the two hemisphciei"
As these statutes, though ctrefii^
guarded from the eyes of the pro-
fane, are put into the hands of
the apprentices or youngest adejits
whose prudence and capadtf fo
greater tight have still to be tested, it
would be dangerous to make in then
more open professions of faith ttaa
are covered by elastic and gcnfl**
expressions; yet there is sti&icnt
internal evidence in them to sho*
that the maxims they conuin ai«
mere exoteric doctrine compared to
the deeper revelation of the oao
sanctuary, where only the tried crafts-
man may dare to penetrate. "Se-
crecy," say the Consrituuons, " is ^
first characteristic of the order."

And this secrecy is to be obserrtd
not merely towards the uninitiated,
but is equally enforced between the
different grades of the brotherhood.
The presence of a member of a lo*-
cr grade regulates the quality of
the business to be transacted in ^

haiian Documents 0/ Freemasamry.

727

Mf e, even if all the olhers are mas-
icr-roaaons. And not only the busi-
ness but the very ceremonial must
be accommodated to the imperfection
oC those present Each of the thirty-
tkree grades has its own ritual, the
paUication of which is high treason
to the order, and which cannot be
read without profanation by a mem-
ber of inferior degree. Tlie books
in the lodge library are by no means
prooiiscuous reading, but are permit-
ted according to gradation. Hence
tbe muItipUcity of officials with fan-
ttttic names who watch over the
priiracy of the proceedings, verify
ibe certificates of strangers, look out
fer spies or illegitimate intruders;
iicnce tlie precautions taken with
their documents, and the intricate
system of checks and counterchecks
00 tbe very office-bearers through
wiwse hands the correspondence
and written documents of an inti-
mate nature have to pass. Why all
this secrecy, and why those terrible
iKiths, which we have still to see, if
ihe end of Masonry is faithfully ex-
iubited in these Constitutions? As
tbty stand, they might almost suit a
pkms confraternity. Doubtless there
we suspicious articles. Their exclu-
^tTeness is not a Christian trait.

** Odi profanum valgus et arceo'*

is not the spirit of religion. The visits
to the sick, and the obligation not to
'ieciine them, receive a dubious com-
mentary in the death-bed scenes
now so distressingly frequent in
Italy : when the minister of religion
IS driven away by the visitors even
when sent for by the dying man or
his relatives. The solemn decree,
* The hand of a Mason shall not be
raised against a brother," throws
light on the inexplicable verdicts of
juries, judicial sentences, and re-
markable escapes of condemned
pnsonen with which the newspapers

have made us familiar* But from
the statutes we can learn no more.
We cannot discover whether the
an ti- Christian and anti-social max-
ims which are unquestionably ascrib-
ed to Masonry are the real outcome
of its teaching, or an dement quite
extraneous to its genuine principles.
This is to be gathered from other
sources, and, fortunately, these are
at hand in equally authentic docu-
ments, the rituals of the several de-
grees, and many of the secret in-
structions that from time to time are
issued by the directing lodges. An
examination of these leaves no room
to doubt the genuine scope of the
association. The process may be
tedious, but it is conclusive. It
brings out the hideous impiety of
the sect and its satanic hypocrisy.

Let us follow, Ritual in hand, a
neophyte in his first initiation to tlie
grade of apprentice.

A lodge is properly composed of
four chambers — a vestibule, the
Chamber of Reflection, the middle
chamber, and the lodge proper, or tem-
ple. In the last the ordinary assem-
blies of the Masons are held, but for
the initiation of a member all the
apartments are put in requisition. The
candidate is conducted, if possible, in
a carriage, blindfolded, to the place
of meeting ; at all events, he must be
blindfolded before entering the Ma-
sonic precincts. He is led first into
the vestibule, where he is handed
over to the Expert. This function-
ary, who is clothed in a long, black
robe, with a hood concealing his
' features, takes the candidate by the
hand, then bids him put his confi-
dence in God, and, after making him
take several turns in the outer cham-
ber, introduces him to the Chamber
of Reflection. This is described in
the Ritual as

** A dark place impenetrable to the rays
of the son, Kt by a single sepulchral lamp.

7^8

Italian Documents of Freemasimry,

The walls are painted black with death's
heads and similar funereal emblems to
assist the recipient in his meditations.
He has to pass through the four elements
of the ancients, and here he is supposed
to find himself in the bowels of the earth,
reminded of his last abode and of the
vanity of earthly things by the spectacle
of a skeleton stretched on a bier. In the
absence of a skeleton a skull roust be
placed on a small table in the centre. of
the room. On the table are pen, ink, and
paper, a dish of water, and a piece of
bread. A chair completes the furniture.**

Inscriptions are distributed over
the walls ; as, *' If curiosity has
brought you here, depart," "If you
are capable of dissimulation, trem-
ble," and others, as the lodge may
think proper. The Ritual adds ; " If
it can be conveniently arranged, ap-
propriate voices may be made to
proceed from the ceiling." The can-
didate is made to sit withliis back
to the door, and the bandage is
taken from his eyes. The Expert
addresses him : " I leave you to your
reflections. Ygu will not be alone.
God sees every one." Then he quits
him abruptly, and, closing the door,
locks it behind him.

The length of time to be em-
ployed in self-examination is not pre-
scribed in the Ritual, but is left to the
caprice of the Masons, who are now
engage*! in the temple. When the
brethren are bent on a joke at the
expense of the recipient, it has been
known to extend over four hours.
The state of the patient during this
time may be imagined. He came
with his head full of mysterious fan-
cies about Masonry, and the first ^
surroundings are calculated to crowd
perplexing thoughts on an already
agitated mind. Some never get
past this first essay. They have had
enough of the mystic rite at the
threshold, and are accompanied to
the dooi with the gibes and laughter
of the brotherhood, who then close
the evening over a repast prepared

at the expense of the candidate tvidi
his forfeited entrance money.

In most cases, however, the tot
for reflection is just so inach u is
necessary to allow Uie compkliDft
of the opening ceremonies in the
temple preparatory to the recepftor.
of the neophyte. When thcsr aw
finished, the president sends the Ex-
pert to require of the candidate writ-
ten replies to three qucstHSfts:
^VVhat does man owe to God?
What does he owe to himsdf?
What to his fellow-men?" Tbf
candidate is also to be told that as
the trials through which he has to
pass are full of danger, it behooves
him to make his will When the
Expert returns, the will is laid by to
be returned to the candidate at ihf
end of the function ; but the aMitT<
to the three questions are disoased
in public, and the disquisitions in
theology, philosophy, and ethics may
be fancied. If among the andiloi^
there are junior Masons whose eap
are liot yet accustomed to unequivo-
cal negations of God and the hucaan
soul, the president strives to mode-
rate the language of the dispotanti,
and always sums up with a vago?
and general declaration of respect
for all opinions, and of Masonic tot-
eration.

The recipient is now prepared fo
further tests. The preparation con-
sists first m having his eyes ooa
more bandaged in the Chamber d
Reflection, then in being strippfli
of his clothes, •* left only in his d;irt
and drawers, with his left breast iwi
ann and his right leg bare, his fttt
in slippers, and a cord twined liirff
times round his neck." He is lc<i
by this cord to the door of the lodfc
Here he is to be subjected to i
lengthy interrogatory as to In^
name, birthplace, age, profession, an i
other qualifications. "As Masocn
receives into its bosom memben of

Italian Docutncnts of Freemasonry.

afl opinions and all religions, the
president must not propose political
or religious questions to offend the
sentiments or belief of the recipient
or of the auditory."

In due time the neophyte may
learn that the creed of Masons is to
have none, and that its politics are
the subversion of all authority; but
pN|iidices must be respected at the
outset, and the apprentices are not
to be shocked unprepared. When
ilw examination is over, the farce
begins. The doors of the lodge are
tbtown open with a great noise, and
at icon as the candidate has been
kd- into the room, the Tiler holding
tke point of a sword against his
naked breast, they are violently shut.
** What do you perceive ?" the presi-
ded asks. " I see nothing," the re-
cipient must answer; '♦'but I feel the
point of a sword on my breast."
**That point," says the president,
"is symbolic of the remorse that
would gnaw your heart, should you
ever betray the society you seek to
enter. Think what you are about to
de. Awful tests await you. Terri-
^ brother, take this profane one out
of^ lodge, and lead him through
those places which all must pass
over whc would know our secrets."
The candidate is then led out and
made to take so many turns that he
completely loses every idea of where
he is; and when he has quite lost his
bearings, he is again in the lodge, al-
though he does not know it; and
the brethren, in breathless silence,
await the progress of the comedy.

A large, wooden frame, filled in
with paper, has been prepared in his
absence, and set up in the lodge be-
fore the entrance. ** What is to be
done to this profane one ?" asks Bro-
ther Terrible. " Throw him into the
cavern," replies the president. Two
Masons then seize the candidate and
cast him against the frame. The

paper, of course, breaks, and the can-
didate is caught in the arms of some
of the brethren who are in waiting.
The doors of the lodge are then clos-
ed with noise, an iron ring, passing
over a dentated bar of iron, is made
to imitate the bolting of the door,
and the candidate, blindfolded, out
of breath, stunned, and frightened,
really may fancy himself at the bot-
tom of a cavern.

The candidate is now seated on a
stool, with a jagged bottom and un.
equal legs which never find a plane,
that with its constant and uneven
motion keeps the occupant in per-
petual terror of falling. From this
uneasy seat he must answer all the
fanciful questions that the whim of
the president, or his own condition
suggests. Metaphysics, astronomy,
natural sciences, may all enter into
the examination; and as the ques-
tions are asked without previous
notice, the replies are not always
satisfactory. Although the Ritual
prescribes the greatest decorum and
gravity to be observed diwing the
ceremony, that the neophyte may be
properly impressed, and prohibits all
rough usage and buffoonery, this is
to be understood by the gloss of
another Ritual, which says that " this
test of the stool of reflection is insti-
tuted for the purpose of discovering
how far the physical torture which
the candidate is made to suffer in his
uneasy scat influences the clearness
of his ideas."

If after this examination the pa-
tient still perseveres in his resolution
to enter the Masonic fraternity, he is
admonished to prepare for other
trials. First, he must swear to keep
absolute silence on all Masonic se-
crets. This oath is to be taken over
a cup of water. "If your intention
is pure, you may drink with safety.
If in your heart you are a traitor,
tremble at the ins^nt and terrible

730

Ittdian DocHtmnts of Freemasimry.

eficcts of the potion." The fatal cup
is then presented to him. This is a
chalice-shaped vessel, having the cup
movable on a pivot in the base, and
separated vertically into two divisions.
In one there is fresn water, and this
side is presented to the candidate.
In the other there is a bitter mixture.
When the candidate, still blindfolded,
has taken hold of the cup, the presi-
dent invites him to drink, and tit the
same time to swear after himself in
the following terms: "I promise
Uie faithful observance of all Masonic
obligadons, and if I prove false to
my oath " — here he is made to taste
the fresh water, and then the cup is
turned so that the next draught must
be taken from the side containing the
bitter mixture, and the president con-
tinues with the remainder of the oath
to be repeated by the recipient — " I
consent to have the sweetness of this
water turned into gall, and its saluta-
ry effect changed to poison." Here
the countenance of the candidate
undergoes the expected change, and
at the sight of the fatal grimace
the president, striking a terrible blow
on the table with his mallet, cries out,
" Ha ! what do I see ? What means
that distortion of your face ? Away
with the profane !" The poor can-
didate is removed back some paces,
and then the president addresses
him ! " If your purpose is to deceive
us, retire at once. Soon it will be
too late. We would know your per-
fidy, and then it were better for you
never to have seen the light of day.
Think well on it. Brother Terrible,
seat him on the stool of reflection.
Let him there consider what he must
do." When the candidate has been
on his uneasy seat for some time, the
president asks him if he means to
persevere. If he persists, the Terri-
ble brother is told to accompany him
on \i\s first journey and protect him in
its dangers. The Ritual proceeds :

*' The Expert sball conduct lU cadi*
date through this first journey, makiog
it as difficult as possible, with ibnms,
ascents, descents, wind, thunder ; in wA
a tray that he can have no idea of tbe
ground he goes over, and alUnanaoMr
calculated to leave a deep impressiM <»
the aspirant.*'

We really cannot go on without
apologizing to the reader for ddjw-
ing him over this contemptible idbid*
mery. It is humiliating to hvnttft
nature that men who make the loftiest
professions of respect for its dignitj
should debase themselves to sudi a
depth of absurdity. And tiiis, too.
when they matriculate in their sdwoi
of perfection. Out of a mad-hwac
and a Masonic lodge folly like (liis
is inconceivable.

To return to our journey. It i$ »
farce to an onlooker, but it is a
serious matter to the patient. He
still supposes himself in the awo,
and is forced to make several roonds
of the lodge, passing over boards
that move under him on wheels, to
boards adjusted to take a sec-»»
motion, and from these to others that
suddenly yieFd under his weight in
trap-door fashion. lie is perpeiuaDf
getting directions to stoop, to nisc
his right foot, to raise his left, to leap;
and corresponding obstructions are
put in his way at every movcmcnL
He is made to mount an intennioabk
ladder, like a squirrel in a cage, and
when he must think himself as high
as a church-steeple, is told to fli&^
himself down, and falls a couple of
feet Perspiring and out of breath.
confused, terrified, and fatigued, his
ears are filled with the most horrible
noises. Shrieks *and cries of p^in,
wailing of children, roaring of "^^
beasts, are heard on every side. -All
the theatrical appliances to prodace
thunder, rain, hail, wind, and tem-
pest are employed in well-appoifl^-
ed lodges ; and in the others ibe
ingenuity of tlic merry brethren sup-

Italian Docnments ^f Freemasonry.

731

pliei the want of machinery. The
irst journey is finished when the
brethren are tired of the amusement,
and then the candidate makes a
aecond journey without the obstacles,
»d during this he only hears the
dashing of swords. A third journey
% made in peace, and at last the
oodidate passes thrice over an ignit-
ed preparation of sulphur, and his
pH^cation by earth, water, air, and
fee is complete.

Now comes a Masonic instruction
pbich we shall quote from the Rit-
itl:

' **'Do you believe.* asks the Venera-
He, ' in a Supreme Being ?* The answer
4flhe candidate is usually in the affirma-
tive. And then the president may reply :
*Thts answer does you honor. If we
idmit persons of all persuasions, it is
because we do not pry into the consci-
«cc. We believe that the incense of
vtoue is acceptable to the Deity, in what-
«vcr form it is offered. Our toleration
pBOcccds not from atheism, but from
liberality and philosophy.'"

But mark what follows :

••If the candidate in his reply says he
does not believe in God, the president is
to«ajr: 'Atheism is incomprehensible.
Ilieonly division possible among candid
men is on the question whether the First
Cause is spirit or matter. But a material-
i« is no atheist.'"

This is a specimen of Masonic
theology, expressed in guarded terms,
to respect the weaker susceptibilities
of an assembly of apprentices ; for we
must remember that we are assisting
It an initiation to the first grade,
<rhich is conducted in presence of
ll»c youngest Masonp. Still, no veil
can conceal the boldness of the
♦icdaration, and the apology of
niaterialism will surely not protect
the dullest adept who remembers
the first lessons of hb catechism
•rora taking scandal at its effrontery.
But \i he is to graduate in the higher
honors, he roust sooner or later get

an inkling of what is in reserve, aiid
it is as well that from the very first
grade he should be able without
much help to proceed to the develop-
ment of the Masonic idea of God —
nature and that universe of which
he himself is a part — to pantheism
pure and simple. Indeed, the Rivista
della Massoneria of the ist of August,
1874, ventures a little further : " All
are aware that this formula (Great
Architect of the Universe) by common
consent has no exclusive meaning,
much less a religious one. It is a
formula that adapts itself to every
taste, even an atheist's." *

After this it is scarcely necessary to
read on in the Ritual :

" * Wh.it is deism ?' asks the president.
Having- heard the answer, he is to sub-
join : * Deism is belief in God without
revelation or worship. It is the religion
of the future, destined to supersede all
other systems in the world.' "

The catechising proceeds in a
similar strain through a multiplicity
of questions, which are all treated
with a studied ambiguity of lan-
guage, affirming and denying, saying
and unsaying in a breath, leaving
nothing unimplied, to satisfy ad-
vanced jmpiety, and softening down
the bolder expressions that would
grate on the ears of a novice.

When the examination is over, the
marking of the new brother is to be
proceeded with. He is told to pre-
pare to receive the impression of a
hot iron on his person, and is re-
quested to mention on what part he
would prefer to be branded. The
Masons then go through the prepa-
rations of lighting a fire, blowing
with a bellows, turning the iron with
tongs, discussing the redness of the
heated instrument, all in the hearing
of the patient, who, still blind-folded,

* It it ako explained, but not at this stagot, that
the invocation of S. John as patron of the lodges
is a deception, J^**^* being the real protector.

732

Italian Documents of Freemasonry.

stands pale and trembling, in spite of
his resolution to go through the
operation. The diversion this tor-
ture affords the lodge may well be
imagined. Of course there is no
branding, but the rituals suggest
different methods of producing the
sensation. One recommends vio-
lent friction of the part indicated for
branding, and then the sudden ap-
plication of a piece of ice. Another
directs the hot wick of a candle just
blown out to be pressed against the
skin. Sometimes the president de-
clares himself satisfied with the resig-
nation of the neophyte, and dispens-
es with the operation. Generally
the ceremonies of the Ritual are
considerably curtailed in practice;
not even Masons can endure their
tedious trifling.

After this the oath is to be admin-
istered. The candidate is warned
of the sacred, inviolable, perpetual
nature of the obligation he is about
to assume ; and when he has signifi-
ed his willingness to be bound by it,
he is told that as the time is ap-
proaching when he will be admitted
to the secrets of the order, the order
requires of him a guarantee — to con-
sist in the manifestation of some se-
cret confided to hipi, that Ife is not
at liberty to reveal. If the candi-
date agrees, he is to be sharply rep-
rimanded ; if he does not consent,
the president praises his discretion.
The latter then proceeds to inform
the candidate that the oath he is
about to take requires him to give
all his blood for the society. When
the candidate assents, his word is at
once put to the lest, and he is asked
if he is really to allow a vein to be
immediately opened. This proposal
usually draws out a remonstrance,
and the victim's ordinary objection
is the weakness of his health, or the
probable derangement of his diges-
tion by such an operation following

so soon afber dinner. In tiiek)dg?,
however, this is provided for. The
surgeon gravely advances, feeb tbc
patient^s pulse, and infallibly dedve
that he lies, that the blood-kteof
can do him no harm, and posttivdv
assures him he will be the better for
it. The bleeding is performed in
this manner: The surgeon binds
the arm, and pricks the vein with t
tooth-pick or such like. An aas*
tant drops on it a small stream of
tepid water, which trickles Ofcr the
arm of the patient into a vessel held
below. The counterfeit is peiieeL
The arm is bandaged, arranged ia i
sling, and the poor man, blindiblded,
half-naked, terrified, wearied, bnin^
ed, and bled, is at length cond^cttd
to the altar, or table of the prcsidiDg
master, to seal his initiation with ik
final oath. There, on his knees
holding in his left hand tlie pwats
of an open compass against hn
breast, with his right on the swoni
of the president (or, according to
another ritual, on a Bible, a compass,
and a square), he takes the oaiii
which we give in its naked imjsciy,
as found in the Ritual secretly pnni-
ed at Naples in 1869:

•* I. N. N.,do swear and promise <rf ">?
own free-will, before the Great ArcW«^
of the Universe* and on my hoor, "
keep inviolable silence on all the secirti
of Freemasonry that may be comnmo'CJi
ed to me, as aJso on whatever I may ^
done or hear s.iid in it, under pa«o ^
having my throat cut, my '^^"^^•'^
out, my body cut into pieces, bttw^
and its ashes scattered to ibc wiod, tw-
my name may go down in cxew^'
memory and eternal infamy. 1 P"'"^
and swear to give help and assistance tP
all brother Masons, and swear vertt »
belong to any society, under wWf'**
name, form, or title, opposed to Maio«T
subjecting myself, if I break ray voni,»
all the penalties established forpcrji^
Finally, I swear obedience and suba:*
slon to the general statutes of tb« <x^
to the particalar regulations of ^

Italian Documents of Freemasonry.

733

]o4ge, and to the Supreme Grand Orient

When the profane has finished the
«lfh, the president ^s, « What do
5*11 aeck ? " and the other is to an-
•iwf, "I seek light." The most
incfdless trick of all follows. The
hmdage is quickly removed from
^teeyes. Unaccustomed for hours
b> the faintest light, they are sud-
Aily exposed to the dazzling glare
'af A great artificial flame started be-

^^3 face. He is blinded once
by the change, and closes his
against the pain caused by the
liilliancy; and when at last he opens
pbem to look about him, it is to see
the fierce attitudes of the Masons,
iich pointing his sword at his face.
Vev pass this ordeal without exhibit-
fag signs of terror; some attempt to
wcipe, some beg their lives, and
^•me protest they have done with
fireemasonry. But no one who has
^cbed this point is permitted to
ifepart without being received, and
the novice is comforted with the as-
ttirance that all is over. The presi-
ifcw, addressing the new apprentice,
lays:

** Fear not those swords tnat surround
yoo: ibey threaten only the perjurer,
il fou are faithful to Masonry, they will
protect you. If you betray it, no corner
of ihe eaith will protect you against these
avenging blades. Masonry requires in
every Mason belief in a Supreme Being,
Md allows him out of the lodge to wor-
ship as he pleases, provided he leaves
tHe same liberty to others. Masons are
bound to assist each other by every
means when occasion offers. Freema-
sons are forbidden to mix themselves up
in conspiracies. But were you to hear
of a Mason who had engaged in any
such enterprise , and fallen a victim to
his imprudence, you should have com-
passion on his misfortune, and the Ma-
sonic bond would make it your duty to
ute all your influence and the influence
of your friends to have the rigor of pun-
bbment lessened on his behalf."

Our candidate by this time has
somewhat recovered from his confu-
sion. He is now led up to the
president, who, striking him thrice
on the head with his mallet, then
with the compass, and lastly with
the sword, declares him Apprentice
Mason and active member of the
lodge. He is invested with the in^
signia, and put in possession of the
Masonic signs and passwords. The
description of these would be tedi-
ous, and we shall only notice the
guttural^ sign. This is made by
bringing to the throat the right hand,
with thumb extended and the other
fingers closed together to represent a
square ; the whole intended to recall
the imprecation in the oath. To
this allusion is made in one of the
drinking songs of the Masons, trans-
lated from the French for the breth-
ren in Italy, although the verse has
been left out in the Italian edition :

Dedans la barque
Du Nautonnier Charoo

Si je m* embarque
Je lui dirai : P«Uron

A oette marque
Reconoais un Ma^oo.

Of the sacred word yachin there
will be occasion to speak again.

When the function is over, the lodge
is cleared, tables are spread, and the
brethren sit down to a refreshment
which one, at least, has fairly earned.

Admission to the first three grades
of Masonry is easily obtained. Among
the Apprentices, Fellowcraft, and Mas-
ter-Masons the official language al-
ways speaks of charity, toleration, and
philanthropy. We have seen suffi-
cient reason to question the sincerity
of these expressions in the mouths of
the Masons, and the explanations we
have heard from themselves are far
from reassuring. As the society con-
templates the gradual formation of the
requisite character in its members, and
as most of these at their first entry
have not altogether lost every natural

734

Italian Documents of Freemasonry.

sense of duty, as understood by the
profane, their advance to perfection
is generally slow, and the great bulk
never get beyond the symbolic grades.
If they are promoted, it is pro forma
in thesucceeding grades termed capitu-
lar^ which are the perfection of sym-
bolism, and are completed in the
Rosicrucian Knight at the eighteenth
grade. From this point promotion
is difficult. The degrees that follow
up to the thirtieth are c^XitA philoso-
phic, and in them the adept is taught
plainly, without symbol or artifice, the
practice of true Masonic virtue. Ven-
geance and d(;ath are the passwords,
the poniard the symbol of action.
After this the other degrees are pure-
ly administrative, and the Mason of
the thirty- first, thirty-second, or thirty-
third grade learns nothing that was
not revealed when he was admitted
Knight Kadosh in the thirtieth.

In the nineteenth, or first of the
philosophic grades, the Ritual says :

•* It is not difficult to comprehend that
the society of Freemasons, speaking
plainly, is just a permanent conspiracy
against political despotism and religious
fanaticism. The princes who unfortu-
nately were admitted into Masonry, were
not slow in reducing it to a society of
beneficence and charity, and maintained
that religion and politics were foreign to
its purpose. They even succeeded in
having inserted among the statutes that
no discussion was to be tolerated in the
lodges on these subjects."

In the Ritual of the twenty-nmth
degree :

•*How would not the Masonic mys-
teries have degenerated, if, according to
the programme of the common herd of
Masons, the adept was never to occupy
himself with politics or religion !"

And the actual Grand-Master of
the Neapolitan Masons, Domenico
Angheri, in a secret history of the
society in that Orient, clandestine-
ly printed in 1864, relates with satis-

faction that the work of the CailwQ-
ari and Buoni Cugini in 1S20-31
was conceived and directed by the
Masonic lodjk, and carried otit by
their own adepts under the other d^
signations, and triumphantly boasts
that in those days " the mallets of
the Masons beat harmonious time
to the axes of the Carbonari." Id

1869 the Grand-Master Frapoirt,
Deputy in the Chambers, in the open-
ing discourse at the; Masonic gatbo*
ing held that year in Genoa, acknot-
ledged that "during the prmw
fifty years of tyranny Freemasoay
in Italy was replaced by the Carbo-
nari." He said that on the first re-
construction of the order at Tuiid, in
1 86 1, the motto was adopted of "A
personal God and a constitutioQi)
monarchy," but that this was fon»l
to be a stifling limitation, by which
the Italian lodges would not snbout
to be fettered ; and in 1864 a new
Grand Orient was establbhed wbkh
better corresponded lo the scope
Up to the occupation of Rooc a

1870 the aim of the brotherhood
was to "elevate the conscience."
Now they may safely advance a
step. Mauro Macchi, another D^
puty, and member of liie Supww
Council of Freemasons, in the M^
sonic Review of the i6th of Febnwn
1874, thus expresses his idc^ of tbe
present practical scope of the so-
ciety :

" The keystone of the whole system c?-
posed to Masonry was and is that as«<K
and transcendental sentiment which 01
ries men beyond the present life, *"*
makes them look on themselves a$ bk«
travellers on earth, leading them to $»
rifice everything for a happiness to be^
in the cemetery. As long as this sy«^
is not destroyed by the mallet of Mise-
ry, we shall have society composed o*
poor, deluded creatureswboirillsacnbcc
all to attain feUcity in a future cxistcDCc

A Catholic, he says, who moitilio
his passions, is consistent and logK^l

Italian Documents of Frfemasonry.

7i5

fv to him life is a pilgrimage and an
Otile, and his career is but a pre-
paration for a future state ; but this
the grand-master refines to accept
IS the type of human perfection.

Let us pass to an inspection of the
litual of the thirtieth grade of the
Scottisli Rite, called Chevalier Ka-
dosb, or Knight of the White and
Ikck Eagle, printed at Naples, with-
M indication of printer's name, in
1869. Here the real ends of Ma-
|Mry, and the horrible means it di-
hDCts to their attainment, are exposed
ikhout veil or mystery. As Angherit

)k lus preface says :

"Here the great drama of Masonry
Rfeches its a^noiUntcnt Only Masons
■f Strong capacity and devoted atlach-
MBOtpenetrate thus far. The other grades
pM but a sanctuary of approach ; this, the
Mitieth, is the inmost sanctuary, for
phich the rest is only a preparation."

The infamous nature of the con-
Ipiacy^ which it discloses would jus-
iFf our treating it at greater length,
if the limits of an article did not
lUige us to liasten to a close. We
ettoot afiford to wade through the
dnesome series of mystifying ceremo-
lics without which nothing Masonic
en be legally performed. Mithric
the Temple of Memphis, Zoro-
r, Pythagoras, Nunia, the Tera-
piais, Manicheans, Rabbinic phrases,
Hid lore from the Talmud, Arabic,
ind Hebrew, are jumbled together to
pve an air of antiquity to this most
Modern of widespread impostures.
Dor business is to cull out of the mass
rf profanities a few samples of the
!)Cffcction required of the **holy,"
•consecrated,"** purified "knight; for
nch is the force of the Hebrew Ka<
loth. Angherd has not proceeded
ar, when in a note he takes care to
nform us that the two sacred pass-
words, Jachin and Booz, which Ma-
Kms of the first two grades are taught
:o repeat and understand as stability

and fcne^ and whose initial letters, J
and B, are inscribed on the Masonic
coiumfiSy read as they ought to be,
backwards, are two obscene words
in the corrupt language of the Mal-
tese Arabs.

The initiation, whenever it is sym-
bolic, recalls the execution of James
de Molai, Grand-Master of the Tem-
plars, and holds up to execration
Clement V. and Philip the Fair, with
Noflfodei, the false brother. To eman-
cipate society from the double des-
potism of priest and king is the duty
of the aspirant. The passwords for
him are now Nekam, vengeance. Ma-
kah, death, and the answer Bealim^ to
traitors. He is told that his duty is
to mark all the murders of friends of
liberty, political and religious, com-
mitted by the satellites of despotism,
and to avenge the victims of tyranny ;
to bind himself, in common action
with the other knights, to annihilate,
once for all, the despots of the hu- ^
man race — in a word to establish po-
litical and religious liberty where it
does not exist, and defend it where
it is established, with arms if need be.
When the theory of these doctrines
has been sufficiendy imprea^d upon
him, he is conducted by the grand-
master before a skull crowned with
laurel, and repeats as he is told:
'* Honor and glory to persecuted in-
nocence ; honor and glory to virtue
sacrificed to vice and ambition."
Next he is shown a skull crowned
with a tiara, a dagger is placed in
his hand, and he is made to exclaim,
** Hatred and death to religious des- .
potism !" In the same way, before
a skull on which is placed a kingly
diadem, he pronounces ** Hatred and
death to political despotism 1" Twice
must the aspirant repeat this ceremo-
ny, and on the last occasion casts
crown and tiara on the ground.*

* A living member of the French Aoidemy, &-
moiu for his antt-Chxistian writioss, on his i

736

Italian Docutnents of Freemasonry^

Four times he binds himself by oath
to combat political and religious op-
pression, to put down religious fanati-
cism, to overturn political tyranny,
to propagate the principles of Ma-
sonry, to disseminate liberal ideas, to
maintain the rights of man and the
sovereignty of the people. Each
time the holy name of God is called
to witness, but we know now the
value of the invocation — the universe
is the Mason's God.

"*Do you believe in another world?*
asks the grand-master, who himself re-
sumes, ' There are not two worlds. We
are a compound of matter and spirit.
These two substances return to their ori-
gin : this transformation does not remove
them out of the universal world, of which
we form part. What is the future life?
The future life is the life of our descen-
dants, who arc to profit by our discov-
eries."

Such, then, is the " religion of the
future," by which it is the appointed
task of Masonry to supersede Chris-
tianity ; such the " progress," " civiU-
zation," "perfectibility," which hu-
manity is to achieve under Masonic
guidance. We have not painted the
association in colors of our own ; we
have merely produced its official
documents, and in the hated light
they leave their own photograph.
When society falls under the influence
of such an organization, its demorali.
zation is rapid and complete. Its
circulars regulate the popular elec-
tions and control the votes of parlia-
ments. "Public opinion" is at its
beck, the press is its active instru-
ment. We could quote its instruc-
tions to the Italian Deputies on the
Roman question, and a communica-
tion of the Grand-Master of Italy,
sent to all the foreign Grand Lodges,
advising a united attack, through the

lion to this grade, struck the Pontifical mask with
•uch violence that the poniard broke and wounded
his hand, which he carried bandaged for loaie time
•ftar.

public mind, on the Cariist
ment in Spain. Its theories of
sination and open rebellion are sel-
dom carriedjpiut on its own direct
responsibihty. Out of the Masooic
lodges arise a multitude of omdot
sects, ostensibly independent, bm
really directed by the breibren. To
these the practical work is commit-
ted. As Carbonari, Socialists, Com-
munists, Intemationalisis, Mazzi&ians,
they execute orders received fron
their common centre. If success^
tlie result is claimed for the parol
association ; if unfortunate, tbey vt
disavowed. It is usual to saydiat
Freemasonry in firraly-establisbed
constitutional states is compantireij
harmless. We are not prepared to
affirm that in countries like the Uml*
ed States or Great Britain the wick*
ed principles of Continental Euro-
pean Masonry are developed to the
same extent indiscriminately in all
the lodges. Where the initiation is
supposed never to advance beyond
the three symbolic degrees, the anti-
Catholic principle of religious indi^
ference is perhaps its most dangcrow
characteristic. But this alone is sa^
ficiently repulsive ; and the frateroi»-
tion which binds together ever?
branch of the association canexoBC
no individual member from moni
complicity in its worst deeds, wher-
ever perpetrated.

With that keen forecast of danga
to the Christian family which ha
ever been tlie characteristic attribute
of the Holy See, the popes, ftom ii>i
first origin of Masonry, saw throcgi»
its flimsy disguise of benevolent pro-
fessions, and over and over agai^.
and chiefly on the eve of those iff*
rible anti-social outbursts that hare
so frequently convulsed Europe sba
the formation of the society, rJ^^
their prophetic voices, foretelling t-^
impending storm, denouncing '^'
source, and condemning in the stroc^*

Italian Documents of Freemasonry.

■3t terms and under the severest pe-
lalties all connection with these se-
;ret associations. Princes and peo-
ples disregarded the %arning, and
iK)lh have suffered for their neglect.
iVould that at least they had pro-
ited by the lesson I But these eter-
lal enemies of order, emboldened by
heir success, are only preparing for
I new strife. The state is already
ilmost everywhere at their control;
he church of God everywhere resists.
Vgainst her they new concentrate
heir warfare. False professions serve
JO purpose with the civil govern-
BCQt in their own hand3y and they
iave learned that their hypocrisy
iocs not avail with the church. They
Irop the mask. No longer careful

conceal their aim, they make it a
lublic boast " Protestantism," writes

1 Konmd from Germany in the
^aukutte^ a Masonic paper, "with-
ttt discipline, faith, or spiritual of
aoral life, broken up into hundreds
I sects, oflSrs only the spectacle of

corpse in dissolution. It is not an
neray to oppose us. Our adversary
I the Roman-Catholic-Papal-Infalli-
'le Church, with its compact and
niversal organization. This is our

hereditary, implacable foe. If we are
to be true and honest Freemasons, and
wish to promote our society, we must
absolutely cry out with Strauss : We
are no longer Christians; we are
Freemasons ^nd nothing else. Ama-
teur Freemasons are no advantage to .
humanity, and no credit to our so-
ciety. Christians or Freemasons,
make your choice."
. The church of God fears them not.
Her pastors may mourn over the
corruption of morals, the perversion
of youth, the irreparable loss of many
souls; but amid the dissolution and
universal ruin which infidelity and
revolution are preparing for society,
she will stand erect, unshaken, not
shorn of her strength; and when the
inevitable revulsion brings repentant
nations to her feet, she will be ready
as ever to pour the balm of religious
consolation on their wounds, to bind
up their shattered members, to set
humanity once more on the path of
true perfectibility, not to be attained
through the impious philosophy of
midnight conventicles, but in the
light of the Sun of Justice, preached
on the housetops, to the formation
of true Christian brotherhood.

CROWN JEWELS.

Let's crown our King with what will sliow

His royal power and treasure —
Sharp thorns ! Tis done I His blood doth flow,

Of both the might and measure.

VOL. XX.— 47

738

Are You My Wife?

ARE YOU MY WIFE?

BV THE AITTHOR OF " A SALON HI FARIS BBFOKB THR WAR,"

CHAPTER II.

* HxnoMM, TMirrxBN. ** pros vl,

I INTRODUCE MY WIFE— SHE DISAPPEARS !

**A NICE young gentleman you
are, Master Glide, to play off suchm
trick as this on your family !" said
Admiral de Winton, shaking my hand
so vigorously that I feared he was
bent in his indignation on shaking it
off. ** Come, sir, what excuse have
you to offer for yourself?"

" My dear uncle, I sha*n't attempt
any excuse, for the best reason in the
world, that I have not a decent one.
But here is my wife," I said, catch-
ing sight of her coming up the ter-
race ; " let her plead for me. I leave
my case in her hands."

Isabel stepped in through the
open window, and, going straight up
to the old gentleman, held out her
hands, blushing and smiling with the
prettiest little pretence of being
ashamed of herself and dreadfully
frightened.

" No excuse !" growled the ad-
miral, hollowing out his hands to
hold the Soft, pink cheeks, then salut-
ing them with a kiss that resounded
through the room like the double re-
port of a pistol-shot. " No excuse
indeed! You barefaced hypocrite!
How dare you tell me such a cram-
mer ? You unmitigated young ras-
cal, what do you mean by it ?"

This series of polite inquiries my
uncle fired off, holding Isabel all the
time at arm's length, with a hand on
each shoulder, and looking straight
into her face. She was not the least
disconcerted by this singular mode
of apostrophe.

" Don't scold him ! Don't be
angry with him! Please don't! It

was all ray fault," she said, and look-
ed up at him as if she particalam
wanted to kiss him.

" I'll horsewTiip him ! I'll tic him
to the mainmast and flog himT
roared my uncle.

And then came a second volley of
pistol-shots.

" No, you sha'n't I If yoa do.
I'll horsewhip you !" declared Isabd,
twining her arms round the old safl-
or's neck, and stamping her tiny fo*
at him.

. My step-mother made her aj^-
ance at this crisis with Sir Smoo
Harness. She had driven to meee
our guests, but, instead' of drivrng
back with them, she and Sir Smoa
walked up together from the station,
and sent on the admiral alone in tbc
carriage.

After bidding him a cordial wel-
come, I presented Isabel to Sir Simon.
She held out her hand. He raBcd
it to his lips, bending his vencrabk
white head before my young w:^
with that courtly grace that gave i
touch of old-fashioned stiffness to bs
manner towards women, but whia
was in reality the genuine exprcss:on
of chivalrous respect.

Isabel, not apparently ati^-
with the stately homage, drew ncarc
and, putting up her face, " Mar I
Glide?" she said.

Sir Simon naturally did not *' Sf^^^
for a reply," but taking the biasing
face in his hands, he imprinted *
fatherly kiss on her forehead. T*
say that I was proud of my wife s^'
delighted with the way she had K-

Are You My Wifef

719

haved towards my two friends would
be to convey a very inadequate idea
of the state of my feelings. I was
simply inebriated. If is hardly a
figure of speech to say that I did not
know whether I was on my head
or ray heels, I had looked forward
to this meeting with an apprehension
wrhich, from being undefined, was
none the less painful, and the relief
I experienced at the successful issue
was in proportion great. My step-
mother was evidently quite as surpris-
ed, if in a less degree gratified than
myself. The afternoon passed de-
lightfully, chatting and walking
about the park ; my two old friends
usurping Isabel completely, making
love to her under my eyes in the
most unscrupulous manner, quarrel-
ling as to who should have her arm
when out walking, and sit next to her
when they came in. Isabel flirted
with both, utterly regardless of my
feelings, and even hinted to me at
lunch that my prophecy with regard
to Sir Simon ran a fair chance of
coming true. She came down to
dinner arrayed like a fairy, in a dress
that seemed to have been made out
of a sunset and trimmed with a rain-
bow. She had put on all her jewels —
those I had chosen for her, and the
liiamonds that came to me from my
mother. She wore pearls round her
neck, and a row of diamond stars in
her hair ; while her arms almost disap-
peared under the variety of bracelets
nf every form and date with which
she had loaded them. It may have
l>een in questionable taste and not
very sensible, but there was an inno-
cent womanly vanity in thus seizing
the first available opportunity of
showing herself in her finery that I
thought perfectly delightful. I could
'*ee, too, that the admiral and Sir
Simon were pleased at the infantine
coquetry, and not a little flattered by
it. My step -mother alone looked

coldly on the proceeding ; and while
Isabel, sitting between the two old
gentlemen, pointed out for their
special admiration "this bracelet,
with the diamond true-lover's knot,
that Glide gave me the day after we
were engaged, and this blue enamel
with the Greek word in pearls that he
bought me the day before we came
home," Mrs. de Winton dissected
ller walnuts, and, setting her face like
a flint, kept outside the conversation
till the subject changed.

When we assembled in the draw-
ing-room, Isabel opened a new bat-
tery of fascination that was perhaps
the most formidable of all. She be-
gan to sing. The excitement of the
jewels, and the sympathetic audi-
ence, and the conscious triumph of
the hour, all added, no doubt, to the
power and brilliancy of her voice,
which sounded richer, fuller, more
entrancing than I had ever heard it
before. She sang all sorts of songs.
The admiral asked for a sea-song.
Isabel knew plenty, comic and dra-
matic, from " Rule Britannia " down
to "A Life on the Ocean Wave,"
which she rang out with a rollicking
zest and spirit that fairly intoxicated
the old sailor.

Sir Simon enjoyed an English
ballad and an Irish melody. The
siren gave him every one he asked
for, old and new. In fact, she sur-
passed herself in witchery and skill,
and one was at a loss which to ad-
mire most, the artless grace of the
woman or the gifts and accomplish-
ments of the artist The evening
passed rapidly away, and it was past
midnight before any one thought of
stirring.

" Glide," said my step-mother
next morning, as she was leaving
the breakfast-room where Isabel and
her guests were loitering over their
tea-cups, while I read the Itfnes in

740

Are You My Wife?

the window, ^< I wish to speak to
you. Come to me in the library."

And without waiting for an answer,
she walked out There was no rea-
son why this commonplace invita-
tion should have brought a sensation
of cold down my back, and of my
heart dropping down into my boots ;
but unaccountably this double phe-
nomenon was effected in my person.
I made a pretence of going throu^
the leaders before I rose, and then,
yawning to give myself an air of per-
fect satiety and ennuiy I sauntered
out of the breakfjEist-room, and bent
my steps towards the audience-
chamber.

«' Glide,*' began Mrs. de Winton,
whm I had closed the door and es-
tablished myself on the hearth-rug,
with my back to the fire, "where
did your wife learn singing ?"

"Why, in London, I suppose.
Where else should she learn it ?"

** Did you ask her .^" inquired my
inquisitor.

" It never occurred to me. Why
should it ?"

Mrs. de Winton looked at me cu-
riously — not scornfully, as she was
accustomed to do when I committed
myself to any ultra-foolish remark.
Indeed, I thought her face wore an
expression gentler and kinder than I
remembered to have seen there since
when a child I had seen^ her look at
my father. She said nothing for a
minute. Then fixing her eyes on me
with a glance that sent my heart
fight out through my heels:

'' I have telegraphed to Simpson
to come down by the early train to-
day ,'' she said.

**The deuce you have I" I ex-
claimed, and, starting fi-om my impas-
sive attitude, I dropped my coat-tails,
and stepped off the rug as if it had
suddenly turned into a hot plate.

« Yes," continued Mrs, de Winton,
quite unmoved by my complimen*

tary ejaculation, " it is my duty, since
you are too indifferent to your own
interest to take the . . ."

" Chde, CHde ! Where are yoo r
cried a sweet voice from the totace,
and, running up the slopes, Isabd
flattened her nose against the windov,
peering into the room in search of me.
I was so placed that she could not
see me, but she saw my step-mother.
Glad to escape fix)m what threato^
to be a stormy interview, I flew to
the window, opened it, and rqoined
my wife.

" Was she scoldmg you ?" asked
Isabel, casting a puzzled glance to-
wards the room where I had so on*
ceremoniously ** planted " my step-
mother.

" No, darling," I answered, lush-
ing.

** What was she saying ?" inquired
Jsabel.

** What an inquisitive little puss it
is !" I said, partly amused and part-
ly at a nonplus for a satisfactory an-
swer.

" Tell me. Ill go, if you don't T
And she prepared to carry out the
threat by unlocking her hands and
letting go my arm.

But I seized the refiractory handi
and held them tight

" Go I" I said, laughing at her in
a most tantalizing way, while she
struggled in vain to set herself free.

^^Tell me what you were ta&isf
about I insist on knowings Glide T
repeated Isabel, stamping her foot
like a naughty child.

I began to dread a repetition of
the other mommg. Such an exhibi-
tion within hearing of my uncle and
Sir Simon would have been so mor-
tifying to my pride that I was readj
to sign away my lawful authority for
the rest of my married hfe rather
than undergo it; so pretending not
to notice the gathering thunde^
clouds:

Are You My Wifef

741

**My lovely tjrrant!*' I said, ca-
ressing her with the sweetest of
sxnilesy as we walked past the draw-
log-rDom window, "you don't sus-
pect me of having a secret my wife
should not share ? I was only chaf-
fing you just now for fun, you looked
so mjTstiiied. But the fact is, I was
put out by the old lady's telling me
she expected Simpson down here to-
day."

" And who is Simpson ?" inquired
Isabel.
« The family lawyer."
" Ah ! Did you tell her to send
for him ?"

" I tell her ! Why, child, if I had,
I shouldn't have been put out to
hear he was coming."

The question was unpleasantly
suggestive. It implied a suspicion
in her mind, which something in my
tone resented, probably, for she add-
ed quickly :

" Oh ! of course not. I didn't
mean that."

Then we went on a few steps
without speaking.

" Simpson's a capital feflow," I re-
sumed, breaking the pause that was
rathrt* awkward. " I'm very fond of
him, and shouldn't the least object
to his coming dowA here at any
other time; only just now it's a
bore. We wanted to have my un-
cle and Sir Simon all' to ourselves.
However, I dare say you'll like
Simpson too when you see him,
though he is of the race of Philis-
tines. If he's a shrewd lawyer, he's
a trusty friend and as honest as the
sun. No fear of my 'doing' my
heiress wife in the settlements," I
continued laughingly, '* or cheating
her out of any of her lawful rights,
while old Dominie Simpson has the
whip-hand over me I"

"He's to be here to-day, you
said ?" she remarked interrogatively,
a we entered the house.

** Yes. If he comes by the early
train, he may be in time for dinner,"
I replied.

Mr. Simpson did come by the
early train, and he was in time for
dinner. He was even an hour and
a half beforehand with it, and spent
most of the intervening time closeted
with my step-mother in her private
apartment

My wife appeared in a second
dGition of sunset and rainbow, and
flashed and sparkled with jewels as
on the previous evening.

She received our old friend very
graciously, drawing just the right
line of demarcation between her
friendly graciousness to Wm and the
daughter-like familiarity of her man-
ner towards Sir Simon and her uncle.
Dinner passed oflf very merrily; but
when we rejoined the ladies in the
drawing-room, I was surprised to
find Isabel fast asleep in the depths
of a monumental arm-chair. She
jumped up at the sound of my
voice, and, rubbing her eyes, said
she was ashamed to be caught na|>-
ping, but she was so tired !

"Hollo, Simpson, this is a sorry
lookout for youl" exclaimed the
admiral, "We've been telling him
to get ready his legal soul to be
charmed and devoured by the siren."

" Oh ! I am so sorry," said Isabel,
looking at the old lawyer as if no-
thing in this world could give her
half so much pleasure as to charm
away his soul on the spot; "but
these naughty gentlemen kept me up
so late last night, and n»ade me sing
so much, that I have not a note in
my voice to-night, and I'm just dead
with sleep."

Simpson looked wofully disap-
pointed.

" My pretty pet," said the admiral,
drawing her to him and stroking her
head as if she had been a kitten,
"then you sha'n't sing 1"

742

Are You My Wife?

" If you should lie down for half
an hour, dearest," I said, "do you
think that would rest you, and you
might be able to give us just one
song ?"

I was anxious that Simpson should
hear her. He sang a very good
song himself, and his heart seemed
set on it

"Perhaps," she said, brightening
up. " I'll try, at any rate."

I gave her my arm, and we weAt
up-stairs together to her room.

"Don't come in, or else we'll
begin to talk, and that will wake me
up," she said, seeing me about to
enter ; ** and I'm so dead with sleep
I'm sure I shall be off in five minutes,
if you leave me."

I did as she wished, and returned
to the drawing-room, where I found
my step-mother in conclave with the
three men on more practical matters
than songs and sirens.

Simpson had been summoned for
the sole purpose of discussing and
settling what ought in the proper
course of things to have been dis-
cussed and settled before my mar-
riage, and Sir Simon Harness was
just as anxious as Mrs. de Winton
that everything should be made
straight and clear with regard to
Isabel's fortune and my due control
over it. The admiral alone was in-
different aboift it, and exhibited a
sailor-like contempt for the whole af-
fair — in fact, intimated that it was
out of all sense and reason and mor-
ality that I should have got a penny
of fortune with such a wife.

" I call it immoral, sir," he declar-
ed, scowling at me from under his
bushy eyebrows ; '* you ought to be
ashamed of yourself."

** And so I am, my dear uncle," I
replied hastily. "And that's just
why I hate having the subject at-
tacked in this precipitate way, as if I
wanted to grab up her money the

moment I could lay my hands upon
it"

"Then you can lay your hands
upon it ?" observed S'unpson qmed?.

« If I chbose," I said; " my wife
is of age, and . . ."

"Of age!" echoed the admiral
throwing up his bands in amaie.
" Why, I should have given the dnU
fifteen at most !"

" She looks young," I remaiieti
coolly, while interiorly I was bma-
ing with conceit ; " but she is of age
so there is no reason in the w«ld
why I should bother myself or her
about this confounded fortune; be-
sides, I don't care a rap if I never
see a penny of it !"

" Bravo, Glide ! That's right mr
boy !" cried my uncle, clapping me
soundly on the back. "You're a
chip of the old block, and it does my
heart good to hear you. Why, when
I was a youngster, . . ."

**De Winton," interrupted &
Simon, " don't you think you bad
better retire to the piano ? Smpson
has not come down all the way ton
London to be entertained with the
follies of your youth. It's most im-
portant that we should havfc his
opinion about these matters; aod it'
you can't hold your tongue or talk
sense, you had better make yoandi
scarce."

"Talk on,*' said the admiral; **!
won't hinder you." And so they
did. I sat there, feeling as if I were
on my trial for some sort of mistk-
meanor, the natiure of which was un-
known to me, but the consequences
of which would be probably appall-
ing if the misdemeanor cookl be
brought home to me. Sir Simon and
my step-mother were judge and jary,
Simpson was counsel for some mjtbi-
cal antagonist, and the admiral stood
by in the capacity of a neutral but
benevolent spectator. Both counsel
and judge had been made acquainted

Are You My Wife f

743

by Mrs. de Winton with all she had
to tell. How much or how liiile
tliat raight be, in Mrs. de Winton's
opmion, I could not say. But clearly
on some shallow inductive evidence
iJie had made out a case vaguely
unfavorable for my wife. No one
accused her of anything. Not a
word was said that my irritable pride
could take hold of and resent. They
spoke of her as a child whose inno-
cence and ignorance made it doubly
incumbent on them to legislate for
and protect, since I was unfit for the
duty, while my morbid delicacy they
ignored as beneath contempt

" We must keep him out of it al-
together, I see," observed Sir Simon
when the conversation had lasted
about half an hour. " Leave me to
deal with the child. She won't sus-
I>ect me of having married her for
her money."

There was no gainsaying this.
Still, I was entering a protest against
ihe way in which my wishes were
being set at naught, when tea was
brought in and cut me short.

'* Go and see if Isabel be awake,
Glide," said my uncle, glad to put
an end to the subject ; " but don't
disturb her if she's asleep. She's not
to be worried for old fogies like us,
mind."

I ran up the stairs lightly, and
opened the door as stealthily as a
thicC The light was out. " Isabel !"
I said in a low voice. No answer.

I closed the door as noiselessly as
I had opened it, and returned to the
drawing-room.

'* She's as fast asleep as a baby,
uncle," I said. " So I followed your
advice, and left her to sleep it out."

" Poor little pet ! We kept her at
it too long last night. You must not
do this sort of thing again. Glide,"
observed Sir Simon. " It's a delicate
flower that you've got there, and you
must take care of it.''

I expressed my hearty concur-
rence in this opinion and advice.

Isabel's absence made a great
blank in the evening ; but as my three
friends had not met for a considera-
ble time, and I had not seen them
for more than a year, we had a great
deal to say to each other, and there
was no lack of conversation. Mrs.
de Winton remained with us till
eleven, when she withdrew, leaving
us to discuss punch and politics by
ourselves. It was past midnight
when we separated. I went into my
dressing-room; The candles were
lighted, but, contrary to his custom,
Stanton, my man, was not there. 1
rang the bell; but while my hand
was still on the rope, the sound of his
voice reached me through the door —
not the outer door, but tlie door
leading into my wife's room. He
was speaking in a loud, argumenta-
tive tone, and was stuttering violent-
ly, which he always did when excited.
I flung open the door, and beheld
him standing in the middle of the
room with Susette, my wife's maid,
and Mrs. de Winton, who was wrap-
ped in a dressing-gown and her feet
bare, as if she had been called sud-
denly out of bed, and had rushed in
in terrified haste.

** Glide !"

** Monsieur !"

" Sir . . ." exclaimed the three in
one voice when they saw me.

** Good God ! what is the mat-
ter? Isabel!"

I flew to the bed and drew back
the curtains.

The bed was empty.

My wife was gone /

Here Glide's journal breaks off".
A long gap ensues, and we must fill
it up from the recollections of others.
The scene that followed the discovery
of his young wife's flight was not to
be described. First, it was incredu-

744

Are YouMy Wifef

lity that Med the old Moat '* Gone !
Fled ! Nonsense 1" protested Admi-
ral de Winton, walking up and down
the corridor, where he had rushed
out in semi-nocturnal attire when
Stanton had burst into his room with
the dreadful intelligence. The old
sailor was scarcely to be recognized
in the deshabilU oi his coatless and
wigless person, as he blustered loudly,
his hands in his pockets, zigzagging
to rnd fro as if he were pacing the
Huarlcr-deck and expostulating angri-
ly with a surly crew.

Sir Simon Harness was calmer.
He did not contradict his friend's
vehement assertion that it was* all a
trick of IsabeFs to terrify us; he
even made a show of pooh-poohing
the notion of a flight ?»s absurd, ridi-
culous, not to be entertained for a
moment. But there was not that
heartiness in his voice or manner that
carries conviction to others. Mrs.
de Win ton also made a semblance
of chiming in with the admiral's view,
but it was a palpable failure. Mr.
Simpson was the pnly one who did
not try to act his part in the kindly
comedy. He was fully convinced
that it was no comedy, but a most
tniserable drama that was Oeginning
for the son of his old friend and
client. He had mistrusted Isabel
from the first moment he fixed his
keen, legal vision on her. Mrs. de
^^inton had, it is true, inoculated
bim beforehand with a good share
^^« her own mistrust, and he canac
^ the scrutiny with a jaundiced eye ;
pr^ju'iicevl^ and predetermined not
5^? ^^ fascinated or beguiled out of
J^*^ sexx-rest judgment He regarded
t T^ ^^ ^ ^^^^ ^f which he was to
^*^^ i* strictly legal xnew, and which
iv\* ^"^ ^ investivxateil, sifted, and
l^W"^^ ^^«^>re he irould endorse it
,xf .^^^ ^ ^t^r*- otid case on the fece
K^.i ' '^^ Beni,\mm Simi^son had

^^vl

UVM.y ^^1 J ^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^-^>^

the course of his experience, and lie
flattered himself he was not to be
baffled by a child scarcely out of her
teens. She might be veiy dercr,
and succeed in hoodwinking a rich
young gentleman into marrying her,
on the strength of a ficdtious stoy
of misery and a still more fictitioiB
one of heiresship ; but she was net
likely to stand Simpson's cross-ei-
amination long without breakmg
down. Such ungallant reflections as
these had been passing through the
lawyer's brain while he sipped his
claret and watched the fair fkcc that
sat opposite to him at the dinner-
table, glancing at him with eyes that
flashed more brightly than her jcwck
He had made up his mind, as he
looked at her, that she was a delusioii :
she would disappear sooner or later.
The news of her flight was therefore
only a surprise by its suddenness.
Glide was rushing all over the base-
ment story, calling out Isabel's name
into every room, while Mrs. de Win-
ton and her own and Isabel's maid
were pursuing a similar search in the
upper part of the house. The ram-
bling old mansion was echoing ftoo
end to end with opening and shtrtting
of doors and cries of the fiigitiTrt
name; but no answer was heard ex-
cept the echoes of the voices and the
doorsL

« My dear boy," said the admW,
pausing on his imaginary quarter-
deck, as Glide came up the stairs,
« I'll suke my head on it, the sly
litde puss is plajring a game of hid^
and-seek with us, and laughing fit
to kill herself in some cupboard or
other, while we are kicking up tiffl
row; take my word for it, the best
thing we can do is to go quietly to
our own beds, and before long shel)
come out of her hiding-place,"

Glide muttered an impatient "stuff
and nonsense !" Was she likely to
perish herself such a night as this

Are You My Wifef

74$

phjFiDg hide-and-seek for their amuse-
ment — she that could not bear a
breath of cold ? Even crossing
through a fireless room she would
shiver like an aspen. The admiral
grunted something about "deserv-
ing to be whipped," and turned to
his zigzag promenade again.

Stanton and some of the other
men-servants had gone out to scour
the park and the gardens ; they had
been absent now long enough to
have discovered something, if there
was anything to discover, but the
stars made no answer to then: call-
ing. "Madame! Mistress!" they
shouted, till at last they gave it up^
and retraced their steps to the house.
Glide had been going to the window
in a restless way, looking out into
the night, and listening as if he ex-
pected to hear the silence send him
back some sign. It was impossible
to say whether he believed the least
bit in the hide-and-seek theory,
whether he had a lingering hope of
hearing Isabel call out to him or
appear from some corner, or whether
he was just in that condition of mmd
that precludes alike sitting still or
doing -something. He might be ex^
cited by hope, or he might be stupe-
fied by despair. He was as white
as ashes, and came and went with
the quick, unsteady gait of a man
who has lost his self-command, and
is swayed only by the force of some
terrible emotion. Glide's face was a
fine, manly one ; it would have been
noble but for the weakness of the
chin and a certain tremulous move-
ment of the lower lip — perhaps of
both ; for the upper one was shaded
by a light-brown nK)ustache that pre-
vented you seeing whether it had
the firmness^that would have redeem-
ed the lower one. The eyes were
expressive, rather sleepy when the
face was in repose; but they woke
up with flashes of lightning when

he was excited, and transfigured the
whole countenance into one of energy
and power. There was no need to
be a physiognomist to judge of the
character of such a face. The most
unskilled observer could read it like
a book. There were all the elements
of a stormy life there — passive
strength, and passions that needed
only a spark to kindle them into a
flame ; a man who, as he was taken,
would be as easily led as a Iamb
or as intractable as a young hyena.
He had started in life with the fixed
purpose of steering clear of storms,
of saving himself trouble and avoid-
ing fusB. Poor Glide ! Life, he fan-
cied, had a lake of oil at the entrance
of the wide sea where storms blew
and waves roared angrily, and he
had made up'liis mind to anchor in
the lake, and never venture beyond
its peaceful margin.

The servants had come back —
those that had been scouring the
park — and the others, who had been
slamming doors all through the
house, were congregating in twos
and threes upon the stairs leading to
the broad landing off which their
young mistress* room stood, its
door wide open, with a dismal, va-
cant air about it already,

*'I see her! There she is!" ex-
claimed Glide. He had been staring
for some minutes out of the window,
and suddenly bounded down the
great oak stairs, and out in the path,
making for a clump of laurel-trees
far down near the water. The ad-
miral, Sir Simon, Simpson, and Mrs.
de Winton pressed into the embra-
sure of the window, the servants
peeping over their heads to catch a
sight of the figure he was pursuing ;
but they saw nothing except the win-
ter trees, that stood like silver against
the sky, while their straggling sha-
dows lay black upon the lawn. Still
Glide bounded on, calling out Isabel 1

746

Are You My Wifet

Isabel ! as he ran, and still no sound
answered him; the thud of his foot-
fall on the frosty grass came sharply
distinct in the silence.

" The boy is dazed !" muttered his
uncle; ''it was a shadow he saw.
But, no ! By Jove, there she is I"
Glide was now close upon the lau-
rels, that looked like a black mound
in the moonlight The group in the
window saw a white, crouching
figure rise slowly at his approach; he
stopped, uttered a cry of disappoint-
ment, and turned drearily back to-
wards the house.

** What is it ? Who is it ?" shout-
ed several voices ; but before^ Glide
answered a moonbeam lighted up
the figure of a deer, as it glided light-
ly over the sward, and disappeared
into the distant copse.

Instead of entering the house at
once, Glide wandered round towards
the stabl'es. It occurred to him that
something in that region might sug-
gest a clew to the mode of his wife's
escape. He was quickly undeceiv-
ed. Every door was locked. There
was no sign of any horse having dis-
turbed the slumbers of its compan-
ions.

** There is no use in your passing
the night out of doors," said Sir Si-
mon, who came to see where Glide
had gone. " Gome in, and let us put
our heads together to see what is
to be done. I'm inclined to believe
with De Winton that it is a trick, and
that the foolish child is amusing her-
self at seeing us all out of doors
searching for her."

Whether this was honest or not.
Glide felt it was meant in kindness.
He let his old friend draw his arm
within his and lead him back into
the house. It was lighted up as for
an impromptu illumination; every
servant, male and female, was a-
foot, and they had busied themselves
in and out of all the up-stair rooms

that for years had been untcaaoted;
and as it was necessary to do some-
thing, they lighted candles.

'' Suppose it is not a trick 1" $aid
Glide, looking into Sir Simon's ^ce
with a terrible question in his eyes.

'' That's what we have got to 6od
out," replied the baronet evasiirdf.
'* Meantime, come up and let us bear
what the others have to say."

They had nothing to say. Pre-
sently Mrs. de Winton remaiiced:

'* I wonder what dress she hadoQ?
If she kept on her jewels, and that
light gauze one, with the low body
and short sleeves, she wore at diaoer,
she can't have gone far."

They went into the empty nxim
to investigate. The jewels were
gone, every one she had wotd;
there were the empty cases. But the
light gauze dress was there haogiag
in the wardrobe, as if her maid bad
carefully put it away. What shchad
put on to replace it was the next
point which Mr. Simpson insisted ofi
clearing up. All the elegant dresses
of the young bride's trousseau were
tossed out of drawers and wardrobes
by Susette — Susette had been en-
gaged for her by Glide himself after
their marriage — and counted over,
till one was found missing in the
roll : the claret-colored silk in which
she bad travelled down from Loc-
don, and had never worn since. It
was the most appropriate dr^s of all
she had for a midnight flight, ani
being dark, would escape 6asanr
tion. Mr. Simpson seized immedi-
ately on this, '* making a pQim" of
it in his legal way, that so exaspent-
ed Glide he could have flown at the
lawyer's throat and strangled him oo
the spot. He resisted the impdsc
and turned away, inviting Mrs. de
Winton by a sign to go with him.
He walked into his own dressing-rooi&.
and, when his step-mother had foUow-
ed him, he closed the door, and took

Are You My Wife?

747

a torn in the room with a quick, pas-
sionate step.

" What in the name of heaven can
it be ?" he said, stopping abruptly and
coming close up to her, as she stood
by the mantel-piece.

" She is gone," answered his step-
mother. " I hardly doubted it for
an instant I have been expecting
some such catastrophe for several
days past. If you ask me why, I
cannot tell you. I somehow never
trusted . . , My dear Glide," she
continued in an earnest tone of kind-
ness, quite unlike her usual cold
manner to him, ** I wish with all my
heart I could do something or say
something to comfort you or help
you. Can you throw no light at all
on it from your own knowledge of
things? Is there nothing in what
you know, or in what you do not
know, about her antecedents and
connections to help you to form
some guess? Where can she have
gone to, and who has she gone
with ?"

Glide clenched his hand, and
moved away with an expression of
anguish that was dreadful.

" Gone to !" he repeated suddenly.
" Why, what fools we are not to have
seen to that at once ! But it's not
too kte . . ." He pulled out his
watch. ..." It's just three-quarters
of an hour since we missed her. Sir
^on and I will saddle a couple of
horses and ride both ways, for Glani-
vold and Lanfarl. If she is making
for cither, we may overtake her."

He was going to the door, but
Mrs. de W^inton laid her hand on his
arm. ** Nob three-quarters of an
hour since we missed her, but she
may be gone more than three hours.
It was scarcely^ eight o'clock when
she came up-stairs to lie down, and
nowii's ten minutes past twelve. Sup-
posing she's gone to the station. . . ."

" Nonsense !" broke in Glide ; " the

station is three hours* walk from this.
She could no more do it than an in-
fant."

" I'm only supposing ; one must
suppose something," replied his step-
mother patiently. ** The train leaves
at a quarter to twelve; so if that
were her object, it is too late to stop
her."

" There's something too absurd in
the idea! It's simply impossible!"
declared Glide with a vehemence
that carried no sense of conviction
with it — rather the contrary. ** It's
absurd to contemplate it," he repeat-
ed ; " but if you would sleep easier
for leaving the thing certified, I'll
jump into the saddle, and ride to the
station and inquire."

" Inquire what ? Gonsider what
you are going to do, Glide," said
Mrs. de Wiiiton, holding him back
firmly — "raise a hue and cry after
your wife as if she were a runaway
thief ! Suppose it turns out after all
to be a trick, and that we see her
emerge out of some closet or corner
before you come back ; how will you
look after sending it over the country
that your wife disappeared one night ?
Do you imagine the world will be-
lieve the story of the game of hide-
and-seek ?"

Before he could reply Sir Simon
and the admiral burst into the room.

" We found this on her dressing-
table," said the admiral, handing his
nephew a note. Glide took it. A
cold chill ran through his blood.
He tore open the letter. It ran
thus:

'* Glide, I am going to leave you..
I don't ask you to forgive me. You
can never do that But God help
me! I shall suffer for having so
wickedly deceived you. I should
not have been worthy of you, even if
I had been as true as I have been
false. But I loved you, and I shall
never love anybody else. Don't try

748

Are You My Wife?

to find me. You will never find me.
Good-by, Glide. Forget me and be
happy.

'* Your wicked but remorseful and

loving ISABEU"

The letter dropped fi-om the young
man's hand, and he fell to the ground
with a cry.

We return to Glide's journal :
The sun was shining over the sea —
the strong- waved sea that washes the
northern coast of France, the country
of legends and cider, and gray ruins
and chivalry, and all that survives in
the France of to-day of the France
of long ago, the " plaisant pays de
France" that poets sang to Marie
Stuart in her happy days of young
queenhood. There to the right, as
the steamer paddled towards the
port, stood the cliff where William of
Normandy harangued his Norsemen
before they embarked with him to
snatch from Harold by force the
crown he had not been able by fraud
to prevent his assuming. Dieppe lay
twinkhng in the sunlight below, a
town of gossip and carved ivory and
many odors. As we entered the
harbor, a strain of wild, plaintive
music came floating towards us from
the shore. It was the hymn of the
fishermen's wives, pulling the fishing
smacks along the pier. Ghildren
were toddling by the side of the
mothers, and clutching by the rope
with their small fingers, while their
shrill trebles piped in chorus with the
elders. A pretty picture, if I had
been in a mood to admire it. But
the gloom within quenched all the
brightness without.

The boat was steered alongside
the quay, where half the town, it
seemed to me, had assembled to
jeer at our pea-green faces, as we
emerged from our separate purga-
tories and staggered up the gangway.
I never feel so thorougli a misan-

thrope as when I see my ^low-crea-
tures enjoying the humiliation of my
steamboat misery, and hear them
chuckling over me as I passilong
the plank that leads from deck to dry
land. On this particular occasion I
remember with what a vehemence of
hatred I resented their inhomamtj.
and I assumed as defiant an air as
was compatible with my abject bodi-
ly and mental condition, as I mardi-
ed on with my fellow- victims, axkd
passed between two hedges of eager,
staring eyes. My uncle was witb
me. But he was not abject He
was far removed from such a wra^
ed infirmity as sea-sickne^ and no-
thing but his kindheartedness prevent-
ed him firom joining with the cbidc-
lers who were making merry at oar
expense. It was almost an aggrava-
tion of my own suffering to see the
intensity of his sympathy, the way in
which he was perpetually mouotiog
guard beside me to ward off any ran-
dom shaft that the chance remarks
of others every now and then aimed
at me.

1 had now spent six weary months
prosecuting my search, the most ei-
traordinary and unfortunate that ever
man was engaged in, and up to the
day I started for Dieppe I had failed
to obtain the smallest clew. I bad
left nothing untried. I had stimolit-
ed the activity of Scotland Yard by
reckless liberality; I had set tbe
whole detective force in motion, but
to no purpose.

I had had recourse to the mystov
ous column in the Times for montlp
together; but the agony of leebig
that my appeals to Isabel to " come
back to her husband, or communicale
with him by letter," was making jfi
the breakfast-tables in the kingdom
laugh, brought no response from tbc
fiigitive herself. All this time my
uncle seconded me by his exeitioos
and supported me by his kindness.

Are You My Wi/ef

749

1 tbink I should have gone mad, if it
had not been for him. He never
tbred of my lamentations, my long,
sullen fits of gloom, the wearisome
rcfirain of my self-reproach, my end-
less wondering at the behavior of
Isabel, and my cursing and swearing
at the stupidity of the Scotland Yard
people. He bore with me as patient^
ly as a mother with a sick child. My
step-mother had talked him into her
beKef that Isabel had been on the
stage, and that the most likely place
to hear of her would be amongst
managers and play-actors. There
was something utterly revolting to me
to this notion, and I burst out into
such uncontrollable anger one day
when my uncle was arguing in favor
of it with a degree of sense that was
quite unanswerable, that he determin-
ed pever to broach the supposition
again to me. This did not prevent
him from following up the idea by
employing agents in every direction
to hunt the theatres both of London
and the provincial towns. Mean-
while, 1 was secretly doing the same.
I could not look the thing bravely in
the face, even with him ; but I had
in my innermost heart a dread,
amounting at times to certainty, that
he was right, and that if ever I found
my wife it would be in the green-
room or on the stage. I discovered
afterwards that my dear old uncle
knew perfectly well the game I was
playing, but he left me imder the
delusion that he believed in my dis-
belief^ and so spared me the shame
I morbioly shrank from. More than
once a false alarm led me to fancy
that these were realized, and that she
was in the hands of a manager,
and then my sensation was one of
poignant misery, almost of despair.
While I knew nothing I might yet
hope. My feelings resembled that
of the French miser who, while look-
ing for the will that if found would

rob him of a legacy, confessed naive-
ly: "Je cherche en priant Dieu de
ne pas trouver."

I was sitting at breakfast in my
lodgings in Piccadilly one morning
when my uncle came suddenly in,
and said abrupdy :

'< You told me once that the sign
by which the police could positively
identify her was a silver tooth ?"

" Yes," I replied, and my heart
thumped against my ribs ; '< a silver
tooth in the left jaw, rather far
back."

" Did it never occur to you to
make inquiries amongst the den-
tists?"

•* No, that never occurred to me I
But now that you mention it, it
seems very strange that it should not.
I quite remember her speaking to me
of a clever one who had put in the
silver tooth for her; how he had at
first been obstinate and annoyed
about it, and then when it was done
how pleased he was with it. How
stupid of me not to have thought of
it before I" I cried in vexation ; "but
to-morrow I will begin and set in-
quiries on foot in this direction."

"You needn't trouble about it,"
said my uncle ; " Tve found the man
who did it"

"You have I" I cried. "And he
has seen her! He has told you
something 1 For heaven's sake, un-
cle, speak at once. What does the
man know ?"

"No great things," answered my
uncle, stepping from the hearth-rug,
where he had been standing with his
back to the dock, and ffinging him-
self into ati arm-chair. "It seems
that your step-mother's fancy was
the right one after all ; the child was
brought up for public singing, and
she was here ten days ago. For
aught this dentist can tell, she may
be here stiQ; but I think not She
came to him to have something

750

Are YcuMy Wife?

done to this identical silver tooth. It
was hurting her, and she was in a
great state about it, because she had
just got an engagement to sing at a
provincial theatre this season; she
didn't say where, but the last time
he saw her — she went to him for
several days running — she was fidget-
ting about the weather — ^you remem-
ber we had some stiffish gales last
week — and wondering what sort of
passage the people would have who
were crossing the Channel with the
wind so high. He could give me no
idea what port she had in her mind, or
in fact anything but just what I tell
you. Well, I thought it was as well
to make inquiries before I set you on
the go again, so I telegraphed to the
police at all the French ports, and
just a minute ago I got this from
Dieppe."

He handed the telegram to me:
"Beautiful young woman, answers
to description. Landed on Satur-
day; sings to-night. Hotel Royal.
Elderly man with her." There was
not a doubt in my mind but that
this was Isabel. The elderly man
must be the villain who passed him-
self off as her uncle. I said so ; my
uncle agreed with me.

** The dentist fellow described him
just as you do," he continued — *^ a
gruff old man, with a brown coat and
broad-brimmed hat, and a disagree-
able snuffle when he talked. He
used to go with her a year ago, when
she got the silver tooth made, and
he was with her the other day. And
now, my boy, when are we to start
for Dieppe ? Let's look at tlie time-
table."

We started by the tidal train,
and reached Dieppe about five p.m.
that evening. It was the season, and
every hotel was brimful of English
and French fashion, come to bathe
itself in the briny wave of that strong
salt sea. We went straight to the

Hdtel Royal, but the landlord )taA
not even a garret where he couid
put up a bed for us. The lod^^i^
houses in the whole length of the
Rue Aguado were overflowing, and
we were finally driven to explore the
Faubourg de la Barre, where ve
were thankful to be taken in by a
garrulous old landlady, who showed
us two small rooms on the first floor.
I was not in a frame of mind to quar-
rel with the accommodation, but 1
heard the admiral relieving himsdt
in strong vernacular on the corkscrev
staircase.

We deposited our light imfedimenU
in these lodgings, and then went out
to see what information was to be garn-
ered concerning the object of <mr
journey. The first thing we behddoa
entering the Grande Rue was a j^-
card announcing '' La Sonnarobda"
for that evening ; \s\tprima i/^rnnava
to be a " gifted young soprano ^'-
bttianiey Signorina Graziella." \Vc
went to the box-office ; every place
was taken, and we had only a pros-
pect of standing-room in the space
between the first tier and thebalcooy.
The prima donna had been henddetl
by such a flourish of trumpets tha:
the whole population was eager to
hear her— so the box-keeper inform-
ed us.

By this time it was six o'clock ; bat
I was fed by something stronger
than meat, and it never occurred to
me that since my breakfast, whicft
had been suspended before I was
half through it, I had taste(^no food.
My uncle's sympathy, however, be-
ing of the healthiest kind, was not
proof against the demands ofnatnre,
and he suggested that it was time to
think of dinner. I was ashimcd of
having so entirely forgotten bis com-
fort in my own absorbing preocco-
pation, and proposed that we shoahl
go to the tabU'd'hSu of the Hdid
Royal, which was served at six. I

Arf You My Wifef

7Si

would have eaten merely to keep
him company : but the first spoonful
of soup seemed to choke me. The
brave old sailor was near losing
temper with me at last, and vowed
that he would wash his hands of me
if I didn't eat my dinner. He had
roughed it on many a heavy sea, and
in nine cases out of ten it was his
hearty appetite that kept him afloat
and pulled him through. In any
case, he would not admit fasting to
be an element in sentiment with ra-
tional human beings. He called for
a bottle of Chateau Lafitte, and in-
sisted on my helping him to empty
It I did my best, and the result
was that before dinner was over the
generous wiue repaid me for the ef-
fort, and enabled me to take, if not a
more hopeful, at any rate a less ut-
terly disconsolate, view of life, and of
the particular chapter of it I was now
passing through. It had a still
kinder effect on my uncle; his heart
soon warmed by the juice of the red
grape to such an extent that he talked
of my miserable position cheerfully, as
if it had been the most ordinary oc-
currence, and as if there was no rea-
son why I should despond about it
at all. He persisted in treating Isa-
bel as a naughty child who had
never been taught submission to the
rules of life, and broke through them
the moment she found they tram-
melled her. It was no unprecedented
event for an excitable young thing
to go mad about the stage; there
were, on^the contrary, plenty of in-
stances of it. He could count them
on his fingers — young ladies who
had gone quite mad about it, and
who had calmed down, when the
freak was over, into excellent wives
and mothers. AVhy should not this
silly little puss do the same? I did
not dare remind him of those terrible
wonls, written in her own hand : " If
I were as true as I have been false."

It was a solace to hear him rambling
on in his good-natured, foolish talk.
Only when he repeated with stout
emphasis for the tenth time that she
was herself the victim and dupe of
the designing old scoundrel who
called her his niece, I ventured to
remark ; "But Simpson says ..."
"Simpson is an ass!" snarled my
uncle, and I at once assented, and
declared my belief that Simpson was
an ass.

The moment we had finished our
ChAteau Lafitte we rose and left the
crowded room, where new-comers
were still pouring in to seize upon
every seat as it was vacated. I had
been casting uneasy glances towards
the door, after first quickly scanning
the three hundred heads that were
bobbing up and down over as many
soup-plates when we entered ; but
my fears were vain. Isabel was not
likely to run such a risk, if she
wished — as evidently she did wish —
to remain undiscovered. I overheard
some persons near us discussing the
appearance of iht prima donna^ who,
they observed, never showed herself
off the stage. Many curious idlers
had wasted hours lolling about the
hotel door, in hopes of seeing her
come out to walk or bathe; but
since she had been in Dieppe — four
ilays now — no one had caught a
glimpse of her. They little dreamed,
as they bandied this gossip with one
another, that they were stabbing a
heart with every word. The persist-
ent avoidance of notice was but too
significant to me of the/r;>//^ donna's
identify. It wanted yet half an hour
of the time for the theatre, and my
uncle said we might as well spend it
inhaling the fresh breeze that was
blowing from the north, borne in by
the advancing tide. He linked his
arm in mine, and we sauntered down
to the beach. The waves were
breaking in low thunder-sobs upon

752

Are You My Wife?

the shingles, and all the town that
was not dining was out of doors
watching them. The Etablissfcment
was crowded, and the music of the
band that was playing there came
floating towards us wiih every roll
of the waves ; but the hum of the
chattering crowd rose distinctly above
the sobbing of the sea and the mur-
mur of the more distant orchestra.
1 was too excited, too absorbed in
my own thoughts, to realize distinctly
anything around me, but I quite well
remember how I was impressed in a
vague yet vivid way by the contrast
between the sad, majestic tide heav-
ing and surging on one side, and the
human stream rippling to and fro oa
the other, dressed out in such tawdry
gear, and simpering and chattering
and subsiding like the frothy foam
on the billows. I can remember, too,
how I turned, irritated and sick, from
the sight of it to the prettier, purer
one of children playing on the sward
beside the beach. The peals of their
innocent laughter did not jar upon
me; there was no discord between
it and the dirge-like sound of the
water washing the shore. All this
passed and repassed before me like
something in a dream.

But the time was hurrying on, and
now I was impatient to see my doom
with my own eyes, or to know that
the reprieve was prolonged, and that
I might yet cling to a plank of
hope.

" I think it's time we were going,"
I remarked, pulling out my watch ;
" the crowd is thinning, and I sup-
pose it is boimd in the same direc-
tion," We were late, as I expected;
every spot was filled in the little
theatre when we arrived, and the
performance had begun. As the
box-keeper opened the door to admit
us to our standing-post on the first
tier, we were almost thrown back by
the roar of applause that burst upon

our ears; it rose and fell like a
mighty gust of wind, and seeiocd
literally to make the ground shake
under our feet and the walls trea^
round us. For a moment I was
stunned. There was a lull, and then
we went in. The singer had left the
stage, but the air was still vibratoig
with the melody of her voice aud of
the rapturous echoes it had awaka-
ed. A fine barytone was confidinf
his despair and his hopes to the au-
dience, but it fell idly on their can
after what had gone before. Tbe
Sonnambula appeared again; die
first notes were greeted by another
salvo of bravos, louder, more impas"
sioned and prolonged, than the fiist ;
again and again the plaudits vast,
handkerchief fluttered, and hasib
clapped — the house was electrified
She could bear it no longer; oTcr-
come by emotion, she held out ber
arms to the spectators in an entreat-
ing gesture that seemed to say:
" Enough I Spare me ; I can bearno
more !" It was either an impulse of
childlike nature or the tnost fini^ed
piece of art ever seen on the stage.
Whatever it was, the effect was tre-
mendous. I suppose it could DOt
really have been so, but I woaU
have sworn that the house rocked.
It was a sustained roll of human
thunder from the pit to the gaOery,
and from the gallery to the pit
Isabel — ^fbr it was she — ^made anotiser
passionate response with the same
childlike, bewitching grace, andnsb-
ed off the scene. I was rooted to
the spot, not daring to look at dj
uncle ; not thinking of him, id any-
thing. I was like a man in a night-
mare, held fast in the grasp of a
spectre, longing to call for help, bat
powerless to utter a sound.

The manager came forward and
addressed a few words of expostaia*
tion to the audience ; implored them
to control tlieir ecstasies a littk for

Are You My Wife?

753

the sake of the sensitive and gifted
being who had called them forth.
He was nervous and at the same
time trimnphant He was answered
by a loud buzz of assent The S^n-
nambula once more came forth, and
this time a deep, suppressed murmur
was the only interruption. The
dress, the glare, the gaslight, the
strange way the lustrous coils of her
black hair were arranged — tumbled
in a sort of studied tangle all over
the forehead — while a veil, half on,
half off, concealed part of the face,
the entire transformation of the mise-
oi'Uhie, in fact, might easily have
disguised her identity from eyes less
prctematurally keen than mine ; but
my glance had scarcely fallen on the
frail, shrouded figure, as it ghded in
from the background, than I knew
that I beheld my wife; beheld her
clasped — gracious heavens! yes, I
saw it, and stood there motionless
and dumb— clasped by the man who
was howling out some idiotic lamen-
tations. She stepped forward, and
Iwgan to sing. Her head was first
slightly bowed over her breast, and
iier hands clasped and hanging, ^he
first bars were warbled out in a kind
of bird-like whisper, as if she were in
a dream ; but litUe by little they grew
higher, more sonorous, until, carried
away by the power of the music
and her own magnificent interpreta-
tion of it, she flung back her head,
and let the gossamer cloud fall from
it, revealing the unshrouded contour
of the face, upturned, inspired, all
alight with the triumph of the hour,
while the bell-like notes rang out
^th a breadth and pathos that melt-
«i and stirred every heart in that
vast crowd like touches of fire. It
^as a vision of beauty that defies all
^ords. I neither spoke nor moved
^^hile the song lasted ; but when the
' '*it chord died out, and the pent-up
'icaris of the listeners broke forth in

VOL. XX.— 48

new peals that seemed to swoep
over the songstress in a flood of joy
and triumph, I awoke and came to
my senses.

"Come away!" I gasped, and
turned to move out But the words
stuck in my throat. My uncle
had caught the delirium, and was
cheering and bravoing like a maniac.
" Glorious ! Grand, by Jove I En-
core! Splendid!" He was shout-
ing like a madman, whirling his hat
and stamping. His brown face was
young again. I never beheld such a
transformation in any human coun-
tenance.

"Are you mad, sir?" I shrieked
into his ear, while I clutched his
arm.

I suppose he was mad ; I know he
kept on the same frantic shouts and
clappings for several minutes, not
paying any more heed to me than to
the floor he was so vigorously stamp-
ing. I was frightened at last. I
thought anguish and shame for me
had driven him out of his mind ; so,
taking him gently by the arm, I said
I wanted to speak to him. He let
me push him on before me, and we
got out. He was still much excited,
and neither of us spoke till we were
in the open air.

" My dear boy," he said suddenly,
with a shamefaced look, " I couldn't
help it for the life of me ! By Jove,
but it was the grandest thing I ever
heard in my life. The house reeled
round you. I would stake my head
there wasn't a sane man in it but
yourself!"

I laughed bitterly. The irony of
the words was dreadful. "Sane?"
I cried. " You think I was sane ? I
thank heaven I behaved like a sane
man ; but if I had been within reach
of that rufiian's throat, I'd have
dashed his brains out as ruthlessly
as any escaped maniac from Bedlam.
I would do it now, if I had him 1"

734

Arc You My Wife?

My i)Qcle stepped and looked at
me. He was thoroughly sobered,
and I could see that he was terrified.
He told me long afterwards that he
never could have believed passion
could transfigure a face as it did
mine ; he said I had murdtr written
in my eyes as plainly as ever it was
written on a printed page. And I
believe him. I felt I could have
committed murder at that moment
I would have killed that man, if I
had held him, if the gallows had
been there to hang me the next
hour. I have never felt the same
towards murderers since thafc- mo-
ment. It was an awful revelation to
me of the hidden springs of crime
that may lie deep down in a man's
heart, and never be suspected even
by himself, until the touch that can
wake them into deadly life has
come. I can never think of that
evening without an humbling sense
of my own innate wickedness, of the
benign mercy that overruled that
frightful impulse. Given the im-
mediate opportunity and the ab-
sence of the supreme, supervening
goodness that stood between me and
myself, and I should have been a
murderer. The gulf that separates
each one of us from crime is narrow-
er than we imagine. The discovery
of this truth is humbling, but per-
haps none the less salutary for that

"Gome along. Glide; come along
with me," my uncle said in the
soothing tone one uses to a fractious
child. " It's all my fault I ought to
have known better than to let you
go there at all; I ought to have
gone by myself. I'm no better than
a blubbering old idiot to you, my
boy."

I went with him passively; we
walked to our lodgings without speak-
ing. I shall never forget the kind-
ness of my uncle all through that
night He was as patient and as

gentle with me as a woman, beaaag
with me as tenderly as a mother
could have done. I could not lest,
and I would not let hini rest Idl-
ed for cafd fioir^ and I kept driritJD^
cup after cup of it until, added to the
stronger stimulant that was settii^
my blood cto fire, I almost worked
myself into a brain fever, buisdng
out into paroxysms* of duldishicbel-
lion, and then lapsing into fits of
dumb despair. I had first insisted
on rushing off to the hotel and Iviag
in wait for Isabel, and compdliDg
her there and then either to retuia
to me or to part from me for e\tr;
but my uncle was inexorable in q)-
posing this, and I knew by his tow
that he was not to be trifled wiii
There was a something about him in
certain moods that made resistance
to his will as impossible as wresdisg
with an elephant I gave ia, ^
allowed liim to give his reasons for
preventing. my taking a step whid,
result how it might, was sure to be a
most humiliating one for roe; »ft
only or chiefly as a husband, but a*
a De Winton. My uncle's anidct)
lest the old name should suffer by
the event threw his sympathy for k}
individual sorrow comparatively ''^
the shade. AVhile my wife's flig'i-
was known only to my immediate
household, my step-mother— whosi
pride and touchiness about the honor
of a De Winton was almost as morbi'^
as his own — and the tliree tried 6i^
of my dear fatlier*s youdi, it was jts:
possible that it might remain asccrc:
beyond that small circle, and 'i-'
clung to this hope as tenaciously 2:
I did to the hope of recovering my
wife. The De VVintons were a proui
race, and justly sa We had noWc:
things to be proud of than the primary
one of ancient, and I may venture t^
say illustrious, lineage: we couw
boast with truth that there wasri
bar sinister on the old escutchear,

Arf You My Wife?

755

our men had never known cowardice,
nor our women shame; no maiden
of our house had dishonored a father's
white hairs, or wife brought a blot
upon her husband's name. I was
the last of our line so far, and the
thought that it should die out under
a doud of shame with me was bitter
with the bitterness of death to the
admiral ; for he was at heart as proud
as a Flantagenet, with all his free
and easy talk, and his jovial, jolly-tar
manner to everybody, especially to
his inferiors. Noblesse oblige was
CDgraven on the inmost core of his
honest heart; and he could not
conceive a De Winton feeling less
acutely on the point than he did
himself He had never been mar-
ried; this partially accounted, per-
haps, for his inability to merge the De
Winton in the husband. It is possi-
ble that, if I had never been married, I
should have comprehended his stem
abstract view of the case, and have
fell with him that the husband's
misery was as nothing compared to
the blow dealt at the pride of a De
Winton. As it was, I could not feel
this. 1 could have seen the. whole
clan of the De Wintons and their
escutcheon in the bottom of the Red
Sea, if I could have rescued myself
from the anguish of renouncing for
ever the young wife who had so
cruelly charmed and blighted my life.
I was driven to make this unworthy
avowal on my uncle's suggesjting that,
assuming it were still possible for me
to forgive her, she might lay it down
as a condition of our reunion that
she was to pursue her career on the
stage. He merely threw out the idea
as a wild notion that crossed his
thoughts for a moment; but when I
hinted at the possibility of yielding
to this painful and humiliating con-
<iition rather than renounce Isabel
for ever, he flew into such a frenzy
of indignation that to calm him I

believe I was cowardly enough to
swallow my words, and declare that
they had not been spoken in earnest.
It was some time, however, before
he subsided from the agitation they
caused him. The idea of alluding,
even in jest, to the possibility of a
play-actress flaunting our name upon
the boardsf of the theatre was too
dreadful to be contemplated without
unmitigated horror. If I let her go
her mad career alone, the chances
were that this disgrace would be spar-
ed us. Isabel had proved clearly
enough so far that she desired secrecy
to the full as much as we did ; but
if she continued on the stage as my
wife, secrecy became impossible. She*
might play under the assumed name
she now bore, but the true one would
soon be blazoned abroad, do what
we all might to conceal it. The
managers who speculated on her
voice would be quick to discover it,
and make capital out of it. The
admiral was so strong in his de-
nunciation of the madness of the
whole thing that he convinced me he
was right. This little incident left
him more than ever determined to
keep me as much as possible in the
background, and I so far acknow-
ledged the wisdom of his views as to
consent to let him go by himself to
try and see Isabel in the morning.

It proved a fruidess mission. The
concierge said that the sigtiorina had
not left her room yet; but the ser-
vant, in answer to my uncle's ring at
her door, informed him that she had
gone out for an early drive — it was
not eight o'clock — and that she would
not be in until dinner-hour. Would
monsieur take the trouble to call
later ? Monsieur said he would, and
he did; but he was then informed
that the stgnorina had taken a chill
in her drive, and had gone to bed.
My uncle came home in great wrath ;
he believed no more in the chill than

756

Are You My Wifef

he had believed in the drive, and he
was for writing there and then to
Isabel, telling her so, and demanding
ati interview without more ado, using
firm language and hinting at sterner
measures if she refused. I entreated
him not to do this. I don't know
whether in the bottom of my heart I
believed the servant's story, but I
persuaded myself and then him that
I did ; that it was only natural that a
tender, delicate -fibred creature like
her should have been done up after
the excitement of last evening ; and
that we had better leave her in peace
for a day. He pooh-poohed this
contemptuously: the excitement was
just what she liked in the business ;
it was what play-actors, men and
women, all alike lived on. He hu-
mored me, however, and consented
to put off the letter till the next day.
Meantime, something might turn up.
I might meet her uncle myself, and
button-hole the scoundrel on the spot.
He must walk out some time or other,
and I was determined to be on the
watch. I paced up and down before
the hotel for three weary hours, glanc-
ing up continually at the windows. I
knew from my uncle what floor Isa-
bel occupied. Once I fancied I
caught ' sight of the fellow's face
looking out for a moment, and then
hurriedly withdrawn. Was it only
fancy, or had he really seen me, and
drawn back to escape my seeing
him? I lounged into the coffee-
room, and adroitly elicited from one
of the waiters that the signorina was
keeping very quiet, so as to avoid
any disappointment for the forthcom-
ing representation; she was to sing
again in two nights, and no one was
to be admitted to see her in the in-
terval. Orders to this effect had
been given to the concUrge, who was
to deny all visitors on the plea of the
signorina's state of nervous debility,
which made the slightest excitement

off the stage fatal to her. When I
repeated this to the admiral, he set
his brown face in a scowl, and we
very nearly quarrelled outright before
he again yielded to my resistance,
and agreed to wait two days more,
and see whether she kept her en-
gagement for the next performance.
On the mommg of the second day
we both went out together to tiK
baths. As we were passing through
the Etablissement gardens, a young
man came up to a group of pec^c
walking ahead of us, and gave scmt
news that provoked sudden surprise,
apparently of no pleasant nature; for
we heard the words, "Abominable
sell I" « What an extraordinary afEnrr
repeated with angry emphasis. We
had not heard a word of what Ae
young man had said, but the broken
comments that reached us seemed, as
if by some magnetic influence, to in-
form us of their meaning. TTie ad-
miral, in his off-hand, sailor way,
walked up to the party, and asked if
any accident had happened on the
coast "Oh! no; no accident," the
bearer of the news said, "but a
most disagreeable thing for every-
body. Graziella has bolted, no one
knows when or how; her rooms
were found vacant an hour ago, and
there was not a trace of her or the
fellow who was with her. The
H6tel Royal was in a tremendous
commotion about it; the landlord
had been down to the station and to
the quay, but there was no trace of
them at either place. The landlord
believed they had eloped during the
night, by some highway or by-war,
so as to avoid detection ; but why oc
wherefore was the mystery. They
had paid their bill. It was a horrible
sell, for the little creature was the
trump-card of the season— a secood
Malibran."

I knew as well as if I had followed
my tmde, and heard the inteiligaxe

Are You My Wife?

7S7

with my own ears, what he had to
tell me when he turned back, and
came up to me, intending to break it
gently. It §eemed utterly useless
after this to go to the hotel with the
hope of gaining further particulars,
but I urged at the same time that
it was possible the landlord himself
might be a party to the afl&iir, and
that, if he had been bought over to
hold his tongue, he might be bought
to loosen it. I could not count on
the necessary command over myself
to speak or to listen to others speak-
ing of the event at this stage, so I
yielded to my uncle's wish, and went
home; he accompanied me to the
door, for he judged by my looks that
I was not fit to be left to go back
alone. He then started oflf to the
Rue Aguado. He found the place
in an uproar about the flight, but no
one could throw a particle of light
on the time, the manner, or the mo-
tive of it. The concierge remember-
ed seeing a lady, small and slight,
and with a very elastic step, walk
rapidly out of the house late on the
previous evening, dressed in the deep-
est mourning, with a widow's crape
veil, and holding her handkerchief
to her eyes, as if crying bitterly ; he
had remarked her at the time, and
thought she had been visiting some
one in the hotel, and that she was in
fresh mourning for her husband,
poor thing ! Everybody agreed that
this must have been La Graziella in
disguise. But beyond this not the
smallest clew was found that could
direct the pursuit of the fugitives.
Theii luggage had been carried off
as mysteriously as themselves; no
one had seen it removed. This in-
duced the suspicion that they must
have had an accomplice on the prem-
ises. The landlord, however, had a
precedent to fall back on — a swin-
dler who had lived at his expense
for three weeks, and then decamped

one fine morning, bag and baggage,
having carried them all off himself,
disguised as a porter, while several
travellers were under way in the
courtyard with their separate lots of
luggage, and porters were hurrying
in and out ^vith them.

For two days a'ter this event, which
checkmated every movement on our
part, we did nothing but wander
about Dieppe, watching helplessly
for some information that could have
directed us what to do. My uncle
was constantly down on the quay
and at the railway station, question-
ing the sailors and the officials, and
always coming back just as void of
information as he went. He was
more irascible than ever now about
the honor of the De Wintons, and
would not allow me to interfere di-
recdy or indirectly. I resented this
tyranny; but the fact of my interfer-
ence having already proved so dis-
astrous gave him the whip-hand
over me, and I felt it was wiser in
my own interest to subside and let
him act. He was actively seconded
in his endeavors to track the fugi-
tives by the manager of the theatre,
who was resolved — so we heard on
all sides — to spare neither trouble nor
expense in recapturing his prize.
The collapse of such d^ prima donna
was a serious loss to him; he had
gone to considerable expense in pre-
paring for her d^dut^ and it had been
so brilliant as to ensure the promise
of an overflowing house to the end
of the season. On one side my
uncle was gratified at the intelligence
and energy displayed by the mana-
ger ; but on the other hand it put him
in a ferment of terror. What if, in
his search after Graziella, he should
discover who slie was and what
name she bore 1 The bare thought
of this almost drove him frantic.
The manager^s opinion, it would
seem, was that she had escaped in a

7S8

Are You My Wife f

fishing-smack. This was the most
likely mode of flight for any one, in-
deed, to adopt from a seaport town
like Dieppe; no preliminaries were
required in the way of tickets or
passports, and the fugitives might
steer themselves to any coast they
pleased, and land unobserved where
it suited them. It was useless, how-
ever, for us to leave Dieppe until we
heard something. While the mana-
ger was vigorously prosecuting the
search on his sfde, my uncle was
busy on ours. He suggested that it
would be weU to make an exploring
expedition amongst the hamlets on
the cliffs — groups of huts scattered at
short intervals over the long range
of the falaises overhanging the sea,
and inhabited by a scanty and mis-
erable population.

We had felt it necessary to take a
few safe agents of the police into our
confidence; and before setting to
wcrrk among the gens de falaise^ as
they are called by the dwellers on
the plain, we consulted them as to
the best mode of proceeding, and
asked some information as to the
sort of people we had to deal with.
The police advised us to leave the
attempt alone. They said the " folk
of the cliffs " were so simple that
their name was a by-word for stu-
pidity down below. It required lit-
tle short of a surgical operation to
convey a new idea of the simplest
kind into their brain. There was a
story current in the town of how, not
so very long ago, a gang of robbers
prowled about the neighborhood,
and made it expedient for the mayor
to issue a proclamation, wherein it
was notified that nobody would be
allowed to enter the gates after night-
fall without a lantfirn. The notice
was placarded all over the walls, and
this is how it worked with the gens
defalatse; Ding-dong came a ring

at the gates one evening, and the
sentry called out: " Qui vive?"

**Gens de falaise!" (Proitoiinced
fan^Iaise.)

'* Have you a lantern ?**

"Eh, ouil"

** Is there a candle in it?"

" Eh, non ! We were not told to T

"Well, now you're told to; be off
and get one !"

Next evening ding-dong come the
travellers again. " Qui vive ?"

"Gensdefalaise!"

" Have you a lantern ?"

"Eh, ouiF*

" And a candle in it ?"

•'Eh,oui?"

" Is it lighted ?"

" Eh, non ! We were not told to."

" Well, now you're told to ; go baci
and light it."

Away went the gtfis de falmse
again, and finally returned a tliini
time to the charge with a lantern
and a candle in it, and lighted.

This was not very encouraging to
persons who wanted to question m-
telligent observers. We tried it,
however, but soon found that mmor
had not maligned the simple dwdl-
ers on the cliffs, and that nothing
was to be gleaned from their dull,
imobservant eyes.

Four days passed, and still we
were in the same dense daikness.
The suspense and inaction became
unendurable to me.

"Uncle," I said, "I can stand
this no longer. I will run up to
Paris, and set the lynx-eyes of the
police there on the lookout for i&
Perhaps it will be of no use; b«
anything is better than waiting here
doing nothing."

My uncle fell in with the idea at
once. I set ofi* to Paris, and left him
at Dieppe, where, in truth, it seemed
more likely that information of some
sort must transpire sooner or later.

TO BE CONTIMUBD.

The Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain. 759

THE COLONIZATION OF NEW SOUTH WALES BY GREAT

BRITAIN

It is obvious, then, that, if the re-
markable prosperity which has be-
fallen the English Colonies in Aus-
tralia is to be ascribed, in any degree,
to the sagacity of the government
that sent out the first expedition, or of
those who then and subsequently pre-
sided over it, we must look for it in
the perfection of the reformatory sys-
tem, with a view to which the original
constitution of the colony was exclu-
sively framed. The idea of making the
colonization of a newly discovered
territory of prodigious resources sub-
servient to the reformation of as
many as possible , of the criminals
of an over-populated country is a
conception of the noblest philan-
thropy ; as the attempt to use a new
and promising colony for the mere
purpose of getting rid anyhow of
the dangerous classes would be an
act of guilty foUy, the result of an in-
dolent and heartless selfishness, such
as even the most heartless and the
most selfish of oligarchies should
blush to have perpetrated. For the
prosecution of the former object more
care and pains should have been ex-
pended than under ordinary circum-
stances in sending out to the new
settlement a colony fully equipped
with all that the mother-country had
to give it. The reformed, as they
stepped forth from their cells and
shackles, once more masters of their
own actions, free agents, reinvested
with reason's noblest prerogative —
the liberty of choosing good and re-
jecting evil — should have fbund a
sound and healthy society with which

to mingle. They should have found
themselves at once amidst a society
based on those principles of religion,
law, and justice which characterize
even the feeblest form of Christian
civilization. Such a society they
should have found immediately out-
side their prison-walls, into which'
they might glide, as it were, unper-
ceived, and from which they should
gradually and insensibly take their
tone. What man in his sober senses
could have anticipated any thorough
and permanent reformation of crimi-
nals in a society consisting exclusive-
ly, after making exception of the offi-
cials and the military guard, of the
very criminals themselves ? In read-
ing the inaugural address of the first
governor, we naturally conclude that
the government which organized the
expedition was deeply impressed with
the necessity of an opposite course.
But the illusion is soon dispelled. We
discover to our astonishment that the
infant colony took out with it no one
condition of a civilized society. Of
law there was simply none. Even
the formalities of martial law, when,
soon after the settlement of the penal
colony, it was thought expedient to
have recourse to them, were found
to be impracticable, because of some
technical difficulty which there had
not been the sagacity to foresee and
provide against Whatever there was
of justice was Cvholly dependent on
the caprice and dispositions of indi-
viduals. Incredible as it may ap-
pear, it is nevertheless the fact that,
after the retirement of the first gov-

760 The Cohniaatum of New South Wales by Great Britain.

enior, the administration of the colo^
ny was entrusted for three years to
the hands of the officers of the io2d
Regiment Unfit for such a respopsi-
bility as were the sea-captains from
amongst whom the first four govern-
ors were selected^ officers of the
army were yet more so. The previ-
ous habits and training of English
regimental officers are such as to
disqualify them, generally speaking,
for judicial functions. But the un-
fitness of military men in England
for tliis office was much greater at
that period than at the present day,
as they were more illiterate. The
- government of a colony transferred
to a regimental mess-room forms in-
deed a humiliating contrast to the
glowing periods of Commander Phil-
lip. Mr. Therry tells us (p. 69) :

** The first four governors of New South
Wales, Phillip, Hunter, King, and Bligh,
exercised a rule (and this includes the
mess-room interregnum) which partook
much of the character of the government
of a large jail or penitentiar)-."

Two years and a half after the dis-
embarkation of the first batch of
convicts fresh instructions arrived
from the home government respect-
ing the allotment of land. By these
instructions, the advantages already
enjoyed by the emancipists were ex-
tended to the privates and non-com-
missioned officers of the military
guard on the spot, but no provision
whatsoever was made for free emi-
grants from the mother-country. So
that, when the sixth governor, Mac-
quarie, " considered that the colony
was selected as a depot for convicts ;
that the land properly belonged to
them, as they emerged from their
condition of servitude, and that emi-
grants were intruders on the soil,"
we can only conclude that he inter-
preted the policy of the government
at home more correctly than the more
enthusiastic sailor who first presided

over it In spite of the singular in-
capacity displayed in the first organ-
ization of the settlement at Sydney,
tlie following illustration of the state
of law and society therein twenty
years after its establishment, wooU
be incredible if we had it on less
trustworthy authority than that of
Mr. Therry. He tells us (p. 74) that,
during the rule of one Capt. Bl^fa,
1806-8, "the judge-advocate, At-
kins, was a person of no pro£»stonal
mark, and was, besides, of a very dis-
reputable character." The governor
reported of him to the Secretary of
State that ^' he had been known to
pronounce sentence of death when
intoxicated"! With Atkins was as-
sociated a convict named Crossky«
who had been transported for forg-
ing a will, and for perjury, and who
had been convicted of swindling in
the colony.

The result of such a state of things
was as unavoidable as it was fataL
If the reformatory system in the pe-
nal colony had been as wise and
efficacious as it was lamentably, nay,
wickedly, the reverse, suth of the
convicts as yielded to the nobkr
motives of civil life and the claims
of conscience should have been al^
to mix unnoticed with the sounder
part of the community. Bygones
should have been really bygones.
The past should have been simply
ignored. No allusiop to it shouki
have been tolerated. The expiated
crime should have been buried cot
of sight and recollection, so long is
there was no relapse. There should
have been no such class as an eman-
cipist class. The reformatory insti-
tution should have remained as a
thing apart, sending from time to
time its contingent of convalescents
to be incorporated with the heahhj
body politic

Instead of this, as the colony in-
creased, the moneyed and influential

The Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain. 761

lass, the leading class, in a colony
itended to reproduce tlie glories of
iigland in the fifth great division of
le world, consisted of emancipated
niTicts. No pains taken to perpe*
late the memory of these people's
isgrace could have attained so un*
esirable an object* more effectually,
liey stood out a distinctly marked
rder in the state. They became
inded proprietors, magistrates, high
pvenunent officials, even legal func*
ionaries. Instead of a decent veil
f oblivion being thrown over their
ntecedents, they were, as in a Me-
bodist experience, even ostentatious-
y displayed. Ic almost constituted
I boast, and was worn as tliough it
vere a decoration of honor. When,
nbsequently, through the encourage-
nent of one or two of the governors
md other causes, the tide of emigra-
ion set in from the mother-country
mother moneyed and influential class
irose of untainted reputation. A
Jitter rivalry between the two was
the immediate consequence. The
emancipists excited no sympathy or
compassion for the lingering memory
^f a misfortune which their subse-
quent lives might be supposed to
have retrieved, but which, instead of
an obliterated brand, was ostenta-
tiously retained as the badge of a
powerful class, which became thus
an ob^t of contempt to the more
respectable newcomers. The crimes
for which they had been punished,
and of which they should, therefore,
no longer have borne the burden,
rwppcared as their accusers in the
intercourse of social life. Society
snatched up the sword which the
^^ had in mercy laid aside ; a re-
mitted punishment was exacted in
another form ; and the benevolent
aim of ilescuing the worst class of
tnminals from irremediable ruin by
a reformatory process, if it were ever
icriously entertained, was wholly frus-

trated. For scarcely had the infant
settlement, through the gradual in-
flux of immigrants, begun to assume
the appearance of a colony, when the
original sin of its constitution ap-
l>eared in the form of an evil, fatal
not only to the well-being, but even
to the very existence of a free com-
munity. Instead of any effort being
made to heal or, at least, to allevi-
ate this evil by some consistent line
of policy, it was aggravated by the
capricious preference of one or other
of the rival classes by successive gov-
ernors, according to their several
idiosyncrasies. An evil of this na-
ture could end only with the extinc-
tion of one or other of the antago-
nistic classes, or the dissolution of
the colony ; unless indeed the whole
reformatory system were remodelled
on an entirely difierent plan. The
problem was solved by the adoption
of the former alternative. The na-
tural advantages of the country and
the commercial energy of the Anglo-
Saxon race proved, at last, too strong
for a reformatory system which was
not only crude and faulty to the ut-
most degree, but was literally de-
structive of its own end and object
After a long struggle against obsta-
cles greater than ever before hinder-
ed the development of vast natural
resources, the colony prevailed over
the prison, and the entail of emanci-
pation was finally cut oflf by the abo-
lition of transportadon in the year
1840.

Turn we now to the penal portion
of this quite unique organization for
the reformation of criminals. Here,
it may be, we shall be able to trace
some indications, at least, of that
humane sympathy, that sorrow for a
fellow-creature's fall and anxiety for
his restoration, which appeals to what-
ever of good may be lingering in the
heart of the criminal, not to mention
the higher and more tender charities

762 The Colottization of New South Wales by Great Britain,

which religion inspires. No gentler
instrument of cure would appear to
have suggested itself to the minds
of the members of the English gov-
ernment of 1788 than the lash ! — the
lash in the hands of sots and ruf-
fians!

•* I was once present in the police oflSce
in Sydney when a convict was sentenced
to fifty lashes for not taking of! his hat to
a magistrate as he met him on the road."

Of Capt P. C. King, who adminis-
tered the government from 1800 to
1806, Mr. Therry writes :

" He was a man of rough manners, and
prone to indulge in offensive expressions
borrowed from the language then in
vogue in the nav}\ ... His temper was
irascible and wayward. At one time he
assumed a tone of arrogant and unyield-
ing dictation ; at another, he indulged in
jokes unsuited to the dignity of his po-
fiition."

Of Capt. Bligh, who succeeded King,
Judge Therry tells us that his

" despotic conduct as commander of the
Bounty had driven the crew to mutiny.
Yet he who had proved his incapacity
for ruling a small ship's company was
made absolute ruler of a colony so criti-
cally circumstanced as that of New South
Wales. . . . He was the same rude, des-
potic man, whether treading the quarter-
deck of the Bounty or pacing his recep-
tion-room in Government House at Syd-
ney." •' Throughout the colony," con-
tinues the judge, "the uncontrolled use
of the lash was resorted to, as an inces-
sant and almost sole instrument of punish-
ment, and too often those who inflicted
this degrading punishment regarded
themselves ag irresponsible agents, and
kept no. record of their darkest deeds."

But when the backs and the con-
sciences of the unhappy victims of an
English reformatory process had be-
come alike hardened to this demor-
alizing torture, a perverse ingenuity
had devised in Norfolk Island a place
of penal torment calculated to destroy
in its victims the last vestiges of hu-

manity. To human, beings 6101 dr-
cumstanced the scaffold became ntb-
er an object of desire than of dread.
And we learn from Mr. Tbeny tkit
during die years 1826, 1827, and 1830
no less than one hundred, and f&f
three persons were hung out of a
population of fifty thousand.

But we have not y^ fathomed lk
lowest depth of imbedUty and of
guilty indifference to the comnnooi
dictates of prudence and hmmuty
exhibited in this nefarious scheme ibr
the reformation, forsooth, of oiim-
nals.

Incredible as it may appeal, it is
nevertheless true, that by tl^aoto
of the scheme, although their L'ps
were full of the professions «e kfc
quoted, the influ«ic% of rdigkn e
an agent of reformation was iss^s
ignored. It had not been tbeircvip-
nal intention to send out any imsr
ter at all of their religion with lliea
pedition they had planned. Il*^
owing to the remonstrance of a dig-
nitary of the E^ablishcd sect that OK
was, at the last moment, appdstt^
This appointment, ho weva-, docs i»t
appear to have been made with m
view of bringing the influence <tf ^^
Hgion to bear on the unfoitan8:e
criminals. To them the rudest ob-
jects of self-interest appear to hwt
been the only motives of rcfcimaiisi
held out Dr. Porteous — ^sach «
his name — would h%ve displayed mor
than the ordinary apathy of bis d^ss
as to any objects of a merely spc^s^
interest, and a less than ontorj
keenness of perception as to its m-
terial interests, if he had allowed :
large colonial expedition to leave thr
shores of tlie mother-country wnt
out any provision whatsoever beis:
made for the celebration of the wff
ship of the Established religion is tk
distant land to which it was hour '
We are told by Mr. Flanagan that .
priest of some Spanish ships, wbc:

The Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain, 763

risited the colony in 1793, ^observing
that a church had not yet been built,
ifted up his eyes with astonishment,
wd declared that, had the place been
ietUed by his nation, a house would
liave been erected for God before
iny house had been built for men "
[Hist of N. S. W., vol. I. p. 95).
In 1 791 a fresh batch of convicts,
two thousand and fifty in number,
inived at Sydney, making the suip
total of that portion of the population
two thousand eight hundred and
twenty-eight Yet, for these, for the
large staff of officials, the military
guard, and the few free settlers, the
only minister of religion for six years
after the foundation of the colony
was this churchless chaplain, and
the only religious influences accessi-
ble to that multitude of unfortunates
was the form of Sabbatical prayer
adopted by his sect. The one mas-
ter cause of the inhumanity of the
whole scheme was the complete and
profound disregard of religious in-
fluences engendered in the minds of
its authors by that embodiment of re
ligious indifference and lifeless formal-
ism, the established sect in England.
In few, if in any, exiled convicts
have the finer sensibilities of our
common nature been utterly extin-
guished. In nearly all, charred and
unsightly as may their whole natures
have J>ecome, diligent and patient
labor will come at last to some^un-
quenched fragment of the precious
jewel; remote and all but lost, but
waiting only for one smallest crevice
lo be opened through the superincum-
bent mass of gloom and despair, to
spring in light, like a resurrection, to
the surface, and fling its delivered
lustre to the sun. In nearly all, he
who should tenderly but persevering-
ly dig through the filth and refuse
which a highly artificial and evilly
constituted state of society has heap-
ed upon its outcasts, would assured-

ly come at last to some faint trickle
of the living fountain, which death
only wholly dries up, ready to find
its level, and even longing to be
released. How many of those sad
ship-loads, when the shores of their
native country for ever faded fi'om
their view, succumbed to Ihe anguish
of some, were it only one, rudely
riven tie, and, in the nearest J^ling
to despair possible out of the place
of reprobation, thrilled with a heart's
agony of which the severest bodily
pain is but a feeble symbol ! Cruel
to inhumanity would be the jailer
who should refuse to a prisoner in
his dungeon the consolation of one
ray of the light of day. But who,
with the hearts of men, could have
forbidden to those most miserable
of their fellow-creatures an entrance
to the angels of religion? Who
would not have used every effort
to secure their ministrations ? The
Catholic Church, and she alone,
could have brought the light of hope
within those darkened souls. She
alone could have taken from despair
that painful past and that ghastly
present, have awakened within those
hardened consciences the echoes of
a nobler being, have folded around
the poor outcasts her infinite chari-
ties, and en wreathed them in their
embrace. She alone could have re-
called them through the tears of
compunction to the consciousness
that they were still men, and might
yet be saints ; and, like the memory
of childhood gliding round the fright-
ful abyss that separated them from
innocence, have beckoned, and en-
couraged, and helped them up the
toilsome steep of penance, to the
place where conquerors, who have
narrowly escaped with their lives,
receive their kingdoms and their
crowns.

Yet was this mere tribute to the
humanity of those forlorn ones wholly

764 The Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain.

withheld from them. The rigors of
penal discipline, increasing in severi-
ty with the progressive depravity of
their unhappy victims, reduced them
at length to a condition by compari-
son of which the lot of the sorriest
brute that was ever becudgelled by a
ruffian owaer was enviable. What a
depth of misery, and, worse still,
what#^ bitter consciousness of it, is
revealed in the keen reproach of one
of them : " When I came here, I had
the heart of a man in me, but you
have plucked it out, and planted the
heart of a brute in its stead ! " To
talk to such men of reformation
could only have been a ghastly jest
Not so much as even a moral mo-
tive appears to have been suggested
to them. Nothing but the unlovely
object of worldly self-advantage.

Of such a system there could be
but one result No longer do we
experience any surprise at finding
that the aborigines, who were to
have been civilized, and who, at
first, evinced the most friendly dis-
position towards the new settlers,
were shot down and even poisoned
by the squatters, soldiers, emigrant
adventurers, and emancipists, the
standard of whose morality appears
to have been about equally high ;
that men in the highest judicial sta-
tions were notoriously immoral ; that
amongst the most prosperous and re-
spectable of Sydney tradesmen were
receivers of stolen goods; that in
the time of one governor,

"the marriage ceremony fell into neg-
lect, and dissolute habits soon pre-
vailed ; rum became the regular and
principal article of traffic, and was uni-
versally drunk to excess" ;

and that, when he left the colony
in 1800, **// was then in a state of
deep demoralization " (Therry^ p. 71) ;
that, under the rule of his successor,
to quote Mr. Therry's own descrip-
tion :

" The licentiousness that bad prcTaikd
in the time of Hunter was carried to ihc
highest pilch. Not onljr was undis-
guised concubinage thought no skanic
but the sale of wives was not an nnfre-
quent practice. A present owner of
broad acres and large herds in New
South Wales is the offspring of a nnion
strangely brought about by the purchase
of a wife from her husband for four gal-
lons of rum '* (p. 72).

Lamentable as must have been
the condition of a reformatory co-
lony wherein the religious sentimeDt
and all concern for a future life were
entirely disregarded, its effects were
more terrible to the Catholic portkai
of the convicts than to their Protes-
tant fellow-criminals. The laUer,
bom blind, were not sensible of the
blessing of which they were de-
prived To them religion was a
matter of the merest unconceriL
The parson was one of the gentle-
folk, nothing more. He made no
claim of spiritual power. It was not
likely that they should invest him
with it. They felt no need of him in
death, any more than they had
throughout' their lives. Indeed, they
had all along been taught that it was
the special birthright of an English-
man to die as independently as be
had lived. It must be owned, thcit-
fore, that, as far as they were coa-
cemed, no privation was expen-
enced nor any practical loss occa-
sioned by the circumstance that only
one Protestant minister was appoint-
ed in the colony during six ycan»
and for another six years only twa

How different the case of the Ca-
tholic portion of the convicts ! Foe
them to be deprived of priestly min-
istration was a loss all but irrepa-
rable. The clear and rigid dogma-
tism of the church places the three
future states of existence before her
children with a positiveness and re^
ality which the mysterious poira of
evil may enable them to brave, but

The Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain, y(>%

ever to ignore. The intermediate
tate of temporal punishment forbids
>e most loaded with crimes to aban-
on hope, even at the moment of dis-
^lutioD. But for this salvation the
icraments are ordinarily essential, of
hich the priests, and only the priests,
re the dispensers. To deprive, thus,
f priestly ministrations those poor
reatures who stood most in need
f them, to drag them to despair and
inal impenitence — the ^only sin from
vhose guilt the sacraments are power-
ess to rescue the sinner — was a cruel-
y which would have been diabolical
fit had been intentional.

About ten years after the settle-
nent of the colony, the number of
klatholic convicts was greatly in-
creased by large deportations from
Ireland after the unsuccessful insur-
rection of 1798. But they were a
very different class of men from or-
dinary convicts. They were supe-
rior to the ordinary political dere-
licts. If the most brutal and in-
sulting tyranny that ever goaded a
l)eople to rebellion can justify an in-
surrection against established au-
thorities, that justification they had
to the full. Those Irish exiles of '98
were no more critfiinal than the min-
istry that arraigned them or the
judges who pronounced their doom.
The finer sensibilities of these men
had A been blunted nor their do-
mestic affection stifled by low asso-
ciations and long habits of crime.
They were, for the most part, men
of blameless manners, and of a peo-
ple remarkable for virtue. To such
men the rude snapping asunder
of the fondest heart-ties, the being
<iragged away for ever from the old
*ipot of home, endeared by all bliss-
ful and innocent memories, from the
familiar scenes, the beloved faces,
^t cherished friends, the heart-own-
<^i relatives, young and aged, from
ihe graves of their ancestors, and

the country of their birth, to be
shipped off as criminals to the utter-
most parts of the earth, with their
country's deadly enemies for their
jailers, must have been a fate from
which death would have been hailed
as a deliverer. To deprive those
unfortunate patriots of the consola-
tions and benedictions of their reli-
gion was indeed to make them emp-
ty the cup of sorrow to its bitterest
dregs. In the year 1829, about forty
years after the commencement of
transportation from Ireland, they
numbered nearly ten thousand souls.
Yet, we are informed by Mr. Therry,

'* up to that time they were dependent
solely on such ministrations as could be
rendered by a single priest, and for a
considerable portion of that period there
was no priest in the colony."

How different would have been
the organization of the expedition,
how far" different its results, if the
church had still owned England's
heart, and her statesmen had been
Catholics! The most worldly and
ill-living of such would not have
dreamed of equipping a colony with-
out making full provision for the cele-
bration of Christian worship and the
ministrations of the church. It would
have been their first care. Had they
designed to make the colony subser-
vient to the noble object of reform-
ing those unfortunates whom society
had cast out of its pale, nothing
would have been advertently left un-
done to bring all the salutary influ-
ences of religion to bear upon them,
and to place at their service every
one of its supernatural aids. What
is the church, in her actual working
in the affairs of men, but a divinely
organized reformatory system ? Now
a fundamental principle of that sys-
tem is that forgiven crime is buried
out of sight and out of mind. When
the minister of the divine pardon

766 The Colonisation of New South Wales by Great Britain.

has opened the doors of the eternal
prison, and has stricken off tlie dead-
ly fetters from the self-condemning
penitent, he who was just now kneel-
ing at his side in bonds and deatli,
together with all the crimes he has
committed, are alike forgotten by him.
He is to him quite a new and other
man. And with the Christian bene-
diction he sends him forth reinvested
with the royalty of his birth and his
consanguinity to God, to mingle,
mayhap, if he correspond to the
grace given, with the most virtuous
on the earth, as though he had never
broken its peace or given scandal to
his brethren. Men are what their
religion makes them. And no Ca-
tholic statesman would have sent out
a convict colony to a distant shore
without providing for such as would
be reformed a destination where the
past might be at once forgotten and
repaired. The angels of the Gospel,
inff amed with the noblest charity that
ever dawned over the everlasting
hills on an ice-bound world, would
have been scarcely ever absent fix)m
the prison cells, never weary of im-
portuning their inmates to save them-
selves, and to reclaim their place
amongst their fellows by a reforma-
tion which would at the same time
restore them to their hopes as im-
mortal men. Far from permitting
to them every license of lust, and
the indulgence of ^ytxy criminal pas-
' sion which did not interfere with jail
discipline; by their moral reformation,
and by it alone, would they have at-
tempted their reformation as citizens.
They would have been ever at hand

to aid them with priestly coansds
and the supernatural grace of die
sacraments in those frequent £dl5 and
relapses of which nearly every his-
tory of reformation consists. Asd
those who were sufficiently refbnDcd
to be able to conform thcncdbrth to
the easy standard of public viztae
would have found, in the new carea
to which they were committed, pre-
cisely the same divine system^ wkh
its supernatural aids and exhanstka
charities ready to carry on in tbev
behalf the work of restoratkm, throngfa
the love of man, to the reward of
God.

Even in the case of those pkiibic
beings, in whose crime-clogged souk
the loving accents of religion appor*
ed to awake no echoes, never wooU
the indiscriminating and wholesale
torture of the lash have been sum-
moned to its unholy and bnitaliaog
work to deepen still more their moral
degradation and place their reforma-
tion for ever out of hope. Restrain,
ed as they were from doing foxther
mischief to society, the church, wbosr
heart, as of a human mother, ytarm
with most foiuhness towards the
most vicious of her children, would
never have abandoned, still lets hive
ill*-treated, the poor outcasts. Sm
would have hoped against hope. Kcff
would she for one moment havecd^
ed her importunities, her ^jwstn-
tions, and her prayers, until final im-
penitence had taken away the nobap-
py beings for ever from the counseb
of mercy, or human obduracy had o
pitulated, at the hour of death, to the
exhaustless love of God,

Th€ Veil Wit/idrawn.

7^7

THE VF.IL WITHDRAWN.

BV IBSUX88ION, FKOM THB FRENCH OP MMB. CRAVBN, AUTHOR OF "a SISTBJI*S StORV,"
^^ FLXUBAMGB,'* ETC.

XXXIX.

The following day Lando, at an
musually early hour, entered the
litlJe sitting-room next my chamber
rhere I commonly remained in tlie
morning. He looked so much grav-
er than usual that I thought he had
come to tell me there was some ob-
stacle in the way of his matrimonial
prospects. But it was once more
of my affairs, and not of his, he
wfished to speak.

" Dear cousin," said he without
wiy preamble, " I come at this un-
usual hour because I wish to see
you alone. I have something impor-
tant to tell you.'*

** Something that concerns you,
Lando ?"

" No, it concerns you and Loren-

My heart gave a leap. What was
he about to tell me? What new
hope was to be dashed to the
ground ?

"Great goodness!" said I, giv-
ing immediate utterance to the
only object of my mortal terror,
** hav«iyou come to tell me Donna
Faustina is at Naples, and Loren-
zo has left me again?"

** Donna Faustina? Oh! no.
Would to heaven it were merely a
question of her, and that you had
nothing more serious to apprehend
on Lorenzo's part than another
foolish journey, were she to lead
him beyond the Black Sea ! No, it
is not a question of your husband's
h«art, which preoccupies you more
^han he deserves, but of his pro-
perty and yours."

I breathed once more as I heard

these words, and my relief was so
visible that Lando was out of pa-
tience.

'*How singular and unpractical
women are !" exclaimed he. " Here
you are apparently grown calm be-
cause I have reassured you on a
point less important in reality than
the affair in question."

" I ought to be the judge of that,
ought I not, Lando?" said I gravely.

*' Of course. I will not discuss
their merits with you. But remem-
ber, my dear cousin, if I am correct-
ly informed, it is a question of los-
ing all you possess ! Lorenzo has
been playing to a frightful degree !
He made such good resolutions be-
fore me, as he was leaving Paris,
that he does me the honor of con-
cealing himself as much from me as
from you. He had gone quite far
enough before he went to Milan;
but, since his return — influenced, I
suppose, by a mad wisti of diverting
his mind from other things, and per-
haps of repairing the breaches that
had begun to alarm even him — he
has added stock-gambling to the
rest. Some one heard him say the
other day that he expected to triple
his fortune, or lose all he possessed.
One of the two was indeed to hap-
pen. My dear cousin ! ... he has
not tripled it, and the other alterna-
tive is seriously to be feared."

I listened with attention, but like-
wise with a calmness that was not
merely exterior.

" Youdo not seem to understand/*
said he with more impatience than
before, ** that you are in danger of

768

The Veil Wiilidrawn.

losing everything you have ? Yes,
everything / . . . What would you
say, for example," continued he,
looking around, " if you were to see
all the magnificence that now sur-
rounds you, and to which you are ac-
customed, disappear ; if this house
and all tl|^ precious objects it con-
tains were to vanish for ever from
your sight ?*'

" I should say . . . But it is of
little consequence what I should
say or think in such a case. For
the moment nothing is lost, and,
when our lawsuit in Sicily is once
gained, all fear of ruin will be chi-
merical. Allow me, therefore, to
decline meanwhile participating in
your fears."

** Yes, I know you are certain of
gaining your cause, as it is in your
father's hands. But if some radical
change does not take place in Lo-
renzo's habits, the immense fortune
that awaits him will share the fate
of that he has just squandered."

"Therefore, Lando, as soon as
the lawsuit is decided, I have form-
ed the plan of inducing him to un-
dertake one of those long journeys
to some distant land, such as he has
made so many of, and to take me
with him. *\Ve shall soon come
to a region where cards are unknown,
and where he will never hear of dice,
roulette, or of stocks."

** Nor of Donna Faustina, either,
eh, cousin?" said he, laughing. "But
you are not in earnest about ban-
ishing yourself in this way for an
indefinite period, leaving the civil-
ized world, and sharing the life he
leads in these interminable jour-
neys .^"

'' I shall not hesitate a single in-
stant, I assure you," replied I warm-
ly. ** I shall esteem myself the hap-
piest woman in the world if I can
induce him to accede to my wish."

" Then," replied he with emo-

tion, " you can really save him; for
he now needs a powerful distraciioa,
a complete and radical chaage,
that will really give a new tumtohis
whole life. Nothing less thauthis
can save him. But you are admir-
able, Cousin Ginevra, it must be
confessed."

"Wherein, Lando, I beg? la
the course of a year you will cona-
der my conduct very natural, and
I hope Teresina will be of the
same opinion."

" Perhaps so. But I assure yw
I intend to take a very difiemtf
course from Lorenzo. I hare
done many foolish things, bearen
knows ; but there is a limit to efcry-
thing, and I hope never to folk)*
his example."

" Enough, Lando ; you hart m?
feelings and distress me."

He stopped, and soon after went
away, leaving me preoccupied with
what he had told me, though I was
not troubled. Oh ! what life, wha:
repose, I found in the secret
love that had been made manifes
to me ! The excitement of my
first moment of transport had died
away, but I had not become indif-
ferent. I clearly saw the gttbe^
ing clouds. I felt I was surroond-
ed by dangers of all kinds; but 1
had nothing of the vague fear oft«D
produced by anxiety with lespeci
to the future. What could happea
to me ? What tempests, whai dan-
gers, had I to fear with the clear.
unmistakable assurance of an un-
failing support, constant assistance.
and a love ever faithful and vigi-
lant, and more tender than aay
human affection — a love that if *«•
finite^ which no earthly lovt can
be? We sleep in peace on tbe
stormiest sea when we arc sare of
the hand that guides us. Ho»
much more when we know thii
hand controls the waves theo-

The Veil Withdrawn.

T^y

elves, and can still them at its
f\\\\

This conversation with Lando
>nly served to increase my desire
a leave Naples, and it was with
eal joy I saw the day of our de-
arture arrive at last. I was joy-
a\ly making my preparations at an
»rly hour in my room, which Lor-
mo very seldom entered now,
fhen he suddenly made his ap-
pearance. Of course I was dou-
bly moved. But as soon as I
(lanced at his pale, agitated face, I
knew he had come to impart some
errible news. But I only thought
>f what Lando had communicated,
Old exclaimed :

" Speak without any fear, I^ren-
60. I have courage enough to hear
il all."

But when he replied, it was my
turn to grow pale ; I uttered a cry
of anguish, and fell at his feet, over-
rome with horror and grief.

My father was no more ! At
the very hour when he was arrang-
iTjj5 the final documents for his
' ause, on the very spot where he
^ long kept me at his side, he had
tallen dead. No one was with him.
At the sound of his fall the old
servant, who always remained in
the next room, hurried to his as-
>i^ance, but in vain. Nothing
could ftcall him to life !

This blow was terrible — terrible
*n itself and in its effect on my
J^opcs. In the first place, it put an
inimcdiate stop to all my new plans.
Lorenzo felt it more necessary than
ever to go to Sicily, but now abso-
lutely refused to take me with him.
He did not seem to understand how
1 could desire to go. In his eyes,
^hc sole motive for such a journey
"^ longer existed. I should now
^"ly expose myself to the most
^•^Towing grief, which it was his
*^^itjr to spare roe. I did not dare
VOL. XX. — ^49

insist on going, for fear of irritating
him at a moment when the very pity
I inspired might increase the dawn
of returning affection I thought I
discovered. Besides, I had but
little time for reflection. Only a
few hours intervened between the
arrival of this fatal newPfend Lor-
enzo's departure, which left me
alone, abandoned to my grief and
the bitterness of a disappointment
I had not anticipated in the least,
mingled with the remembrance of
Lorenzo's inexplicable farewell !

It was evident he attributed my
tears solely to filial emotion. I
had seen him go away so many
times without shedding any, that
he had no reason to suppose his
departure this time caused them to
flow almost as much as the calam-
ity that had befallen me. He even
seemed surprised that I should in-
sist on accompanying him to the
boat and remaining with him till
the last minute.

He had no idea how I longed to
be permitted to forgive him on my
knees; how I wished to implore
permission to aid him in breaking
the fearful bonds that fettered his
noble faculties ; to tear off, so to
speak, the mask that seemed to
change the very expression of his
face! Oh! how I longed to save
him. How I longed to bring this
soul, so closely linked with mine,
to itself! The strong desire I once
felt, that had been extinguished by
jealousy, frivolity, and temptation,
now sprang up again with a new
force that was never to be destroy-
ed. I was ready for any sacrifice
in order to have it realized — yes,
even for that of knowing my sacri-
fice for ever ignored ! Not that I
did not aspire to win his heart
once more ! It belonged to me by
the same divine right that had giv-
en mine to him. I wished t9

Tfo

The Veil WiiMdrawn.

claim it, and I felt that this desire,
however ardent it might be, by no
means diminished the divine flame
within that now kindled all my de-
sires — those of earth as well as
those of heaven !

He did not, alas ! have any sus-
picion of lil this. And yet, when I
raised my eyes in bidding him fare-
well, he perhaps saw the look of af-
fection and sorrowful regret I was
unable to repress ; for he looked at
me an instant with an expression
which made me suddenly thrill with
hope! One would have almost
said an electric spark enabled our
souls to comprehend each other
without the aid of words. But this
moment was as fleeting as that spark
—more transitory than the quickest
flash that leaves the night as dark
as before !

His face became graver than
ever; his brow more gloomy and anx-
ious, as if some terrible thought had
been awakened. He continued to
gaze at me, as he put up the little
straw hat I wore, and, pushing back
my hair with the caressing air of
protection once so familiar, he kiss-
ed my forehead and cheek, and,
pressing me a moment against his
heart, he uttered these strange words:
" Whatever happens, I wish you to
be happy, Ginevra. Promise me
you will! . . .**

I had been at home a long time,
and seen the last trace of smoke
from the steamboat disappear be-
tween Capri and the coast beyond
Sorrento, without having resolution
enough to leave that side of the ter-
race which commanded the most
distant view of the sea. I remain-
ed with my eyes fastened on the
horizon, looking at the waves, agi-
tated by the mournful sirocco, whose
dull, sad moans afar off" add so much
to the gloom felt at Naples when
the briglit sun and blue sky are ob-

scured. Elsewhere bad weather is
nothing surprising, but at Naples it
always astonishes and creates aix-
iety, as if it were abnormal, as the
sudden gravity of a smiling face af-
fects and alarms us more than tkit
of one naturally austere.

I remained, therefore, in my $eal,
dwelling on my recent hopes, m
sudden disappointment and its<lis-
tressing cause, on Lorenzo's depar-
ture without me, his look, his mys-
terious words, and his afiectioiuk
manner as he bade me farewell

Oh ! why, at whatever cost, had
I not gone with him ? And then 1
followed him in thought tothedeir
place I was never to behold again
— to the old palace at Messina where
I had passed my childhood, happy
and idolized, under the eye of her
who always seemed to me like sosic
heavenly vision. Beside her I sjv
my father — ** my beloved father."
I uttered these last words aloud,
looking, with eyes full of teais,
towards the wild gloomy sea iha:
separated me from him in death a<
it had in life.

At that instant I heard Lando's
voice beside me. He had approach-
ed without my hearing him. He
had a kind heart that redeemed
many of his faults, and had come
to pity and console mc in his way.
" My poor cousin ! I am over-
whelmed. . . . AVhat a frightful
irreparable misfortune ! I feel ii
if it concerned me almost as much
as you."

After a moment's pause he con-
tinued:

"And what is to be done now?
In three days that great trial is to
take place and your cause is tolx;
decided ! What advocate, goo<i
heavens ! can be found that can.
I will not say equal, but replace,
the able and illustrious Fabrizio dei
Monti ?"

Tie VeU Withdfuwu.

XL.

The first days of mourning, anx-
ety, and expectation were spent
tknost entirely alone. I only left
he house to go to the convent, and
nIw no one at liome but Stella and
ny aunt, who, though ^e resembled
icr brother but little, loved him
«oderIy, and was inconsolable at
ids loss.

A week passed by, and I began
^ be surprised at not having re*
ceived any news from Lorenzo.
Ihe lawsuit must be over. It was
tiaie for him to return, or, at least,
far me to receive a letter from him.
ftit none had come, and I remain-
ed in this state of suspense a length
of time that was inexplicable. At
last I received two lines written in
haste, not from him, but from my
brother:

" I shall arrive the day after this
note, and will then tell you every-
thing. Do not lose courage.

" Mario."

Lando was present when this
note arrived, and I read it aloud.

"0 heavens!" he exclaimed,
" you have lost your cause ! That
U evident. He tells you so plain-
ly enough ! . . . And I cannot see
what he can have worse to tell you."

He kept on talking for some
time, but I did not listen to him.
1 read the note over and over
again. Why had not Lorenzo
written ? Why was Mario coming,
and why did he not say Lorenzo
was to accompany him ? Why did
he not even mention his name ? . . .
I did not dare acknowledge to my-
self the terrible fear that passed
through my mind; but I recalled
his mysterious words, his look, his
voice, and his whole manner when
t^e bade me farewell, and every-
thing assumed an ominous look.
^ possibility flashed across my

mind which I did not dare dwell
on for fear of losing my reason,
and, with it, the blessed remem-
brance that was the only support
of my life! I suffered that night
as I had not suffered 'since the
hours of grief and remorse that fol-
lowed the death of my mother !

The next day, at a late hour, 1
at last perceived the boat from Si-
cily slowly coming up the bay,
struggling against a violent out-
wind ; for, after a long continuation
of fine weather, now came a suc-
cession of dismal, stormy days,
such as often cast a gloom over
the end of spring at Naples. My
first impulse was to go to meet
Mario at the landing ; but I chang-
ed my mind, and concluded to re-
main at home, that I might be
alone when I should receive the
news he was bringing me.

I found it difficult, however, to
control my impatience, for I had
to wait nearly an hour longer.
But at last I heard his step on the
stairs; then my door opened, and
he made his appearance. What I
experienced when I saw he was
really alone showed to what an
extent I had flattered myself Lor-
enzo would return with him. I
gazed at him without stirring from
my seat, without the strength to
ask a single question. He came
to me, took me in his arms with
more tenderness than he had ever
^hown in his life, and when he
kissed me I saw his eyes were fill-
ed with tears.

" Lorenzo ! Where is Loren-
zo?" I exclaimed as soon as I
could speak.

** Be calm, sister," said he—" be
calm, I beg of you. ... I will tell
you the whole truth without the
slightest evasion."

772

The ViU WitMramn.

"But before anything else, tell
me where Lorenzo is, and why he
did not come with you."

" Ginevra, I cannot tell you, for
I do not know yet. I am quite as
i^orant as you what has become
of him."

At this reply the beating of my
heart became so violent that I
thought I should faint away ; but I
struggled to overcome the anguish
that seized me, and said in a hoarse
voice :

" At least, tell me all you know,
Mario, without delay or reticence."

Mario drew from his pocket a
letter carefully sealed, but still seem*
ed to hesitate about giving it to me.
But I recognized the writing, and
cut short all explanation by snatch-
ing it from his hands, and ran to a
scat in the most retired comer of
the room, where I could read it at
my ease, and my brother could not
guess its contents by my face till it
should suit me to communicate
them.

" Ginevra, you will doubtless have
learned, before opening this letter,
that I have lost my cause — in other
words, that I am ruined, irrevoca-
bly ruined. I had a presentiment
of this when the only one who could
bring it to a favorable issue was
taken away by death at the critical
moment; and when I embraced
you at my departure, I felt convinc*
ed I was bidding you adieu for
ever. . . . Whatever I may be,
this word will no doubt startle you.
Though the loss of a very bad hus-
band is by no means irreparable,
you will shudder, I am sure, at the
thought of all so desperate a state
of affairs may render me capable
of, and the most fearful of extremi-
ties has already crossed your mind,
I have no doubt Well, you are
not wrong. I confess it was my in-

tention, and you may be gUd to
know it was you who caused me
to change it. Yes, Gift€vra,the
thought of yon occurred to my noii
and I was unwilling to add anoibcr
horrible remembrance to those I
had already left you, and reader ft
catastrophe, already sufficientlf te^
rible, stUl more tragical. ItwouM,
however, have restored yoa to lib*
erty, and permitted your yoong hfe
to resume its course and findahp-
piness I can no longer promise jott
This thought furnished an additioB-
al reason to all those suggested bjr
despair ; but the sweet, sapi^tiiit
look )FOu gave me, the inexplicibte,
celestial expression you wore wbcn
we separated, arrested me. The
remembrance of that look stiU
hmints me. What did you wish to
say to me, Ginevra? What bad
you to ask me ? What couJd be
the prayer that seemed to hover on
your lips ! I can repair nothing
now. The past is no longer in ny
power, and the future is blighted.
The captivating charm of your beau-
ty has not been powerful cnou^ to
enable rae to overcome myself. It
is now too late, as you see yourself.
All is over. My faults have led tc
the most fatal consequences. I
have only to endure them, whatever
they may be. I resip mysdf to
the struggle, then. The very word
stimulates me, for to struggle ^a w
labor, and work I love to excess!
Why did I not give my whole sobI
up to it instead of other things !
Ah ! if the past could wily be re-
stored ! . . . But let us retnra to
the present. I will work, then ; yes.
work, Ginevra, to gain n^lh^^^
However great a sybarite 1 Iwyc
appeared, and am, I am equal tort.
I can and will labor, but far fiw»
you — separated from you. 'fhaoks
to your brother's generosity aod
the means still at my dispo*^

Tke Vnl WitAdrawM.

77i

rkicb will be comrauntcated to
•iiy this great reverse will entail

privation on you. This is my
idy hope, my only comfort; for,
fter having clouded the fairest
oition of your life, to invite you
» participate in the bitterness of
tff misfortunes would make me
le^se myself and fill me with de-
pur* Be happy, therefore, if you
b not wish me to put an end to
«y life. And now €id$eu. This
ittid is used for a brief absence,
•r the separation of a day. What
till be the length of ours? ... A
ifelong one, apparently. . . . May
WPf life be short, that I may not
^g deprive you of your freedom !

** Ginevra, you are young, you are
beautiful. You are calculated to
Ia^ and please, and, however un-
bithful and inconstant I have been,

1 am jealous! But I leave you
vithout fear, under the protection
of that something mysterious and
incomprehensible within you that
U a safeguard to your youth and
beauty ! I have forfeited the right
to love and protect you, but I
^w and venerate you as a holy,
^gelic being. Ginevra, I ought to
»y» I wish I could say, forgive
ve ; but that word is vain when it
is a question of the irreparable.
I shall do better, then, to say— for-
get me I Lorenzo."

While I was reading this letter
^th eager interest, Mario remain-
^ in the place where I left him,
Ws fiwe buried in his hands, ab-
sorbed in sad reflections. I ap-
proached him. He instantly look-
edup.

"Well, sister," said he anxious-
^y> " have you any idea from this
ktler where Lorenzo has gone ?"

*]No."

"No? . . . And yet you look
<^^m and relieved. What other

good news could there be in the
letter ?"

What good news! ... I was
really embarrassed to know what
reply to make to his question. I
was relieved, to be sure. My
heart beat with a certain joy, but
it would not do to say so; nor
could I have made Mario compre-
hend the reason, for nothing, in
fact, could be more serious than
my position.

" No good news," I replied.
"His letter contains nothing cheer-
ing, assuredly, for it announces the
loss of his lawsuit, which your note
had prepared me for. And Loren-
zo seems to bid me an eternal fare-
well, as if he imagined I should al-
low him to separate my life entire-
ly from his ! That remains to be
decided. But in order to know
what I ought to do, you must tell
me everything that has happened,
Mario, without any restriction."

Mario had hoped to be able to
avoid telling me the whole truth,
but at this appeal made no further
attempt at concealment, and was
grateful to me for the courage
which lightened so painful a duty.

Lorenzo arrived at Messina, per-
suaded in advance that my father's
death was the signal of his ruin.
But when the cause was decided
against him, he remained apparent-
ly very calm. During the evening
he had a long conversation with
Mario, in which he occupied him-
self in making arrangements that
would secure my comfort, placing
at my disposal all he had left, and
accepting the generous offer of my
brother, who now refused to profit
by the renunciation of my right to
a portion of my father's property
which I had made at the time
of my marriage. Lorenzo, during
this conversation, repeatedly ex-
pressed the desire this storm might

Tke Pril Withdrawn.

WBf bead witbotit affect-
isi me.

Tbe foUoving morning Mario re-
mved a fKickage containing the
s;ib6taiice of this conversation, reg-
ttUnx signed and sealed, and a
sealed letter addressed to me, with-
out anr other explanation. My
bffocher waited tiU the hour ap-
powtcd by Lorenzo the night be-
foffe h>r a meeting, but he did not
cuke his appearance; and when
Maho went in search of him, he
Itaraed he had taken his departure
in the night without leaving any
trace of tbe direction he had taken.
Two boats had left Messina during
the night, one for the Levant, and
tW other for America. But, not-
wttltstanding all the precautions
taken by Lorenzo to prevent any
cee from knowing which way he
fejd gone, Mario thought he had
embarked on the latter of these
c«o boats.

Lorenzo had ordered the stew-
ard that had always been in his
employ to aid ray brother in the
execution of his wishes and what-
ever was to be done in conse-
quence, either in Sicily or Naples.
But he had not revealed to him,
any more than to me or my bro-
ther, his personal affairs, or the
place to which he was going.

After listening to this account
with the utmost attention, I re-
quested Mario to leave me alone a
few hours, that I might reflect on
all I had heard, and consider at
my leisure what course I ought to
pursue. I felt indeed the need of
collecting my thoughts in solitude
and silence; but above all ... oh!

above all ! I longed to be akae,
that I might fall on my knees and
bless God !

Yes, bless him with transport!
The fear, the horrible, intolesable
fear, that had taken bold of sty
mind, was for ever removed by tbe
contents of Lorenzo's letter. Re-
gret, if not repentance, for his tohs
was betrayed in every line he wms.
The manly energy of his chanKiter,
too, was manifest throughout As
to what related to me, I felt tooth-
ed, and more proud of the tender,
confiding, respectful interest he ex-
pressed, than of all the possiouie
fervor of his former language. And
I blessed heaven for not being a&-
worthy of it. Finally, finally, the
wo#ds, " I will work to gain ray Hfc-
lihood," made my heart leap wkh
joy ; for I saw it put an end to tk
dangerous, indolent, pernicious lift
of the past, and held out a hope of
regeneration and salvation — ^ sal>*a-
tion physical, moral, present, fatore,
eternal 1 It really seemed impossible
to feel such a hope could be pud
for too dearly !

I remembered, however, thii I
should have to discuss my afiairs vitlt
Mario, and perhaps with Laado
also, whose heart was exttcmelT
moved by this catastrophe; aod 1
endeavored, before meeting them
again, to moderate a joy that vooM
have appeared inexplicable, anA ^
the very time when I was more
reasonable than I had ever been in
my life, would have rendered neiB
their estimation extravagant in mv
notions, and without any prac-
tical sense as to the things of tbe
world.

XLI.

When I saw Mario again, there- would not accept the restoration of
fore« I thanked him affectionately the inheritince I had renounced a:
lor his generosity, but declared I the time of my marriage with tfcc

The Veil WWidratvn.

77S

Dttca di Valenzano. Livia had
done the same on entering the con-
rent. Mario was, and should re-
Bttin, my father's only heir. I was
delermined not to allow any cliange
it this arrangement. I had great
difficulty in overcoming his resis-
t«nce; and when I could not help
fenmrking that the sacrifices which
waile d me would cost me but little,
tie stopped me by saying I had not
yet made the trial, and insisted I
riumld take no immediate resolu-
liim with regard to the matter.
I ** Very well/* said I, " if it is your
jwirii, we will discuss the point at a
Ikter day. Let us confine our at-
iliention for the moment to what is
oC much more importance. You
Iknow very well we cannot long re-
iftain ignorant where Lorenzo is,
and as soon as we know I shall go
to him."
"Go to him?"
** Do you doubt it ?"
Mario looked at me with surprise,
and was silent for an instant. Then
he said:

"Sister, Lorenzo's conduct has
been so notorious that, notwithstand-
ing the solicitude I acknowledge he
manifested for you at our last in-
terview, no one would be astonish-
ed at your remaining among your
Mends and availing yourself of the
means he has used to deliver you
from the consequences of his folly."
** Accept this beautiful villa, which
^ wishes to except from the sale
ofhis property ? . . . Surround my-
self with the comforts you have to-
gether provided me with, and leave
him— him ! — alone, poor, struggling
against the diflSculties of beginning
a new life ? . . . Really, Mario, if
you believe I would consent to this,
it is a proof that, though you are
^ess severe than you once were to
your poor little sister, you are not
altogether just to her."

Maria took my hand, and kissed
it with emotion.

" Pardon me, Ginevra; I confess
I did not think you were so gener-
ous or so courageous !"

Courageous! ... I was not so
much so as he thought. A hope
had risen in my heart which would
have rendered poverty itself easy to
endure, and even in such a case I
should not have been an object of
pity. But here there was no ques-
tion of poverty. My sight was
clearer than that of Mario or Lando,
and I was, in fact, more sensible
than either of my two advisers. It
was only a question, at most, of a
temporary embarrassment. Loren-
zo's land, the valuable objects ac-
cumulated in his different houses,
and the sale of all my diamonds,
would suffice, and more than suffice,
to fill the pit dug by his extrava-
gance, however deep it might be.
Besides, his talents alone, as soon
as he chose to turn them to account,
excluded all fear of actual poverty.
The mere name of Lorenzo with
which he signed all his productions
had long been familiar to the art-
world, and consequently he would
not be obliged to strive for a posi-
tion.

It was merely a question, there-
fore, of the relinquishment of all
this display, this magnificence, this
overwhelming profusion of super-
fluities, and all the luxuries of life
that now surrounded me. Ah ! I
did not dare tell them what I
thought of such sacrifices / I did
not dare speak of my indifference,
which greatly facilitated their task,
however, and still less did I dare
reveal the cause, for fear of being
accused of madness, and that at a
time when they should have con-
sidered it a proof of the beneficial
efiects of supernatural influences
on ordinary life. I contented my-

jt6

Th$ VeU Withdrawn.

self, therefore, with merely explain-
ing the reason wliy my situation
seemed to me by no means despe-
rate. They were relieved to see me
take things in such a way, and from
that moment the necessary changes,
so painful, in their estimation, were
undertaken without any delay,
though without haste, without fear,
without concealment, and all the
so-called great sacrifices began to
be accomplished.

It would be difficult to render
an account of all I experienced
during the following days and
weeks. All I can say is that I felt
as if my shackles and barriers one
by one were removed, and at every
step I breathed a purer air! . . .
Does this mean I had become a
saint, aspiring to heroic sacrifices
and utter renunciation } Assured-
ly not. I repeat it, I could have
no illusion of this kind. I clearly
comprehended that this catastro-
phe, which seemed so terrible to
others, which Lorenzo considered
beyond my strength to bear, and
would have thrown him into an
excess of despair, only tore off the
brilliant exterior of my life. But I
had often experienced a confused,
persistent desire at various times
and places to be freed from this
outer husk, and I now began to
understand a thousand things tliat
heretofore had been inexplicable in
the bottom of my soul.

The magnificence that surround-
ed me belonged, however, to my
sUtiop, and all this display was
not without reason or excuse; but
I felt it impeded my course, and,
as a pious, profound soul * has said
of happiness itself, in striving to
attain the true end, it only served
to lengthen Uu way t

There was, then, neither courage

* Eogdnie de la Fcn«iui]ri>

nor resignation iu this case I.m
reasonable and satisSed, as evoj
human being is who in an ex-
change feels he has gained a tboo-
sand times more tluin he has lo(X I
The only anxiety I now felt was to
discover the place to which Loieo-
zo had betaken himself. I did n«(
in the least believe he had ffsot
eitlier to the Levant or Amcri ra,
but every means seemed to have
been used by him to defeat our ef-
forts to discover him. One of Ac
two boats that left Messina tlkc
night of his departure was to to«di
at Marseilles on the way. RcSec-
tion and instinct both assured mc
he had proceeded no further, but
from that place had gone where he
could most easily resume his U^
bors and begin his new life. Id
this respect Rome or Paris would
have equally suited him, but it
seemed improbable he had return-
ed to Italy. It was therefore to
Paris I directed my search, and 1
wrote Mme. de Kergy to aid me
in finding him.

Perhaps I should have hesitated
had Gilbert been at home ; but be
was absent, absent fur a year, and
before his return I should have
time to reflect on the course 1
ought to pursue, perhaps ask the
advice of his mother herself, to
whom, meanwhile, I made known
my present situation, my wishes
my projects, and the extreme anx-
iety to which I hoped with her as-
sistance to put an end.

It was not long before I receiv-
ed a reply, and it was much nuxe
favorable than I had ventured to
hope. Her large, affectionate heart
seemed not only to comprch^d
fully what I had merely given her
an outline of, but to have penetrat-
ed to the bottom of mine, and di*
vined even what I had not attempt-
ed to say. I felt I had in her a

The Vnl Withdrawn.

Tf?

pomrerful support. Her inquiries
nere promptly and successfully
BUbde, and the result was what I
Ittci foreseen. Lorenzo was really
in Paris, in an obscure comer of
Ae Faubourg Saint-Germain. He
ImmI narrow quarters adjoining a
ImS^ studio, where he had already
b«Sttn to work. " His celebrity
i* too great for him to remain long
OWicealed," wrote Mme. de Ker-
ly ; " besides, the very thing he is
•mimg at would prevent all possi-
IHitj of his remaining long incog-
llfo. Several of his friends have
alveady found him out and called
to see him, but he has only con-
iKBted to receive one of them,
vlkose counsels and assistance are
iadispensable. This gentleman is
tfio a friend of ours. I have learn-
ed through him that as soon as
your husband gets under way in
Us work, he intends to enter into
communication with those he has
left, and probably with you, my
dear Ginevra; but he persists in his
intention of remaining by himself,
and not allowing you to share his
lot. He thinks he has arranged
everything so you can continue to
Uve very nearly the same as before,
with the exception of his presence,
vhich, he says, he has done no-
thing to make you desire. You
will have some difficulty in over-
coming his obstinacy in this re-

spect ; you will find it hard to in-
duce one who is so sensible of his
wrongs towards you to accept the
heavy burden of gratitude. All
the sacrifices he imposes on him-
self will cost him far less than to
consent to those you are so ready
to make for him. Men are all so
Be patient, therefore ; be^ prudent,
and have sufficient though tfulness
and feeling to manifest your gener-
osity in such a way that he will per-
ceive it as little as possible. ..."

It was the easier to follow
Mme. de Kergy's advice that the
course she wished me to pursue
would be strictly sincere. I wrote
him, therefore, without affectation
or restraint, what my heart dictat-
ed, but I wrote in vain ; my first
and second letters remained unan-
swered. The third drew forth a
reply, but it contained a refusal of
my wishes which betrayed all the
motives indicated by my aged
friend. Alas ! to make others ac-
cept forgiveness is often a thou-
sand times more difficult than to
obtain it ourselves !

I was not discouraged, however.
I made preparations for my depar-
ture, as if he had sent for me,
and I awaited impatiently the time,
without the least doubt as to its
arrival, determined to find some
means of hastening it, should the
delay be too much prolonged.

XLII.

While so much apparent, as well
as real, gloom was gathering around
my path, there was no diminution
in the interior brightness of my soul ;
which was only manifested, how-
ever, by an activity, and at the
same time tranquillity, that greatly
surprised my brother and all my
frieDds, especially my aunt, whose
aviation was extreme.

I will not say that Donna Clelia
felt in the least that pleasure at the
misfortunes of others attributed by
a great satirist to all mankind, but
the change in our respective situa-
tions which now afforded her an
opportunity of pitying and protect-
ing instead of envying me, was by
no means displeasing to her pride
or kindness of heart.

778

ne Veil Withdrawn.

She offered me the most unlimit-
ed hospitality. She wished to es-
tablish me in her palazso on the
Toledo, and give up the largest of
her spacious drawing-rooms to my
sole use. She did not comprehend
how I could remain in my house
when it was being stripped of all
the magnificence that had placed me,
in her eyes, on the very pinnacle of
happiness. But I refused to the
last to leave my chamber and the
terrace, with its incomparable view,
the privation of which I should
have felt more than anything else.
I remained, therefore, in the comer
(a very spacious one, however) of
my beautiful home I had reserved
for myself, encouraged by Stella,
who, without surprise or wonder,
comprehended my motives, and as-
sisted me in making preparations
for my departure. She always
brought Angiolina with her, which
added to our enjoyment; for she
continually hovered around, enliv-
ening us with her prattle. So, in
spite of the sadness of my position,
I was able, without much effort, to
rise above my dejection and gloom.

Weeks passed away, however,
and, though I had not renounced
the hope of overcoming Lorenzo's
obstinacy, I began to grow impa-
tient, and was thinking of starting
without his consent ; for it seemed
to me, when once near him, he could
not refuse to see me. This uncer-
tainty was the most painful feature
of my present situation, and the
rainy season, meanwhile, added its
depressing influence to all the rest.
But to disturb my peace of mind
and diminish my courage would
have required a trial more severe
and painful than that.

The sky once more became
clear, and we were at length able
to return to the terrace, from which
we had so long been banished by

the rain. The clump*; of vcfdait
in the garden, the perfume of tkc
flowers, the blueness of the mo«i-
tains, sea, and sky — in short, dl ma-
ture seemed to atone by her oa-
usual brilliancy for having been so
long forced to veil her htsffsM
face. But Stella, instead of bciag
charmed and transported, as usual
with the prospect, looked gravek
and silently around for some tiiBc,
then, with a sudden exploskm of
grief, threw herself on my neck.

*' Ginevra, what will become of
Angiolina and me when you are
gone ? . . . Ah ! I ought to love
nobody in the world but her !"

She sat down on one of the
benches on the terrace, and took
up the child, who had not left its
an instant during the day, to play,
as she usually did. And when An-
giolina, with her eyes full of tcan,
begged her to prevent her dear
Zia Gina from going away> all
Stella's firmness gave way for an
instant, and she burst into tears.

Oh ! how strongly I then felt, in
my turn, the difference there is b^
tween the sacrifice of exterior ob-
jects and the interior sacrifices
that rend the soul ! The infimte
love that tempers all the safferinp
of this world exempts no one
from these trials. I might crra
say it increases them, for it enla^
the capacity of our affection ttd
pity: it makes us fully realiie
what suffering is, and gives it its
true meaning.

I could not, therefore, look it
Stella in her present mood without
being overcome by a sadness I had
never felt before at the thought of
our separation. Her tears, which
she was generally so well able to
suppress, continued to flow, as sbe
rocked her child in silence. She
remained thus without uttering i
word, even in reply to my qws-

The Veil Withdrnwn.

779

ikmSy lintil little Angiolina, after
quietly weeping a long time, fell
into a heavy, profound sleep in her
OKUher's arms.

It was the first time I had ever
Imown Stella to lose courage.
Mine failed me at the sight, and
this hour — the last we were to pass
together on the terrace so full of
pleasant associations, and so often
trod by Angiolina's little feet — this
hour was sad beyond all expres-
SKOT, and in appearance beyond all
reason. The serenity of the soul,
like the sky of Italy, is thus ob-
scured at times by clouds that
trouble and afflict the more be-
cause the light they veil is habitu-
ally so bright and serene! Nei-
ther Stella nor I, however, were
disposed to believe in presenti-
ments. Besides, our sadness was
too well founded to be surprising.
Nevertheless, something darker hov-
ered over us than we foresaw at
the moment : the morrow already
threw its gloom over this last eve-
ning !

The sun was going down. Stella
suddenly started from her reverie
and awoke Angiolina. It was time
to take her home. But the child's
eyes, generally so bright, were now
heavy. She hardly opened them
when I approached to embrace her.
Her little mouth made a slight
movement to return my kiss, and
she fell asleep again immediately.
Her mother, surprised, and some-
what alarmed at her unwonted lan-
guor, hastily wrapped a shawl
around her to protect her as much
as possible from the evening air,
and carried her away.

The following day, of sorrowful
memory, rose bright and radiant for
me; for when I awoke, I found a
letter from Lorenzo awaiting me —
a letter which put an end to all my
perplexities, and justified, beyond

all my hopes, the confidence with
which I had expected it.

** Ginevra, you have prevailed.
I venture at last to beg your for-
giveness, for your letters have in-
spired the hope of some day merit-
ing it. I no longer fear, therefore,
to meet you again. Come ! It is
my wish. I am waiting for you;
" Lorenzo."

These last lines contained the
surest promise of happiness I had
ever received in my life, and I kiss-
ed them with tears. I longed to
start that very hour, and it will not
seem surprising now that I looked
around the sumptuous dwelling I
was about to leave for ever without
regret, and even at the enchanting
prospect my eyes were never weary
of gazing at ! It was by no means
these exterior objects that inspired
the deep, unalterable joy of my soul.
I did not owe to them the vision
of happiness I thought I now
caught the first ray of. My only
regret, therefore, was that I could
not start as soon as I wished. All
my preparations were made, and I
longed to take my departure at
once. But I had to wait three days
before the first boat on which I
could embark would leave for Mar-
seilles — a delay that seemed so
long ! Alas ! I was far from fore-
seeing how painful and short I
should find them !

Stella had passed every day with
me for the last few weeks, and I
now awaited her arrival to commu-
nicate my joy. But the usual hour
for her to come had gone by. She
did not appear. I was surprised,
at this delay, and, instead of waiting
any longer, I proceeded on foot to
her house, which was only at a
short distance from mine. The pre-
vious evening had left me no anxi-
ety, and its sadness had been dis-
persed with the joy of the morning.

790

The Veil Withdrawn.

When I arrived, I found the door
open. No servant was there to att-
nounce me. I went through the
gallery, a large drawing-roono, and
a cabinet, without meeting a per-
son. At length I came to Stella's
chamber, where Angiolina also slept
in a little bed beside her mother's.
I entered. ... Oh ! how shall I
describe the sight that met my
eyes ! How express all my feelings
of amazement, pity, affection, and
grief!

My dear, unhappy Stella was seat-
ed in the middle of the room with
her child extended on her knees,
pale, motionless, and apparently
without life !

She did not shed a tear ; she did
not utter a word. She raised an
instant her large eyes, which were
unusually dilated, and looked at
me. What a look ! O God ! it ex-
pressed the grief that mothers alone
can feel, and which no other on
earth can surpass! ... I fell on
my knees beside her. Angiolina
still breathed, but she was dying.
She opened her beautiful eyes a
moment. . . . A look of recognition
crossed them. . . . They turned
from her mother to me, and from
me to her mother, and then grew dim.
A convulsive shudder ran over her,
and it was all over. The angel was
in heaven. The mother was bereft,
for this life, of her only child ! . . .

The longest years cannot efface
the memory of such an hour, and
time, which at last subdues all grief,
never gave me the courage to dwell
on this. Mothers who have been
pierced by such a sword cannot
speak of it ; others dare not. The
woman who has no child, in the
presence of one who has just lost
hers, can only bend in silence and
respect before the sovereign majes-
ty of grief!

I will merely state, with respect
to what preceded, that the drovsi-
ness of the child the night before
was a symptom of the violent iftak-
dy which suddenly attacked her in
the middle of the night Mna
abating towards day, it came on
again an hour later, and kept iA>
creasing without any relaxation to
the end.

As for me, who had given Angio-
lina the place that had remained
vacant in my heart, the excess of
my grief enabled me to form an es-
timate of hers whose heart was fil-
ed with far greater anguish at bdag
so suddenly robbed of her all by
death. I shuddered at the thought
of a sorrow greater than mine, and
did not dare dwell on my own troo-
bles in the presence of a grief that
cast into the shade all the sufferings
I had ever witnessed before. What
a remedy for the imaginary or ex-
aggerated woes of life it is to sud-
denly be brought to witness tbc
reality of the most terrible of mis-
fortunes !

What a price was I now to pay
for the journey I had so long look-
ed forward to — the reunion I had
longed for with so many prayers
and obtained by so many efforts!

To leave Stella in her affliction
was a trial I had not anticipated
and one which the most imperious
duty alone could have induced m^
to consent to. I had to do it,hov-
ever, but not till I had succeeded
in gratifying the only remaiiHBg
wish of her broken heart — "to
leave the world for a few months.
that she might be alone, free t<^
abandon herself entirely to the dear,
angelic memory of her lost joy. • . "

Stella uttered no complaint. Her
grief was mute. But she had expmr
ed this desire, and it was granted
Livia obtained a place of retreat for
her in a part of her convent tbat

The VeU Wit/idraum.

781

was not cloistered. It was there I
IcR- keff in the shadow of that sweet
siMKtuary, near the tenderest, strong-
est bean she could have to lean
cMty in presence of the magnifi-
cevt prospect before her, and be-

neath the brilliant canopy of that
glorious sky, beyond which she
could follow in spirit the trea-
sure she had been deprived of, but
which she felt sure of some day
finding again !

XLIII.

I was filled with solemn emotion
m, having taken leave of my
beother and all the friends who
tad accompanied me on board, I
at length found myself alone with
Lvia on the deck of the boat,

ling at the receding mountains,
villas, and the smiling, flowery
siKires of the Bay of Naples as they
vanished away. Two years had
aCMcely flown since the day when
tliis prospect met my eyes for the
S»t time. But during this short
period so many different feelings
hftd agitated my heart, and so
iMmy events had crossed my path,
that the time seemed as long as a
whole life.

Joys and sorrows, ardent hopes
and bitter deceptions, severe trials,
d^gerous temptations, a deadly
struggle, grace — to crown all! grace
Luminous and wonderful — had alt
succeeded each other in my soul.
And to all these remembrances
was now added the new sorrow
which set on these last days a
mournful, heartrending seal ! The
death of a child, it is true, would
seem to the indifferent to seriously
wound no heart but its mother's.
Mine, however, bled profusely, and
the sudden death of the angelic lit-
tle creature I had so much loved,
as well as the separation that so
soon took place, cast an inexpres-
sible gloom over the hour of depar-
ture I had so eagerly longed for,
and which I had obtained at the
price of sacrifices which till now
had not seemed worthy of being

counted. Truly, the words al-
ready quoted do not apply less to
earthly affections than to the di-
vine love that overrules them and
includes them all : " There is no
living in love without some pain or
sorrow." This is indubitable. The
more tender the affection, the more
exquisite the suffering it entails.
But by way of recompense, in pro-
portion as these cruel wounds are
multiplied, the never-failing su-
preme love affords a remedy by re-
vealing itself more and more fully,
and thereby supplying the place
of all these vanished joys. This
love alone assures the promise, the
pledge, of their restoration and im-
mortal duration !

Therefore, whatever the sadness
of this hour ; whatever the desola-
tion of heart with which I gazed
at the convent on yonder height
where I had just parted from Stel-
la and my sister with so many
tears — in short, whatever the emo-
tions of all kinds that seemed com-
bined to overwhelm me, I felt, in
spite of them, I lived a truer, freer
life than when for the first time,
surrounded with illusions and de-
ceitful hopes, I crossed this bay in
all the intoxication of radiant hap-
piness!

These thoughts, and many others
of a similar nature, passed through
my mind while the boat was rapid-
ly cleaving the waves, and little by
little the last outline of the coast
of Italy faded away and fmally dis-
appeared from my eyes for ever.

7«i

The V^U WkJidrawm.

Night came en, the stars appeared,
bat I remained in the place where
i vas. vnthoat being able to make
zp =:2T mind to leave it.

Ti5 solitude of the sea — more
irrcizzd than any other — speaks
-2 i":e so:iI a language peculiar to
j:5^S. I listened to it with undi-
Tii-^i z:rjeTLiiozu blessing God for
"laT-iTz ^jclised me to hear his
t:ic«. t> pre heed to no other
>L'ir::iZ i^ period of inaction and
X9«ae< v-cii separated the portion
Mt-xrt _:t "ut closed from that which
itas ijx;<ir :j coauncnce under new
MiaL i.T^eK'w;! circumstances.

I ^ic zee step at Marseilles, for I
*ss jncvLne^: id arrive at my jour-
^i:*- > s?T\:^ A3C Tet» in spite of the
^mniccs I Tns sow obeying, I was
wc T c-Tcac iniTctT as to the recep-
luti ; >T.-cid awet with. I knew
:x 3tvrc-* rr cc Lorouo's feelings,
«!«£ r'-r ^^ ^ Teizr^ 1 had so recently
-tr-x • V* r'ijx \ :a was not a sure
^- * ■**\-rr «*i~ -^e disposition in
% ' v-r -ovu^vL uad him. In fact,
- V* i.vc Tr-'u on my arrival at
• V ---v ii. I si:d not at first know
». ,v t> 'Mtk. He was pale, agitat-
♦.. utij ^toomy. and could scarcely
.^c :ao ^riunng his fcwre expressed
H'..v 1 more cieariy than joy at see-
ti;; :ut: Ji^ain. 1 iieit the arm trem-
H*. jit ^^hiC'i I was leaning, and I
tiojLitKU Silent^ confounded, and
It! \ \.»u>» H<* hurried me through
'tv jM.>.*d, *H*tced ott? in a carriage,
•lfJ.^-t? Otta*»a rjxe a seat beside
ttv\ -ovi CH>:>t>l tlie door with an
... 1 .' xi>i!;un;^ sayia^ he wished

V. ' -, i * iS^ jL>a>n:shed at find-
/^ w.v5,»i >o sinivienlY separated
.K»*i > s utv't I>anrlY seeing him
0, V iK >»K .K. Buc i saw, by the

^., ^ >;>,*ivu jird painful agita-

., .. V .. o ^<vd. what was pass-
.. . V - v.. a.Ki was extremely
..v..^. t -V. L.^c^ttao! it wils

not in this way he had once led
his yonng bride beneath his jocL
This was not the future he tka
took pleasure in depicting, or what
he had promised. The imiaense
change of fortune he had under-
gone was now for the first time to
be realized by the wife he had out-
raged, and from whom he did not
dare expect an affection which
would overlook all and resdef
every sacrifice light. I felt he re-
gretted now that he had consented
to my coming.

After a long drive we at last
came to the end of a street at the
extremity of the Faubourg Saint-
Germain, where we entered a small
court, and the carriage stopped be-
fore a door of very unpretendiQ^
appearance.

But the house to which it gave
access, covered on the outside wiiJi
climbing plants that concealed the
reddish tint of the walls, had a pic-
turesque appearance seldom found
in any house in Paris, large or
small. Lorenzo, with his artistk
eye, had discovered it, and under-
stood also how it should be arrang-
ed interiorly. Consequently, when
he ushered me into a sai4m opening
into a little parterre filled with
lowers, beyond which rose the
trees of an adjacent garden, which
made it seem like some rural soli-
tude; when he took me all over
the ground-floor, where everythiDg
was simple, but nothing vulgar;
when on all sides I found eviden-
ces both of his taste and his soiicv
tude for me ; above all, when 1 sat
in his cabinet and studio all the in-
dications that he had resumed his
habits of assiduous labor and senoos
study, so great a joy filled my bear:
and beamed from my eyes that Ik
could no longer feel any doubt, and
I saw the cloud that veiled ^is brof
totally disappear.

The Veil WUlidrawn.

** Is it possible ? . . . Is it true?**
said he. ^' You are satisfied, Gi-
levra ? And I can welcome your
presence without remorse ?**

I was affected to tears.

** I assure you," said I, with a sin-
:erity of accent that could not be
mistaken, *'this so-called great ca-
tastrophe has only taken away the
things I did not care for : it gives
me here all I love, and nearly every-
thing I desire."

I looked at him hesitatingly, not
yet knowing how far to go. But
bis look inspired me with courage,
and I continued, with emotion :

** Tell me, in your turn, that you
regret nothing, that my presence
suffices, and I pledge you my word,
Lorenzo, this hour will be the hap-
piest of my life."

Instead of replying directly, he
knelt down beside the little divan
where I was sitting, and I saw his
eyes beaming with the expression
that once used to flash from them
for an instant, not uncertain and
transitory as then, but calm, stable,
and profound.

**Ginevra," said he, **in assuring
you to-day that my reason has been
restored to me, that I have for ever
recovered from my detestable aber-
ration, that I again look upon you
as I did when you first effaced every
other image, that I love you as
much, yes, a thousand times more
than ever, this is not saying enough,
this is not telling you what you
'^ould perhaps listen to far more
gladly than all this."

I opened my eyes and looked
steadily towards him. He felt my
soul was trying to read his, and he
continued in a low, agitated tone :

'* You have made me love in you
what is better than yourself. lis-
ten to me. . . . Long years of in-
difference had effaced the memory
of divine things I had been taught

in my childhood. Did you think
they could ever be recalled ? I had
never felt the slightest desire. It is
you, Ginevra, who caused their re-
turn. Can you realize it ?"

O my God ! this hour was too
happy for earth ! It left me only
one wish more. It realized to the
fullest extent all the cherished
dreams of the past, and made nic
touch at last the summit (alas ! al-
ways threatening and uncertain)
of earthly happiness! No cloud
has ever obscured the bright, bless-
ed remembrance ! No suffering,
no trial, has ever checked the effu-
sion of gratitude I still feel, and
which will be eternal !

It will not be difficult to under-
stand that, in this new state of
things, our life speedily and sweetly
resumed its course. Strange to
say, this calm, simple life, exempt
from splendor, luxury, and worldly
Sc/at, was the precise realization of
the secret desire I had always cher-
ished in my soul, the signification
of which had been revealed to me
in that great day of grace which I
may call that of my /ru^ birth /

It would, therefore, have been an
absurdity to speak of sacrifice in
the situation in which I now found
myself. But Lorenzo did not yet
see things in the same light.

" I acknowledge," said he one
day, after some weeks had passed
by — "I acknowledge we lack no-
thing essential, that the waifs from
our wreck even afford us a comfort-
able support, but I wish more than
that for you, my Ginevra. I must
work for the means oC restoring all
my folly has deprived you of. The
public receives my productions with
marked favor. They have all been
sold at a fabulous price, except one
which I will never part with. Lei
me alone, therefore, and I promise
you the day shall arrive when 1

7*4

The Veil Withdrawn.

will place on your brow a diadem
cv^l more brilliant than the one
you have lost."

I made a quick gesture, and was
about to express the repugnance
such a prospect inspired. But I
stopped. It was better, no matter
in what way, he should be stimulat-
ed by some object to be attained
by the laborious efforts to which
be devoted all his faculties. I al-
lowed him, therefore, to dream of
the jewels he would adorn me with,
and enlarge on his plans for the fu-
tne, while I was sitting beside him
ia his studio^ sometimes reading to
lua^ and sometimes becoming his
■Mccl a^ain. Whenever he spoke
b :h;s way, I smiled without try-
i?^ :.^ oppose him.

Vtu'- de Kergy and Diana has-
t.'».'v! r.^ s^re me the day after my
a::;^^;. We continued to meet al-
tjK>>: daily, and I found in their de-
i ^n:fal society the strongest sup-
•tK>rt, the wisest counsels, and an
affection which inspired almost un-
unnted confidence.

As to Gilbert, he was still ab-
sent, and not expected to return
till the autumn of the following
year.

When his mother gave me this
information, my first feeling was
one of relief. It seemed to me my
reLuions with his family were sim-
phfied by his absence, and I could
deter all thought as to what I
vhouKl do at his return. But, when
I sjiw my dear, venerable friend
secretly wipe away a tear as she
i|Mke of her son ; when she added
m a trembling voice that such a
>eiuration at her age was a severe
trial which afflicted her more than
any she had ever known; when
l)una afterwards came to tell me
wiih a full heart that Gilbert's ab-
ssucc w.\s shortening her mother's
d lyn, oh ! then my heart sank with

profound sorrow, and I felt in ar-
dent, painful desire to repair tk
evil I had caused — an evil which
(whatever may be said) is never al-
together involuntary !

Ah ! if women would only con-
sider how far their fatal infloeBce
sometimes extends, even those who
add hardness of heart to their de-
sire to please would become indif-
ferent to the wish. They scarcely
hesitate sometimes to sacrifice a
man's career, his abilities, his whdc
existence. Vanity and pride take
pleasure in ravages of this kind.
But if their eyes could behold the
firesides they quench the light ol
the maternal hearts they sadden,
the families whose sweet joys they
destroy, their trophies would seem
bloody, and they might be brought
to comprehend the words of the
Psalmist which I had humfafy
learned to repeat : Ab oculiis mas
munda nuy et abcUienisparce serootM.

Lorenzo's celebrity increased by
the productions he now exhibited
to the public. The singularity of ow
position in returning to Pahs, nfi-
der circumstances so different from
those which surrounded us whc«
we made our first appearance m
the grand monde^ drew upon us the
attention of this very world which
would have enticed us from our ^^
treat. But, thank Heaven! I did
not have to exert my infloeoce
over Lorenzo to induce him to de-
cline it. His pride would hafc
been sufficient, had not his whole
time been absorbed in his labors,
and it was even with difficulty he
consented to accompany me om
evening to the Hdtel de Kergy.

From that time, however, he
willingly repeated his visits, attract-
ed by Mme. de Kergy's dignified
cordiality and simplicity of manner
as well as by the charm of the i»-
tellectual circle of which her jdN

The Veil Withdrawn.

78s

T.as the centre — a charm he would
have always appreciated had he not
been under the influence of another
attraction. Now there was no
lounteracting influence, and he
took fresh pleasure every evening
in going there to repose after the
fkdgae of the day and seek some-
tking more beneficial to his mind
Ann mere recreation.

A person endowed with noble
jifts, who returns to the right path
afcr long going astray, experiences
an immense consolation in finding
Itself in his true element. It
voald, therefore, be impossible to
ttU how great Lorenzo's joy now
vas, or how eloquently he was able
I to express it. And nothing could
tigress the feelings with which I
; Mened to him ! %

The only shadow of my life at
tfcis time was my separation from
Stella. A thousand times did I
ufgc her to join me, as she was no
bftger under any obligation to re-
main at Naples. I felt that the
«toly possible solace for her broken
heart would be to leave the place
where she had suffered so much ; her
i:ourageous soul would find a salu-
tary aliment in the great charitable
ntovcment at Paris, at that time in
aB the vigor of its first impulse,
|ivcn a few years before. I there-
fiwt continually urged her to come,
l*it I begged her in vain. An* in-
vlncihle repugnance to leave the
jdacc of refuge where she had hid-
den her grief prevented her from
yielding to my wishes.

Thus passed days, weeks, months,
yes, even a whole year and more
of happiness. The satisfactory life
i l»ad dreamed of was now a reali-
ty, and the world I once fancied
I < ould reveal to Lorenzo unaided
1><? had discovered himself. It had

been revealed to him by trials,
humiliation, and labor. The abso-
lute change in his habits, wiiich
Lando had once indicated as the
only remedy, had, as he had fore-
seen, produced a beneficial, effica-
cious, and lasting effect.

But we know one of the anoma-
lies of the human heart is to ex-
pect and long for happiness as its
right, and yet to be incapable of
possessing it a single day in its
plenitude without trembling, as if
conscious it was not in the nature
of things here below for it to en-
dure a long time.

Lorenzo experienced more than
most people this melancholy of
happiness, which was often increas-
ed by too profound a regret for the
errors of his life. It partook of the
vehemence of his character, and it
was sometimes diflftcult to over-
come the sadness awakened by the
remembrance of the past.

" Ginevra," said he one day, ** I
am far too happy for a man who
merits it so little."

He said this with a gloomy ex-
pression. It was the beginning
of spring. The air was soft, the
sky clear, the lilacs of our little
garden were in bloom, and we sat
there inhaling the perfume. He
repeated :

" Yes, my life is now too happy —
too happy, I feel, to be of long du-
ration." A remark somewhat trite,
which is often thrown like a veil
over the too excessive brightness
of earthly happiness ! But X could
not repress a shudder as I listened
to it. And yet what was there to
fear ... to desire ... to re-
fuse . . . when I felt the present
and the future were in the hands
of Him whom I loved more than
anything here below ?

VOL. XX. — 50

TO BI^OMCLUIKD .VEXT l^'OMTH.

786

A Bit of Modern Thought on Matter.

A BIT OF MODERN THOUGHT ON MATTER.

Wb have now accomplished the
first portion ofourtask^byestablbhing
OQ good philosophical and physical
grounds the fundamental truths re-
garding the essence and the proper-
ties of material substance as such.
We might, therefore, take up the se-
cond part of our treatise, and begin
our investigation about the nature of
the metaphysical constituents of mat-
ter and their necessary relations, in
order to ascertain how far the prin-
ciples of the scholastic doctrine on
matter can nowadays be maintain-
ed consistently with the principles
of natural science. But we think it
necessary, before we enter into the
study of such a difficult subject, to
caution our readers against some pro-
ductions of modern thinkers, whose
speculations on the nature of mate-
rial things confound all philosophy,
and tend by their sophistry to popu-
larize tlic most pernicious errors.
The nimiber of such productions is
daily increasing, owing to the efforts
of powerful societies, and the philo-
sophical imbecility of the scientific
press and of its patrons. The heap
of intellectual rubbisli tlitis accumu-
lated, both in Europe and in Ameri-
ca, is quite prodigious ; to sweep it
all away would be like i)urging the
Augean stable — a task which some
new Hercules may yet undertake.
We sliall contoe ourselves to a small
lX)rtion of that task, by scattering to
the winds some plausible quibbles we
have lately met with in an American
scientific magazine.

J. B. Stallo is the author of a series
of articles published in the B)pular
Scieficc Monthly under the title " The

Primary Concepts of Modem Physcal
Science." He is a clever writer; bat
his conclusions, owing to a lack of
sound philosophy, are not alwa^
correct Some of them arc altogeth-
er imfounded, others demonstrabi}
false; and many of them, while
attempting to revolutionize sdena,
tend to foster downright scepUdsB.
We shall single out a few oif those
propositions which clash with tne
common doctrines of modem physics
no less tlian with the common prin-
ciples of metaphysics ; and we hope
to show, by their refutation, the in
comparable superiority of our oU otct
his new philosophy.

Indestnuiibiliiy of nudter. — ^"Thc
indestructibility of matter," says ibc
writer, * " is an miquestionable trath.
But in what sense, and upon wlut
grounds, is this indestrucribility {He-
dicated of matter ? The unanimoos
answer of the atomists \s : Experience
teaches that all the changes to which
matter is subject are but variatioDs
of form, and that amid these vam*
tions there is an unvarying coostast
-rthe mass or quantity of matter.
The Constancy of the mass is attested
by the balance, which shows that
neither fusion nor sublimation, neither
generation nor corruprion, can aiid
to, or detract from, die weight of i
body subjected to experiment. When
a pound of carbon is burned, thebal
ance demonstrates the continuous ex
istence of this pound in the carbonic
acid, which is the product of combos-
tbn, and from which the original
>veight of carbon may be rccovotiL

* • Octflber, 1879,9. ^»^

A Bit of Modern Thought on Matter,

i%7

The quantity of matter is measured
by lis weight, and this weight is un-
chaBgeable."

So far all is right; but he con-
timies : " Such is the fact familiar to
every one, and its interpretation
equally fomiHar. To test the cor-
rectness of this interpretation we may .
be permitted slightly to vary the
method of verifying it. Instead of
baming the pound of carbon, let us
siiuply carry it to the summit of a
mountain, or remove it to a lower
latitude ; is its weight still the same ?
Relatively it is ; it will still balance
the original counterpoise. But the
absolute weight is no longer the same.
... It is thus evident that the con-
stancy, upon the observation of which
the assertion of the indestructibility
of matter is based, is simply the con-
stancy of a relation, and that the or-
dinary statement of the fact is crude
and inadequate. Indeed, while it is
true that the weight of a body is a
measure of its mass, this is but a sin-
gle case of the more general fact that
the masses of bodies are inversely as
the velocities imparted to them by
the Action of the same force, or, more
generally still, inversely as the acce-
lerations pro<luced in them by the
same force. In the case of gravity,
the forces of attraction are directly
fjfoportional to the masses, so that
the action of the forces {weighf) is
the simplest measure of the relation
between any two masses as such ;
but in any inquiry relating to the va-
IkKty of the atomic theory, it is ne-
cessary to bear in mind that this
weight is not the equivalent, or rather
the presentation, of aft absolute sub-
stantive entity in one of the bodies
(the bo<ly weighed), but the mere
expression of a relation between two
iKKlies mutually attracting each other.
And it is further necessary to remem-
ber that this weight may be indefi-
nitely reduced, without any diminu-

tion in the mass of the body weighed,
by a mere change of its position in
reference to the body between which
and the body weighed the relation
Siubsists."

The aim of the author is, as we
shall see, to prove that "there are
and can be no absolute constants of
mass"; hence he endeavors at the
very outset to shake our opposite
conviction by showing that there is
no absolute measure of masses.
Such is the drift of the passage we
have transcribed.

But we beg to remark that abso-
lute quantities may be known to be
absolute independently of any abso-
lute measurement. Three kinds of
quantity are conceivable: intensive
quantity, which is measured by de-
grees ; dimensive quantity, which is
measured by distances ; and numeri-
cal quantity, which is measured by
discrete units. Of course dimensive
quantity is altogether relative, inas-
much as it entirely consists of rela-
tions, and cannot be measured but
by relative and arbitrary measures;
but intensive quantity, though mea-
sured by arbitrary degrees, is alto-
gether absolute, because it consists
of a reality whose value is independ-
ent of correlative tenns. And in the
same manner numerical quantity is
altogether absolute, because it con-
sists of absolute units, by which it can
be measured, absolutely speaking,
though we may fail to reach sucH
units, and are then obliged to mea-
sure it by some other standard.'
Now, the mass, or the quantity of
matter in a body, is a numerical
quantity; for it consists of a number
of primitive units, independent of ,
one another for their essence and for
their existence, and therefore abso-
lute in regard to their substantial
being. Consequently, eveiry mas§ of
matter has an absolute value corre-
sponding to the number of absolute

788

A Bit of Modirn Thought on Matter.

units it contains; and thus every
mass of matter is " an absolute con-
stant of mass." It is true that we
have no means of ascertaining the
absolute number of primitive units
contained in a given mass; hence
we are constrained to measure the
quantity of matter by a relative mea-
sure — that is, by comparing it with
an equal volume of another sub-
stance, whose density and weight we
assume as the measure of other den-
sities and weights. But does our ig-
norance of the absolute number of
primitive units contained in a given
mass interfere with their real exist-
ence? or, can our method of mea-
suring change the nature of the
thing measured ?

We are told that ** the weight of a
body may be indefinitely reduced
without any diminution in the mass
of the body weighed." Would not
this show that, contrary to the au-
thor's opinion, the body weighed
possesses "an absolute constant of
mass " ? We are told at the same
time that ** the weight of a body is a
measure of its mass." This cannot
be true, unless, while the mass re-
mains unchanged, the weight also
remains unchanged. Hence the au-
thor's idea of carrying the pound of
carbon to the summit of a mountain
in order to diminish its weight, is in-
consistent with the law of measure-
ment, which forbids the employment
of two weights and measures for
measuring one and the same quan-
tity.

The atomists measure the quantity
of matter by its weight, because they
know that every particle of matter is
subject to gravitation, and therefore
that the weights, all other things be-
ing equal, are proportionate to the
number of primitive particles con-
tained in the bodies. Thus, if a
body contams a number, //r, of primi-
tive particles, and each of these par-

ticles is subject to the gravitation, ^
while another body contains a nuia-
ber, m\ of primitive particles subject
to the same gravitation, the ratio of
the weights of the two bodies will be
the same as the ratio of the tvo
masses; for

mg: m'g: : m : m ;
and if the two bodies were carried to
the summit of a mountain, where the
gravitation is reduced to jf\ the
weights would indeed be changed,
but their ratio would remain unal-
tered, and we would still have

mg : nig' : : m: ni\
Hence, whether we weigh two bod-
ies in the valley or at the sumok
of the mountain, so long as ve
keep the same unit of gravitation for
both, the ratio of their masses re-
mains the same. This shoi^-s that
the quantity of matter existing in
those bodies implies " a constant t^
mass " indepcndeftt of the intensity of
gravitation, and that the ratio of the
two masses is the ratio of two " ab-
solute " quantities — that is, of two
numbers of primitive material units.
It is not true, therefore, that the
weight is not " the presentation of an
absolute substantive entity," as the
author pretends. Weight implies
mass and gravitation, and presents
the one as subject to the other. Now,
the mass is an <' absolute scrbstantife
entity," as we have shown. Nor is
it true that weight is " the mere ex-
pression of a relation between tvo
bodies mutually attracting each other,"
as the author imagines. The pouiwi
of carbon is a pound not because of
an attraction exercised by the carboo
upon the earth, but merely because
of the attiaction exercised by the
earth on the mass of the carbon.
Were it otherwise, the mathematical
expression of weight should conuin,
besides the mass of the body weighed
and the action of gravity upon it^ a
third quantity representing the acckn

A Bit of Modern Thought on Matter.

;89

of the body upon the earth, and the
grftvitation of the earth towards the
body.

The writer proceeds : ** Masses
6nd their true and only measure in
the action of forces, and the quanti-
tative persistence of the effect of this
action is the simple and accurate ex-
pression of the fact which is ordinari-
ly described as the indestructibility
of matter. It is obvious that this
persistence is in no sense explained
or accounted for by the atomic theo-
ry •» (p. 708).

We admit that, owing to our in-
ability to determine the absolute num-
ber of primitive elements in a body,
we resort to the persistence of the
weight in order to ascertain the per-
sistence of a certain quantity of mat-
ter in the body. But this does not
show that the action of forces is the
** only measure " of masses. A mass
is a number of material units; its
true measure is one of such units ^ and
it is only in order to determine the
relative number of such units in dif-
ferent bodies that we have recourse
to their weights. It is not the quan-
tity of matter that follows the weight
of the body, but it is the weight of
the body that follows the quantity
of matter; and therefore, although
we determine the relative quantities
of matter by the relation of their
weights, it is not the weight that
measures the quantity of matter, but
it is the quantity of matter that mea-
sures the weight. In other terms,
the persistence of the mass is merely
known through the persistence of the
weight, but the persistence of the
weight is itself a consequetue of the
persistence of the mass. Hence the
persistence of the mass is perfectly
accounted for by the atomic theory,
notwithstanding Mr. Stallo*s contra-
ry assertion.

He says: "The hypothesis of
ultimate indestructible atoms is not a

necessary implication of the persist-
ence of weight, and can at best ac-
count for the indestructibility of mat-
ter if it can be shown that there is an
absolute limit to the compressibility
of matter — in other words, that there
is an absolutely least volume for
every determinate mass" (p. 708).
Both parts of this proposition 2Xft
false. The first is false, because the
weight of a body is the result of the
gravitation of all its particles; and,
therefore, it cannot persist without
the persistence of the gravitating par-
ticles. The second part also is false,
because the persistence of the weight
implies the persistence of the mass
independently of all considerations
concerning a limit of compressibility
or an absolute minimum of volume.
Hence, whatever the author may say
to the contrary, it is quite certain of
scientific certainty that there can be,
and there is, in all bodies, ** an abso-
lute constant of mass."

Atomic theory, — ^The writer objects
to the atomic theory on the ground
that it does not explain impenetrabil-
ity, and that it misconceives the nature
of reality. He begins by remarking
that "the proposition, according to
which a space occupied by one body
cannot be occupied by another, im-
plies the assumption that space is an
absolute, self-measuring entity, and
the further assumption that there is
a least space which a given body will
absolutely fill so as to exclude any
other body" (p. 709). We think
that the proposition implies nothing
of the kind. The space occupied by
one body cannot naturally be occu-
pied by another, because all bodies
are made up of molecules which at
very small distances repel one another
with actions of greater and greater
intensities, thus preventing compene-
tration, while successfully struggling
for the perservation of their own in-
dividuality. This the molecules can

790

A Bit of Modern T/tong/U on Matter.

do, whether space can be filled or
not, and whether space is a self-
measuring entity or not Hence the
remark of the author has no founda-
tion.

But he continues: "The atomic
theory has become next to valueless
as an explanation of the impenetra-
bility of matter, since it has been press-
ed into the service of the undulatory
theory of light, heat, etc., and assum-
ed the form in which it is now held
by the majority of physicists. Accord-
ing to this form of the theory, the atoms
are either mere points, wholly with-
out extension, or their dimensions
are infinitely small as compared with
the distances between them, what-
ever be the state of aggregation of
the substances into which they en-
ter. In this view, the resistance
which a body, /.^., a system of atoms,
offers to the intrusion of another
body is due not to the rigidity or
unchangeability of volume of the in-
dividual atoms, but to the relation
between the attractive and repulsive
forces with which they arc supposed,
to be endowed. There are physi-
cists holding this view, who are of
opinion that the atomic constitution
of matter is consistent with its com-
penetrability — among them M. Cau-
chy, who in his Sept Lefotis de phy^
sique gdn&ale (ed. Moigno, Paris,
1868, p. 38), after defining atoms as
material points without extension,
uses this language : * Thus, this pro-
perty of matter, which we call im-
penetrability, is explained when we
consider the atoms as material points
exerting on each other attractions
and repulsions which vary with the
distances that separate them. . . .
From this it follows that, if it pleased
the Author of nature simply to mo-
dify the laws according to which the
atoms attract or repel each other,
we might instantly see the hardest
bodies penetrate each other, tlie

smallest particles of matter ocai^
immense spaces, or the largest masses
reduce themselves to the sraallctt
volumes, the entire universe concen-
trating itself, as it were, in a sin^
point'" (p. 710).

We think tlvat the author's ncrtioo
of the form in which the atomic theo-
ry is now held by physicists is noi
quite correct. The chenaical atoais
are now considered as dynamical sj-s-
tems of material points, so that the
atomic theory is now scarcely distin-
guishable from the molecular thcoir.
That such a theory **has beconae
next to valueless as an explanatioo
of the impenetrability of matter ** i>
not tnie. Of course two primitive
elements of matter, if attractnt,
would, according to the theory, ^
we understand it, pass through ooe
another ; as nothing can opix>se tbcir
progress except repulsion, which is
not to be thought of in tlie case oT
attractive elements. But the case is
different with molecules ; for even
molecule of any special substance
contains a number of repulsive ele-
ments, and possesses a repulsive en-
velope * which resists most effectually
all attempt at compeneiration on
the part of other molecules. Hena
the impenetrability of bodies (not o\
matter^ as the author says) is a sizs-
pie result of the molecular constitB-
tion of bodies, as explahied in the
atomic theory of the modem die-
mists.

That the resistance w hich a bod;
offers to the intrusion of another
body is due ** not to the rigidity or
unchangeability of volume of indivi-
dual atoms^ but to the relarioo be-
tween the attractive and repulsive
forces with which they are supposes!
to be endowed,*' is an obvious tniih
We do not see by what kind of rea-
soning the author can infer fi-ora it

•See the EUmtmU^ Bt^UcmUt M4

A Bit of Modern Thought on Matter.

791

tfMt ^tbe atomic theory has bc-
: next to valueless as an expla-
of impenetrability/* We ra-
• maintain that the theory is cor-
, and that no other theory has yet
been found which explains impene-
•eatnlity without assuming much that
^Mosophy condemns. As to M.
i^jSMchy's views, we remark that,
prhen he defines atoms as " material
join ts without extension/' he does
.itfot speak of the chemical atoms, or
^Ifurvalents, but of the primitive ele-
^flKients of which such atoms or equi-
«ftlents are composed.

The author says: "The assump-
•^fam of atoms of different specific gra-
oitics proves to be not OQily futile,
^«it absurd. Its manifest theoretical
jHMq>titude is found to mask the most
^4^1 inconsistencies. According to
fiut mechanical conception which
mderlies the whole atomic hypothe-
m, differences of weight are differ-
eiices of density ; and differences of
density are differences of distance
between the particles contained in a
l^en space. Now, in the atom there
is no muhiplicity of particles and no
tr0id space ; hence differences of den-
fily or weight are impossible in the
^ase of atoms'* (p. 715).

This conclusion would be quite
inevitable, if it were true that the
atom of the chemists contains no
nmltiplicity of particles and no void
space ; but the truth is that chemical
atoms are nothing but equivalents^ or
fti^eules — that is, dynamical systems
of material points intercepting void
^Kice. Hence the author's argu-
naent has no foundation. The very
fact that men of science unanimous-
ly agree in attributing to different
atoms a different weight, should have
warned Mr. Stallo that the word
•* atom " could not be considered by
them as a simple material point.

l^e author in his second article
(November, 1873) argues against

the actio in Ustans, We have given
his words in one of our own articles,
where we undertook to show that
actio in distans cannot be impugned
with any good argument.* The au-
thor, however, we are glad to sec,
honestly acknowledges that " the
transfer of motion from one body to
another by impact is no less incom-
prehensible than the actio in distans "
(p. 96) ; which shows that, after hav-
ing rejected the action at a distance,
he is at a loss how to accoimt for
any communication or propagation
of movement. A little later he
quotes a passage of Faraday, which
we have given in another place, and
in whicli the English professor con-
siders the atoms as consisting of a
mere splicrc of power, with a central
point having no dimensions. Then
he gives his own view of the subject
in the following words :

" The true root of all these errors
is a total misconception of the na-
ture of reality. All tlie reality we
know is not only spatially finite, but
funited in all its aspects; its whole
existence lies in relation and con-
trast, as I shall show more at lengtli
in the next article. We know no-
thing of force, except by its contrast
with mass, or (what is the same
thing) inertia; and conversely, as I
have already pointed out in my first
article, we know nothing of mass ex-
cept by its relation to force. Mass,
inertia (or, as it is sometimes, though
inaccurately, called^ matter per se),
is indistinguishable from absolute
nothingness; for matter reveals its
presence, or evinces its reality, only
by its action, its force, its tension, or
motion. But, on the other hand,
mere force is equally nothing ; for, if
we reduce the mass upon which a
given force, however small, acts, un-
til it vanishes — or, mathematically

• Tub Cathouc Wosld^ October, 1874, p, u

792

A Bit of Modem thought on MatUr.

expressed, untS it becomes infinitely
small — the consequence is that the
velocity of the resulting motion is in-
^tely great, and that the < thing'
(if under these circumstances a thing
can still be spoken of ) is at any giv-
en moment peither here nor there,
but everywhere — that is, there is
DO real presence. It is impossible,
therefore, to construct matter by a
mere synthesis of forces. . . . The
true formula of matter is mass x
force, or inertia x force" (p. 103).

The author is greatly mistaken in
assuming that those who consider
the atoms (primidve elements) as
centres of force totally misconceive
the nature of reality. That Faraday,
notwithstanding his saying that " the
substance consists of the powers,"
admits with the power the matter
also, is evident from his very men-
lion of the centre of the powers ; for
such a centre is nothing else than
ihe matter, as we have proved above.
He says, indeed, that the nucleus of
iJie atom " vanishes " ; but by " nu-
cleus " he means the bulk or the
conUQuous material extension of the
atom. This bulk, says he, must van-
ish, inasmuch as the centre of the
powers must be a mere unextended
point He therefore denies, not the
matter, but only its intrinsic exten-
sion.

Mr. Stallo volunteers to show us
^the true root" of all our errors.
According to him, we totally mis-
conceive the nature of reaHty. "All
the reality we know," he says, "is
not only spatially finite, but limited
in all its aspects." About this we
will not quarrel, for we admit that
all created substances are limited;
yet we would ask the author whe*
iher he thinks that the range of uni-
versal attraction has any known li-
mit in sjvice ; and, if so, we would
further ask where it is; for we ad-
mit our full ignorance of its exist-

ence. « We know nothing of foro*^"
he continues, "exoq>t by its contrast
with mass, or, what is the sametlsflg,
inertia." Our readers know Hut
mass and inertia are not the ssk
thing; the mass is a quantity of
matter, while inertia is the incaps-
bility of self-motion. A writer wbo
can confound the two as identical k
not competent to correct oar ermt
and to teach us the natiure of reaHty.
As to the contrast of force widi
mass, we have no objection; yd
while speaking of the nature of
things, we would prefer to contrast
matter with form rather than fcicc
with mass. The term force applies
to the production of phenomcBa.
and is usually confounded with ic
tion and with movement, neither rf
which is a constituent of substancr;
whilst the term mass expresses any
quantity of matter from a single cle-
ment up to a mountain ; and this it
does not exhibit with predsicn the
matter due to the primitive material
substance.

" Mass, or matter per se^ is indis-
tinguishable from absolute nothing-
ness." Of course, matter per st^
that is, without form— cannot aist
In the same manner " mere force is
equally nothing" — that is, thenlat^
rial form, which is the principle of
acdon, has no separate exis^sce
without its matter. This every ooc
admits, though not on the grotuNls
suggested by Mr. Stalla "If w
reduce," sajrs he, "the mass upon
which a given force, however soaal
acts, until it vanishes— or, matlK-
matically expressed, until it becomes
infinitely small — the consequence is
that the velocity of the resulting od-
lion is infinitely great" Wc deny
this consequence, as well as the sop-
posidon firom which it is inferred.
Masses are numbers of material ek-
ments, or units. When such units
are reached, the division is at as

A Bii af Modern Thought on Matter.

79i

Hid,- .because those primitive units
^nt-withQut dimensions. Hence the
limit of the reduction of
is not an infinitesimal quan-
iQFsof mass, as the author imagines,
>«fc aipi absolute finite unit; for this
aii^ mhcn repeated a finite number
)i tHKies, gives us a finite quantity of
wta^ But, even supposing that the
k^rVMh^is of the author might be
JHcila incd (and it must be enter-
lipcfl by all those who consider
giatter as materially continuous), his
HHMequence would sfill be false.
Poi^let there be a continuous atom
iutracig finite dimensions. If such
m atom is acted on, say by gravity,
it viU acquire a fmite velocity. Now,
it is evident that, when the atom has
a fiaite velocity, every infinitesimal
portion of it will have a finite velo-
city* Therefore tlie action which
produces a finite velocity in the fi-
nite mass of the atom, produces a
finite velocity in the infinitesimal
masses of which the atom is assum-
ed to consist. The error of the au-
thor arises from his confounding
quantity of movement with action. A
quantity of movement is a product
of a mass into its velocity; and evi-
dently the product cannot remain
constant, unless the velocity increas-
es in the same ratio as the mass de-
creases. The action, on the con-
trary, is directly proportional to the
mass ; and therefore, in the author's
hypothesis, the consequence should
have been the very opposite of that
which he enounces; that is, the
velocity acquired by an infinitesimal
mass would still be finite instead of
infinitely great But, as we have
said, the hypothesis itself is inadmis-
sible, because only continuous quan-
tity can be reduced to infinitesimals,
whilst masses are not continuous but
discrete quantities.

That it is impossible "to con-
struct matter by a mere synthesis

of forces " is undeniable ; but there
was no need of arguing a point which
no one contests. The author should
rather have given us his ground for
asserting that '^ the true formula of
matter is viass multiplied by force.^'
This assertion can by no means be
made good. All physicists know
that mass multiplied by force repre-
sents nothing but a quantity of move-
ment ; and the author will not pre-
tend, we presume, that matter is a
quantity of movement. The true
formula of matter is its essential
definition ; and it is not a mathemati-
cal but a metaphysical product, or
rather a metaphysical ratio, as we
have shown in another place. Ma-
terial substance is matter actuated by
its substantial fon/f^ and nothing
else.

The author continues thus : ** We
now have before us in full view one
of the fundamental fallacies of the
atomic theory. This fallacy, con-
sists in the delusion that the concep-
tual constituents of matter can be
grasped as separate and real entities.
The corpuscular atomists take the
element of inertia, and treat it as
real by itself; while Boscovich, Fara-
day, and all those who define atoms
as centres offeree^ seek to realize the
corresponding element, force, as an
entity by itself. In both cases ele-
ments of reality are mistaken for
kinds of reality " (p. 103).

It is rather singular that a man
who is so little at home in questions
about matter should undertake to
point out the fallacies and delusions
of the best informed. Is it true that
Boscovich, Faraday, and others of
the same school, consider force as an
entity by itself? And is it true that
the corpuscular atomists treat tiie ele-
ment of inertia as real by itself?
There is much to be said against
corpuscular atomists for other rea-
sons, but they cannot surely be ac-

T9i

A BU of Modem Tkou^on Mattir.

ciised af maintaining that the element
of inertia — that is, the mass of the
atom — can exist separately wkhout
any inherent power, as they imi-
formly teach that their atoms ase
endowed with resisting powers. Tbe
accusation brouglit against Bosco-
vich» Faraday, and others, is still
more glaringly unjust. They do not
seek to realize force '*as an entity
by itself"; on the contrary, wlien
they ^fine the atoms as centres of
force, they manilestly teach that both
the force and its centre are indispensa-
ble for the constitution of a primitive
atom. And, since by the word forte
they mean the principle of activity
(the form), and in the centre they
recognize the principle of passivity
(the matter), we cannot but conclude
that the accusation has no ground,
and that the fallacy and the delu-
sion is on the side of Mr. Stallo him-
seK.

Moreover, is it true that mass and
fo9C€y or, to speak more accurately,
the matter and the form, are nothing
more Uian " the conceptual constitu-
ents " of material substance ? This
the author assumes as the base oi his
argumentation ; yet it is plain that, if
the constituents of a thing are only
conceptual, the thing they constitute
cannot be anything else than a con^
ceptual being — that is, a being of
reason. We must therefore either
deny the reality of matter or concede
that its constituents are more than
conceptual. Could not the author
perceive that, if mass is a mere con-
cept, and force another mere conce]:)t,
their alliance gives nothing but two
concepts, and that the reality of the
external world becomes, a dream ?

We live in times when men of a
certain class presume to discuss me-
taphysical subjects without previous
study and without a sufficient ac-
quaintance with the first notimw of
metaphysics. One of these first no-

tions is Uiat all real being lias lal
constituents. Such coostitBeoli.
when known to us, are th« object of
our OMKreptions, and cooseqiesilj
they may become conceptuil; k
they do not cease to be real odside
of oiu" mind. Were we to coDcew
matter as separated from itsfonB^or
form as deprived of its matter, lo-
thing real would corrcspood to on
ccMioeptioa ; for nowhene can rti"
matter be found without a fora^flfi
real form without its matter. Hew
form without matter and msttervl^
out form are at best beings of wsot
But when we conceive the maltff »
it is under its form, or thcfocaci'
is terminated to its matter, it crt
dendy conceive the real coostiiDOS
of material substance as thcjr arec
i[iature— that is, as metaphyseal m
ties contained in the physical beet
Does it follow that "ckfflefiBfl
reality," as the author objca5,''a'c
mistaken for kinds of reality'? ^
no means. The constitucnu of lAf
sical reality are themselves inctiFb^
sical realities, but they arc uot enc*-
ly two kinds of reality, beoose tja
belong both to the same t^*
which cannot be of two kinds. Hew
the miitter and the substantial wx
or, in general, act and poteocr.Bt*
-withstanding their real mcupbj*:^
opposition and distinction, ait &
essence, one kind, and one »"*
But let us go back to our aothct

In his third article {XkffH^
1873) he sa>'s: •*The orcyaafy*
chanical explanation of the oofcca-
states of matter, or states of aggrt?^
tion, on the basis of the alomictiw^
proceeds on the assumption tbn i'
molecular suites are produced b) t*
conflict of antagonistic central i^
— molecular attraction and repu^
— the preponderance of the o^^ *
the other of which gives rise «>^
solid and gaseous forms, whik ^^^
balance or equilibrium results »'"

A Bit of Modern Thetigki ott Mutter.

7f5

ligatd, state. The utter futility of
Explanation is apparent at a
g. Even waiving the consid-
,iis presented by Herbert Spen-
f'j^Err/ PrincipUsy p. 60 et seq.),
l^Ta view of the necessary varia-
irof the attractive and repulsive
,,jifi in the inverse ratio of the
MflOf^s of the distances, the constitu -
s|k JAoms of a body, if they are m
^nSftru? at any particular distance,
pHHi'be equally iu equiiibrio at all
distances, and that their density
l&te, therefore, must be invaria-
\ Md admitting that the increase
iBminution of the repulsive force,
{ may render the preponderance
if ^Aer force, and thus the change
f ifcosity or state of aggregation,
ttOlUe, what becomes of the liquid
as corresponding to the exact
of these two forces in the
ice of external coercion ? The
hoct balance of the two opposing
(wees is a mere mathematical limit,
riuch must be passed with the slight-
est preponderance of either force over
tiie other. All bodies being subject
to continual changes of temperature,
the equilibrium can at best be but
Inoracntary; it must of necessity be
of the most labile kind" (p. 223).

This argument against the atomic
theory would be very good, if its
[weraiscs were not deceptive. Mr.
Stallo, unfortunately, relies too much
on the terminology of physical writers,
wluch is not always correct. Thus,
it is not true that the soVid form is
the result of an actual preponderance
of attraction between the molecules.
If attraction prevailed, the molecules
would not remain in their relative
|>osition, but would move in the
direction of the attraction. Tbe
truth is that molecules, whether in
tiic solid or in the liquid form, are
HI equilibrium of position; accord.
i»giy, neither attraction nor repul-
sion actually prevails between them.

Their position of equilibriwais deter-
mined by their own constitution^ and
may change; for the molecules ad-
mit of accidental clianges in their
constitution. Hence the distance cd
relative equilibrium is not necessarily
constant, but changes wiili tlie
change of state of each molecuk.
This shows that bojdies, whether
solid or liquid, can retain their solid
or liquid form while subjected to con-
siderable molecular changes, and that
therefore neither the solid nor the
liquid form is necessarily impaired by
"the changes of temperature" or
other molecular movements. The
molecules of bodies attract eacli other
when their distance is great, and
repel each other when their distance
has become very small ; whence we
immediately infer tliat there is for
every kind of molecules a distance
which marks the limit of their mutual
attraction and repulsion, and that at
such a distance the molecules must
find their position of equilibiium. A
body will be solid when, its mole-
cules being in the position of relative
equilibrium, from a small increase of
their distance an attraction arises,
which does not allow of the mole-
cules being easily separated or ar-
ranged in a different order around
one another. A body will be liquid
when, its molecules being in the
position of relative equilibrium, from
a small increase of their distance a
weak attraction arises, which allows
of the molecules being easily separat-
ed or easily arranged, without sepa-
ration, in a different manner around
one another. A body will be expan-
sive and fluid when its free molecules
are at a distance sensibly less thaa
that of relative equilibrium, and
therefore repel each other, and are
in need of exterioi; pressure to be
kept at such a. distance. But we
must not forget that the distance of
relative equilibrium varies with the

796

A Bii of Modern Thatight on Matter.

intrinsic dynamical variation of the
molecules, and that therefore <'the
exact balance of the two opposing
forces is not a mefe mathematical
limit," but is comprised between two
mathematical limits determined by
the amount of the variations of which
each species of molecules is suscep-
tible before settling into a different
form.

Having thus disposed of the main
argument by which the author wish-
ed to show " tlie utter futility " of
the ordinary mechanical explanation
of the molecular states of matter on
the basis of the atomic theory, we
may add a few words concerning
Herbert Spencer's argument alluded
to by the author. The law of actions
inversely proportional to the squares
of the distances is true for each
primitive element of matter, but it b
not applicable to molecules acting at
molecular distances, as we have prov-
ed in another place. * Hence Spen-
cer's argument, which assumes the
contrary, is entirely worthless. On
the other hand, were the argument
admissible, we do not see how the
proposition, " The constituent atoms
of a body, if they are in equilibrio at
any particular distance, must be
equally /// equilibria at all other dis-
tances," can justify the conclusion
that " their density or state must be
invariable." It seems to us that a
change of molecular distances must
entail a change of density; but, of
course, we are behind our age.

Relativity of material tealities. —
"It has been a favorite tenet, not
only of metaphysicians, but of phy-
sicists as well, that reality is cog-
nizable only as absolute, permanent,
and invariable, or, as the metaphysi-
cians of the XVIth and XVIIth cen-

• The Catholic World for September, 1874,
p. 729. Mr. Stailo might also sec the EUmentt^ 0/
MMtcular Mechanics^ bo(^ vi., 00 the coDttittt*
cioo of molecules.

turies expressed it, sub sptoe t^km
et abrolutL This proposition," ^r.
Stallo continues, ** like so miDv otbcj^
which have served as pillars of im
posing metaphysical structures, is tv.
precise opposite of the tnilh" \y
223). Do you understand, readw
Metaphysicians and physicists oi :i
centuries count for nothing; tiif
were blind, every one of them; Iw:*
great luminary has appeared at Ur.
a Mr. J, B. Stallo, whose sipcnc
wisdom, if not philosophical in^
bility, opens a new era of \)mp
and dispels the darkness whici U^
been thickening around us up to i- :
present day. Yet even the sun U
spots; and Mr. Stallo will permit ia
to remark that his statement of tr.:
metaphysical doctrine of the anc-c;-
is not altogether correct They Jj
not teach ** that reality is cognizik
only as absolute, pemoanent, ii"
invariable"; they well knew a'^l
taught that there were realities ta;
nizable, both relative and changcai.^
Substance, of course, was conadcr^i
by them, and it is still conaderedl*'
us, as an absolute reality ; but ;bev
never imagined that the essctKt C
such a reality was cognizable ticq^
through its constituent principles -
related to one another, and iherer^-"
through an intelligible relation. T^''
relation, as intelligible, was const':'
ed necessary and invariable, Utf,^
an actual reality in nature, trs ccv
sidered contingent and changealK
the intelligible essence of things r.-
known sub specie atemiy but tk?
existence was known jir^j^offiwti
gentis. Now, on what ground cor
Mr. Stallo impugn this doctnu?'
How does he prove that it is **tV
precise opposite of truth"? A>
we should be exceedingly sun;
were we to expect proofs. Progrr
consists nowadays of stout assert r-
on the part of the writer, and erf ■
silly credulity on that of raostrwdci

A Bit «f Modern Thought on Matter.

797

leoce our author, instead of proving
iiai lie had rashly asserted, gives us
btrain of other assertions equally
s\\ and ridiculously absurd.
He says : " All material reality is,
u Its nature, not absolute, but es-
ntially relative. All material rcali-
depends upon determination ; and
'termination is essentially limitation,
even Spmoza well knew. A thing
ti and by itself is an impossibility "
W) Spinoza! a great authority
deed ! But we should like to know
>w the proposition, " Determination
essentially limitation," can lead to
e conclusion that " a thing in itself
td by itself is an impossibility." To
ake a logical connection between
c two propositions, it would be
'tessary to assume that ''nothing
jfie can be in itself and by itself."
It the assumption is so foolish that
en Spinoza, who based on it his
vulting system of Pantheism, could
ver support it except by a false
Aniiion of substance, and by giving
the phrases ** in itself" and *' by
clf " an extravagant interpretation,
tiich proved, if not his malice and
ul faith, at least his profound philo-
phical ignorance. Let Mr. Stallo
iisult any good philosophical trea-
c on this subject, and he will see
>w stolid a man must be to fall a
I lira to the gross sophistry of the
wish dogmatizer.

What shall we say of the other as-
ttion, "All material reality is, in its
iture, not absolute, but essentially
lative " ? Can anything be relative
thout at the same time being abso-
te / Can relation exist without
o absolute terms ? Relativity con.
wxs one absolute *thing with an-
her; the things thus connected
<iuirc a relative mode of being, but
cy do not for that lose their abso-
:c being. Thus Mr. Stallo may be
\ American citizen without ceasing
• be a man, though he cannot be a

citizen without being endued with a
relation not involved in his nature aa
man. So, also, husband and wife
are essentially relative; yet we hope
the author will not say that the rela-
tive Husband annihilates the absolute
Maiiy or that the relative Wife ex-
cludes the absolute Woman.

These remarks ai)ply to all rela-
tions, whether merely accidental or
founded in the essence of things.
Pantheists imagine that creatures
cannot have any absolute being, be-
cause their being is essentiaUy depen-
dent, and therefore relative. They
should consider that a creature is a
created being — that is, a being related
to its Creator. Such a creature, in-
asmuch as it is a being, is ; and inas-
much as it is related, cofinotes its Ma-
ker. Now, to be and to connote
are not identical. The first means
existence^ the second dependetue ;
the first is perfectly complete in the
creature itself, tl:e second is incom-
plete without a correlative term ; and
therefore the creature is in possession
of absolute being, while it is endued
with an essential relativity. Take
away the absolute being; nothing
will remain of which any relativity
may be predicated.

Perhaps the author, when pro-
nouncing that " all material reality
is in its nature essentially relative,"
alludes to the essential constitution
of material realities, and to the es-
sential relation of matter and form.
If such is his meaning, the utmost he
can claim is tliat the reality of the
form is essentially connected with tlie
matter, and the reality of the matter
•essentially connected with the form.
This every one will concede ; but no
one will infer that therefore the reali-
ty which results from the conspira-
lion of matter and form is not an
absolute reality. For as ilie matter
and the form are the principles of one
essence, and as their mutual relativity

79*

A Bit of Modern Thonght on Matter.

connotes nothing extrinsic to the
same essence, but finds in it its ade-
quate consummation, it is e\ident
that the resulting reality is intrinsical-
ly complete, and subsistent in its in-
dividuality. Hence this resulting
reality is an absolute reality ; and only
as such can it become the subject of
relativity, and acquire the denomina-
tion of relative.

Our author, entirely taken up by
Spinoza's views, proceeds in the fol-
lowing strain : " All quality is rela-
tion ; all action is reaction ; all force
is antagonism ; all measure is a ratio
between terms neither of which is
absolute ; every objectively real thing
is a term in numberless series of mu-
tual implications, and its reality out-
side of these series is utterly incon-
ceivable. A material entity, absolute
in any of its aspects, would be noth-
ing less than a finite infinitude. There
is no absolute material quality, no
absolute material substance, no abso-
lute physical unit, no absolutely sim-
ple physical entity, no absolute con-
stant, no absolute standard either of
quantity or quality, no absolute mo-
tion, no absolute rest, no absolute
lime, no absolute space. . . . There
is and can be no physical real thing
which is absolutely simple" (p. 225).

This string of blunders needs no
refutation, as no reader who has a
modicum of common sense can be
deceived by what is evidently false.
Yet, as to the assertion that " there
is and can be no physical real thing
which is absolutely simple," it must
be observed that there are two kinds
of simplicity, as there are two kinds
of composition. A being is physical-
ly simple when it is free from physi-
cal composition; whilst it is meta-
physically simple, if it has no meta-
physical components. Now, God
alone is free from metaphysical as
well as physical composition; and
therefore God alone is absolutely sim-

ple. Hence, created beings, TJioi|h
physically simple, are always mm-
physically compound.

What follows is a curious spea-
men of Mr. Stallo's philosophical rt
sources. He says : " Leibnitz [teet
at the head of his Monadologf tk
principle that there must be shi^
substances, because there are con-
pound substances. Necesse esf^ he siys,
dari substantias simpVues^ qtda daxtsr
compositcz^ This enthymcrae^ tboi^
it has been long since exploded in
metaphysics, is still regarded by roanr
physicists as proof of the real enst
ence of absolutely simple constinh
ents of matter. Nevertheless, k r;
obvious that it is nothing but a r,
cious paralogism— a fallacy of ifcc
class known in logic as falladesoi
the suppressed relative. ITie exbtem*
of a compound substance certainlj
proves the existence of compoDcni
parts, which, relatively tg this sub
statue^ are simple. But it proves
nothing whatever as to the simpbdtj
of these parts in themselves*' (v
226).

Our reader will ask wben aU'i
how Leibnitz* enthyraeme has been
" exploded.'* We shall inform to
that it has not l>een expkxW.
though the attempt has often been
made ; because in the whole aiscnil
of metaphysics no powder cooM be
found that would produce the explo-
sion. The enthymeme, therefore, ii
as good and unanswerable now :^
it was in Leibnitz* time; and it w^*
be as good and unanswerable hcr^
after, notwithstanding Mr. Staflo*
eflforts against it. He sajrs that " 't
is nothing but a vicious paralogism*';
but he himself, while endeavoring to
prove this latter assertion, resorts u^
a paralogism {vicious^ of course) whvli
we may call *' fallacy of the 53|»
pressed absolute." The existence <i
a compound proves the existence (S
its component parts, as the atrtbor

A Bk pf Modem Tliau^ ou fit^ter.

799

tsiti^ These jparts are either com*
iin^ or simple. If sioapLe, then
K are simple substances. If com-
Pl^d^ then they have components ;
A ttese parts are again eitlier com-
iPHii or simple. We roust there-
|R «ilber admit simple substances,
^itttMnue our analysis by further
UBlpbions of the compound sub-
ilMQ without any chance of ever
ftSfig to an end. But if the analy-
ftasnot come to an end, the corn-
has no first components; and
it will be false that "the ex-
of a compound substance
the existence of the compo-
pMt parts." The fallacy of the au-
m consists in stopping his analysis
I the compound before he has
Khcd the first components. If
b parts he has reached are still
pipound substances, why does he
9t eaamine their composition and
oint out their components? For
» other reason, we presume, than
vat he did not wish to meet with an
hffkUe substantial unit, which he
«s sure to find at the end of the
locess. His argument is therefore
oUung but a despicable fraud.
In his fourth article (January,
874) Mr. Stallo remarks that " the
scent doctrine of the correlation
Dd mutual convertibility of the phy-
ical forces, as a part of the theory
f the conservation of energy, has
Kaken, if not destroyed, the concep-
ioii of a multiplicity of independent
riginal forces " (p. 350). Of course,
hae are men whose convictions can
k: sliaken, or even destroyed, by the
ophistic generalizations of the mo-
tern school ; but there are men also
vhose convictions rest on too solid a
jTound to be destroyed or sluken;
^nd these latter have ere now chal-
cnged the abettors of the " recent
loctrine " to clear up their case with
^mething like logical precision — a
^hing which modem thinkers must

have found impossible, since r^ef
have constandy ignored the challenge.
We have proved elsewhere* that
" the mutual convertibility of physi-
cal forces/' as understood by the
champions of the theory, confounds
movement with action and the ef-
fects witli their causes. The facts
on which the theory is based are
true; but the theory itself is false,
for it attributes to the powers by
which the phenomena are produced
what exclusively belongs to " the phe-
nomena, besides deforming the nature
of the phenomena tliemselves by
denying the production and extinc-
tion of movement. It is plain that
such a theory can have no weight in
philosophy; and it is no less plain
that no philosopher will, for the sake
of the new theory, renounce his firm
conviction concerning ** the multipli-
city of independent original forces. "

*' I have endeavored, " says the au-
thor, ** to show that there are no ab-
solute constants of mass; that both
the hypothesis of corpuscular atoms
and that of centres of forces are
growths of a confusion of the intellect,
which mistakes comeptual elements of
matter for real elements ; tliat these
elements — force and mass, or force
and inertia*-are not only inseparable,
as is conceded by the more thoughtful
among modern physicists, but that .
neidier of these elements has any re-
ality as such, each of them being sim-
ply the conceptual correlate of the
other, and thus the condition both of
its realization in thought and of its
objectivation to sense " (p. 350).

As we have already discussed all
the points which the author vainly
endeavored to establish, we shall only
remind the reader that the matter and
the form have no separate existence ;
and therefore have no reality in na-
ture, unless they are together. The

•See Tm« Catnouc World, March, 1874, pw
757. AJ99, August, X874, p. 644 «tMq.

800

A BU of Madtrn Thoffght on Maii^r.

author, tho-efore, is right when affirm^
ing that neither of them has any real-
ity as such ; but he is wrong in infer*
nog that ihey have no reality tts uftit"
rd. As action has no reality without
passion, nor passion without action,
so also matter has no reality without
lorm. cor form without matter ; but
as action producing passion is real, so
al^ is a form actuating matter ; and
as passion is no less real than the
action whence it proceeds, so mat-
ter also is no less real than the
tonu by which it is actuated. Both
anr, ot coaise» only metaphysical
real' ties.

Tnc author says; *' The mathema-
tical treatment of mechanical prob-
L-:ns, tVom the nature of the methods,
necessitates the fiction that force and
niab:> are separate and distinct terms "
(p. 351). By no means. It is not
liie nature of the methods, but tlie
luiiure of the tilings that compels the
ili^iiDciion of the two terms. Their dis-
imciion, therefore, is not a " fiction."
Dut the author's remark has no bear-
ing on the question of tlie constitution
of matter ; for mechanical forces are
not substantial forms.

He adds : *" A material object is in
every one of its aspects but one term
of a relation; its whole being is a
presupposition of correlates without
. . . Every change of a body,
therefore, presupposes a correspond-
ing change in its correbtes. If the
state of any material object could
be clianged witliout a corresponding
change of state in other objects with-
out, this object would, to that extent,
liecome absolute. But this is utter-
ly unthinkable, and therefore utterly
mijKissible, as we have already seen.
, . . Mechanically speaking, all
force, projx^riy so-called — 1>., all po-
tential energy — is energy of position.
, , , \V*iuaie>*cr energy is spent in
actual motion is gained in posidon ;
. • , thus we are led to the prin-

ciple of the conseiration ^ tnetgr '"

(P- 351)-
This is a heap of absurdities. Hi

material object is the term of a fda-
tion, it is absolute in itself, as we bare
shown. Again, the change of a txx^
presupposes only the exertioo of ac-
tive power, and not the change of an-
other body, as the author ixnagUKSL
That the absolute is uDthiokabie be
has failed to prove. Lastly, medu-
nical force, properly so-called, is ik
product of a mass into its Tdodtr,
whilst " energy of position " is 1
myth,*

But the author says : " Force b 3
mere inference from the motion itsefa
under the universal conditions <^ r^
ality, and its measure, therefore, is
simply the effect for which it isposa
lated as a cause ; it has no other e|
istence. The only reality of ktct
and of its action is the correspondcDcc
between the physical phenomena in
conformity to the principle of the es-
sential relativity of all material «»si-
ence. That force has no indcpco-
dent reality is so plain and obrioo^
that it has been proposed by some
thinkers to abolish thetenn>w,li<-*
the term cause^ altogether. Ho»
ever desirable this might be in sooi^
respects, it is impossible, for the rea-
son that the concept >&f^, whenr*^
perly interpreted in terms of cxpen
ence, is valid ; and, if its name «rc
abolished, it would instantly Kip*
pear under another name. .
The reality of force is purely coDccp-
tual ; ... it is not a distinct ami i^
dividual tangible or intangible cnii

ty"(p. 354).

Here the author treats us to a I»
ury of contradictions. Force is **-
mere inference from motion, " yc^ "
causes motion ; for it is active. Hc«*
the causality is a mere inference oi
its efiect. It is therefore the eftct

•See Thb Catholic Woblo, }Uv^*>^^

A Bit of Modern Thought on Matter.

8oi

that gives existence to its cause, and
the cause " has no other existence "
than that which may be imbibed in
the effect for which it is postulated.
What, then, becomes of the " force,
properly so-called" — ^that is, of
ihe potential energy, or of the en-
ergy of position, which has no actual
effect ? Again, ** the reality of force,
is purely conceptual" This means
ihat the reality of force is unreal;
(vhich would just amount to saying
hat Mr. Stallo's intellect is unintelli-
gent or that his writings are unwritten.
\gain, the " reality of force and of its
iction is the correspondence between
be physical phenomena"; but, if the
eality of force is merely conceptual,
he correspondence between the phy-
ical phenomena must be merely con-

Ktual; which would prove that the
ccpt " force, " when properly in-
srpreted in terms of experience, is
oi valid, though the author main-
lins the contrary. Moreover, what
ttx the author mean by " the action
f force " ? Is this action real or un-
^1? If unreal, it is no action at
i ; and if real, it implies a real ac-
ve i)ower. We defy Mr. Stallo to
wceive a real action of an unreal
rce. We are informed that ** some
inkers " wish to abolish the term
force," like the term ** cause," and
e are told that this proves how plain
id obvious it is that force has no in-
^J>endcnt reality. This, however.

proves only that some so-called
" thinkers " are either lunatics or
knaves. After all, if force is prn-ely
conceptual, as the author pretends,
its reality must be denied without any
restriction. Why, then, does he deny
merely that force has an " indepen-
dent " reality ? Has it any *• depen-
dent " reality if it is "purely concep-
tual " ?

But we must come to an end.
Mr. Stallo*s conclusion is that " the
very conception of force depends
upon the relation between two terms
at least," and that therefore " a con-
stant central force, as belonging to an
individual atom in and by itself, is
an impossibility" (p. 355). In this
argument the term "force" is used
equivocally. It stands for active povh
er in the consequence, while it stands
for action or for movement in the an-
tecedent Hence the conclusion is
worthless. " I have shown," says he,
" that there are and can be no abso-
lute constants of mass. And it is evi-
dent now that there are simflarly no
constant central forces belonging to,
or inherent in, constants of mass as
such " (p. 356). We say in our turn :
No, Mr. Stallo, you have not shown
what you imagine ; and* if anything
is evident, it is not that there are no
constant central forces, but that phi-
losophical questions cannot be solved
without good logic and a clear know*
ledge of metaphysical principles.

VOL. XX.— 51

802

The Blind Student.

THE BLIND STUDENT.

When Emest D'Arcy left the Uni-
versity of , all the glorious possi-
bilities of life seemed to unfold them-
selves invitingly before him. He
was young, he was clever, he was
ambitious. Unlike too many Ameri-
can students, he had not wasted the
golden hours of college life in idle-
ness, dissipation, or even social en-
joyment. He had been a hard, in-
deed, an enthusiastic, student; but on
commencement day, when his brow
was bound with victorious wreaths,
he felt rewarded for having scorned
the seductive pleasures of youth, and
rejoiced that he had lived laborious
days and nights.

But D'Arcy did not consider his
education finished because he had
passed through the university brilliant-
ly. He well knew that the college
was only the vestibule to the temple
of learning. Through this vestibule
he had passed ; and now he wished
to enter the noble temple itselC But
on its very threshold he found him-
self suddenly stopped. A dangerous
disease attacked his eyes. The most
eminent oculists were consulted at
once ; absolute rest alone could save
him from total blindness. He was
forbidden to read or write a line.
This was indeed a terrible blow to
the ambitious young student His
golden hopes left him; his sweet
dream of fame faded away ; his bright
career was blighted in the very bud.
Unsustained by the holy influence of
religion, a deep and dangerous de-
spondency seized him ; he abandoned
himself to despair, and could not
follow the advice of Burke, " De-
spair, but work even in despair,"

for the affliction that caused his d«
spair prevented him from woridcg
So depressed was he at times iha
he contemplated suicide as a happ)
relief.

The D'Arcy family were of Xor
man origin. The grandfather erf
Ernest escaped from France in Hsi
early days of the Revolution, brirj
ing with him to the United State
the fortune that had descended to
him through a long line of ancestors
Like so many French gentlemen of
the last century, M. D'Arcy had iy-
bibed the fashionable soeptidsin d
the time of Voltaire and the Ency-
clopaedists. After coming to Ameri-
ca, he married a Catholic lady, acd
his scepticism gradually settled into
a form of mild indiflerentism. Erocsfi
father was a devoted Catholic, b«
he died while his children were il
their infancy. His wife wis a P*
testant, a woman of fashion, who*
highest ambition was to be a leadi
of society. Her children, Enm
and his sister Mary, were broaglj
up from their infancy on the Chcs»
fieldian model: to shine in wa<
To this end everything dse «
sacrificed. From the nuRcry ibc
went to the dancing-school, and hi
masters to teach them all those sapa
ficial accomplishments which nwi
up a modem fashionable edtic3t>l
Ernest's clever and original niil
saved him from the evil cflfecisl
such an education. But, unfortl
nately, he did not escape a ^^
danger. With no one to direct *
studies, at the susceptible
seventeen he began to read tlw
del French literature of the XVIIfi

a voft

irecthi
age!

The Blind Student.

803

century, which formed a large part
of his grandfather's library. Fasci-
nated by the diabolical wit of Vol-
taire, Ernest's young and undisciplin-
ed mind mistook sophistry for argu-
ment, ridicule for reason, wit for
wisdom. The fashionable religion
of his mother had never possessed
any charm or interest for him, and
now, rejecting all belief, he became
a free-thinker.

Ernest entered the University of

in his eighteenth year, eager

for distinction and determined to
succeed. Succeed he did ; and when
he graduated, four years later, he was
the first student of th^ university and
unanimously chosen the commence-
ment orator. No student ever left

the University of , which has

been the Alma Mater of so many
disdnguished men, with a brighter
future before him than Ernest D'Arcy.
'But it was a future for this world,
and for this world alone. Fame
was the god of his idolatry. His

residence at the University of ,

which boasts the absence of all reli-
gious teaching, had strengthened his
scepticism. But the scepticism of
Ernest D'Arcy was a scepticism of
the head, not of the heart. His natu-
ral love for the true, the beautiful,
and the good had kept him pure,
even at the most dangerous period
of youth, when the blood is warm,
the passions strong, and the will
weak. While the heart is good and
pure, however the head may err,
there is always hope. The unbelief
. of Ernest D'Arcy was not the cold,
heartless, satisfied unbelief of the
hardened scoffer rejoicing in his in-
fidelity. It was the natural result
upon an eager and active intellect
of an education without religion, a
home without God.

The same year that Ernest left the
university his sister " finished " at the
Academy of the Visitation of — — .

Mary D'Arcy was not a brilliant girl,
but very sweet, gentle, and interest-
ing. Three years at the convent
school had removed all traces of her
unfortunate home education. Mary's
most intimate friend afthe convent
was Edith Northcote, a young Ca-
tholic girl from the South. When
they parted on distribution day, it
was with the understanding that
Eiiith should pass the next winter
with Mary, and the two young ladies
enter society together.

One morning, towards the end of
October, Ernest was sitting in the
library, surrounded by the most en-
chanting literature of the world, and
not allowed to read a single line.
D'Arcy was no sentimental dreamer
or aimless student,

" To ileep away his hours
In desperate sbth, miscaned philosophy."

He wished to be a man among men.
His ambition was first to teach him-
self, and then to teach the world.
He wished to elevate the tone of so-
ciety ; to raise it from its fallen state.
His was no splendid dream of revolu-
tionizing the social world ; he had no
fond hope of creating an Utopia out
of this busy, bustling America of the
XlXth century. But he knew that
life was too precious to be dedicat-
ed solely to the one selfish, absorb-
ing pursuit of wealth; that the en-
tire surrender of mind and heart
and life itself to the accumulation
of money was corrupting our peo-
ple and exercising a baleful influ-
ence over the whole nation. Our
merchants rival the merchant princes
of Italy in wealth and enterprise;
why should they not rival them also
in their princely tastes ? The jpala-
ces, the gardens, the galleries, the
libraries, of Florence, Venice, and
Genoa, " all tell the story of great
thoughts and noble tastes which gold
and trade may nurture when noble-

8o4

The Blind Student.

ncss and greatness deal with them."
We should take time to cultivate the
beautiful as well as the useful ; the
poetical as well as the practical
The artist should be patronized as
well as the artisan. Time should be
given to the refinement, the grace,
the sweetness of life. We have fol-
lowed too long and too earnestly
the false philosophy taught in '* Poor
Richard's Almanac," that money-get-
ting is a sort of secular religion, and
*• there will be sleeping enough in
the grave." Our American life is
one long "fitful fever." We give
no lime to rest Repose, a cultivat-
ed leisure, is not idleness. An ele-
gant essay on this subject — ^leisure *
— by a distinguished Baltimore law-
yer, should be read and pondered
by our eager and restless people, who
are devoured by their business as
Actaeon was by his own dogs. ** I
mean," says this writer, " the rest
which is won and deserved by labor,
and which sweetens and invigorates
it and furnishes its reward. Whence
comes this doctrine, that life, to be
anything, must be for ever in mo-
tion ? There is no process of phy-
sical development which does not
need and depend upon repose. To
dl the green and beautiful things
that deck the earth — the flowers that
give it perfume, and the fruits and
foliage that make it glad — there is
needful the calm sunshine and the
peaceful shade, the gentle rain and
the yet gentler dew. Not a gem
that flashes but has been crystallized
in the immovable stillness of the
great earth's breast. I believe that
to be false philosophy which denies
to individuals their seasons of leisure
and metlitation ; teaching thera^that
existence was meant to be nothing
but a struggle." Our very amuse-

UrS^N^n^ TvKUeWjditt. BftkiMffe : Piatcd by

ments are unwnoiesome and danger-
ous : the midnight ** German," the
lascivious drama, the race-course, the
steamboat excursion, the political
meeting. The priceless time of
youth should have some better em>
ployment than dancing and novd-
reading. Our young men should be
taught that life is- too valuable, time
too precious, to be frittered away to
idle pleasures, in fiivoloos zmvst-
ment, in heartless dissipation. Our
young women should- be taught tbit
there is something nobler in life tbn
the passing triumphs of the baU-room,
gay flirtations, and dazzling toilets.
Thoughts .like these occupied
Ernest D'Arcy on that bright Otto-
ber morning — thoughts that stiired
his heart and mind, and made him
eager for the glorious work. With a
soul longing to '^ be up and doing,"*
he was compelled to sit idle in the
golden prime of his manhood. These
were the moments of his greatest de-
spondency, when all the brightness
seemed gone from his life, and all
the hope from his souL Sitting there
in the library that morning, D'Aicy
recalled the beautiful lines of Miss
Procter in " My Picture " :

** He liad a stndeat air.
With a look half sad. half statdr,
Grare, sweet eyes aa«l flosrivg kaar.**

The library-door was opened, and
there came in one who was always
welcome — Mary D'Arcy.

«* Ernest, I have a letter from Edith
Northcote," Mary said. " She will be
here to-raonow.**

^ I am glad to hear it From ill
you have told me about Miss North-
cote, I think I shall like her."

"I am sure of it," returned his
sister. " If you don't, my opinkw
of your taste is gone for ever."

" She is nothing of the bread-and-
butter miss, I hope ? I have aU fij-
ron's antipathy, jroa know, for that
dass.**

The Blind Student.

803

** Bjrron himself could have found
no fault with Edith on that ground/'
said Mary.

"Well, I ant relieved of no little
apprehension/' said Ernest " I have
a. perfect horror of the common run
of girls, who haven't an idea above
the last novel and the last fashion."

The next day Edith arrived, and
her appearance certainly realized all
of Ernest's expectations. She was
nineteen — an age when the sweet
graces of girlhood still linger and
lend an additional charm to the bloom-
ing woman. Her features were not
regularly beautiful, but her face pos-
sessed a charm and an interest which
no £aultlessly beautiful face ever had.
If a true woman's soul, full of the
sweetest sympathy, ever brightened
and beautified a human face, it was
that of Edith Northcote. Then, her
voice was so sweet and cordial and
warm — and what is more attractive
than a low, sweet voice in woman ?
Edith was scarcely the medium height,
but exquisitely formed, and perfectly
natural and graceful in all her move-
ments, in charming contrast with the
trained glances and artificial man-
ners of our fashionable society belles.
Like Alexandrine, in A Sister's Story ^
there was an air of refinement about
this lovely girl as rare as it was de-
lightful ; she had all the freshness and
fragrance of the rose without the
rose's thorns, Mrs. D'Arcy, who
was a female Turveydrop in the mat-
ter of deportment, said she had never
seen in any society manners so ele-
gant and at the same time so sweet
and natural as the manners of Edith
Northcote. Such praise from such a
woman was in itself fame.

Edith soon became the life and
joy of the house ; she was an elegant
lady in the parlor, an intelligent com-
panion in the library, and the charm*
ing, sweet girl everywhere. The in-
fluence of her bright presence per-

vaded the vhole household. Even
stately Mrs. D'Arcy yielded to the
general enthusiasm, and declared
that Mary was fortunate in having
such a friend. But of all the family,
Ernest felt the influence of Edith's
society the most The library, where
he had passed so many hours in
gloom and despondency, was now
brightened by her daily and hourly
presence. She read beautifully, and
with a voice and manner that threw
a charm around everykhmg. Her
true, womanly heart sympathized
deeply with Ernest in his great afflic-
tion, and she at once determined to
do all in her power to relieve it So
it soon became the custom for Er-
nest and Edith to retire to the library
every "morning after breakfast, where
she read the morning paper to him
while he smoked his cigar. Then
two or three hours were devoted to
serious study. The books, so long
neglected, were again resumed. The
literary work, which Ernest loved so
well, was again taken up. Edith
was his librarian, his reader, his
amanuensis. He had the true stu-
dent's dislike of any person touching
his books and papers; but Edith's
touch seemed to have magic in it,
for she could do what few ladies can
ever do — put papers in order with-
out putting them out of place.

But not only as his literary assis-
tant ^as Edith serviceable to Ernest;
she was his sweet. and gentle com-
panion, his kind and sympathetic
friend, ever ready in all things to
make him forget his blindness and
his consequent dependence. Inspiring
and stimulating him to renewed ex-
ertion, she also directed his ambi-
tion to the noblest ends. She opened
a new life to the brilliant young stu-
dent — a life full of love and sweet-
ness and humanity. Her bright and
joyous influence banished from his
soul the dark despair that had been

8o6

The Blind Student.

enthroned there so long, and again
there was raised in his heart

''A hope
That he was born for stMuething braver than
To hang hit head and wear a nameless name.*'

Edith found time for everything;
duty, as well as pleasure, had each its
allotted place in her daily life. Be-
fore the rest of the family were awake
she was up and off to early Mass.
In the winter twilight, when other
young ladies were returning from the
fashionable promenade, Edith could
often be seen with a little basket on
her arm, carrying delicacies to the
sick, or more substantial food to re-
lieve the necessities of Christ's suffer-
ing children. Ernest sometimes ac-
companied her on these errands of
mercy, and it was a new revelation
to him to see Edith, so gay, spark-
ling, and fascinating in society, vis-
iting the humble homes of the poor,
cheering and comforting the sick and
destitute. Her very presence seem-
ed like a sunbeam in their dreary
dwellings. Edith did not think she
was performing any heroic virtue by
these things. She knew she was
only following the injunction of Him
who loved the poor so well that he
became like one of them. She knew
the Catholic poor were the blessed
inheritance of the Catholic Church.
Many Catholic young ladies, deli-
cately nurtured and fastidiously jefin-
ed, are daily doing what Edith did.

Ernest was benefited by attending
Edith on those missions of love. His
warm heart was touched and all the
latent sweetness of his nature brought
out by the distress which he witness-
ed, and of which he had never dream-
ed amidst the luxuries of his own
elegant home. There was one case
that particularly interested him ; un-
fortunately, there are many such in
this age of boasted religious liberty.
It was that of a Mrs. White. She
was a woman of education and re-

finement, and had been accusloaied
to all the comforts of life in her Ci-
ther's house. Early in li£e she mar-
ried a poor but worthy young man.
He was a clerk, and labored for bis
wife and children with an indostij
that knew no flagging. By constact-
ly bending over his desk be literaBjr
worked himself into consompdoa
After lingering a few months, daxing
which all his little savings were ^>eat
he died, leaving his family in utter
destitution. During his sickness b;
had been visited by several Catiwljc
ladies, who attended to his wane
with so sweet a charity that his bcsr
was touched, and he longed to knov
more of a religion which taught »cq
blessed humanity. As the Author rf
all truth has declared that he wba
seeks shall find, so Mn White i(Nm<i
the truth which he sought, and did
a most beautiful and edifying death.
His wife soon afterwards became a
Catholic, converted by the cxampk
of the good ladies who bad so kifi<^
ly ministered to her d3ring husbaoi
In the extremity of her distress Mn.
White appealed to her father, wto
had refused to have any intercoonr
with her since her marriage. Vrha:
do you think was the answer of tbis
father to a daughter whose only o^
fence was that she had left ySi/>ldrcW
mother to cleave to herhusbttndf We
blush for the humanity that cob^
send to a grief-stricken amd desc^atf
daughter so brutal a message as th^:

*' Now your chosen hisbaad s
dead, I will receive you back, pK-
vided you give up, at once and Ri
ever, the Catholic religion, which v^
have recently professed, Odiervi^e*
you may die as you have lived— a
pauper and an outcast. **

And so she lived and died a pai>
per and an outcast; but, so living aai
so dying, her lot was more ecviihfe
than that of her cruel and unnantn.
father. Her last moments were i

The Blind Student.

807

forted by the promise of Ernest
O'Arcy to provide for her two chil-
dren. The elder, a bright little fel-
low of thirteen, he placed in a law-
yer's office ; the other, a boy nine
years old, was admitted into a Cath-
oiic orphan asylum.

Thus visiting the sick and reliev-
ing the poor, and frequently meeting
Catholic priests and Catholic Sisters
in pious attendance on death-beds,
the conversation of Ernest and Edith
naturally took a religious turn. One
evening, after returning from one of
their charitable visits, they were sit-
ting in the library before the great
wood-fire (for Ernest would not allow
that abomination, miscalled a mod.
cm improvement, a furnace-flue, in
his sanctum)^ as they generally did
t>efore tea. Ernest was unusually
thoughtful that evening, so much
so that Edith observed it and asked
him the cause.

•* I am thinking about you and
myself — about all your goodness to
me," he said ; " about what I was be-
fore I knew you, and what I may be
by your noble example. Edith, the
daily beauty of your life makes mine
ugly. My father was a Catholic,
and I am — nothing. The cold and
fashionable religion of my mother
neither satisfied my mind nor inter-
ested my heart. I became a free-
thinker, an infidel, but never a
scofier at religion. I did not believe,
because I did not know what to be-
lieve."

«* We must read together Chateau-
briand's Genius of Christianity — that
magnificent tribute to the truth and
beauty of the Christian religion,"
Edith replied. " You know the
story of his conversion : in his ex-
treme youth he yielded to the gay
scepticism which at the time con-
trolled French society, and he, a son
of the Crusaders, became a disciple
of Voltaire, and wrote in the interest

ofinfidelity. The death of Chateau-
briand's mother, whose last moments
had been saddened by his scepticism,
and whose last words were a prayer
for his conversion, recalled him to
a sense of that religion in which
he had been educated. " / became
a Christian^' Chateaubriand wrote.
" My conviction came from the heart.
I wept and I believed'' He resolv-
ed to devote to religion the eloquent
pen which had been used against
her. The result was. his immortal
work the Genius of Christianity.
The beautiful style, the vast infor-
mation, the glowing descriptions of
art, scenery, poetry, and music can-
not fail to delight and interest you."

The next day Edith commenced
Chateaubriand's great masterpiece.
As, day after day, the reading con-
tinued, Ernest grew deeply interest-
ed. He saw clearly demonstrated
the noble and inspiring fact that
" the Christian religion, of all the
religions that ever existed, is the
most favorable to liberty and to the
arts and sciences; that the modern
world is indebted to it for every im-
provement: from agriculture to the
abstract sciences; from the hospi-
tals for the reception of the unfortu-
nate to the temples reared by the
Michael Angelos and embellished by
the Raphaels."

Other books were read, all breath-
ing the same divine spirit, the same
exalted Christian charity, the same
sweet human sympathy. The warm,
tender heart of Ernest D'Arcy was
fascinated by the beautiful and no-
ble sentiments expressed in the vol-
umes which were now a part of his
daily reading. ■ He compared them
with the false philosophy of a Vol-
taire and the senseless sentimentality
of a Rousseau, which taught how
to destroy, but not how to save;
whose end was the destruction, not
the amelioration, of society. These

8o8

The Blind Student.

books certainly opened a newer and
a sweeter world to the student But
it must not be supposed that the
young D'Arcy saw immediately the
truth of Catholicity in all its divine
beauty. Few, like S. Paul, are mi-
raculously changed from the enemy
to the friend of God's church. Few,
like Chateaubriand, can say : ** I
wept and I believed,"

With the opening of spring Edith
returned home, and Ernest was
again left alone with his books. But
how changed seemed everything!
The brightness was gone from the
library. The pleasure was gone
from his studies. He sadly missed
her who had been his constant com-
panion for so many months. Fortu-
nately, about this time his eyes im-
proved sufficiently to allow him to
read for a short time every day.
He continued the reading to which
Edith had introduced him. This
was some consolation to him, now
that he was separated from her. But,
alas! it was a consolation not long
allowed to him. If that stem old,
moralist. Dr. Johnson, acknowledged
that he found it easier to practise
abstinence than temperance in wine,
it will not be surprising that so ar-
dent a student as Ernest D'Arcy
found it absolutely impossible to
practise temperance in reading when
he read at all. And now he had a
greater incentive to work, than ever
before. He felt that he must make
himself worthy of the sweet girl
whom he loved. The delicately-re-
fined nature of this perfect gentle-
man would not allow him to make a
formal declaration of love to Edith
while she was a guest in his mother's
house, but that unerring, never-fail-
ing instinct which belongs to woman
enabled her to see plainly that he
was deeply, fondly interested in her.
Nor was Edith insensible to the
many attractive qualities of Ernest

D'Arcy; his cultured mind, bis noble
heart, his high ambition, his exalted
sentiments of honor and moralitj,
claimed her enthusiastic admintioo,
while the romantic character of their
constant intercourse pleased her giri-
ish fancy.

D'Arcy's Catholic reading had a-
chanted his impressible mind. As
an historical institution, the chordi
delighted and astonished hino. He
saw it rise triumphantly on the miss
of the empire of the Caesars; hesai
it conquer and civilize the barharr
ans of Germany and the North ; be
saw it tame the fierce passions odii:
Franks and Goths ; he saw it is the
middle ages standing between the
people and princely despots; bea«
it always on the side of right «d
always against wrong, always radscig
its powerful voice in favor of the
oppressed; he saw it in the XVIih
century successfully susuin itatf
against the most formidable rdigiots
revolution the world had ever koo»3 ;
he saw it in the XlXth century screw
in the midst of tumbling thrones id
political convulsions, teachiag oac
faith and one doctrine, while beresr
was. broken into a thousand intfis-
tinguishable fragmentary sects.

With his mind fresh from these
new and interesting studies, Enca
D'Arcy began to write the stoiyof
his mental life, which he caflel
From Darkness to Light. Like Mil-
ton, he became so engrossed in te
work that his eyes grew u:^]
worse; and, like him also, he «s
unwilling to discontinue his studies
until at length study was impossi-
ble. Edith Northcote heard of tJiis
new trial through Ernest's si^c
Mary; for Ernest himself was t*
manly, too considerate, to ancoF
Edith with his troubles. She deter-
mined at once to make a Novcna v
Our Lady of Lourdes to obtain i^
cure of Ernest's eyes. She jao-

Tufnvtgfrofn Darwin to T/iomas Aquinas.

809

cured some of the celebrated mi-
raculous water, and sent it to Ernest,
telling him that on a certain day
she would commence the Novena,
requesting him to apply the water to
his eyes each day, and say the
prayer to Our Lady of Lourdes
contained in the little book recently
published. The account of the ap-
pqnnn.* ^^Tcatly interested Ernest,
and, though not yet a Catholic, he did
not hesitate to comply with both of
Edith's requests.

Thousands of unrecorded miracles
have been wrought by the water
of Lourdes, and the restoration of
Ernest's eyes was one of them.*
As the darkness left his eyes, the
divine light of faith entered his
soul; and he who had been both
mentally and physically blind, now
saw with the eyes of the body and
saw also with the eyes of the soul.
He saw the truth, the beauty, and

•Afitft.

the goodness of the Catholic reli-
gion ; seeing, he believed ; Believing,
he professed; professing, he prac-
tised. Ernest D'Arcy became a Ca-
tholic — a devout, a zealous, a fervid
Catholic

Ernest did not inform Edith by
letter of the happy effects of the
water of Lourdes. He visited her
in her Southern home. Simply say-
ing a friend wished to see her, he
awaited her entrance with no little
impatience. At length she appear-
ed. Ernest advanced to meet her.
The few words he spoke explained
everything : " EdUk^ I am a Caiho-
He:'

The next few weeks were the
sweetest Ernest had ever known —
sweeter than he had ever dreamed
of. He had found what he had so
longsought in vain — the true religion ;
and in finding the rehgion which
was to make him happy in heaven,
he also found the being who was to
make him happy on earth.

TURNING FROM DARWIN TO THOMAS AQUINAS.

Unless in thought with thee I often live,

Angelic Doctor ! life seems poor to me.

What are these bounties, if they only be
Such boon as farmers to their servants give ?
That I am fed, and that mine oxen thrive.

That my lambs fatten, that mine hours are free—

These ask my nightly thanks* on bended knee ;
And I do thank Him who hath blest my hive

And made content my herd, my flock, my bee.

But, Father 1 nobler things I ask from thee.
Fishes have sunshine, worms have everything I

Are we but apes ? Oh ! give me, God, to know
I am death's master; not a scaffolding,

But a true temple where Christ's word could grow.

Sio

The Future oft/u Russian Church.

THE FUTURE OF THE RUSSIAN CHURCft

BY THB SBV. CASARIUS TONDINI, BAKNABITB.

III.

In presence of the melancholy re-
ality of to-day, and in expectation of
a yet sadder morrow, those Russians
who are sincerely attached to their
church, and who have at heart the
interests of their faith, will perhaps
ask themselves if it be not needful to
labor in some direct manner to de-
liver the Russian Church from a pro-
tection which has been so fatal to
her.

The question is a very serious one;
we do not venture to decide upon it.

As Catholic, and precisely because
we are Catholic, we must, in a ques-
tion of this kind, consider souls.
Now, to work directly to overthrow
the religious autocracy of the czars
might easily, considering the actual
circumstances of Russia, hasten this
morrow we have been considering,
and that without any efficacious
remedy being at hand to accompany
or to follow quickly upon so great an
evil. If it were not to be feared that,
under present circumstances, the over-
throw of the official church would
cause the unbelief of the higher class-
es to descend also among the lower,
thus rendering it general, and en-
dangering the existence of every faith
in the Russian people, the question
would be easy to answer; but so long
as this doubt exists it is quite a case
to which to apply the principle that
of two evils we must choose the
least From this point of view we
prefer the continuance of the present
state of things, because it seems to us
the lesser evil.

There exist, however, other doubts,

and their existence is of an extreme
gravity, in determining the attitude
of Russians toward their church;
they are these :

Will the czars, even should they
change their policy and show them-
selves for the future true protectors
and not masters, be able long to con.
tinue to the Russian Church the sap-
port of the laws ?

Again : Will Russia much longer
have the czars ?

These doubts are not chimerical.

In the first place, it appears to us
unlikely that the czars should be able
to continue indefinitely to refuse lib-
erty of conscience. Already, at this
present time, the Russian authorities
shut their eyes to many infractions
of the laws relating to the different
religious communions; the ever-in-
creasing and multiplied relations of
Russia with other countries, and of
her people with foreigners, and fw-
eigners with Russians, might easily
create serious embarrassments, and
even give rise to political complica-
tions, if there were a desire to apply
the religious laws in all their rigor.

Nevertheless, it seems to us equal-
ly difficult to imagine that Rusda
should, at one bound, arrive at de-
claring the civil law to be atheistical,
and to repel all solidarity between
material interests and the religious
interests of the people. / During
some time Russia will probably ofier
to us the same spectacle as in Eng-
land, the classic knd of religious
license, where every one, except ike
sovereign^ is firee to believe what he

The Future of Ihc Russian Church.

8ii

>leases, and where at the same time
onvenances and multiplied interests
ceep the official church standing.
But the Anglican Church has a far
different past and far other memories
— above all, a very different literature
— from the Russian Church. In con-
dnuing this comparison the reader
vrill find an explanation of the vitality
shown by the state-church of Eng-
land, and .at the same time the
motives which do not allow us to
jjredict for that of Russia either able
defenders or even a lingering death.
If, then, the Russians ought not to
labor directly to overthrow the reli-
gious autocracy of the czars, seeing
that, in present circumstances, the
overthrow of this autocracy might be
the cause of still greater disasters
than those of the past, they never-
theless ought not to fold their arms
and contemplate with indifference the
probability that this overthrow may
be brought about at no distant period
by the mere force of circumstances.
There remains the other doubt:
Will Russia much longer have the
czars?

This doubt, considering the epoch
in which we live, scarcely needs to be
justified. What sovereign is there
who can promise himself that he shall
end his days upon the throne ? One
alone — the Pope, because even in a
dungeon he is obeyed just as if he
were upon a throne.

Let Russians who have at heart
the interests of their faith boldly face
this second doubt and the fears to
which it gives rise. Never, perhaps,
could history offer us a more re-
markable spectacle than that of an or-
thodox church, and a perfect automa-
ton ; to-day receiving speech, move-
ment, and action from an orthodox
emperor, and to-morrow receiving
them from the head of a Protestant
government, perhaps a Jew, per-
haps an atheist. In fact, the organi-

zation of a church reckoning nearly
fifty millions of adherents cannot be
changed in twenty-four hours, espe-
cially if this organization is identified
with the state to the degree of con-
fusing herself with the latter. What
will then become of the Synod we do
not know, but neither do we know
whether the new government will
readily consent to lose the profit of
so powerful an insirumeniwn regni as
the church organized by the czars.

In presence of these eventualities,
which, on account of the rapid march
of modern revolutions, are far from
improbable, and may take place any
day, is there anything the Russians
can do in order to save orthodoxy ?
There is one thing, and, we -believe,
one only. We will say what that is,
though we greatly doubt whether it
will be accepted; too many preju-
dices, too many objections, will op-
pose themselves to it ; everything else
will be tried, rather than have re-
• course to it ; a great confidence es-
pecially will be placed in the triumph
of the panslavist idea ; but each new
attempt will but prove this one plan
to be the only efficacious one, and
the ill-success of all the others will
gradually lead minds to ally them-
selves to it In the alternative of ac-
cepting this, or else of letting ortho-
doxy perish, Russians sincerely at-
tached to their faith will not indefi-
nitely hesitate. Besides, a Providence
watches over states and peoples \ in
that Providence we place our trust,
and it will not be in vain.

If, calling things by their names, we
were to say plainly that this only way
is the reunion of the Russian with
the Catholic Church, a Russian who
might do us the honor to peruse these
pages would perhaps throw down
the book, and, however well dispos-
ed he might be, would see nothing
more in it than vain and dangerous
imaginations. This alarm, however,

8l2

V Future of the Russian Church.

would prove, more than an3rthing
else, the exceeding power of the
words. We will endeavor to express
the same idea in another manner ;
andy without flattering ourselves that
we shall gain acceptance for it, we
hope at least to obtain for it serious
examination.

What is Russian orthodoxy? It
is the collection of the dogmas accept-
ed and taught by the Russian Church.
Now, these dogmas, with the excep-
tion of som^ few misunderstandings,*
are the same 9s those of the Catholic
Church ; the point which really sepa-
rates the two churches is the denial,
on the part of the Russians, of the
jurisdiction of the Pope over the uni-
versal church. At the utmost, a real
doctrinal disagreement should be ad-
mitted respecting the infallibility of

• At the incorporatioo of the Uniates of UthuanU
iato the Orthodox Church, under the Emperor Nich-
oUft, the Synod of St. PctersbuiY declared in ia cele-
brated decree of March 5, 18^9, as Iblkmt : *^ The
solemn confession expressed m the synodal act (of
the apostate bish<^), that the Lofd God oar *
Saviour Jesus Christ is alone the true Head of the
only and true church, and the promise of dwdU
iug in unanimity with the most holy orthodox p»-
tnardis of the East, and with the most holy Synod,
Uavts nothing mort to rtqnirt ^ tk€ mmittd
GrttJk Ckmrck /or tkt vtritoH* and esstntimi
union o/tkg/Aitky and, for this reason, there re-
mains nothing which can oppose itself to the hier-
archical reunion** {Ptrs^mtiont H S^ujgFrmmcet^
etc., P- itS)- Now, if there existed between the
Catholic Church and the Russian Church a Tertt*-
bte doctrinal disacreemeat with regard to the Pro-
cession of the Holy Ghost, the Synod of St. I^etel»-
burg, in «K>t requiring of the apostate ImsIk^ any
rttractatioa on thb point, would have been gmky of
an inconceiv«d>le compromise of the fisith. We leave
to orthodox Russians the tadc of defending it.

It has been suted abo that there is a disagree-
ment between us and the Russaaas on the subject
of purigatory. We here give what we find in the
oatcchism of the late Mgr. Philarete, in use in tiM
•chixib. We make use of the French translatKin,
which appeared ia Paris, with the ceoaurreace of
the Ru«iian gorenuaent ud the Synod.

Q. ^^ What remaHc remains to be made irsp e clin g
th« uMils of those who have died in die &ith, b«t
wh\>M r«;>cntsi»ce has not had cisae to bear frait ?

A. ** rK«i* to o^tJun for them a happy l e sui reC K
liv>«, the prsy«r$ of those who are yet on this earth
nw^Y be 10 ihem s credit assstanoe, especially when
V>v«wst to the unMvvsSy sacnftoe of the Mass and tt>
th« w\Nf\m <i>f nK-tw. d.Mae in faith and in mn jm torf
ol th* a^^NArtvv) *' \y\»^*. k:Tmr d^^'lie dt t EgUtt
t^*i4 \ v»* ^:\.\i.'Tt y^^trmf, ojr^umrm^ ot «/-

C>^fv Aa* U Sji:m/ Art»M> Jt Kmxsio, Pteb:
U.^m>nV, i<vu i>« t)M ckrcnth artkk t«f the

the Pope defining ex caikidr& on
£iiith or morals. But however impor-
tant this disagreement may be in tiie
eyes of Catholics, it has no importaocg
in the eyes of Protestants apd ratioD-
altsts. Those who admit no revela-
tion would not certainly prefer or-
thodoxy merely because there is in it
one article less to believe. As to
Protestants, the difficult point is to
make them admit a visible authority
taught by God himself, and having
the right and mission to explain ti^
Scriptures and to make a practical ap-
plication of them to our lives. No^,
is it likely that, in their eyes, an
authority residing in the disposed
church, without the necessary bond
which unites the bishops to each
other, would be much more accep-
table than a central authority, alwaj^
living, always ready to declare its
oracles, and, by that very fact, inde-
pendent of the obstacles which an in-
imical government or any other ad-
versary might raise against it to pre-
vent it from declaring itself? For the
rest, the Spiritual Regulation will let
Protestants know whether a church
organized as is that of Russia at the
present time can alone make a free
word to be heard.

Protestants and radonalists are,
then, common adversaries of the
Russian and also of the Cathotic
Church. Common adversaries aiso,
on doctrinal grounds, are aD those
who cannot be exactly classed with
either Protestants or rationalists, but
against whom the Russian Church
will DO less have to defend hcrsell^
Jews, Mahometans, and, lastly, tibe
Raskolniks also, unless, indeed, a
porti<m of the latter should not prefer
to ally themselves to the Cadioiic
Church rather than to the Synod, if
only they can be persuaded that in
becoming Catholics they do not by
any means cease to be Russuoisl
Now, when in the X\^Ith ce ii lu ir

The Future of the Russian Church.

813

the Jicresy of Calvin was for a mo-
ment seated on the patriarchal throne
of Constantinople in the person of
Cyril-Lucar,and when that patriarch
had published his Orthodox Confession ,
of the Christian Faith^ which was
full of Calvinistic errors, the gravity
of the danger to orthodoxy was then
sufficiently powerful to render the
Greeks far from being disdainful of
the support offered to them by Ca-
tholics, and even by the Pope himself,
for the purpose of guarding in safety
the articles of the common faith.

Nothing was found too hard to be
said against Catholics and Rome,
because of their intervention in the
deposition of the heretical patriarch
and the condemnation of his doc-
trine. For their justification we may
be permitted to refer the reader to a
publication which, upon its appear-
ance, had the importance of a great
event, and this is No. 42 of the
Tracts for the TimeSy which, in Eng-
land, opened the way to the Catho-
lic faith.f

This historical precedent will not,
we hope, remain without its conse-

* AjwToAcxi^ O^toAoy^ rift XP*^^^**'**^ vtortwf .
The fixM editioa appouvd in Latin, at Geneva, in
16*9 ; the Mcond, four yean later. In Greek and
Ladn. The Con/ttsicn of Cyril-Lucar was inserted
by Banunel in hb work Libri SymMiei EceUsita
Orienialh, Jcmb,i843. (Second ed. nnder the title
of McnMwunUt Fidti EccUsia Oritntalit, Jenm^
1850.)

tTli« titk of this tract is, Frwitsianiism and
Churches im tkt East. 1 he cause of its appear-
ance was the pretension of the Church of Sngbnd"
which, not without analogy with the Russian
Cbnrch, recognized the sovereign of the country as
its head, after Jesus Christ— in giving to the East a
bishop invested by a mandate of Queen Victoria,
with a jurisdiction embracing the whole of Syria,
ChaldsM, Egypt, and Abyvinia. Finally, its ob-
ject b to examine the formula, ** No peace with
Rome, but union and agreement nt any ^r ice with
the Syrians, the Abysstnians, and the Greeks^** and
to prove the absolute impossibility of the Anglican
lod the Orthodox Churches being able honestly to
j^ree together in point of doctrine.

if it be true that, in consequence of the marriage
of the Duke of Edinburgh, a great sympathy with
the Anglican Church has taken pouession of the
aristocracy of St. Petenburg, No. 4s of the Tratts
for the Times ought to be reprinted in English,
tfaaalated and printed In Rwian. and widely dia-
•cminated in the two knguages. It is the honesty
itielf of the two diurches whkh is at stake.

quences in history. Already Catho-
lie theologians imconsciously afford
a solid support to orthodoxy, with
regard to the defence of the dogmas
jtrhich are common to us with the
Russians. Our theological works
find entrance into Russia, and are
there studied and quoted ; whibt it is
rarely, if ever, that we find modern
authors of the Greek Church quoted,
unless it be to draw from them argu-
ments against the primacy of the
Pope, and to perpetuate the misun-
derstandings relating to the Proces-
sion of the Holy Ghost and to pur-
gatory.

From the time of Peter the Great
orthodoxy has done nothing but lose
ground in Russia ; neither the patri-
archs of the East nor the other
heads of the various branches of the
Orthodox Church appear to be solely
occupied with it. One might say
that any heresy inspires them with
less horror than the Catholic doctrine
about the Pope, and that they con-
sider the rejection of this doctrine a
sufficient proof of a healthy ortho-
doxy. But the day will come when
every Russian who loves orthodoxy
above all else will no longer regard
with so much horror as now a church
which is far better calculated than
the Greek Church to furnish him with
arms wherewith to defend the divinity
of Jesus Christ, the Real Presence,
the sacraments, the veneration of
Mary and the saints. The same
horror with which we Catholics still
inspire many orthodox Russians we
formerly inspired Anglicans. Rela-
tions with us, and study^ have dis-
abused many credulous minds; in
Russia, moreover, the double senti-
ment will operate in our favor of the
danger to which orthodoxy will be
exposed, and the insufficiency of the
succor which can arrive to it from
any quarter except the Catholic
Church alone.

8i4

The Future of the Russian Church.

But Protestants, rationalists, Jews,
Mahometans, and Raskolniks are
not the only adversaries which the
Rossiau Church must prepare to
combat, and against whom she will
find no help more efficacious than
that which Catholics can afford.
Among her adversaries she may
reckon the government, atheism in
the legislation, obstacles of every
kind created against the propagan-
da of orthodoxy, compulsory irreli-
gious instruction, unbelief and mate-
rialism " crowned " by the academ-
ies — in a word, all the constituted
authorities upon which the people
depend. Can the Russian Church
promise herself that she will be able
successfuUy to contend against such
adversaries ? No one will maintain
that the past history of this church
offers a certain guarantee that she
will ; her existence, especially since
Peter the Great, has been too mo-
notonous, and has had a sphere of
action too circumscribed, to allow her
to make trial of her strength. Alas !
there is something more; however
monotonous may have been her ex-
istence, it nevertheless offers one
characteristic feature, and this is,
the facility with which she has per-
mitted the czars to impose their
laws upon her, and to obtain from
her that which nothing would have
forced from the great doctors and
fathers of the Greek Church. Now,
if the Russian Church has been so
feeble in presence of the czars, is it
very certain that she would instanta-
neously recover her energy, were she
to find herself face to face with a
government inspired by principles
the most hostile to Christianity, and
the declared enemy, no longer of the
whole Christian church only, but of
Jesus Christ himself? We are no
prophet ; but, after all, it is not abso-
hilcly impossible that, at a period
iv\mo or less distant, some Russian

socialist may find himself suited m
the place of the czars.

Thus the past history of the Rib-
sian Church is far from bemg a soic
warranty that she will know how to
wrestle with impious govemmeats.
What succor, in fact, can she expee:
from churches which, in presence oi
the sultan, and of the sovereigns of
the other countries where they are
established, have shown themselves
fully as feeble as the Russian Church
has been in presence of the czars ?
The sultan — to speak of him only
— has not he himself settled the
Bulgarian question? And, beades,
will not these churches have enoogh
to do to defend themselves at a tim^;
when political importance deddes
everything ? What influence in the
religious affairs of Russia can be exer-
cised by litde states occupying scarce-
ly the third or fourth rank among the
states of Europe ?

Should the Russian Church accept
the aid of the Catholic Church, it
will be a very different matter. In
the same way that history shows us
the latter as having alr^dy had to
deal, on doctrinal ground, with everr
sort of error, and of having fought
against it, thus offering, with the
weight of her experience, the aid ot
a science as vast as the variety os'
errors against which it has combated ;
so also has the Catholic Chmch
already encountered, on practical
ground, every sort of obstacle, and
has passed through storms and tea^
pests which would a thousand times
over have submerged her were she
not divine. The number, variety,
and gravity of the struggles she has
maintained also against govenime&ts
and nations give her the right tn
repeat with a calm security, each
time that the signs of a fr^sb persecu-
tion appear: Alios vidi ventas aim-
que pficeUas — ^** Other tempestuoc*
winds and other storms have I seen.*

The Future of the Russian Church.

815

She possesses institutions born of
these struggles and adapted to those
of the future, which will also create
new^ ones in their turn. Her mission-
aries and her priests present us with
the spectacle of an army as numer-
ous as it is varied, answering to all
the needs of war and to all the possi-
ble eventualities of the field of battle.
Still more: in the existence of the
church warfare is, so to speak, the
normal condition, and peace the ex-
ception ; it thus follows that the
powers of the Catholic Church are
kept in continual exercise, and that
the science of the means of victory
is never reduced to simple memo-
ries.

This, from the history of the past,
is what may be with certainty fore-
seen, whether with regard to the
inefficiency of the help which the
Russian Church may promise herself
from the various branches of the
orthodox communion, in a struggle
against unbelief and impious govern-
ments, or with regard to the solid
support which, in this case, she would
filid from the Catholic Church. But
this prevision is not only justified by
history. History has done nothing
•more than throw light upon that
which had been foretold to us by a
terrible declaration of Jesus Christ ;
and it is in this declaration that lies
the deep reason and the true expla-
nation of that^ which history causes
to pass before our eyes. Omne reg-
Hum in setpsum divisum desolabitur —
** Every kingdom divided against it-
self shall be brought to desolation "
(S. Luke xi. 17), Our Lord has said.
The Orthodox Church is a divid-
ed kingdom — divided into as many
branches as there are states in which
she counts her adherents; divided
to such a degree that, without the
consent of sovereigns, no communi-
cation is possible between these
divers branches; so divided that it

is also the will of sovereigns which
regulates and measures the relations
which the bishops of the eparchies
(dioceses) of one self-same state may
hold among themselves. The Ortho-
dox Church is a kingdom divided
against itself— so divided that no-
where is there to be found an autho-
rity which, being itself the source of
jurisdiction, can terminate the litiga-
tions about jurisdiction without ap-
peal; so divided that a little bold-
ness and obstinacy sufficed to enable
Greece to withdraw herself from the
jurisdiction of the Patriarch of Con-
stantinople; that a little boldness
and obstinacy sufficed to gain the
cause for Bulgaria, when, not long
ago, she also shook ofi" the authority
of the same patriarch ; and that a
little boldness and obstinacy always
suffice to enable the revolted defini-
tively to shake off the yoke of their
pastors.*

* The reader will not take it amiss if he should
find here several points already developed in our
former essay, Tht Popt of Rcmt and the Pop*t 0/
th* Oriental Orthodox Church, (London : Long-
mans, Z871.) It is almost impossible, in touching
upon the same subject, entirely to avdd repetition ;
and, besides, there are certain ideas which require
to be put forward pretty frequently, if they are suf^
ficiently to arrest public atMntion.

Well, then, there is one idea, which we would will-
ingly call the ** providential idea *' of the times, of
•o dedfiive a temlency does it appear to us for has-
tening the end of the schism and the return of the
Graeco-Russian Church to Catholic unity. It is
the idea to which we now re^m, and which forms
the subject of the entire third chapter ot the essay
just mentioned. We live in a century of revolutions ;
BOW, whilst the Cathdic Church, in presence of the
general overturning of thrones, dynasties, and po>
Utical constitutions, only strengthens, with her
marvellous imity, the powers of her government,
the Orthodox Eastern Church is given up defence-
less to all the chances of political revolutions, and
condemned, in her various branches, to snbinit to
the form of government which these revolutions im-
pose upon her. This fact akme is of a nature to
lend back a goodly number of our separated brethren.
We have not here to discuss lofty and abstract mat-
ters ; we have to reflect whether Jesus Christ coukl
thus have given up his church to the mercy fd
political revolutions. The man of the people, the
illiterate, the workman, whose every moment is
precious because he must live by the labor of hit
hands, can deoide this question as easily as the thco*
k>gian, the philosopher, and the statesman. It is a
reflection which requires neither study nor any form
of reasoning, nor even time ; it u an argument self-
evident to all— the ** popular argument," which

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the accomplished fact ; had he nst
done sOy he would have been albved
to protest to an indefinite period, as
long as he might be inclined. It was
by appealing to the principle of na-
tionality (phyUtism) that the Bulga-
rians shook off the authority of the
same patriarch. Their bishops nom-
inated an exarch, and long bdoretbe
sultan had definitely settled this afiair
they gave no more heed to the
patriarch's protestations than for
seventeen years had been given by
the bishops of the Hellenic kingdom.
In the hope of leading back the Bol-
garians to obedience, the patnarch,
in 1873, convoked a great council in
the Church of S. George at Constson-
tinople. He made his complaints
against his rebdlious children, and
without apparently^ considering the
effect which might be produced l^
the publicity given to his words, be
there related that, having sommooed
the recalcitrant bishops to return to
obedience, one of them had answered
him, by the telegraphy that he shookl
go and receive the reply from ^
exarch.

The coimdl thereupon proceeded
to exconmiunicate the Bulgarians,
who had already so willingly excom-
monicated themselves, sure bdore-
hand that they would none the less
continue to be considered members
of the Orthodox Church — a certainty
which could not fail to be realized.
The example of Greece had borne its
fruit. Besides, this council was not
^xcumenical ; amongst others, the
Russian bishops did not sit there at
£1: a letter of the Synod had the
3ri:ssian of representing them, pro-
!rabir unknown to themselves, and
^^stainly without their permi^ion.
By what right, then, could the coun-
vri separate the Bulgarian nation frtHn
J%e whole chiurh ? By what right
did it speak in the name oithestkoie
church ? It had so much the less

The Future of the Russian Church.

817

nght, also, from the fact that the
Rsiriarch of Jerusalem, Cyril, who
iMppened to be then at Constantino-
pt^ determinedly refused, for reasons
nil^ch gave evidence of more than un-
Bgness, to appear at its sittings.*
'Will it be said that the Bulgarians
excommunicated by virtue of
liie canons of the church ; that the
OMHicil applied to them an anathe-
4)1 already decreed by the fathers and
tte oecumenical councils against those
ivfco violated the canons ? We have
MDie acquaintance with these can-
mm\ and, if they are to be taken
literally, we would not take upon
ourselves to prove that the whole
Qithodox Church has not long ago
ftiBen under some excommunication
piDDOunced by her own canons; such,
<t any 'rate, would be the case with
»q;ard to the Russian Church, which
facros its principal portion. To escape
this somewhat embarrassing conclu-
noo» it becomes necessary to admit
that the canons must be understood,
as it is commonly expressed, cum
f^ranc saUs^ and that they are suscep*
tible of a mild interpretation. It is
this which the Bulgarians believe
themselves to have done. They have
found in the past history of their
church several examples authorizing
an interpretation of the canons con-
formable to their wishes; amongst
others, that of Peter the Great, who,
wiih&ut ei^er ceasifig to be considered
orthcdoXy aboHshed the patriarchate
of Moscow, instituted the Synod,
made it the principal authority of
the Russian Church, and declared
himself to be the ** Supreme Judge "
thereof; after which he informed the
Oriental patriarchs of what had hap-
pened, and demanded of them an
approbation which he was fully de-

* Tlut patriarcb was afterwards deposed #«
0tct0uni o/ki* rt/usal to Mign th* declaratioM 4/
tkt ccmncil^ and the Sublime Porte was obUfed to

termined to do without, in case it
should be refused. The crime of the
Bulgarians consisted in interpreting
the canons as they had been inter-
preted by the numerous bishops who
had not on that account been, by any
means, expelled from the church;
and if the letter of the Russian Synod,
the mandatory of the Russian epis-
copate at the council of 1872, blamed
them, besides that, in their revolt,
they were sustained by Russia.*
The Bulgarians called to mind that
it was Russia, too, which had the most
strenuously labored to induce the
Patriarch of Constantinople to recog-
nize the independence of the Church
of the Hellenic kingdom as an ac
complished fact. VVith memories
such as these, the anathema of the
Council of Constantinople of 1872
could scarcely disquiet the Bulgarians.
And this is not all. This council
made a decision which is, in truth, a
doctrinal decision by declaring that
the exterior constitution of the
church is independent of the princi-
ple of nationality, and in condemn-
ing the application of this principle
to the church, as being contrary to
the Scriptures and to the Fathers.
By what right did this council, not
being ecumenical, make a decision
of this kind, and what value could it
possess? Will it be said that this
council did nothing more than define
and affirm what was contained in
the Scriptures and the Fathers ? It
was precisely this to which the Bul-
garians would not agree, and of
which the Patriarch of Jerusalem — to
mention him only — was by no means
convinced ; in short, that which only
a truly ecumenical council could
authoritatively decide. In presence
of a merely nominal doctrinal au-
thority, it was perfectly natural that

* Scarcely was the Patriarch of Jerusalem,
Cyril, arrested and imprisoned, belbre Russia bcfaa
to take riprisab against the Greek Church.

VOL XX. — 52

8i8

The Future of tlu Russian Church.

the BijrLTuns should keep their
ow^ Tiew- crt the matter.

E Jt st^II more embarrassiDg by far
wcclc be the consequences resulting
» Lie Orthcdox Church if it were
3t^m> 'ed tiiat this council possessed
X tea ly c-JHrtrinai authority, and that
Its •ietiijions were obligatory on the
ojnscieaos ct the orthodox faithful,
la r.^ cjse the Orthodox Church
would *iive added yet another dcfi-
amca tj taooe already recorded in
mc aerts Ecumffixal Councils al-
Iijtacd ':▼ bcr« Tais church has al-
V3V5 bcjst^ ct harin^ added no-
ihvt^ ^j r:e dcctrine expressed in
uie 3C' ai Ec^TTPenical Cooncils» in
wi:.c!T. jcccriic^ to her, the Holy
G.^J5t :^J3 dcposiced, 0fue for all, *
w.t-^:t^ n ts necessary to believe.
:Sce is so persuaded that nothing can
be a.:ied to them that she takes
-icasure in recognizing in these
coancus the seven pillars of wisdom,
the seven mysterious seals, spoken of
l>v S. John — pillars and seals which
mA <:eraally remain seven in num-
:jtf* wt:hout any possible chance of
-eachirg even to the number eight,
r.ierefore it is that she throws in
aur faces our western councils and
their definitions, and therefore that
slie reproaches us with new dogmas.
But the Immaculate Conception of
Mary and the doctrinal Infallibility
of the Pope — these two dogmas which
the church has found in the Scrip-
tures and in the Fathers— were they
newer in the eyes of the Bulgarians
than the dogma defined at the Council
of Constantinople in 1872, that " the
church, in her exterior constitution, is
indei^ndent of the principle of na-
tionality " — a dogma condemned, im-
|Ch:it:y At least, by the previous prac-

• r\T*w*« cf Ike mamfcstoof the Synod of St.

,,\v .* , , Ci^'.k ta tAe Smssiam Em^irg^

■V.., ,.,-^ SHocdJ Pr«^ i83> See Frrs/cw
.«,■.%.« v^^a*.**, etc, pp. •5?-«fi^

tice of a large portion of the Ortho-
dox Church ?

Finally, why should the Bnlgari-
ans have submitted to the dectaoo
of a particular council — ^a decisioii,
carried by the Greeks y«</itYJ in causi
propriA^ when the Russian Church,
as all the world knew, thought so
lightly of the doctrine and practice
of the whole Greek Churdi in a
matter of far greater importance, ike
validity of baptism f Baptism by in
fusion is in fact recognized at St
Petersburg and Moscow as valid,
while at Constantinople it is null
and void. A Protestant or a Cathc^
baptized by infusion, who should ask
to be received into the Orthodox
Church, would be accepted nncon-
ditionally in Russia : but at Coo-
stantinople he would be required to
be rebaptized. A Christian in the
dominions of tlie czar, he would be-
come a pagan at Constantinof>le ;
and yet this is one and the same
church !*

* From what we hare been able to M crtt aB* , dK
ooDdact of the Russian Church upon thk poiBt b
not so uiTari^)lT uniferm as to make it imponaile et
quote sooie ezoeptioos to what we have \ka aca-
tioned. It is very certain, however, that theae o-
cepd&ns do not regard great p er son ag es, vha »c
always dispensed from submitting to baptism bj ai*
mersiocu To mention a recent example : the Pk»-
cess Dagmar was admitted into the Rassian CkwA
without being reqtured to receive a second baptio-
The same thing was done in the last century. V(i>
taire having shown hunself peisuaded that tfe
Rumian Church baptised Protestants, Iw i priawt )sf
infusion, was reproved by Catherine IL ia die
IbOowing terms: »* As head of the Gtedc Chanel
cannot honestly leave you unrcboked in year esnr-
The Greek Chux\:h docs not rebaptiae at afi. TV
Grand Duches, etc." (Vide k'kgl, Eccin..^^
M0U,) What Catherine here caDs the Gre^Ckack
u the Russian. Resides, Catherine kesse¥had beta
received into the Rusuan Church without beiag»*
bapdxed, and it was of this example that W^bm
Frederick Ltttiens, the Lutheran author of the Di^
ttrtaih d* Reltgi^iu Ruthen^mm H^dxrw^tm^M
not fail to avail himself, in maintainiag that iqjDS
this point also the Russians were in agreeBcat w^
the Lutherans. ^ If the Russians of fbrmcr dsy* '
IRutktmi veUres)^ writes LOticns, " did oot w
cognise as valid the baptism (by infiaaatt> of e«
church, it cannot be attributed 9c4ely to their \Ai
in the necessity of their ceremonies, but also le tbe
hatred which, from the calumnies of the Rnwiaw^
they nourished against our Lutheran Cbatdk . •*
{DisstrL^ etc, pp. 86, 7),

Beades, we find the feOowing in tha &u*»

The Future of the Russian Church.

819

Yes, the shock has been given.
The Council of Constantinople of
X872 has not been able to hinder the
defection of the Bulgarians, but it
has attracted the attention of the
Christian world to the fact that the
Orthodox Church has no authority
which can force consciences to reject
as heretical the application to the
exterior constitution of the church,
either of the principle of nationality,
or any other principle upon which
might be based the political constitu*
tion of nations. And further, the
acts of the Council of Constantinople
of 1872 give evidence of the hesita-
tion and uncertainty existing among
the representatives of the orthodox
foith ♦ with regard to a question so
momentous, and which concerns the
very life of that church. The shock
has been given. Error has a terrible
logic Where will the divisions, the
sob-divisions, and the parcellings-out
of the orthodox communion end?

Cirr£y of Father- Gagarin : " The EecUsiasticml
Taik (Doakhovnafa Beseda) of Sept. 17, 1866, was
w cl i i i ii for a means of reconciliag on this point the
Greek and Russian Churches. Nothing is stranger
thus the idea it has entertained. If we are to be-
Icve the Eccltsiastical Talk^ the Greek Church
iaA'^ admiu the validity of baptism otherwise than
\ij inunersioo, but has been c^Hged to exact a new
W pt ian from those Latins seeking admission into her
bosom, in order to draw a deiper line 0/ demar'
emiUn between Gr e * he and Latins y from fear of
m rtc0uciliaiion^ and to this end has attempted no.
tluac 1e» than to make the Greeks believe that the
Lntfais were not Christians. We shouM never dare
to attrOrate to the Greek Church such a proceeding.
Lying, calumny, profanation of a sacrament that
caaaot be repeated--all this, according to the Eccle^
timstiral Talk^ the Greek Church woukl knowingly
and wtlfingly do ! Reading this, we cannot believe
cm eyes. And this journal b published by th«
Scdesiastical Academy of St. Petersbuxg, under the
eye and with the approbation of the Synod I**
< The Russian Clergy, translated from the French
of Father Cagnrin^ S.y, by Ch. Du Gard Make-
peace, M.A. London : Bums and Oates, 187a ; p.

* The Coundl of Constantinople of 1879 has been
acknowledged by one portion of the Orthodox
Church, and rejected by the other. The chtirch of
the Hellenic kingdom maintains the authority of
the coondl ; a portion of the Russian Church re-
jectt it. The Orthodox Church is thus divided
iatn two camps ; and, according to the tenor of the
seu of the Council of 1879, all that portion of the
Rossian Church which does not admit the authority
of the council is, therefore, at this present time
cxcoouttunicate*

And what consequences may result
from the want of exterior unity, not
only for the independence, but also
for the faith, of the church, we have
just glanced at; but it will be re-
vealed by the Ecclesiastkai Regulatioti
in a manner more convincing and
more sad.

Assuredly the future had not been
foreseen when, in the Confession of
the Orthodox Faith^ the great cate-
chism of the whole Oriental Church,
it was considered sufficient to ex-
plain as follows the unity of the
church :

" The church is one, . . . accord-
ing to the teaching of the aposde:
For 1 have espoused you to one
husband^ that I may present you as
a chaste virgin to Christ (2 Cor.
xi. 2). For even as there is but
one Christ, even so his spouse can
be but one; as it is written in the
fourth chapter, of the Epistle of S.
Paul to the Ephesians (iv. 5, 6):
One Lord^onefaith^one baptism : there
is but one God, the Father of all.*

Nor was the future any more fore-
seen when, in the catechism of
Mgr. Philarete, the unity of the
church was defined :

" Q. Why is the church one ?

" A. Because she represents one
spiritual body, animated by one sole
and only divine Spirit, and having
one head only, who is Christ."

Let us now turn away our gaze
from the Orthodox Church, in
which the terrible declaration of Jesus
Christ finds only too fully its accom-
plishment Another church appears
before us. She is not a divided
kingdom : on the contrary, if there
be one characteristic mark by which
she may be at once recognized by

•Confessio Orthcdoxa Ftdei^ Catkoliem H
Apostolictg Ecclesitt Orientalis. QusBst. bcxxiiL
in Kimmel's work, Libri Symboliei Ecclesits
Orientalis, p. 153.

t CAtichisme Ddiailli. On the ninth artidt,
P-95.

820

The Future of the Russian Church.

all who seek for her, it is the impos-
ing unity of her exterior organiza-
tion. The pope forms this unity.
Let us ask of history what the
pope has done for the church.

And history answers: The pope
has saved the church. The pope
alone has been able to hinder this
church from breaking up, as the
Orthodox Church has done, into so
many national churches, at first un-
der the protection, then under the
authority, and finally under the rod,
of sovereigns who were at first kings,
then presidents of a republic, some-
times Robespierres. It is the pope,
and the pope only, who has main-
tained, not merely the vague notion,
but the living sentiment of Catholic
frateniity — a sentiment which inspires
the adversaries of the church with
a fear which, in spite of themselves,
they betray. It is the pope, and
the pope alone, who has caused the
sap of Christian piety to circulate in
the whole Catholic world, by the
iionors of the altars accorded to the
saints of every land^ and by those
institutions which, originating in one
country, belong to all countries, as
powerful, in the realization of their
vast aspirations, as zeal and charity
themselves. It is the pope who
makes the treasures of virtue and
leamuig which he discovers in any
particular locality the common pro-
perty of the world — in a word, it
is the pope who causes the church
always to survive, not only the ene-
mies who desire her death, not only
the false prophets who, for centuries
past, have gone on announcing this
death as imminent, but all kingdoms
and all empires, their institutions,
and even their remembrance. This
is what the pope is for the Catholic
Church.

Thus we see, on the one side,
division, and, as its consequence, the
dissolution foretold by Jesus Christ;

on the other side, unity, and, with
unity, victory and strength. This is
the signification of the church haviog
or not having a pope. Besides, the
unity of government is so necessay
to arrest the indefinite parcelling out
of one church into a number of inde-
pendent churches, and as a safeguard
to the common faith, that each sepa-
rate branch of the Orthodox Eastern
Church has not been able to main-
tain its integrity without the aid of a
supreme and central authority. In-
stead of the pope, this is a patriardi,
or it is a synod, or it is the soverdgn
of the country, but everywhere aad
always the very adversaries of ti»e
Papacy themselves render an invdun-
tary homage to the Catholic dogina
which declares a visible head, a pope,
necessary to the church.

Yes, a pope is necessary for tiic
church — necessary to hfer existence,
and necessary for the fulfihnent of
her mission.

Let us consider it with regard to
the most powerful of the various
branches of the orthodox commu-
nion — ^the Russian Church. E?cb
could this church (by hypotheas)
maintain herself alone, and could she
continue her work without the opc^
ation of the laws ; could she alone
combat unbelief, and alone make
head against impious govemmoits,
the pope would be none the less
necessary for her. And why ? Be-
cause the Russian Church calk ha*
seU Catholic ; th3iiiSy umtfersal No«,
it is not enough for a church which
calls itself Catholic, and the one
church of the Saviour of all, to be
able to maintain her ground in Aat
part of the world in which she is
now enclosed ; it is not enough that
she should combat unbelief in the
empire of the czars, nor that she
should be able to resist an impios
government which may succeed to
theirs.

The Future of the Russian Church.

821

Xf she is Catholic, she ought, the
Russian Church herself, to be equal
to penetrating everywhere^ and every-
where to maintain herself; to com-
bat etferywlure heresy and unbelief,
an<i everywhere to sustain collision
with the government. If she is
Catholic, let her issue from the limits
of the country of the czars, and at
least attempt the conquest of Italy,
Oermany, France, England, all Eu-
rope ; America, the whole world ;
let her, in the name of Jesus Christ,
utter words of authority to the con-
querors of the earth, brave the ha-
tred which the consciousness of her
rights would draw upon her, and
dare to declare to crowned heads
that all Christians belong to her ; let
her not confine herself to raising in
capital cities Russian temples for the
use of the Russian embassies, but
let her require every government to
recognize the orthodox worship ; let
her missionaries penetrate, whether
welcomed or repelled, into all the
countries of the earth with the sole
credentials of tlie apostles, and,
strong in this single right, let them
return whither they are driven out,
and sprinkle with their blood the soil
wherein they sow the seed of ortho-
doxy. Then, and only then, will the
Russian Church show herself Catho-
lic ; tiiat is to say, universal; that i^
to say, the church of the Saviour of
alL Until then in vain may she call
herself Catholic while the title is de-
nied by the fact.

But these things the Russian
Church will never be able to accom«
plish without a pope.

From whom, in fact, will her priests
hold their commission? To whom
will they recur for counsel, protection,
and support ? In whose name will
they speak to governments and kings ?
To whom will they refer the latter
to authenticate the validity of their
mission, to propose objections, or to

lodge complaints ? If we except Rus-
sia, Turkey, the Hellenic kingdom,
Roumania, Servia, and some pro-
vinces of the Austro-Hungarian Em-
pire, the rest of the world is missionary
ground for the Orthodox Church, just
as much as is China for the Catholic
Church. Let us suppose the Rus-
sian Church wishing only to under-
take the conversion of France. Paris
already possesses a Russian temple ;
it is now the Synod, in concert with
<he government, which nominates the
persons attached to this temple.
When the official church shall have
fallen, and all the Russian bishops
shall be canonically equal, oi at
least independent of each other, t
which among them will the charge
of this mission belong ?

Paris is a place to stimulate the
zeal of many bishops. It is allowable
to believe that a settlement will not
be very quickly made. Let us sup-
pose it made, however, and moreover
that even there is established a college
De Propaganda Fide Orthodoxd at St.
Petersburg or Moscow, What would
be the attitude of the Greek Church
of Constantinople ? Will the latter
possess, or will she not possess, the
right to evangelize France, and there
to exercise ecclesiastical jurisdiction ?
If it be allowed that she has this right,
the same question presents itself also
for the three patriarchates of Antioch,
Alexandria, and Jerusalem; it also
presents itself for the Greek Church
of the Hellenic kingdom, for the
Church of Roumania, for that of
Servia, for the Orthodox Church of
the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and
even for that of Montenegro. Here
is already an accumulation and inter-
mingling of jurisdictions liable to give
rise to numerous contests. Who shall
decide amongst them? Will they
come to a mutual agreement ? But
an agreement will be everlastingly
impossible between the Greek and

833

The Future 0/ the Russian Church.

Russian Churches, at least so Icmg as
the question of the validity of baptism
by infusion remains undecided. We
will say Catholics are to be '^con*
verted" to orthodoxy: the Russian
ministers will not rebaptize them.
The Greek Church knows it — ^this
church, as we have just said, which
regards baptism by infusion as null.
If the Greek Church consents that
the Russian missionaries shall evan-
gelize France, it declares, by that
consent, that baptism is no long^
necessary for belonging to the church.
li^ however, she opposes their so do-
ing, who is to decide between them ?
And the simple ones who had pre-
viously let themselves be incorporated
into the Russian Church — would they
be very certain that they really be-
k«i:«d 10 the church ? Which, then,
>Ku. be the true missionaries ?

\\* coraae oursdves to this ex-
^^t/^c Let us apply ourselves care-
lUiiv tx> ^^iIu1(« in imagination, what
>tovHiiu be the situation of a church
siUcuu'U^J^ to do without a pope
laac w a:v h must be done by a church
bcaouig herself divine, and invested
by God with a commission to convert
the world — wishing to do, without a
pope, what b done by the Catholic
Church every day. Then it will be
easy to understand whether there can
be a divine church without a pope.

And this pope, without which the
Russian Church will never be the
universal church of Jesus Christ nor
fulftl the mission of that church —
where would she seek him ? Would
she, on account of the needs created
by her new situation, confer upon
one of the bishops all the authority
which is now concentrated in the
hands of the Synod ? Will she say
to him, Help me to fulfil the mission
of converting the world? But this
charge, this part, would it not with
greater right belong to the Patriarch
of Constantinople, who, so powerful

is the need of unity, has almcfy
declared, upon one solemn occaskw,
that on him rests the care §f aU ike
churches f* We are supposixig in the
Russian Church, and in the other
branches of the orthodox coouiiiiii-
ion, enough self-denial to consent to
this. But when this great event
shall have been accomplished, what
will have been done ?

It will have been acknowledged
before the fece of all the world
that it is not Rome who soade the
schism. It will have been confessed
that during ten centuries it has been
charged as a crime upon the Catholic
Church that she has not sacrificed
that which, after ten centuries of dis-
asters, the Eastern Church has fbund
it necessary to force herself to re-
gain under pain of ceasing to exist
There will have been rendored to the
Catholic Church the most splendid
of testimonies, in confessing that she
alone possesses the true sense of the
words of Jesus Christ, and that the
rock on which Jesus Christ has built
his church is Peter.

Indeed, from that day forward
there will be no more excuse for
schism. Between a rock designated
by men of the XlXth century, and
that rock of wliich the manifest ex-
istence goes back to Jesus Cbrir
himself, and has been pointed out b)*
him, who that but knows how to
read and write can hesitate for an m-
stant ? *

Such, therefore, is the altemati\-e:
either the Orthodox Church will be
forced to give herself a pope, to show
that she is really that which she
entitles herself, " Catholic," or uni-
versal, and to fulfil the mission m-
posed by this name, or slie will neter

* It is thtis that Anthimns, the Puriu^ of O*-
stantinopfe, ezineated hiaaelf in a Juiu ^ fi am-
ceraing the independence of the Orthodox Cksicib
of the Hellenic kingdom. See Tk* Ptf€ ^ Mmm.
etc, p. 14a. French ed., p. a«7.

Burke and the Revolution.

823

be able to justify her appreciation of
this title. What will happen in the
former case, we have just said ; if, on
the contrary, the Orthodox Church
delays to give herself a pope, the
rapid march of events, and the re-

volutionary storm from which neither
Russia nor the East will by any
means be preserved, will, before very
long, prove to us that it is not upon
the sand that Jesus Christ has built
his church.

TO OB C0NCLUDB9 NMTT MOMTB.

BURKE AND THE REVOLUTION.

Bacon's grand testamentary vin-
dication of his life, "bequeathing
his name and memory to foreign
nations and his own countrymen
after some time be passed over,"
might have been written with even
greater justice of himself — because
free from any imputation of moral
weakness — by the master-mind of
the XVIIIth century in England
in the domain of political philo-
sophy — Edmund Burke, the illus-
trious orator and statesman, the au-
thor of Reflections on the Revolution
in France, To-day, when France,
** incessantly agitated by a propa-
ganda of the most pernicious doc-
trines," * still vindicates the saga-^
city which foresaw the disastrous
coarse of the Revolution, while
Egland, which he saved from the
same propaganda, uninterruptedly
illustrates the " beneficial influence
of the regular action of the public
powers," it may not be amiss to re-
call some of the opinions to which
he gave utterance at the beginning
of the storm. Burke's genius, like
Bacon's, was indeed too refulgent
not to be acknowledged even in his
own day. But the burning ques-

* MesMge <A Manhal MacMahoo to the French
AatomUy.

tions upon the discussion of which
and their solution, so far as human
reason can go, he has built up an
enduring fame — monumentum cere
perennius — lighted up passions too
gigantic and furious in the tremen-
dous conflict then inaugurated to
allow of contemporary justice being
done to his lators. Nor did their
negatory influence upon his fame
end with his death ; two allied
causes have conspired to partially
obscure the clear and immortal flame
of his genius, even to our time :

First, the jealousy of the politi-
cal and literary followers of Charles
James Fox.

Secondy the inimical spirit of the
Revolution.

Burke, as it is well known, had to
contend, during his parliamentary
career, not only against the Tory
prejudices of the country party,
represented by such men as Wil-
liam Lord Bagot and Col. Onslow,
but also against the ill-concealed
jealousy and oligarchical exclusive-
ness of his nominal allies, the Whig
aristocracy. But this influence of
caste, which in his lifetime placed
over his head his political pupil,
Charles Fox, as the representative
of the Whig family compacts, has

824

Burke and the Revolution.

been succeeded since his death by
a more acrimonious spirit of per-
sonal jealousy in defence of the
fame of his younger rival. The
partisans of Fox have never been
able to forgive Burke's renuncia-
tion of his alliance with the eloquent
Whig leader ; and so large a share
of literary and political criticism
during the last half-century has
come from the pens of that small
but popular band of writers who
took their inspiration from the
traditions of Holland House, that
the acknowledgment of Burke's
profound and prophetic genius has
i>ceii unduly circumscribed by the
di»ire of elevating the " great man "
ot :«e finirly. Macaulay and Earl
R*5s^!l have given expression to
:xj> terfur.s:: the former by cov-
<i:tlv :::>:-aa::n§ a doubt of Burke's
^*cj: :i^;au while lavishly extolling
t3<f splendor of his imagination ;
the latter by open denunciation of
his course at the outbreak of the
Revolution; Earl Russell with un-
conscious self-satire quoting these
lines from La Fontaine :

L*VriT est de fea poor le iFmof n
U ett de gbce pour U Writ^"

The efforts ot a powerful literary
and family connection to elevate its
idol, Charles Fox, at the expense of
Burke, have had, however, but small
effect in limiiing the measure of the
latter's fame, compared with the hos-
tile spirit of revolution animating
the current periodical literature of
England and America, If the apos-
tles of the Revolution, who steal
Burke's thunder without acknow-
ledgment, when it suits their pur-
pose, against the despotism of
|X)wer, could bury out of sight his
protests against that worse despot-
ism of unchained human passions,
which is their ideal of liberty, they
\\*ould gladly place him in their Pan-
theon, But the mind of the great po-

litical philosopher was too ^raradfy
comprehensive to be narrowe<i liritk-
in the grooves of that fashionabie
** liberalism " which covers cvcrj tbc
basest tyranny, if directed against
the Catholic Church. His humanitr
was too broad and true not to be
aroused into flaming denunciation
of the abuse of power, whether it as-
sumed the shape of "opulent op-
pression " in India or democratic
priest-slaughter in France. Hence
it is that Burke holds but a half-al*
legiance of the Liberal party ; that
his fame has been, as it were, trun-
cated, so far as they have been abic
to effect it ; and that his magnificent
vindications of the cause of liberty,
bounded by no limitations of race,
government, or creed, are circnm-
scribed in their minds by his anee-
revolutionary labors.

But it is not in the power of any
class of critics, least of all of the
light artillery of " liberalism," to
narrow or permanently diminish
Burke's kingdom over human
thought. His fame will not be de-
pendent upon the fashion of this or
any single age. The consensus of
humanity has crowned him among
the Immortals. When Macaulay
and Russell shall have become ob-
scure names, the works of Burke
will endure as monuments of oar
civilization. His place will be
with Demosthenes and Cicero, and
in the estimation of a more remote
posterity he will probably overtop
them both.

The long, lean figure, with specta-
cles on nose, once familiar to the
caricaturists of the third George*!
reign, has faded a good deal froa
the eyes of the present generation.
We now turn over with a smile the
prints of the " concealed Jesuit "
from S. Omer*s, barrette on head.
and long soutane clinging to his
heels ; or the more portly figure of

Burke and the Revolution.

825

he highwayman, blunderbuss in
landy waylaying, in company with
^orth and Fox, the ** savior of In-
iia '* (Warren Hastings) ; or the
* Watchman " of the constitution,
n heavy cloak, lantern in hand, and
•pectacles on the formidable nose,
erreting out the revolutionary
preacher, Dr. Price, in his midnight
itudy. The gravers of Gilray and
Sayer have yielded to those of the
caricaturists for Punch. The figures
of Gladstone, Disraeli, and Bright
have supplanted those of Pitt, Fox,
and Burke. The great orator and
statesman has taken his place as a
classic on the shelves of all libra-
ries^ but is popularly known only
by a few rounded extracts from his
speeches, or by Macaulay's descrip-
tion of the entrance on the parlia-
mentary stage of Lord Rocking-
ham's young Irish secretary, "who
to an eloquence surpassing the elo-
quence of Pitt, and an industry that
shamed the industry of Grenville,
united an amplitude of comprehen-
sion to which neither Pitt nor Gren-
ville could lay claim." But if Burke
has shared the fate of all great writ-
ers not strictly popular in being con-
ventionally admired but practically
neglected by the general reader, no
political author is more diligent-
ly studied by the " middlemen *' of
thought, the makers and leaders of
public opinion. He is the private
tutor of public teachers ; the vade
ffucum of the orator and politician.
Most of the questions of political
ethics which have been the subjects
of discussion during the present cen-
tury have been profoundly treated
of by him. Catholic emanci{)ation,
parliamentary reform, the freedom
of the press, ministerial responsibi-
lity, the relations of church and
state, the abolition of the slave
trade, the amelioration of the crim-
inal law — all have received from him

their most ample and brilliant illus-
tration.

Of all the events of his time,
however, the Revolution of 1789
gave the chief exercise to his pow-
ers. Born in 1730, he was then at
the zenith of his fame, in the full
maturity of his massive yet acute
intellect. Earl Russell's senile
complaint in his life of Fox of " the
wreck of his (Burke's) judgment "
betrays only the dotage of his own:
Advancing age had better fitted
him for the contest. His mind
had, as Macaulay truly says, bloom-
ed late into flower, although the
rhetoric of the essayist has cari-
catured the sterility of his youth.
The giant trunk was now crown-
ed with a luxuriant and graceful
foliage, which added to its beauty,
while it detracted nothing from
its strength. The experience of
"his long and laborious life," the
accumulated stores of his prodi-
gious industry, furnished him with
weapons of finest temper and irre-
sistible force. Thus armed, step-
ping to the front as the champion
of civilization and religion against
the Giant Despair which had broken
its bonds in Europe, it was with
striking appropriateness that his
friend, Sir Joshua Reynolds, applied
to him, at the moment of his rupture
with Fox and the opposition, the
lines written under the engraving
of 1790 from the portrait of 1775 —
lines in which Milton describes the
faithful Abdiel striding forth, soli-
tary, from amid the rebel host :

** So spake the fervent angel, but his zeal

None seoMided :

, . . . Unmpred,
Unsnaken, unseduced, unterrified«
Hia loyalty he kept, his kuve, his xeal ;
Nor number nor example with him wrought
To move from truth, or change his constant mind.
Though single, t'rom amidst forth he passed
Long way through h(»tile scorn, nor of violence

feared aught ;
And with retorting scorn, hb back he turned
On those proud towers to swift destruction

doomed."

836

Burke and the Rei/eluiion.

The efforts of Burke's single mind
at this critical moment decided the
course of events in England. His
speeches in Parliament and the pub-
lication of his Reflections on the
Revolution in France aroused a na-
tional feeling that all the efforts
of the revolutionary propagandists
were unable to stem; which Pitt
followed rather than led ; and
which enabled England to carry
on without flinching, to a triumph-
ant close, the long and bloody war
in national self-defence into which
she was driven by the aggressive
spirit of the Revolution. Pitt only
gave utterance to the national feel-
ing when he declared at the close
of Burke's speech on the Army Es-
timates, in which he flung down the
gauntlet to the Revolution, " that
not only the present generation
l)ut the latest posterity would re-
vere his name for the decided part
lie had that day taken."

It was Burke's fortune to wit-
ness the temporary triumph, but
not the succeeding repulse, of the
first outbreak of the Revolution.
He died at the full tide of its fury.
Yet the tremendous blows he dealt
its principles, single-handed, before
all that was mortal of him was laid
at rest at Beaconsfield, undoubtedly
saved England from succumbing to
its influence in his own day, and
their conservative force is still felt
in the government of that country,
"This man," said Schlegel, "has
been to his own country and to all
Europe — and, in a particular man-
ner, to all Germany — a new light
of political wisdom and moral ex-
perience. He corrected his age
when it was at the Iveight of its
revolutionary fury; and without
maintaining any system of philoso-
phy, he seems to have seen further
into the true nature of society, and
to have more clearly comprehended

the effect of religion in connectisg
individual security with nattoAal
welfare, than any philosopher or
any system of philosophy of any
preceding age." True words, and
worthy of attention at this mome&t,
when Germany has entered on a
new and dangerous course of pc^
tical action.

From the first mutterings of the
revolutionary storm Burke had db-
trusted its character and future
violence. Alarmed by what he had
seen of the undisguised levity and
scepticism of Parisian society 6m-
ing his visit to France in 1771, be
had taken occasion in one of his
speeches, as early as 1773, to point
out " this conspiracy of atheism to
the watchful eyes of European gov-
ernments." The outrages in riic
name of liberty which were simul*
taneous with its outburst detenaiQ-
ed his course, although his keen
political vision had long be£c^re
penetrated the hollowness of its
professions. The old political
gladiator, " in whose breast," as be
proudly and truly said of bns-
self, "no anger, durable or vehe-
ment, had ever been kindled bat
by what he considered as tyranny";
whose potent voice bad re-echoed
across the Western ocean in sup-
port of the American colonist, hid
pleaded for the African slave and
Hindoo laborer, and had instilled
fresh hope in the broken heart of
the Irish "Papist," roused him-
self now to his last and most pover-
ful effort in defence of the fugitire
French "aristocrat " and banted
priest.

"I have struggled," he said,** to
the best of my power against tvo
great evils, growing out of the most
sacred of all things — liberty and
authority. I have struggled against
the licentiousness of freedom, 1
have contended against the tyranfiy

Burke a»d t/te Rtrvolutiim.

827

if power." Nearly ten years be-
'ore, in his speech on the Mar-
ia^e Act, defending himself against
he charges of " aristocrat " and
* radical" which had been alter-
nately levelled against him, he had
:>redicted his course in these noble
irords :

" When indeed the smallest rights of
ihe poorest people in the kingdom are in
question, I would set my face against
uiy act of pride countenanced by the
b&gbcst that are in it; and if it should
come to the last extremity, and a con-
test of blood, my course is taken. I
would take my fate with the poor, and
low, and feeble. But if these people
ootne to turn their liberty into a cloak
for mischievousness, and to seek a
privilege of exemption, not from power,
but from the rules of morality and vir-
tuous discipline, I would join my hand
10 make them feel the force which a few
united in a good cause have over a mul-
titude of the profligate and ferocious."

Burke's theory of true reform,
illustrated by the honorable labors
of his whole public career, was in
fact so radically opposed to that of
the French constitution-makers that
no standing-ground common to
both could be found. He foresaw
plainly enough what were the secret
aims and aspirations of the revolu-
tionary leaders from the first, what-
ever might be their humanitarian
professions; that whatever their
changes of leaders or watchwords,
their goal would always be the
same — the destruction of existing
society; not reparation, but ruin.
He would have seen in M. Gam-
betta*s programme of a nouvelle
<(mchesociale^ enunciated at Grenoble
in 1873, only a new reading of M.
Marat's schemes of universal con-
fiscation in 1793. Neither would
have found more favor in his eyes
than in those of any English re-
^onncr from S. Thomas k Becket to
Hampden. He believed with Bacon

that there could be no wise design
of reform which did not set out
with the determination " to weed,
to prune, and to graft, rather than
to plough up and plant all afresh."
Sixty years afterwards another wri-
ter, after an elaborate and prolong-
ed study of the ancien rkgime^ and
a lifetime's experience of the results
of the Revolution, arrived at the
point from which Burke started.
The writer was Alexis de Tocque-
ville. Those who are familiar only
with the Democracy in America^ the
work of his inexperienced youth,
would do well to read his Memoir
and Letters by De Beaumont. Writ-
ing to M. Freslon in 1853, after
the events of 1848-51 had pretty
well cured him of liberalism, he
said :

" When one examines, as I am doing
at Tours, the archives of an ancient pro-
vincial government, one finds a thousand
reasons for hating the ancien regime,
but few for loving the Revolution ; for
one sees that the ancien regime was rapid-
ly sinking under the weight of years and
a gradual change of ideas and manners.
so that, with a little patience and good
conduct, it might have been reformed
without destroying indiscriminately all
that was good in it with all that was bad.
It is curious to see how different was the
government of 1780 from that of 1750.
One does not recognize the government
or the governed. The Revolution broke
out not when evils were at their worst,
but when reform was beginning. Half-
way down the staircase we threw our-
selves out of the window, in order to get
sooner to the bottom *' (Memoir and He-
mains, vol. ii. pp. 242, 243, £ng. cd.)

Burke had an invincible distrust
of the crude theories and rash
speculations of the doctrinaires of
the Revolution. " Follow experience
and common sense," he says in a
hundred different ways; "these are
the arguments of statesmen ! Leave
the rest to the schools, where only
they may be debated with — safety***

828

Burke and the Revolution.

"In politics," he says, "the most
fallacious of all things is geometri-
cal demonstration." Again: "The
majors make a pompous figure in
the battle, but the victory of truth
depends upon the little minors of
circumstances." He compares the
socialist theorist ready to plunge
into the volcano of revolutionary
experiment to the Sicilian sophist —
ardentem frigidus jEtnam insiluit.
The atrocious principles of the
literary and philosophical guides
of the Revolution seemed to him
almost more portentous than the
brutalities of the mob. " Never be-
fore this time," he says, " was a set
of literary men converted into a
gang of robbers and assassins. Never
before did a den of bravoes and
banditti assume the garb and tone
of an academy of philosophers."

Remarkable sayings then, and
true of experience anterior to his
time. But had Burke lived in our
day, he would have witnessed with
astonishment the full development
of the spirit he Renounced, in the
terrible spectacle of an aggressive
infidel philosophy, and an almost
universal infidel press, sometimes
truculent, sometimes frivolous, but
always shamelessly boastful of its
pagan principles. He would have
seen a school of pseudo-philosophy
professing its open design to de-
stroy the foundations of revealed re-
ligion ; filled with tlxe spirit of the
apostate Julian ; as audacious and
boastful as he, but destined to meet
as shameful an end.

Let us compare, then, Burke's
theory of true liberty, and his opin-
ion of what France might have
gained by a large and loyal measure
of reform, with the desperate coun-
sels and futile outrages which follow-
ed the surrender of the movement
by the French conservatives into
the hands of the Jacobins. " You

would," he says, had such a course
as he recommended been porsucd
" have rendered the cause of liberty
venerable in the eyes of CTcn
worthy mind in every nation. You
would have shamed despotism from
the earth by showing that freedom
was riot only reconcilable, bat, ^s
when well disciplined it is, anxilim
to law. You would have had A
protected, satisfied, laborious, ami
obedient people, taught to seek lod
recognize that happiness b to br
found by virtue in all conditiom ;
in which consists the true moral
equality of mankind, and not in that
monstrous fiction which, by inspir-
ing false ideas and vain expecta-
tions into men destined to travel in
the obscure walks of laborious Blc
serves only to aggravate and em-
bitter that real inequality which it
never can remove."

Burke's frequent definitions of
true liberty are as beautiful as the}
are true. *'You hope, sir," ht
says, writing to De MenonTilIc,
" that I think the French desenrini
of liberty. I certainly do. I cer-
tainly think all men who desire it
deserve it. It is not the reward of
our merit or the acquisition of o«r
industry. It is our inheritance. Ji
is the birthright of our species
We cannot forfeit our right to it
but by what forfeits our title to the
privileges of our kind. I mean the
abuse or oblivion of our natural
faculties, and a ferocious indocititj
which is prompt to wrong orvro-
lence, destroys our social nature,
and transforms us into something 2
little better than a description tk
wild beast. To men so degraded j
state of strong restraint is a sort of
necessary substitute for frecdoa.
since, bad as it is, it may ddrvcr
them in some measure from tk
worst of all slavery, that is, the des-
potism of their own blind and bn-

Burke and the Revolution.

829

I passions. You have kindly said
at you began to love freedom from
mr intercourse with me. Permit
e, then, to continue our conversa-
Dn, and to tell you what that free-
)m is that I love. It is not soli-
ry, unconnected, individual, selfish
ierty. It is social freedom. It is
iat state of things in which the
berty of no man and no body of
icD is in a condition to trespass
n the liberty of any person or any
lescTiption of persons in society.
'he liberty, the only liberty, I mean,
*a liberty connected with order;
hat not only exists along with vir-
iie and order, but which cannot
xist without them."

** Am I," he asks, in answer to
he shibboleth of the "rights of
nan,*' — " am I to congratulate a
Highwayman and murderer, who
bas broke prison, upon the recovery
of his natural rights? This would
he to act over again the case of the
criminals condemned to the galleys
.md their heroic deliverer, the knight
'>r the * sorrowful countenance.' "

If we turn from Burke's satire
ii|)on the revolutionary actors to
his opinions on its probable onward
course and changing fortunes, we
Uiall find a series of the most re-
markable political prophecies on
record. At a time when Fox and
the opposition hailed th^ Revolution
as already accomplished, with no-
thing before it but a future of ideal
progress and happiness ; when Pitt
and the government seemed lulled
into a still more fatal inaction,
Burke proclaimed in decisive tones
that the contest between socialism
and all constituted governments
Iiad only begun. We group togeth-
er a few of these remarkable pre-
dictions, which time has so amply
verified : " He proposed to prove,"
He said in his Appeal from the New
Ut the Old Whigs, "that the present

state of things in France is not a
transient evil, productive, as some
have too favorably supposed, of a
lasting good ; but that the present
evil is only the means of producing
future and, if that were possible,
worse evils. That this is not an
undigested, imperfect, and crude
scheme of liberty, which may be
gradually mellowed and ripened
into an orderly and social freedom ;
but that it is so fundamentally
wrong as to be incapable of correct-
ing itself by any length of time."
Again : " We are not at the end
of our struggle or near it. Let us
not deceive ourselves; we are at
the beginning of great troubles."
Predicting the changing features
of the Revolution, he said : " In its
present form it can hardly remain ;
but before its final settlement it may
have to pass, as one of our poets
says, * through great varieties of un-
tried being,' and in all its trans-
migrations to be purified by fire
and sword." The very spirit of the
Commune is thus foreshadowed in
a letter to M. de Afenonville, 1790:
** But if the same ends should here-
after require the same course which
had been already pursued, there is
no doubt but the same ferocious de-
light in murder and the same sav-
age cruelty will be again renewed."
Taus les Mques a la lanterne was
the watchword of both outbreaks
of the Revolution.

Compare with these sayings the
remarks, fifty years later, of an-
other observer, of great acuteness,
but moulded in less heroic propor-
tions than Burke. " This day fifty-
one years," writes De Tocqueville,
the author of Democracy in Amer*
ica, " the French Revolution com-
menced, and, after the destruction
of so many men and institutions, we
may say it is still going on. Is not
this reassuring to the nations that

830

Burke and the Revolution,

Are only just beginning theirs?"*
De Tocqueville, it is well known,
during the early part of his career,
was tainted with the prevalent lib-
eral Catholicism of his day in
France. He wished to unite the
church with the Revolution — chime-
rical task, of which advancing years
and experience convinced him of
the sinful folly! Happily for him-
self, he died a good Catholic in the
bosom of the church.

*• I scarcely dare hope," he says, " to
see a regular government, strong and at
the same time liberal, established in our
country. This ideal was, as you know,
the dream of my youth, and likewise of
the portion of my mature age that has
passed. Is it possible still fol)elieTe in
its realization ? For a long time I thought
(but long before February this belief had
been much shaken) that we had been
making our way over a stormy sea, on
which we were still tossing, but that the
port was at hand. Was 1 not wrong?
Are we not on a rolling sea that has no
shore ? Or is not the land so distant, so
unknown, that our lives and those of our
children may pass away before it is
reached, or, at least, before any settlement
is made upon it? ... I am indeed
alarmed at the state o! the public mind.
It is far from betokening the close of a
revolution. At the time it was said, and to
this day it is commonly repeated, that the
insurgents of June were the dregs of the
populace; that they were all outcasts
of the basest description, whose only
motive was lust for plunder. Such, of
course, were many of them. But it is not
true that they wereall of this kind ; would
to God that they had been! Such
wretches are always a small minority;
they never prevail; they are imprisoned
or executed, and all is over. In the in-
surrection of June, besides bad passions,
there were, what are far more dangerous,
false opinions. Many of the men who at-
tempted to overthrow the most sacred
rights were carried away by an erroneous
notion of right. They sincerely believed
that society was based upon injustice,
and they wished to give it another founda-
tion. [Compare Gambetta'swwiw//f^w^^

• Letter to M. Stoffe|», Nov. 30, 1841 {Mimoiran^
Rtmmitu 0/ A Uxis ds TocqutvilU),

sociaU^ Our bayonets and oor ao&M
will never destroy this revolutioBary fa-
naticism. It will create for us dangm
and embarrassments without end Fi-
nally, I begin to ask myself whether ist-
thing solid or durable can be built on the
shifting basis of our society? Wbdher ii
will support even a despotiim, whkb
many people, tired of storms, woaU,fof
want of a better, hail as a haven? Wc
did not see this great rcvoluiioB in
human society begin ; wc shall not see ii
end. If I had children, I should altar
be repeating this to them, tad AoaW
tell them that in this age and in Om
country one ought to be fit forevcirtkiBg,
and prepared for everything, for no od«
can count on the future." *

A conversation apropos of aBew-
dictine survivor of i7^gi^«*» ^"
Mr. Senior's Journal (MmsirM
ii. p. i), illustrates the final opin-
ion of the author of Democnq »
America upon the Revolution. It
took place only one year before hn
death :

"And what effect.** I asked. -has At
contemplation of seventy years of retoiB;
tion produced on him (the BcnedJCOBfi
Does he look back, like Tallcyra^. to^
atmen regime as a golden agcr "^
admits." said Tocqueville, " the maw«
superiority of our own »««• ^"^ „ ^
lieves that intellectuaUy and »«»"'.'^
are far inferior to our grand6atb«ri A ^
I agree with him. These seventy y^
of revolution have destroyed our coor«^
our hopefulness, our self'tlixiKt. "f
public spirit, and, as respects hy IB^
majority of our higher cl**5**»*^'JJ^
sions, except the vulgarest awl »«
selfish ones, vanity and covetouo^
Even ambition seems extinct. Tbe 0^
who seek power seek it not ^^ itsdl, »«
as a means of doing good to ^^^^^
but as a means of getting o»n«r**""'
terers." t

What more remarkable te;^
to Burke's prophetic vision cobk
be offered ? .

If any were needed, it "f^^^ "^
found in an opposite quarter, !nt^=
revelationsofCluseretandhisaccois

• Letter to StoflRd^ Joly "» ''f ^
■t Mr. Seaior'f 7^r««/, Apd ««. *^

Burke and the RevolutioH.

831

piices as to the premeditated burn-
m% of Paris and the destruction
of -the Vendome Column in 187 1,
Tiewe<l in connection with Burke's
positive and reiterated assertions
tfait the worst excesses of 1789 were
aot the result of sudden passion, nor
•jCeidental, " as some believed or
itetended to believe, but were sys-
msatically designed from the be-
gJMning.*' It is known that among
kii correspondents in 1789-90 were
ite notorious Tom Paine and the
CVCentric cosmopolite, Anacharsis
BlTon de Clootz, both of whom
stcove to enlist Burke in the defence
oC the revolutionary cause before
\m had decisively pronounced him-
■df. Paine and Clootz, congenial
birds of prty, had both flown to
Faris (anticipating the course of
their disciples in 187 1), smelling the
approaching carnage afar off; and
from them there is reason to believe
Burke gathered ample hints of the
full measure of the revolutionary
programme. Striking also is Burke's
remark that the revolutionary sub-
division of France would induce a
demand for communal or cantonal
independence. ** These common-
wealths,*' he says, "will not long
bear a state of subjection to the
republic of Paris ** — a prediction
wonderfully verified by the attitude
of Lyons and Marseilles during the
late war and the period of the
Commune, as well as by the canto-
nal programme of the Spanish revo-
lutionists.

Burke's theory of the true basis
of government was as moderate and
well conceived as the revolutionary
schemes were destructive and un-
bound. " We know," he says, "and,
what is better, we feel, that religion
is the basis of society and the
source of all good and all comfort.
A man full of warm, speculative be-
nevolence may wish his society

otherwise constituted than as he
finds it ; but a good patriot and a
true politician always considers how
he sliall make the most of the ex-
isting constitution of his country.
A disposition to preserve and an
ability to improve taken together,
would be my standard of a states-
man. Everything else is vulgar in
the conception, perilous in the exe-
cution." His defence of the cause
of religion in France, and his glow-
ing tribute to the virtue and learn-
ing of the French clergy, then, as
now, the mark of the deadliest shafts
of the Revolution, are eloquent and
inspiring, but too long to quote in
til is article.

Equally remarkable with Burke's
prophetic warnings of the successive
crimes and follies of the Revolution
and its offspring, the Commune, are
his speculations on a supposed re-
storation of the monarchy. More
than a quarter of a century after his
death their wisdom was illustrated
in the events of the inglorious
reign of Charles X. His words are
almost startling in their applicabi-
lity to the present posture of French
affairs, the Septennate, and the con-
flicting aspirations of the Comte de
Chambord and the Prince Impe-
rial :

"What difficulties." he says, referring
to a Restoration, in his letter on the policy
of the allies, '*will be met with in a
country, exhausted by the taking of its
capital, and among a people in a manner
trained and actively disciplined to an-
archy, rebellion, disorder, and impiety,
may be conceived by those who know
what Jacobin France is ; who may have
occupied themselves in revolving iu their
minds what they were to do if it fell to
their lot to re-establish the affairs of
France. What support or what limita-
tions the restored monarchy must have
may be a doubt, or how it will settle or
pitch at last ; but one thing I conceive
to be far beyond a doubt— that the settle,
ment cannot be immediate, but that it

83^

Burke and ike Revolution.

most be preceded by some sort of power
equal, at least in Tigor, vigilance, prompt-
ness, and decision, to a military govern-
ment For such a preparatory govern*
ment no slow-paced, methodical, formal,
lawyer-like system ; still less that of a
showy, artificial, trifling, intriguing court,
guided by cabals of ladies, or men like
ladies; least of all a philosophic, theo-
retic, disputatious school of sophistr3^—
none of these ever will, or ever can, lay
the foundations of an order that will
last.-

*' A judicious, well-tempered, and
manly severity in the support of law
and order " — this was Burke's advice
to princes. He advocated freedom
of the press as understood in Eng-
land ; " but they indeed," he said,
** who seriously write upon a princi-
ple of levelling, ought to be answer-
ed by the magistrate, and not by the
speculatist.'* We conclude our quo-
tations by the following portrait of
the ** Legitimate Prince" :

•* VThoerer, '• says Burke, "claims a
rif^ht by birth to govern there, must find
in his br«ast, or conjure up in it, an enor-
fj not always to be expected, not always
to be wished, in well-ordered states. The
lawful prince must have in everything but
crime thecharacter of an usurper. He is
gone if he imagines himself the quiet pos-
sessor of a throne. He is to contend for
it as much after an apparent conquest as
before. His task is to win it. He roust
leave posterity to adorn and enjoy it. No
velvet cushions for him. He is to be al-
ways — I speak nearly to the letter — on
horseback. This opinion is the result of
much patient thinking on the subject,
which I conceive no event is likely to al-
ttr.-

Burke *s tremendous onslaught on
the Revolution drew forth swarms
of opponents in his own day, most
of whom are now forgotten. More
than emulating the besotted conceit
of those early apologists of anarchy,
** liberal" writers are still to be

found so infatuated with hostility to
the Catholic Church, so purblbd to
the experience of nearly a hundred
years — of the bloody chapters of
1793, of 1830, of 1848, of 1851,
of 1 87 1— so unawakencd by the
ruin the same accursed spirit has
wrought in Spain, as to be heard
chanting the glories of the Rerohi-
tion and bewailitg the possibility of
" a priestly reaction " as the ** de-
struction of all that has been gained
by the national agonies of the Ia>t
century." What has been gained
which would not have been gained
in the gradual progress of society?
What rather has not been lost in
national honor and domestic viitae
and happiness which would have
been retained " if men had not bcea
quite shrunk," as Burke said,** from
their natural dimensions by a de-
grading and sordid philosophy"?
Let a witness like De Tocqiiefille
answer !

The great political philosopher's
warnings against the real spirit of
the Revolution are still worthy the
attention of all governments. Time
has added to their value, not di-
minished it. " Against these, their
* rights of men,* let no government,"
he says, " look for security in the
length of its continuance or in ilic
justice and lenity of its administra-
tion. They are always at issue wilh
governments, not on a question of
abuse, but on a question of corDp^
tency and a question of tide."

His advice is vigorous and plain
" Never,** he says, " succumb to the
enemy. It is a struggle for your
national existence. If you mn^
die, die with the sword in your
hand ! But I have no fear for the
result !"

Robert Cavclier cU La SeUU.

«33

ROBERT CAVELIER DE LA SALLE.

CONCLUDBD.

On the 6th of April La Salle dis-
covered that the river was running
through three channels. The fol-
lowing day he divided his company
into three parties, of which he led
the one that followed the western
channel; the SieurdeTonty, accom-
panied by Father Membr^, took the
middle channel, and the Sieur Dau*
tray took the eastern channel. Fa-
ther Merabr^ relates that these
channels appeared to them " beau-
tiful and deep." The water began
to get brackish; then two leagues fur-
ther down it became perfectly salt ;
and now, O glorious sight !

**• The tea ! the sea ! the open tea,
Th« bhie, the fresh, the ever frae«"

was spread out before the eager and
enchanted eyes of those brave and
noble voyagers. Their first impulse
was to return thanks to the King of
kings for the protecting arm of his
providence, that had thus guided
them safely to this glorious con-
summation of their hopes ; their
second was to honor the King of
France for his favor and protection.
For these purposes, on tlie 9th of
April, a cross and a column were
erected with appropriate ceremo-
nies. The entire company, under
arms, joined with the minister of
religion in chanting the hymn of the
• Imrch, Vexilla Regis, and the Te
J^cuffty and then followed a dis-
charge of their muskets and shouts
of "Long live the King!*' The
column bore the following inscrip-
tion : "Louis the Great, King of
France and Navarre, reigns; the
9tli of April, 1682." At the foot
VOL. XX. — 5*5

of a tree La Salle caused a leaden
plate to be buried, bearing the arms
of France and a I^tin inscription
commemorative of the first naviga-
tion of the Mississippi, from the Illi-
nois to its mouth, by La Salle, Tonty ,
Membre, and twenty Frenchmen.
An authentic act, in the form of a
prods verbal, was drawn up by La
Metarie, the notary of the expedi-
tion, and signed by La Salle, Father
Membr^, Tonty, and the other prin-
cipal members of the company. La
Salle took formal possession of the
country, which he was the first to
call Louisiana, for the King of
France; also of the natives and peo-
ple residing therein, the seas, har-
bors, and all the streams flowing
into the Mississippi. The great
river itself he called the St. Loui.s.
In the midst of their rejoicings
they were suffering for food. They
found some dried meat prepared by
the Indians, of which they partook
with relish, and, as the good mission-
ary says, ** It was very good and
delicate." What must have been
their feelings when they discovered
that they had partaken of human
flesh ! Scarcity of food compelled
them to turn their canoes up-stream.
La Salle paid a visit to the hostile
Quinipissas, with whom he resorted
to his usual address to propitiate
their friendship, and, though invited
to a banquet, his men partook of it
with their guns at their sides. A
treacherous treaty of peace was en-
tered into, but was used as a cover
for an attack next morning upon
the Europeans. But the ever-
watchful La Salle was prepared for

834

Robert Cavalier de La Salle.

them. The two parties were en-
gaged in a contest of two hours, in
which the Quinipissas were worsted,
and sustained a loss of ten men kill-
ed and many wounded. This is
the only occasion in which the hos^
tile dispositions of the natives did
not yield to skill and diplomacy.
His men, exasperated at the con-
duct of the treacherous natives, urg-
ed him to allow them to bum their
village; but he adopted the wiser
and more humane policy of refrain-
ing from alienating still more by
unnecessary cruelty those whom he
wished to make devout worshippers
of the King of heaven and loyal sub-
jects of the King of France. During
the remainder of the return voyage,
with the exception of the Koroas,
who had now become allies of the
Quinipissas, he met with the same
hospitable treatment from the tribes
on the banks of the river as he had
received while going down. They
were now regaled on the fresh green
corn of the fields. La Salle with
two canoes pushed forward from
the Arkansas, in advance of his par-
ty, as far as Fort Prudhomme. Here
he became dangerously ill, and could
advance no further, and on the 2d
of June was joined by the entire
company. His malady became so
violent that he was compelled to
send Tonty forward to convey early
information to the Comte de Fron-
tenac of the great discovery. Fa-
ther Membr^ remained with La
Salle, doing all in his power to al-
leviate the sufferings of his cherish-
ed leader, whose illness continued
forty days. The expedition by slow
advances reached the Miami late
in September, where they learned
of several of Tonty's military expe-
ditions undertaken after he left the
main body. Intending to make
the voyage of the Mississippi again
in the spring, and plant colonies

along its shores, La Salle appointed
Father Membr^ his messenger to ik
king; and this zealous man, accept-
ing the commission with prompi-
ness, proceeded to Quebec, and on
the 2d of October sailed for France
to lay before the French court ac-
curate information of La Salle's
discoveries. During the next ten
or twelve months La Salle remained
in the Illinois country, cementing
his friendly alliances with the In-
dians, and pushing forward his tnd-
ing interests. Having seen fort
St. Louis completed, he left Tont)
in command of it, and for hisplm
of colonization he substituted the
project of applying to the French
goyemnient for co-operation in a
much more extensive oue. He
reached Quebec early in November.
and sailed for France to render an
account of his fulfilment of the ror-
al orders, and ' to enlist the good
offices of the government in bis
future plans, and landed at Rochellc
on the 23d of December, 1683.

The following allusion to La
S'alle's services to France in extend-
ing the province of New France bf
the exploration of the Mississippi, hf
Gov. Dongan, of the rival English
province of New York, is interest
ing. Alluding to a map of the
country which he was sending home
to his superiors. Gov. Dongan
writes : ** Also, it points out where
there's a great river discovered bv
oneLassal, a Frenchman from Caw-
da, who thereupon went into France,
and, as it's reported, brought tvo^
three vessels with people to settk
there, which (if true) will provt
very inconvenient to us, but to t.t
Spanish also (the river ninning aji
along from our lakes by the bac^
of Virginia and Carolina »nto thf
Bay of Mexico) ; and it's belief^
Nova Mexico cannot be far m

the mountains adjoining

it, ib^:

Robert Cavelicr de La SalU.

835

place being in 36*" North Latitude.
If your lordships thought it fit, I
could send a sloop or two from this
place to discover that river." *

La Salle now conceived the plan
of approaching the mouth of the
Mississippi by sea, exploring the
country, and founding powerful col-
onies therein. The evil reports of
his enemies had preceded him to
France, and these were strengthen-
ed by the disparaging representa-
tions which De La Barre, Fronte-
nac's successor as Governor of Cana-
da, had been sending liome. But
the Marquis de Seignelay, the son
of the deceased minister Colbert,
again favored La Salle's enterprises,
and secured for them the favor of
the king. The government provid-
ed a fleet of four vessels for the ex-
pedition : the Jofy, a royal ship, a
frigate of thirty-six tons, command-
ed by Capt. de Beaujeu, a Nor-
man gentleman, who was also com-
mander of the squadron ; the £elle^
of six tons, a present from the king
to La Salle ; the AimabUy a store-
ship of three hundred tons burden,
on board of which were the goods,
implements, and effects of the expe-
dition ; and the St Francis^ a ketch
containing munitions and merchan-
dise for San Domingo. M. de Chev-
alier d'Aire was lieutenant to Capt,
de Beaujeu, and the Sieurde Hamel,
a young gentleman full of fire and
courage, his ensign. Father Le
Clercq, the narrator of the expedi-
tion, exclaims : " Would to God the
troops and rest of the crew had
hecn as well chosen !"

A new commission was issued to
f^ Salle, by which he was author-
ised to found colonies in Louisiana,
And to govern the vast country and
>ts inhabitants from Lake Michi-
gan to the borders of Mexico. The

•Z>*f. HisU N, K,T. i. p. 158.

commander of the squadron was
to be subject to his orders, except
in navigating the ships at sea — an
arrangement which the jealous and
sensitive mind of Beaujeu permit-
ted to embitter him against La Salle,
and which led to difficulties between
them. Besides marines and one
hundred soldiers, the company to
embark in the expedition amounted
to about two hundred and eighty
persons, amongst whom were sev-
eral persons of consideration. The
Sieur Moranget, and the Sieur
Cavelier, nephews of La Salle, the
latter only fourteen years old ; Plan-
terose, Thibault, Ory, Joutel, Talon,
a Canadian gentleman with, his
family, and some other fas^iili^s,
consisting of men and young wo-
men, also joined the expedition as
volunteers. One of La Salle's first
cares was to provide for the spiritual
wants of his followers and colonists
and the conversion of the heathen
nations he expected to visit. For
ten years the zealous Recollect Fa-
thers had seconded and promoted
the efforts of La Salle to Christian-
ize the natives of the New World,
and he now made it an essential
point to obtain some of these holy
men to accompany his great expe-
dition. His application to their
superior, the Rev. Father Hyacinth
le Febvre, was cordially complied
with, and accordingly Fathers Ze-
nobe Membr^, Anastace Donay, and
Maxime Le Clercq were selected
from this order for the task. M.
Tron9on, superior of the Sulpitians,
was not behind the Recollects in
zeal for the good work, and accord-
ingly three secular priests, Cavelier,
the brother of La Salle, Chefdeville
his relative, and Majulle, were cho-
sen. These constituted the eccle-
siastical corps of the expedition.
Nothing was left undone, either by
the superiors of the Recollects or

83<5

Robert Cavelier de La SalU.

of the Sulpitians, nor by the Holy
See, for carrying the faith of Christ
to those remote and benighted re-
gions. Ample powers and privi-
leges were conferred upon the good
missionaries, so as to relieve them
from the necessity in emergencies
of resorting to the distant ordinary
of Quebec.

But in selecting soldiers, artisans,
and laborers, the most culpable dis-
regard of duty was chargeable to
the agents of La Salle, who, while
he was engaged at Paris, filled up
the ranks by receiving from the
streets of Rochelle worthless vaga-
bonds and beggars, who were wholly
ignorant of the trades for which
they were chosen. La Salle was
only partially able to remedy this
evil before sailing. Bancroft thus
describes the composition of this
part of the expedition: "But the
mechanics were poor workmen, ill-
versed in their art; the soldiers,
though they had for commander
Joutel, a man of courage and truth,
and afterwards the historian of the
grand enterprise, were themselves
spiritless vagabonds, without disci-
pline and without experience ; the
volunteers were restless with indefi-
nite expectations ; and, worst of all,
the naval commander, Beaujeu, was
deficient in judgment, incapable of
sympathy with the magnanimous
heroism of La Salle, envious, self-
willed, and foolishly proud." La
Salle arrived at Rochelle on the
28th of May, 1684, and during his
stay of some weeks the unhappy
misunderstanding between him and
the commander of the squadron,
which proved so great a drawback
on the enterprise, began to mani-
fest itself. The four vessels sailed
from Rochelle on the 24th of July,
but the breaking of one of the
masts of the Joiy in a storm caused
them to put in at Chef-de-Bois, and

finally, on the ist of August, they set
sail again, steering for San Domtii-
go. During the voyage to San Do-
mingo, La Salle and Beaujeu could
not proceed together with cordiality
or harmony, and the former wts
unfortunate in gaining the iU-wdl
of the subordinate officers asd
sailors by interfering to protect be
own men from what he regarded as
an absurd and unnecessary proce^
dure. It was the custom amo&f;
sailors to require all who had not
before crossed the tropic to submit
to the penalty of being plunged
into a tub of water by their vetena
companions for the amusement of
others, or pay liberally for a cobi-
mutation of the penalty. LaSaik
peremptorily forbade his men bcJag
subjected to this alternative ; hence
the hostility of those who failed to
realize the usual fun or fine at their
expense. After a prosperous voy-
age a storm overtook the squadnm
as they approached San Domingo.
It was agreed that the Jifiy shooM
put in at Port de Paix in thenoTtho(
the island ; but Beaujeu changed his
course of his own will, and carried
her to Petit Gonave, far to the
south. In four days the BelkztA
Aimabie^ which had been separated
from her by the storm, joined her
there. The Si, J^rancis wis sur-
prised and captured by two Spanish
pirogues, which was a serioas km
to the expedition and a sore afflict
tion to La Salle.

At Petit Gonave La Salle did all
in his power for the relief of the
sick. He was, however, stricken
down himself by a violent illness
that for a while rendered his re-
covery hopeless. He recovered in
time sufficiently to attend to the
prosecution of the voyage. He
and Fathers Membr^ and Donay,
Cavelier, Chefdeville, and Joutd,
were transferred to the Aimahk^

Robert CavHier de La Salle.

837

and thus the two commanders were
happily separated. In their mis-
understanding Beaujeu was greatly
sit fault in accepting a command
inierior to that of La Salle, as he
well knew it to be, and in embar-
rassing by his petulant and jealous
course an undertaking which lii|
instructions and bis obvious duty
obliged him to promote. La Salle,
too^ wohld have acted more wisely
and discreetly in conciliating one
wbose good-will and co-operation
were so necessary to his success.
The squadron, now reduced to
three vessels, sailed from Petit
Gonave on the 25th of November.

After pursuing their course safe-
ly along the Cayman Isles, and
anchoring at the Isle of Peace
(pines), where they stopped to take
in water, and at Port San Antonio,
in the Island of Cuba, they enter-
ed the Gulf of Mexico on the 12th
of December. Sailing ten days
l^pger, they descried land at once
from the Belle and Aifnable, So
utterly unknown was the latitude
of the coasts, and so erroneous the
sailing information given to them
at San Domingo, that jio one could
tell where they were; but it was
conjectured after much consultation
that they must be in the Bay of
Appalachee, which is nearly three
hundred miles east of the Mississip-
pi. On the contrary, they were
near Atchafalaya Bay, about one
hundred miles west of the main
mouth of the Mississippi. Guided
by the general opinion as to their
locality, they now coasted to the
westward, going still further from
the object of their search. No
information could be obtained from
the natives on the shore, and finally,
after twenty days' sailing, it was
ascertained that they were approach-
ing the borders of Mexico, near
Magdalen River and the Bay of

Espiritu Santo. The Joly now
came up, and the unfortunate mis-
understanding between La Salle
and Beaujeu was renewed, in con-
sequence of the latter charging that
he had been designedly left behind.
The superior sailing capacity of
the Jolyy and Beaujeu's evident in-
difference about keeping company
with the other vessels, flatly con-
tradicted this irritating charge.
All, now desired to return in the
direction of the Mississippi, except
Beaujeu, who would not go without
a w^'^ supply of provisions. La
Salle offered a supply of fifteen
days, the best he could do; but
Beaujeu rejected the offer as insuffi-
cient. In the meantime the vessels
proceeded twenty miles along the
coast, reaching the outlet of the
Bay of St Bernard, to which I^
Salle gave the name of St. Louis,
now called Matagorda Bay. Joutei
and Moranget were sent to explore
the bay, and afterwards La Salle
joined them at a river they could
not cross without a boat. The
pilots having reported insufficient
depth of water, the AimabU was
lightened and her captain ordered
to run her into the bay. The pilot
of the Belle^ knowing the harbor,
was sent to his assistance ; but the
captain of the Aimable refused him
admittance on board, saying that
he knew how to manage his own
ship. The AimabU was soon upon
a shoal. She bilged, and was a
ruin. A portion of the cargo was
saved, Beaujeu himself sending his
boats to assist, but most of the
implements and tools intended for
the colony were lost. There was
no doubt, says Joutel, of the treach-
ery of the captain of the Aimakle
in this affair. La Salle from the
shore had the mortification of see-
ing all his orders disobeyed, and
witnessed this deplorable accident

838

Robert Cavelier dt La Salii.

to the store-ship. He was embark-
ing, in order to remedy the false
movements of his vessels, when
over a hundred Indians made their
appearance. First putting them
to flight, and then offering them the
calumet, he made them his friends.
He also gave them presents, pur-
chased some of their canoes, and
all seemed to promise a lasting
friendship, from which great advan-
tages would have resulted to the
expedition. But, alas ! all upon
whom La Salle had to depend did
not possess his prudence nor always
follow his injunctions. By the im-
prudence of some of his men a
serious difficulty sprang up with
the Indians. A bale of blankets
from the wreck of the store-ship
was thrown ashore and seized by
the Indians. La Salle ordered his
men to recover it by peaceable
means ; but they pursued just the
opposite course, by demanding its
restoration with pointed muskets.
They became alarmed and fled, but
returned at night, and, finding the
sentinel asleep, attacked the camp,
killing the Sieurs Ory and Desloges,
two of La Salle's most valued
friends, two cadets, and dangerous-
ly wounding Moranget. This and
the numerous other disasters which
they encountered caused many a
heart that started out full of hope
and courage to falter or despond,
and many talked of abandoning
the enterprise. But La Salle's ex-
ample of calm determination and
unflagging spirit sustained them
under the appalling gloom and ill-
luck that seemed to hang over the
adventure. But Beaujeu, whose
hostility to La Salle and his enter-
l)rise increased with the misfortunes
of the latter, now resolved to return
to France. All the cannon-balls
were in his vessel, and he refused
to deliver them, because it would be

necessary to remove a part of fais
cargo in order to get thetn out
Thus the cannons were left with the
colony, and the balls carried back
to France. He took on board the
treacherous captain and crew of
the Aimablt^ and the i2thof Mardi
jailed for France. In the mean-
time the company left at the fort
sustained a severe loss in the death
of the Sieur de Gros from the bite
of a rattle-snake. Also, a conspiracy
was set on foot in the fort, with the
design of murdering Joute), and
then escaping with such effects as
they could carry off. But the
designs of these traitors were dis-
covered in time to be defeated.
The colony now consisted oi about
one hundred and eighty pcisoos
besides the crew of the BclU^ and
their own faithful guns were their
only means of obtaining food in
that vast and distant wild. A
temporary fort was erected vitii
the dibris of the AimaUe for
their protection, and Moranget was
left in command of it. La Salle,
accompanied by Fathers Mem-
bra and Le Clercq, started out with
fifty men to explore the shores of
the bay, ordering the BdU to sail
along to make soundings. Anchor-
ing opposite a point — where a post
was established, to which Holier
gave his own name (being appointed
to the command of it), serving as
an intermediate station between
the naval camp and that which La
Salle intended to establish further
on — in their course a large riter
was discovered, to which La Salle
gave the name of Vacbes, or Cow
River, from the great number of
cows he saw on its banks; and
here the intended sution was
erected. Holy Week and Easter
intervening, were celebrated with
solemnity and fervor by these
Cliristian colonists in the wilder-

Robert CaveRer de La Salle.

839

n^ss, " each one," as Father Mem-
bra remarks, *' receiving his Crea-
tor/* About the middle of July
the entire colony, with their effects
and whatever could be of service,
^*rere transferred to this encamp-
nieiU from those of Moranget and
H urier, which were destroyed. Hape
the men were employed in culti-
vating the soil and in sowing
sct:ds brought from France, which,
however, did not succeed, either
because they had been injured by
ihc salt water or because the sea-
son was not suitable. They were
next engaged in erecting a habita-
tion and fort, which was a work of
huge labor and hardship, as the
trees for the timber had to be cut
three miles off and dragged to the
spot, and many of the men sank
under the toil. The Sieur de Ville-
perdy and thirty others were car-
ried off within a few day by dis-
ease contracted at San Domingo,
and among them was the master-
carpenter, whose services could
not well be spared. While under
these calamities the spirits of all
around him were sinking, La Salle
remained firm and cheerful. Set-
ting them the example himself, he
kept all the healthy men at work.
He took the place of architect
and chief carpenter upon himself,
marked out the beams, tenons,
and mortises, and prepared the
timbers for the workmen. The
fort occupied an advantageous
position, was soon finished, mount-
ed with twelve pieces of cannon,
and supplied with a magazine un-
der ground* It was called St.
Louis, and placed under the com-
mand of Joutel. The insolence of
the Indians compelled La Salle to
give them a proof of his power. For
this purpose he waged war upon
them, but only with sufficient rigor
to make them respect him and his

companions. Among the captives
was a very young girl, who was
baptized, and died a few days af-
terwards; of whom Father Le
Clercq said : " The first-fruits of
this mission, and a sure conquest
sent to heaven."

Detained some time by the sick-
ness of his brother. La Salle did not
resume his exploration of the bay
till towards the last of October,
when, putting his clothes, papers,
and other effects on the Belfe, he
ordered the captain to sail along
the western shore in concert with
his movements. Wishing to ascer-
tain how near the shore the Belig
could approach, he sent the pilot
and ^WQ men to make soundings,
with instructions that all should
return on board at night. Attract-
ed by the peaceful beauty of the
country, and proposing to cook
and enjoy the supper on shore, the
pilot and fivQ men, leaving their
arms and canoe at low water, ad-
vanced a gun-shot on the upland.
After their supper they fell asleep.
La Salle, becoming uneasy at their
absence, went in search of them,
and to his horror found them all
lying* on the ground murdered,
their bodies half devoured by wild
animals, and their arms and canoe
destroyed. It was with sad hearts
that the survivors paid the last ho-
nors to their slaughtered compan-
ions ; for disasters followed in such
quick succession that no one could
foresee the time or circumstances
of his own fate. Of the colony
now described Bancroft remarks :
"This is the settlement which
made Texas a part of Louisiana.
In its sad condition it had yet
saved from the wreck a good sup-
ply of arms and bars of iron for
the forge. Even now this colony
possessed from the bounty of Louis
XIV., more than was contributed

846

Robert CavcHer de La Satie.

by all the English monarchs to-
gether for the twelve English colo-
nies on the Atlantic. Its number
still exceeded that of Smith in Vir-
ginia, or of those who embarked in
the Mayflower^ France took pos-
session of Texas; her arms were
carved on its stately forest-trees ;
and by no treaty or public document,
except the general cessions of Louis-
iana, did she ever after relinquish
the right to the province as colo-
nized under her banners, and made
still more surely a part of her ter-
ritory because the colony found
there its grave."

La Salle now determined to seek
the mouth of the Mississippi by
land around the eastern part of the
bay. Leaving provisions for six,
he set out with his brother, the
Sieur Cavelier, and twenty men.
He explored in canoes every stream
that might prove an outlet of the
great river, and was enchanted
with the beautiful region which he
traversed. But all was in vain.
After an absence of four months,
and satisfying himself that none of
the outlets of the Mississippi emp-
tied into the bay, and after losing
twelve or thirteen of his men, he
returned in rags to Fort St. Louis.
He now sent out a party in search
of the BelUy whose long absence
caused him great uneasiness; for in
her were centred all his hopes of
reaching the mouth of the Missis-
sippi by sea, of procuring assist-
ance from San Domingo, or of
sending information of their for-
lorn condition to France, or, per-
haps, in his extremest necessity, of
saving his colony from a horrid
death by famine or at the hands
of the savages.

La Salle, with his characteristic
courage and perseverance, now re-
solved to undertake a journey to
the distant Illinois, in order to ob-

tain relief from the faithful Toatf,
whom he had stationed there oo
departing for France- He selected
as his companions on this dartfei^
ous and toilsome journey his bro-
ther, Cavelier, Father AnastasitK
Donay, Father Lc CJercq, Mor-

8^get, Behorel, Hurier, Heins, a
erman surgeon who joined him u
San Domingo, and Nika, the In-
dian hunter, who was ever at few
side, and others, making ia ^
tvfenty persons. The preparatioai
for this great journey consisted of
four pounds of powder, four pounds
of lead, two axes, two dozen knivci;
as many awls, some beads, and two
kettles. They first repaired to tlic
chapel, where the Divine Mystcriet
were celebrated and the biessinf
of heaven invoked upon their un-
dertaking. Committing the coioaj
left behind to the care of Jootel,
La Salle and his companions set
out on the 22d of April, 1686, frona
Fort St. Louis. Their route lay
in a northeasterly direction and
through a country of immense prai-
ries and mighty rivers, inhabited
by various Indian tribes, who were
exceedingly friendly and hospit-
able; even the women, who weic
usually timid and undemonstratii^
coming forward to greet the waf-
worn, mysterious travellers. 1b
some instances they found that ibc
Indians had had some intercoarse
with the Spaniards. La Salle and
the zealous Father Donay endea-
vored on every occasion to insul
into their minds some knowledge
of the one true God. It is sup-
posed by some that La Salle was
attracted in this direction by tbe
fame of the rich mines of Sanu
Barbara, the £1 Dorado of North-
ern Mexico. They found larg*?
quantities of wild cattle, whicb
supplied them with meat. They
crossed numerous rivers, such as

Robert Cavelier dt La SaUe.

84t

the Colorado, Brazos, and Trinity,
which they knew by different titles,
and upon which they bestowed new
names in honor of members of the
party. They endured incredible
exposure, hardship, and toil, and
many faltered and gave out under
their sufferings. In crossing tly
Brazos (which they called the river
Misfortune) on a raft of canoes, with
one-half of his party, including h\i
brother, La SaUe and his compan-
ions were hurried violently down
the current, and almost immedi-
ately disappeared from sight. The
interval between this and evening
was one of intense anxiety to those
who witnessed the accident; but at
nightfall the raft and its occupants
were discovered safely disembarked
on the opposite bank, their onward
coarse having been providentially
arrested by the branches of a large
tree in the river. Those who re-
mained on the other side had to
cross over and join La Salle on a
raft of canes, the men having to
wade into the water and draw the
raft ashore. Father Donay says :
" I was obliged to put my Breviary
in my cowl, because it got wet in
my sleeve." He also says: "We
hsui not eaten all day, but Provi-
dence provided for us by letting
two eaglets fall from a cedar-tree ;
we were ten at this meal." The
manner in which they crossed these
mighty rivers was to make one of the
men swim to the other side and fell
trees across the stream, while those
who remained did the same, so that
the trees from the opposite sides,
meeting in the centre, formed a
bridge, upon which they crossed.
This was done more than thirty times
during their journey. The Indians
were in most instances friendly and
hospitable, and La Salle's discern-
ment and prudence always enabled
him either to conciliate their friend-

ship in the first instance, or to over-
come by force of character and
courage any hostile feeling they
might exhibit. Many of the tribes
displayed evidences of civilization
intheir dress, implements, anddwell-
ings, and in the ease and cordiality
with which they received and en-
tertained strangers. Horses were
abundant among them, and La
Salle procured several, which proved
of great service. Among the Coe-
nis Indians they found Spanish
dollars and smaller coins, silver
spoons, lace, and clothes of Euro-
pean styles. One of the Indians
became so enamored with Father
Donay's cowl that he offered the
father a horse in exchange, but the
good religious preferred to walk
rather than to part with the cherish-
ed habit of S.Francis. Aftercrossing
the Trinity River La Salle and his
nephew, the Sieur Moranget, were
attacked by a violent fever, which
brought them very low and greatly
retarded their march. Just be-
fore this four of the party, unable
to endure the fatigues and hardships
of the journey, deserted and retired
to the Nassonis Indians ; another
was swallowed by a crocodile while
crossing a river; and Behorel was
lost. Their powder now began to
give out; they had not advanced
more than one hundred and fifty
leagues in a straight line, and one
thousand miles of travel lay before
them ; sickness, delay, and deser*
tions had impaired their ability to
proceed ; and they had no food ex-
cept what the chase afforded. Under
these circumstances La Salle resolv-
ed to return to Fort St. Louis. The
extreme terminus of their travel is
supposed to have been midway be-
tween the Trinity and Red Rivers,
near the head-waters of the Sabine,
and fifty or sixty miles northwest
of Nacogdoches. On the return the

842

Robert Cavelur de La Salk,

party were greatly assisted by the
horses procured from the In-
dians. After a full month's march
they arrived on the 17th of Octo-
ber, the feast of S. Bernard, and
were welcomed by their friends at
the fort with mingled feelings of joy
and sadness. Father Donay re-
marks : " It would be difficult to
find in history courage more intre-
pid or more invincible than that of
the Sieur de La Salle ; in adversity
he was never cast down, and always
hoped with the help of heaven to
succeed in his enterprises, despite
all the obstacles that rose against
him."

Sad events awaited La Salle on
his return. In a few days he saw
to his astonishment a canoe ap-
proaching, in which were Chefde-
ville, Sabionni^re, and some others
from the Belle, In this fact he read
tlie sad story of the vessel's destruc-
tion, which was soon confirmed by
their own lips. That vessel, his last
hope, had, by the negligence of the
pilot, stranded on the beach of the
southern coast of the bay. The re-
turning men, providentially finding
a canoe on the shore, were able
to escape. In the Belle were lost
thirty-six barrels of flour, a quanti-
ty of wine, the clothes, trunks, linens,
and most of the tools. Among the
few things saved were the papers
and clothes of La Salle. The good
Father Le Clercq closes his narra-
tive of this sad accident, which
completely disconcerted all of La
Salle's plans, with the remark:
** His great courage, even, could
not have borne up had not God
aided him by the help of extraor-
dinary grace." ** Heaven and man,"
says Bancroft, "seemed his ene-
mies; and, with the giant energy
of an indomitable will, having lost
his hopes of fortune, his hopes of
fame; with his colony reduced to

about forty, among whom di9con<
tent had given birth to plans of
crime; with no Europeans nearer
than the river Panuco, no French
nearer than Illinois, he resolved to
travel on foot to his countrymen
at the north, and return from Cana-
^ to renew his colony in Texas.''
During his absence Joatel bad
been under the necessity of guard-
ing against savage attacks upon Iu5
hunting parties from without, and
against disaffection from those with-
in, the fort. The false Duhaut re-
turned, to the fort, where he incited
the men to mutiny — a task of no great
difficulty among men who had en-
dured so many disappointments and
hardships. And though Joutel suc-
ceeded in suppressing the mutinj,
disaffection lurked behind. Bat
the routine of the fort was occa-
sionally relieved by gayety and mer-
riment, as was the case on the mar-
nage of the Sieur Barbier to one of
the young women who came out
with the expedition. The gende-
ness, prudence, and experience of
Father Membrd went far to amelior-
ate the condition of the company and
make easy the duties of Joutel. Be-
fore leaving them. La Salle provided
for the greater comfort and accom*
modadon of those at the forL As be
was about to depart he was again
stricken down with illness, and iras
retarded ten weeks.

On his recovery La Salle selected
from seventeen to twenty compan-
ions, amongst whom were Father
Donay, Cavelier the priest, young
Cavelier the nephew, Joutel, Moran-
get, Duhaut, Larcheveque, Reins.
Liotel, Toten, De Marie, Teissier,
Saget, and the Indian hunter Nika.
La Salle addressed them in thrilling
and encouraging words, and, as Fa-
ther Donay says, *' with that engag-
ing way which was so natural to
him," apd on the 12th of Januar}'t

Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

843

1^87, their simple preparations be-
ing made, it only remained for them
to turn their steps northward,

** And, Hice some low and mournful ttpeU,
To whisper but one word— CurewdL

As they journeyed on they had to
cross many large rivers — resorting
to the same means as in their t(ip
towards New Mexico — and to tra-
verse vast prairies, to visit and be
entertained by the Indian tribes on
the route, to conciliate their friend-
ship, to secure most of their food by
hunting, and, in fine, encounter sim-
ilar scenes and incidents as on their
previous excursions. On the 15th of
March they arrived at a place where
La Salle had caused a quantity of
Indian corn and beans to be buried,
and he sent Duhaut, Heins, Liotel,
Larcheveque, Teissier, Nika, and his
footman, Saget, for it. The com and
beans had disappeared, discovered,
probably, by the unerring scent of
the Indians; but the gun of Nika
supplied their place with two buffa-
loes. They sent Saget to request
La Salle to allow them horses to
bring the meat, and he accordingly
despatched Moranget, De Marie,
and Saget with two horses for that
purpose. On arriving at the scene
Moranget found that the meat,
though quite fresh, had been smok-
ed, and that the men had selected
certain parts of it and set them
aside for their own enjoyment, as
was usual with them. In a moment
of anger Moranget reproved them,
took away both the smoked meat
and reserved pieces, and threatened
to do as he plea.sed with it. Du-
haut, in whose heart an old grudge
against Moranget still survived, be-
came enraged, and adopted the
guilty resolve of ridding himself of
his enemy. He enticed Liotel and
Heins into a conspiracy to murder
not only Moranget, but also Saget
and Nika, whose faithful gun had

so often saved them from famine.
Liotel was the willing instrument to
do the horrid deed ; at night, while
they were buried in sleep, he de-
spatched his victims. A blow ex-
tinguished the life of Nika; a sec-
ond that of Saget ; but Moranget
lingered for two hours, "giving
every mark of a death precious in
the sight of God, pardoning his
murderers, and embracing them,'*
till De Marie, who was not in the
plot, was compelled to complete the
bloody tragedy.

*^ Come, thidc night.
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of heU !
That my keen knife see not the wound it mak'.s ;
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the d\rk
To cry, Hold! hold!"

The bloodthirsty desperadoes
did not, alas ! stop at this triple
murder; adding treason to their
horrid purposes, tliey resolved upon
the death of their commander, the
great and good La Salle, who had
ever been to them a father no less
than a leader. Three days elapsed,
and the dark purpose was only the
more firmly fixed in their guilty
souls. In the meantime La Salle
became alarmed for the safety of
Moranget, and, as if anticipating
what had happened, he asked in
the encampment if Duhaut and his
associates had not shown signs of
disaffection. He resolved at once
to go in search of his faithful friend.
The remainder of this bloody tra-
gedy we will give in the language
of Father Donay, who was an eye-
witness of it :

"Asking me to accompany him/ he
took two Indians and set out. All the
way he conversed %vith me of matters of
piety, grace, and predestination ; expa-
tiating on all his obligations to God for
having saved him from so many dangers
during the last twenty years thai he had
traversed America. He seemed to me
particularly penetrated with a sense of
God's benefits to him. Suddenly I saw
him plunged into a deep melancholy, for

Rater f Caw/ur de La SaUt.

. 13 W l-JT*"^'

'f rru' i not accoant : he

^^.'Ti -.m l ii*l no< knov him
' _*_- .1 5 ajte was far from
. I <i^r: i.n t'om his Icth-
I trur.-s 1 ''rr w« found the
. -ir n 315 jTicrr (Sa^t), he
•w -:^'» dv'n? orer his
J nr sunc ame petceived

- -f» .*? m the eti^ of the
1 :,: ^•.-•-..L'-iti'i, asking them
----- A ii's ae^h«w. They
^ « :- < -n worls» showing
w -c u. 1 Till 'im. We pro-
'T -<»-•* !*■ n^ -lie batik to the
r.r " *Tc .1 aese inar<Jerers

•; zt t-t* i"^i>Sv -ne on each
^- - s-x 3ne missed M.
:. Tr ' 'tf' It 'He same time
• -r- *-- . :^e awti an hour

■ • ■•* ..T si.«e ace : bat this

• ..' -^ ' cv noojTTts, pene-

^— .: J ^ " I'-i a spcciacle.

; I >^r" inm nee, with his

.-. * I watered rt with

^ . ■ • • 'it :. n :'? ' Je best of my

\' , tc lad confessed

- ,. • :i> I St before we
^- ' -re tj recapitulate

■-'-.' ^ive h:m absola-

,^ •- ->t B-'.iiencshe elicit-

^ • ^ u -" vsaan, grasp-

. 1 ,'-■' »-.^ I su5:^ested,

. . -n ^a'iaamg his

I •, .* I * =iurierers. as

^ . 'trcii ?^ Stake their

. .*-*--< :c r r ainess. I

- .e ^xt wiiere he had
:i ijT "-:r:ei him as
. *•-• »i ca I raised a

I »"<? ^^m-iiander ; con-
. -.-*.*. a.:-:;.^j. generous,
,*. V-. ••*i>v >*..--I. capable
'•- * \y :or twentr
^ •, V -^j le'^-r; tv-mpcr of
-» •^- 'v^ wi> -nassacred

- . ^ >^ >• • ^ Mt!*.-s«.:os^ when
. • -t , t.t^^i<*^ He died

-. t •»« n i<i of his
* -^ . - at kio-;^ seen

• . vt- ,H La Salle's

.. - s <vp posed

• ■ '^ c* - ^i> s^treains

, -; ^ -s^ -i.x^ut forty

>^ 'K % i ,u t tc present

town of Washington, in the State af
Texas.

As soon as Father Donay Te-en-
tered the encampment, the good
and apostolical Cavelier, the bro-
ther of the deceased, read the s»d
tragedy in his fiiend's countenancr,
4^(1 exclaimed : " Oh ! my po^r
brother is dead." The grief of
Cavelier, Joutel,and the other faith-
ful companions of La Salle was on-
controllable. When the assassins
efn tered the encampment to plmi-
der the effects of their mnrdertd
commander, they found these feilfc-
ful men on their knees, prepared
for death. But the sight of tlw \
erable Cavelier, and perhaps »
regret at the deed they had
mitted, stayed their bloody work;
and these were spared, on condi-
tion that they would not return «o
France, though they several tiacs
afterwards heard the murderers say
among themselves that they must
get rid of them, in order to save
themselves from the avenging am
of justice. The assassins seised
upon the effects of La Salle, elected
Duhaut their leader, and resolved
to return to the Coenis Indians.
During several days they travelled
together, these wretches treating the
missionaries and friends of La SaHc
as servants, imposing upon tbem
every hardship in crossing the many
rivers they encountered. "Meaa-
while," says Father Donay, **tbc
justice of God accomplished the
punishment of these men, in deCioU
of human punishment." A disfra^
arose between Duhaut and Heias
over the stolen property of La SaUe,
in which the various guilty neoi*
bers of their party took the one
aide or the other. Heins, two day^
afterwards, seizing the opportunity,
shot Duhaut through the heart vith
a pistol in the presence of the
whole company. He died upon

Robert Cavelur de La SalU.

845

the spot. At the same moment
Ruter shot Liotel, the murderer
of Moranget, who survived several
hours ; and, while thus lingering,
another fired a blank cartridge near
his head, which set fire to his hair
and clothes, and he expired amidst
the flames. Heins now assumed
ooaiBiand, and would have killed
Larch eveque, a third member of
the band of assassins, but for the
intercession of Joutel. On reach-
ing the Coenis camp they found
these warriors about to start with
a large army against the Kanoatins,
a«d Heins, dressed in the rich
naantle of La Salle, to the great
disgust of his surviving relatives
and friends, went with them to join
in fresh deeds of carnage and crime.
Father Donay, Cavelier the priest,
Cavelicr the nephew of La Salle,
Joutel, De Marie, Teissier, and a
young Parisian named Barthelemy,
now took their departure for the
Illinois, and, after journeying till
the 24th of July, they were greatly
relieved at beholding on the oppo-
site side of the river a large cross
and log hut, at the junction of the
lUinois and Mississippi, and in a
few moments they were united
with a small detachment stationed
there by Tonty. After remaining
a few days for rest and refreshment,
they started again on the ist of
August, and on the 14th arrived at
Fort Crevecoeur, where they were
led immediately to the chapel, and
chanted the TV Deuniy in thanks-
giving for their safe deliverance
from so many dangers, to which
others had fallen victims. Tonty
waa absent from the fort on their
arrival, on a visit to the Illinois ;
but on his return he received them
with great kindness, and supplied
them with every assistance. They
t.oncealed from the faithful and de-
voted Tonty the death of his be-

loved friend and commander. In
the spring of 1688 they left the
fort for Quebec, whence they sailed
for France in August, arriving there
in October.

The fort in St. Bernard*s Bay
was, after the death of La Salle,
attacked by the Indians, and the
whole company massacred except
three sons and a daughter of Tal-
on and a young Frenchman named
Eustace de Breman, who were led
into captivity. The Spaniards also,
hearing of La Salle's movements
and of the presence of Frenchmen
among the Coenis Indians, sent out
a military force, who captured
Larcheveque and GroUet, who
were sent to Spain, where for some
time they were confined in prison,
and afterwards sent to Mexico to
work in the mines. The Talons
were rescued and sent to Mexico.
The two elder brothers entered the
Spanish navy, but were afterwards
restored to their cQuntry by the
capture of their vessel. The
younger brother and his sister
were retained some time in the ser-
vice of the Viceroy of Mexico, and
afterwards accompanied him to
Spain. Nothing further is known
of Breman and the others who
were taken captives by the Indi-
ans.

The will of La Salle, bearing
date the nth of August, 1681,
leaves his property to his cousin,
M. Fran9ois Plet, in gratitude for
his kindness and the assistance he
rendered to the great explorer in
hb expeditions.

The following notice of La Salle
is given by a Catholic writer :

'* Robert Cavelier de La Salle, the first
explorer who navigated Ontario, Eric,
Michigan, and Huron, deserves to be
enumerated among the great captains.
A native of Rouen, early employed in
the colonies, he had been instigated by

t46

Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

'Jse rerorts o^ missionaries to seek, through
:*.; ■» n:i;ra Uke<, a passage to the Gulf
■-: Mt\ r:>. Building a schooner on the
Cavu^a C-eek, he ascended ihc lakes in
i*>-> chanting the Te Dernn Laudantus,
rarr^Tni; h:s boats over land from the
Miairi to a branch of the Illinois River,
tic j-jrctri or found his way into the upper
Miss^ssj ri- For manr years, with most
hcrc;c c.r.stancy, this soul cf fire and
tracie of iron was devoted to the task of
opening routes between the Gulfs of St.
Lawrence ami oi Mexico, until he perish-
c^i in his enterprise by the hands of two
of his own unwronhy followers, on an
excursion into Texas, in 1687. The Catho-
lic character ot La Salle is marked in
every aa of his life. He undertook
nothing without fortif>*ing himself by re-
ligion; he completed nothing without
giving the first-fruits of the glory to God.
He planted the cross wherever he land-
ed, even for an hour; he made the west-
em desert voca! with songs, hymns of
thanksgiving and adontion. He is the
worthy compeer of De Solo and Mar-
quette ; he stood, sword in hand, under
the bannerof the cross, the tutelary genius
of those great States which stretch away
from Lake Ontario to the Rio Grande.
Every league of that region he trod on
foot, and every league of its water he
navigated in frail canoes or crazy schoon-
ers. Above his tomb the northern pine
should tower ; around it the Michigan
rose and the southern myrtle should
mingle their hues and unite their per-
fumes." *

In reviewing the history of the
last great enterprise of this remark-
able man, we can but recognize
three principal reasons of its failure :
nrst, the inferior character of the men
selected at Rochelle by his agents
to accompany the expedition — a
cause of disaster which the virtues
at)d capacity of a Tonty, Joutel, and
Moranget could not neutralize;
second, the hostility and narrow-
minded jealousy of Beaujeu, upon
whose co-operation so much de-
pended ; and, third, the misinfor-
mation in regard to the Gulf of
Mexico which he received at San

• McO«c*t CAtk. Hist, A mt^^km.

Domingo, and the prevailing igno-
rance of the times of the bearing
of the coast and of the latitudes,
which caused his expedition to miss
the object of its search. Mr. Sparks,
while according to him the posses-
sion of the highest qualities of mind
and soul, considered him wanting
in those qualities which arc neces-
sary in order to secure the hearty
co-operation of men, to win ihcir
affections as well as their obedieace,
and, by yielding a little to their
weaknesses, secure the benefit of
their faithful Services. It may be
said, however, that no man ever
had more faithful, self-sacrificiog,
and devoted followers than he, and
those who did not sympathize with
him were too ignorant and sordid
to appreciate his noble character or
his magnificent plans. The learned
historian at the same time remarks
that La Salle labors under the dis-
advantage of having to be judged
from the accounts of others, not all
of whom were his friends, and knew
little of his plans ; for " not a single
paper from his own hand, not so
much as a private letter or a frag-
ment of his official correspondence,
has ever been published, or even
consulted by the writers on whose
authority alone we must rely for
the history of the transactions in
which he was concerned."

Mr. Sparks then pays the follow-
ing well-merited and eloquent tri-
bute to the character and service^
of the illustrious commander :

**On the other hand, his capacity for
large designs and for devising the me-
thods and procuring the resources to
carry them forward, has few parallels
among the roost eminent discoverers.
He has been called the Columbus of hts
age ; and if his success had been equal
to his ability and the compass of his plans
this distinction might justly be avrarded
to him. As in great battles, so io enter-
prises, success crowns the commander

The Log Chapel on the Rappahannock.

847

with laurels, deieat covers him with dis-
grace, and perhaps draws upon him the
obloquy of the world, although he might
have fouglit as bravely and manoeuvred
as adroitly in one case as in the other.
Fortune turns the scale and baffles the
efibrts of human skill and prowess. In
some of the higher attributes of character,
such as personal courage and endurance,
undaiinted resolution, patience under
trials, and perseverance in contending
vrith obstacles and struggling through
embarrassments that might appall the
stoutest heart, no man surpassed the
Sieur de La Salle. Not a hint appears

in any writer that has come under notice
that casts a shade upon his integrity or
honor. Cool and intrepid at all times,
never yielding for a moment to despair,
or even to despondency, he bore the
heavy burden of his calamities manfully
to the end and his hopes expired only
with his last breath. To him must be
mainly ascribed the discovery of the vast
regions of the Mississippi Valley, and
the subsequent occupation and settlement
of them by the French ; and his name
justly holds a prominent place among
those %vhich adorn the history of civili^ca-
tion in the New World."

THE LOG CHAPEL ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK.

ERECTED AD. 1570-THE FIRST CHRISTIAN SHRINE IN THE OLD DOMINION.

Virginia is proud of her anti-
quity. She assumes the title of
Old Dominion ; she was long styled
the Mother of Presidents. But
really her antiquity is greater than
many know. Before the English
settlers landed on the shores of the
James, Stephen Gomez and other
Spanish navigators had entered the
waters of the Chesapeake and con-
secrated that noble sheet of water
to the Virgin daughter of David's
line, as the Bay of St. Mary, or the
Bay of the Mother of God.

The soldier of the cross followed
hard on the steps of the explorer.
As early as in 1536 St. Mary's Bay
is laid down on Spanish maps.
Oviedo mentions it in 1537, and
from that time pilots ranged the
coast, David Glavid, an Irishman,
being recorded as one who knew it
best. All agree as to its latitude,
its two capes, the direction of the
bay, and the rivers entering into it,
identifying beyond all peradventure
our modem Chesapeake with the

St. Mary's Bay of the early Spanish
explorers. Though his attention
was called to it, the latest historian
of Virginia, misled by a somewliat
careless guide, robs his State of the
glory which we claim for her. The
sons of S. Dominic first planted the
cross on the shores of the Chesa-
peake, and bore away to civilized
chores the brother of the chief of
Axacan or Jacan, a district not far
from the Potomac. Reaching Mex-
ico, this chief attracted the notice
of Don Luis de Velasco, the just,
upright, disinterested Viceroy of
New Spain — one of those model
rulers who, amid a population spur-
red on by a fierce craving for wealth,
never bent the knee to Mammon,
but lived so poor that he died ac-
tually in debt. This good man had
the Virginian chief instructed in the
Christian faith, and, when his dispo-
sitions seemed to justify the belief
in his sincerity and faith, the chief-
tain of the Rappahannock was bap-
tized, amid all the pomp and splen-

848

The Log Outpel on the Rappahannock.

dor of Mexico, in the cathedral of
that city, the viceroy being his
god-father, and bestowing upon him
his own name, Don Luis de Velasco,
by which the Virginia chief is always
styled in Spanish annals.

Meanwhile, Coligny's French Hu-
guenots attempted to settle Flo-
rida , but their colony, which was
doomed to early extinction from its
very material and utter want of re-
ligious organization or any tie but
a mere spirit of adventure, was
crushed with ruthless cruelty by
Pedro Melendez, a brave but stern
Spanish navigator and warrior, in
whose eyes every Frenchman on
the sea was a pirate. Soon after
jfcccoaiplishing his bloody work,
« luh left Spain in full possession
oe the southern Atlantic coast, Me-
t>rnde«» who had sent out vessels
?o explore the coast, began his pre-
tvtrjiuons for occupying St. Mary's
lUy. The form of the northern
I ontinent was not then known ;
much indeed of the eastern coast
hjwi been explored, but so little was
tne line of the western coast under-
stood that on maps and globes the
PaciHc was shown as running nearly
into the Atlantic coast, as may be
seen in a curious copper globe pos-
sessed by the New York Histoncal
Society, but which once belonged
to Pope Marcellus II. Believing
that the Chesapeake, by the rivers
running into it, would easily lead to
the western ocean, Melendez spent
the winter of 1565 studying out the
5tibject with the aid of Don Luis
dc Velasco and Father Urdaneta,
a missionary just arrived from
China by the overland route across
Mexico. Combining all the infor-
nution, he was led to believe that,
bv ascending for eighty leagues a
river flowing into the bay, it was
UiM^essary only to cross a mountain
ru>iie to find two arms of the sea.

one leading to the FreTwrh at New-
foundland, the other to the Pacific
To many this will seem wild ; but it
is evident that Don Luis relerred
to the great trail leading from tie
Huron country through the territoiy
of the Five Nations to the land of
the Andastes on the Susquehanna,
by which the l«ist-named tribe soki
furs on tlie upper lakes, which
went down to the French at Brest
on the Gulf of St. Lawrence, while
the upper lakes were the arm of the
sea stretching westward, as was sap-
posed, to China. An adventurous
Frenchman, Stephen Bnil6, some
few years later followed this trail
from the St. Lawrence to the Sus-
quehanna. Melendez, however,
misinterpreted it. To his mind the
upper waters of the Chesapeake, the
Potomac and Susquehanna, then
known as the Espiritu Santo and
Salado, were to be the great carry-
ing place of eastern trade.

Anxious to secure for his own
country so important a pass, Melen-
dez, in 1 5661 despatched to St
Mary's Bay a vessel bearing thirty
soldiers and two Dominican Fa-
thers to begin a station in Axacan
or Jacan, near the Chesapeake.
These pioneers of the faith were
escorted or guided by Don Luis de
Velasco. Of these missionaries we
seek in vain the names. Perhq)s
their fellow-religious now laboring
on the banks of the Potomac will
be stimulated to trace up these
early labors of the sons of S- Do-
minic ; though we must admit that
Spanish chronicles do not speak ef
them with praise. In fact, they as-
sert that these missionaries, cor^Ip^
ed by an easy life in Peru, had no
taste for a laborious mission in W
ginia, though perhaps they learned
the real state of affairs in that land,
and, taught by Father Cancer's fate,
felt that the attempt would be fatal

The Log Chapel on the RappaJiannock.

849

to all. Certain it is that the whole
party took alarm. They forced the
captain to weigh anchor, and, leav-
ing the capes on either hand, steer
straight to Spain. The Dominican
missions in Spanish Florida, which
began with the glorious epic of
Father Cancer's devoted heroism,
closed with this figeble effort tp
plant the Gospel on the shores of
the Chesapeake ; yet they, too, like
the earlier discoverers, undoubtedly
consecrated to Mary and the Rosary
the land which in its names, Virginia
and Maryland, yet recalls the Bless-
ed Virgin Mary, to whom the bay
was first consecrated.

Four years later saw Melendez
hin&elf in Spain, full of his projects,
and bent on carrying theiA out.
The sons of S. Ignatius Loyola, full
of the early vigor of their institute,
were in Florida. The new mission,
begun in 1566, had already a martyr
in Father Peter Martinez, of Celda,
in the Diocese of Saragossa, who
was shipwrecked on the coast, and
put to death by the Indians not far
from St. Augustine. It had its de-
voted laborers in Father John
Rbgel, of Pamplona, Father Sededo,
and Brother Villaroel, who sought
to win to Christ the Indians near
St. Augustine and Port Royal, and
who had established an Indian
school at Havana to help the great
work, Brother Baez being the first
to compile a grammar. To extend
these missions as far as the Chesa-
peake was a subject which Melen-
dez laid before S. Francis Borgia,
then recently made general of the
order, after having acted as com-
missary of the Spanish missions. A
letter of S. Pius V. encouraged
Melendez, and with the co-opera-
tion of these two saints the project-
ed mission to the Chesapeake took
form at last. Perhaps some of the
clergy in Maryland and Virginia
VOL XX. — 54

remember the personal interest of
these saints in the field where they
are now laboring ; but we fear that
the fact has been forgotten. Let
us trust that more than one church
of S. Pius V. will be monuments of
his interest in the land where the
next pope that bore his name es-
tablished the first episcopal see on
the coast — that of Baltimore — and
religion has taken such gigantic
steps under the fostering care of
Popes Pius VII. and Pius IX.

When the founder of Florida
was thus earnestly engaged in Spain
in promoting the spiritual welfare
of the colony, Don Luis de Velasco,
the Virginian chief, was still beyond
the Atlantic, a grave, intelligent
man of fifty, well versed in Spanish
affairs, to all appearance a sincere
and correct Christian and a friend
of the Spaniards. With every mark
of joy he offered to return to his
native land of Axacan, and there do
all in his power to further the
labors of the missionaries who
should be sent to instruct his bro-
tjier's tribe. So powerful a coad-
jutor was welcomed by all, and ere
long Don Luis stood on the deck
of a staunch Spanish ship, with a
band of Jesuits destined to reinforce
those already laboring on the
Florida mission. This pious party
consisted of Father Luis de Quiros,
a native of Xerez de la Frontera, in
Andalusia, with Brothers Gabriel
Gomez, of Granada, and Sancho de
ZevaUos, of Medina de Rio Seco,
all selected for the great work
by S. Francis Borgia himself. In
November the vessel anchored be-
fore the Spanish fort Santa Elena,
which stood on the island of South
Carolina's famous Port Royal, that
still bears the name of the sainted
mother of Constantine.

The Jesuit mission of Florida
had been erected into a vice-pro-

850

The Log Chapil on the R^akatmock.

vince under Father John Baptist
Segura. This estimable religious
vas a native of Toledo, who had,
vhHc 7>::rsuing his theological course
cf study, entered the Society of
Tes:is at Alcali on the 9th of April,
1566. S. Francis, who knew him
wrZ, entertained the highest esteem
>?r Seriira s rrrtues and personal
i:*»rlt. and took him from the rector-
>*i 7 oc tiic College of Vallisoleta
r-^ 15*:^ to assume the direction of
::ie Ttoj-rroTiacc of Florida. For
TWO y^JTs bad he labored with sad
cr^riir x:*L ! Cita t in the forbidding
5rC iTTtjcz tbe Floridian tribes,
rrcr-^i >t Otters of his superiors
ri:iitfr ti: js. br anT hope of success
riuc js T-t seemed to dawn on his

H; w:s at S.i::ta Elena when Fa-
rmer v;^" r^s arrived, bearing the
•r^i-icr-czs r.^r the esUblishment
,*: - *e -*<■«• Kission on the shores of

r "j:r r-::ss; canary had become dis-
v-^-:-*:::tNi and disheartened. All
).:^ ^.XTs jmd those of his associate
tf.>i^^cjiries among the Calos !%•
c .i-^i^ on the southern coast of
i-'orica, had proved utterly unavail-
ing. No impression could be made
\>n the flinty hearts of those treach-
erous and cruel tribes, which, in-
deed, to the end resisted the calls of
divine grace. The labors of the
Jesuit missionaries on the coast of
South Carolina were scarcely more
encouraging. The attempts to
civilize and convert found hearers
only as long as food and presents
were given.

Father Segura resolved for a
time to abandon the unpromising
nekU and turn all their energies to
aa Indian school at Havana, where
vn,\iren from the Florida tribes
vv^;:Ivl l^^ carefully instructed, so as
'av tv-im a nucleus for future Chris-
^;uu b^nds in their native tribes.

Bnt the voice of S. Francis recalled
him to sterner labors^ and he re-
solved to go in person to the nev
field opened to them in Axacan,
where the influence of Don Lois
and the character of the tribes
seemed to promise naore consoling
results. He accordingly directed
the experienccj^ Father Rogd to
remain at Santa Elena in charge
of the missions there, and sdected
eight associates for his new mission.
These were Father Luis de Qoiros,
Brothers Gabriel Gomez and Sancbo
Zevallos, already mentioned, with
Brother Peter de Linares and John
Baptist Mendez, Christopher Re-
dondo, and Gabriel de Solis, wiio
with Alphonsus, destined to be\be
sole survivor, seem to have been foor
Indian boys from their school atHar
vana, and regarded as novices, train-
ed already to mission work as cate-
chists. Such was tbe missiooarj
party that was to plant the cross in
Axacan and open the way for
Christianity to China by a nev
route.

With the influence and stt^^it
of Don Luis they would need no
Spanish aid ; and as experience bad
shown them that soldiers were
sometimes a detriment to the miv
sion they were intended to protect
these devoted missionaries deter^
mined to trust themselves entireljt
alone and unprotected, in the hands
of the Indians.

On his side Don Luis made every
promise as to the security of the
persons of the missionaries ccHifid*
ed to his care by the adelantado of
Florida. "They shall lack no-
thing," he declared. " I will alwap
be at hand to aid them."

On the 5th of August, 1570, diis
little mission colony sailed from
Santa Elena, and in that enervating
heat must have crept slowly enough
along the coast and up \\\t Chesi-

T)u Log Chapel on the Rappahannock.

851

peake ; for it was not till th« loth
of September that they reached the
country of Don Luis, which is styl-
ed in. Spanish accounts Axacan or
Jacan.

Where was the spot termed ** La
Madre de Dios de Jacan"? — Our
Lady of Axacan (or, as we should
write it, Ahacan or Hacan). Pre-
cisely where no map or document
has yet been found to show. It
was evidently near the Susquehanna
(Salado) or the Potomac (Espiritu
Santo), the two rivers at the head
of the bay known to Melendez, and
by which he hoped to reach China.
That it could not have been the
So^uehanna seems clear from the
fact that, being to the eastward, it
would not naturally be the shortest
roate ; and, moreover, that river was
in those days, and till far in the
ensuing century, held by a warlike
tribe of Huron origin, living in pali-
saded towns, while the tribe of Don
Lais, who dwelt at Axacan, were
evidently nomads of the Algonquin
race.

We are therefore led to look for
it on the Potomac, the Espiritu
Santo of the early Spanish naviga-
tors. The vessel that bore the de-
voted Vice- Provincial Father Segura
and two other Spanish vessels some
time afterwards ascended this river
for a considerable distance to a
point whence they proceeded to the
country of Don Luis, which, as let-
ters show, lay on a river six miles
off, and which they might have
reached directly by ascending that
river, though it was always passed
by the pilots, being regarded, ap-
parently, as less navigable and safe.
The Rappahannock at once suggests
itself as answering the conditions
required to explain the Spanish ac-
counts.

On the Potomac there is to this
day a spot called Occoquan, which

is near enough to the Spanish Axa-
can to rabe a suspicion of their
identity. Not far below it the Po-
tomac and Rappahannock, in their
sinuous windings, approach so close-
ly as to increase the resemblance to
the country described*

The land that met the eyes of
the missionary pioneers in the wil-
derness of Virginia was not one to
raise fond hopes or sustain delu-
sions. A long sterility had visited
Florida and extended even to the
Chesapeake. Its effects were even
more striking. Of all that the de-
scriptions of Don Luis had prepar-
ed them to find in Axacan there
was absolutely nothing to be seen.
Just come from Florida and its vi-
cinity, with its rich, luxuriant vege-
tation, with Aruits of spontaneous
growth, they beheld a less favored
land, bare and parched with a six
years' sterility, with the starving rem-
nants of decimated and thrice de-
cimated tribes. The wretched in-
habitants looked upon Don Luis,
their countryman, as if sent from
heaven, and, seeing him treated with
honor, they received the Spaniards
with every demonstration of good-
will, though they were so destitute
that they could not offer the new-
comers any fruit or maize.

With the winter fast approaching,
it seemed almost madness for Father
Segura and his companions to at-
tempt .to establish themselves in this
unpromising land ; but the previous
failure of the Dominican Fathers,
the almost chiding words of S. Fran-
cis Borgia, and the deep interest
manifested by Melendez in the suc-
cess of the attempt, apparently de-
cided the question against all ideas
of expediency or mere worldly pru-
dence.

The researches of the late Buck-
ingham Smith in the Spanish ar-
chives not only brought to light many

852

Tlu Log Cliapel o$i the Rappahannock.

points tending to fix the position
of Axacan, but were also rewarded
bjT finding two letters written at
this point by these early apostles
of Virginia. The father provin-
cial wrote to the king ; his associate.
Father Quiros, addressed his letters
to Melendezy and Father Segura
added a few words, urging prompt
relief. These last have fortunately
thus reached us. Father Quiros
wrote : *' Seeing, thciit the good-will
which this people displayed — al-
though, on the other hand, as I said,
they are so famished that all ex-
pected to perish of hunger and cold
this winter, as many did in preced-
ing winters, because it is very hard
for them to find the roots on which
they usually sustain themselves — the
great snows which fall in this land
preventing their search — seeing also
the great hope there is of the con-
version of this people and the ser-
vice of our Lord and his Majesty,
and a way to the mountains and
China, etc., it seemed to the Provin-
cial Father Segura that we should
venture to remain with so few ship-
stores and provisions, though we
ate on the way two of the four bar-
rels of biscuit and the little flour
they gave us for the voyage."

They resolved to stay, seeing no
danger except that of famine; for
they urged speedy relief. "It is
very necessary that you should en-
deavor, if possible, to supply us with
all despatch ; and if it be impossible
to do so in winter, at least it is ne-
cessary that in March, or, at the
furthest, early in April, a good sup-
ply be sent, so as to give all these
people wherewith to plant."

The pilot of the vesseU short of
provisions from the time lost on
reaching Axacan, put the missiona-
ries hastily ashore on the nth of
September, and the next day sail-
ed, ** leaving us in this depopulated

land with the discomforts already
described," say the missionaries.

It was arranged between the mis-
sionaries and this pilot tiiat, about
the time of his expected return,
they would have Indians on the
lookout, apparently at the mouth
of the river, who were to build sig-
nal-fires to attract attention. On
seeing these beacons he was to give
them a letter for the missionaries.

The little band of Christians be-
held the vessel hoist her sail and
glide down the river. They stood
alone in a wild land, far from aid
and sympathy. Two priests, three
religious, Don Luis, and four odier
Indian converts, formed the little
Christendom. But their destination
was not yet reached. Guided by
Don Luis, they took up thei^ noarcb
for the river six miles ofi*, Indians
bearing some of their scanty sup-
plies, the missionaries themselves
carrying their chapel service, books,
and other necessaries. After this
portage they embarked on the river
— which they might have ascended,
and which seems evidently the Rap-
pahannock — and thus penetrated
some two leagues or more further
into the country to the villages of
the tribe.

Yet, even before they left the
banks of the Potomac they were
called upon to commence their
ministry. "The cacique, brother
of Don Luis, having," says Father
Quiros, " a son three years old very
sick, who was seven or eight leagues
from here, as it seemed to him to
be on the point of death, he was
instant that we should go to bap-
tize it ; wherefore it occurred to the
vice-principal to send one of us by
night to baptize it, as it was very
near death."

The Indians on the Rappaban*
nock did not dwell in palisaded
towns, like the Conestogas on the

The Log Chapel on the Rappaliannock.

853

Sasquehanna, and their kindred, the
Five Nations, in New York, ^om
tlie Spanish accounts they dwelt in
scattered bands, each forming a lit-
tle hamlet of a few cabins, each
house in the midst of its rude gar-
den ; forthey cultivated little ground,
depending on the spontaneous pro-
ductions of the earth : acorns, nuts,
berries, and roots. Such were they
when Smith described them thirty
years later, when Powhatan, residing
on the James, ruled over the scatter^
ed bands as far as the Rappahannock.
It -was evidently among that tribe,
so well known to us by Smith's de-
scriptions, that Father Segura and
his companions began their labors,
and Powhatan may well have been
a son of the cacique, brother of Don
Luis.

The accounts of the subsequent
proceedings of the little mission
colony are derived from Alphonsus,
one of the Indian boys, and are
somewhat obscure. They make
the journey to the hamlets of the
tribe a weary one through wood and
desert and marsh, loaded with their
baggage, and living on roots, and
not the short journey which Father
Quiros anticipated. His letter
stated that the Indian canoes were
all broken ; it was probably found
impossible to attempt to repair
them, and the whole party trudged
on by the riverside to their desti-
nation.

The hamlet first reached was a
wretched one, tenanted only by
gaunt and naked savages, who bore
the famine imprinted on their whole
forms. Here amid the tent-like
lodges of the Indians, made of poles
bound together and covered with
mats and bark, Father Segura and
his companions erected a rude
house of logs, the first white habi-
tation in that part of America —
first church of the living God, first

dwelling-place of civilized men ; for
one end was devoted to their cha-
pel, while the other was their simple
dwelling. Here doubtless, before
the close of September, 1570, the
little community recited their Office
together, and, under the tuition of
X)6n Luis, began to study the lan-
guage. Here, at this modest altar,
the Holy Sacrifice was for the first
time offered by the two priests.
Nowhere on the continent to the
northward were the sacred rites then
heard, unless, indeed, at Brest, in
Canada. Greenland, with its bishop
and clergy and convents, was a
thing of the past ; Cartier's colony,
on the St. Lawrence, had been
abandoned. The Chapel of the
Mother of God, at Jacan, was the
church of the frontier, the outpost
of the faith.

As Father Segura had foreseen
that he must winter there, and might
not receive any supplies before
March or April, he doubtless began,
like his Indian neighbors, to lay up
a store of provisions for the long
winter. Acorns, walnuts, chestnuts,
and chinquapins were regularly
gathered by the natives, as well as
persimmons and a root like a po-
tato, growing in the swampy lands.
Game must have been scarce on
that narrow peninsula between two
rivers, and they had no means of
hunting. Though the rivers of
Virginia teemed with fish, we find
no indication that the missionaries
were supplied with means of deriv-
ing any food from that source.

For a time Don Luis remained
with them, showing all deference
and respect to Father Segura. In
his letter to Melendez Father
Quiros gives the impression he had
made upon them up to that time,
and from which it is evident that
they had no suspicion of his treach-
ery. "Don Luis," says he, "acts

854

The Log Cltapel on tht Rappaltannock.

well^ as was expected of him, and is
very obedient to all that the father
enjoins on him, with much respect
as well for the provincial as for the
rest of us that are here, and he
commends himself earnestly to your
worship, to all his other friends and
masters."

This good disposition may have
been sincere at first, but, as too of-
ten happens in such cases, old
habits returned ; he became Indian
with the Indians, rather than Span-
ish with the Spaniards. Ere long
he abandoned the missionaries al-
together, and went off to another
hamlet, distant from it a day's
journey and a half.

The mission party were not yet
sufficiently versed in the language
to dispense with the aid of Don
Luis as interpreter, and his influence
was constantly needed among the
lawless natives. Feeling this, Father
Segura several times sent one of the
young men to urge Don Luis to re-
turn, but he put them off constantly
with false statements or unmeaning
promises. In this way the winter
wore away, with gloomy forebodings
in the hearts of the pioneer priests
in the log chapel on the Rappahan-
nock. The only hope that cheered
and sustained them was that the
ship would speedily return from
Santa Elena with the supplies they
needed for themselves and the seed-
corn for the natives, whom they
hoped to persuade to cultivate
more, and depend less on the pre-
carious means of sustenance. Mean-
while, as January, 157 1, was drawing
to a close. Father Segura resolved
to make a last effort to move the
heart of the recreant Don Luis.
He sent Father Quiros, with Bro-
thers de Solis and Mendez, to the
hamlet where he resided, to make
a last appeal. The priest, who had
so long known him, endeavored to

recall him to higher and better ftitV
ing^. The unhappy man made
many excuses for his absence, aad
continued to beguile the missionary
with promises; but his heart was
given up to deadly malice. He
had renounced Christianity, and
doomed its envoys to death. As
Father Quiros and his two compaa-
ions turned sadly away to depart
from the place and rejoin their
suffering companions, a shower of
arrows whizzed through the air.
Quiros and his companions fell,
pierced by the sharp flinty arrows
of the apostate and his follower.
Virginia had its first martyrs of
Christ. Their bodies were at once
stripped and subjected to all the
mutilations that savage fancy in-
spired.

Father Segura, with the three bro-
thers and two other Indian youths,
had spent the interval in prayer,
anxiety deepening as no sign of
Father Quiros appeared. On the
fourth day the yells and cries that
were borne on the chilly air an-
nounced the approach of a large
party, and in a short time Don Luis
appeared, arrayed in the cassock
of Father Quiros, attended by his
brother, the cacique, and a war-
party armed with clubs and bows.
He sternly demanded from the
missionaries their knives and axes
used for chopping wood, knowing
that with them alone could they
make any defence. These were
surrendered without remonstrance.
Father Segura saw that the end
was come. The long-delayed ship
would be too late. He prepared
his companions to die. Ther
doubtless gathered around the altar
where the Holy Sacrifice had just
been offered. Then the apostate
gave a signal, and his warriors
rushed upon the defenceless and un-
resisting mission party, and slaugb-

The Log Chapel on tlu Rafpahannock.

855

tered all but Alphonsiis, who was
protected by a brother of Don Luis,
more humane than that fallen man.
The bodies of his victims. Father
Segnra, Brothers Gomez, Linares,
and Zevallos, and the Indian no-
irice, Christopher Rcdondo, were
then, we are told, buried beneath
their chapel-house. The shrine of
the Mother of God was doubtless
pillaged, perhaps demolished; the
lamp of Christian light was extin-
guished, and pagan darkness again
prevailed in the land.

As nearly as could be ascertained,
the martyrdom of Father Quiros oc-
curred on Sunday, the 4th of Febru-
ary, 1571 ; that of Father Scgura a
few days later.

Why had their countrymen in
Florida so cruelly neglected them,
in spite of the urgent letters taken
back by the pilot ? It was probably
because, Melendez being absent, the
letters were sent to Spain, and the
pilot did not fully reveal the desti-
tute condition in which he had left
the mission colony. Brother Vin-
cent Gonzalez was urgent to bear
relief to the vice-provincial, but he
was put off with the pretext that no
pilot could be found to run along
^» •• the coast from Port Royal to the
Chesapeake. It was not till spring
that the good brother succeeded in
getting a vessel and some Spaniards
to proceed to the relief of his supe-
rior, as to whose welfare great anx-
iety was now felt. They ran up the
Potomac, and reached the spot
where Segura had landed. Indian
ninners had descried the vessel
when it entered the river, and, when
the Spanish craft came to anchor,
Indians were there to meet them,
and the garb of the missionaries was
seen in the distance. But the
treacherous red men failed to lure
them ashore with this device, al-
though some came forward, crying.

" See the fathers who came to us.
We have treated them well ; .come
and see them, and we will treat you
likewise."

On the contrary, suspecting
treachery from the fact that the
pretended fathers did not hasten
down to meet them, the Spaniards
not only avoided Janding, but, seiz-
ing two of the treacherous natives,
sailed back to Port Royal.

Melendez, soon after returning
from Spain, heard their report, and
with characteristic energy resolved
to punish the crime. Taking a
small but staunch and fleet vessel,
with a sufficient force, he sailed in
person to the Chesapeake in 1572,
bearing with him Father Rogel and
Brother Villareal. He evidently
ran up the Potomac, as the other
vessel had done, to the spot already
familiar to the pilots. Here he
landed the Spanish soldiers, and
unfurled the standard of Spain on
the soil of Virginia. Marching in-
land, this determined man soon cap-
tured several Indians. They were
interrogated, and at once confessed
that the whole mission party had
been cruelly murdered, but they
laid the blame of the terrible crime
on the apostate Don Luis. Appa-
rently, by one of them Melendez
sent word to the tribe that he would
not harm the innocent, but he in-
sisted on their delivering up Don
Luis. But that false Christian, on
seeing the Spanish vessel, fled with
his brother, the cacique, and all at-
tempts to arrest them failed. The
brother who had saved the Indian
boy Alphonsus, however, came for-
ward to meet Melendez, bringing
to him the only survivor of Father
Segura's pious band. The ade-
lantado received him with every
mark of pleasure.

From this boy was obtained a
detailed account of all that had

8s6

The Log Chapel on the Rappahannock.

happened after the departure of
the vessel which left the mission-
aries on the bank of the Potomac.
The statement is, of course, the
basis of all the accounts we pos-
sess of the fate of the log chapel
on the Rappahannock and the lit-
tle Jesuit, community gathered to.
serve it.

The Spanish commander arrested
a number of Indians; and when
Alphonsus had pointed out those
concerned in the tragedy, Melendez
hung eight of them at the yard-arm
of his vessel. Father Rogel f) re-
pared them all for death, instructing
them, we presume, by the aid of the
young survivor, and had the con-
solation of baptizing them.

After this summary act of retri-
butive justice, the founder of St.
Augustine, with his mail-clad force,
embarked, and the Spanish flag
floated for the last time over the
land of Axacan.

Father Rogel was loath to leave
the country without bearing with
him the precious remains of his
martyred brethren; but Melendez
could not venture so far from his
ship, and his force was too small to
divide. The Jesuit Father could
bear away, as a relic, only a cruci-
fix which had been in the log cha-
pel. Divine vengeance is said to
have overtaken those who profaned
the sacred vessels, and especially
an attempt to injure this crucifix ;
first one, then two others, having
been struck dead. It was subse-
quently placed by Father Rogel in
the College of Guayala.

Some thirty-five years later an
English colony entered a river, to

which they gave the name of Mary
Stuart's son. The Indians from
that river to the Rappahannock
were ruled by Powhatan ; and it is
worthy of remark that Raphe Ha-
mor, one of the earliest settlers,
states that Powhatan's tribe were
driven from their original abode by
the Spaniards. They were Algon-
quins, and did not come from Flori-
da. They were, in all probability,
the very tribe among whom Father
Segura laid down his life. Powha-
tan, represented as then a man of
sixty, might, at twenty-five, have
witnessed or taken part in the mar-
tyrdom.

Such is the history of the first
community of the Society of Jesus
in the Old Dominion, of which they
were the first white occupants. Do-
minicans began the work by con-
verting Don Luis, Jesuits followed
it up by actual possession, by erect-
ing a chapel, by instituting a regu-
lar community life, by instructing,
baptizing, and hallowing the land
by the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

The flag of Spain and the flag of
England have alike passed away,
but on the banks of the Potomac
Jesuit and Dominican are laboring
side by side three hundred years af-
ter the martyrdom of Segura, Qui-
ros, and their companions.

Fredericksburg, which cannot be
far from the early Chapel of the
Mother of God, revives its name in
her Church of St. Mary of the Im-
maculate Conception ; and other
churches of the same invocation
seem to declare that, as of old, so
now we may say, " This is indeed
the Blessed Virgin's land."

New Publications.

857

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

A Letter addressed to His Grace
THE Duke of Norfolk, on the occa-
sion OF Mr. Gladstone's Recent Ex-
postulation. By John Henry Newman,
D.D., of the Oratory. New York : The
Catholic Publication Society, 9 Warren
Street. 1875.

This Ltitfr has two aspects. It is a
reply on behalf of the Catholics of Eng-
Imnd to Mr. Gladstone's charge. It is
also a polemical pamphlet respecting a
domestic controversy with other leaders
of the Catholic body in England. In its
first aspect it is not only masterly in style
a.nd argument, and marked with the evi-
dence of rare learning, as anything from
the author's pen is sure to be, but, to a
certain point, conclusive and unanswer-
able. It proves that Mr. Gladstone's ap-
peal to English Catholics to separate
themselves from the- doctrine and polity
of th^ir spiritual sovereign, the Pope, is
an arrow shot in the air. It proves that
his charge against the Catholic hierarchy
of having changed in spirit and princi-
ple, in dogma and in action, in attitude
and in aims, is baseless and absurd. It
refutes the charge that Catholics are in-
tellectually and morally in a state of ser-
vile bondage. Several other minor and
incidental things are proved, and on the
whole it makes an important point in
the controversy about the relation of
the Catholic religion to civil sovereignty,
and the civil rights and duties of the
temporal order, as distinct from the spiri-
tual. It does not. and could not be ex-
pected to, establish the great fundamental
truth opposed to Mr. Gladstone's error,
v\t^ the positive Catholic doctrine of the
relation of the church to the state, in se,
and the firm, immovable basis which
that doctrine places for just political
sovereignty and corresponding subjec-
tlon to rest on, while securing the divine
rights of the church and her members,
and the duties correlative to those rights.
It is Dr. Newman's misfortune that a
base and dishonest act of some one of
the pestilent set of detectives of the press,
or the other sneak-thisves who prowled
about the purlieus of the Vatican Coun-
cil, filching secret information in order to

make eligible paragraphs in newspapers,
placed him in a position before the
world embarrassing both to himself and
to many of his warmest friends. The
embarrassment of which we speak did
not imply any falling away from the faith
of a Catholic or the holiness of a religious
priest. Yet it left a sentiment of disap-
pointment, which the present pamphlet
does not altogether remove, that .Dr.
Newman failed to add lustre to his arms,
instead of merely preserving unstained
what he had already acquired.

The fading impression of this disap-
pointment would have been wholly effac-
ed if Dr. Newman had not, in his reply
to Mr. Gladstone^ renewed it by a certain
manner of vague and general expression
of discontent with a number of his fellow.
Catholics considered by him as extreme
or injudicious in their doctrine, or way
of expressing it, or their measures for
promoting the growth of the Catholic
Church. There may, very well, be indi-
viduals deserving his severe language.
We have occasion in this coantry to
lament at extravagant representations of
Catholic doctrines, harsh and unjust
censure of persons or opinions, and
other excesses on the part of individuals
professing to be specially orthodox and
devoted to the Holy See. We think, how-
ever, that Dr. Newman's language will
be understood to apply generally to those
persons and those writers for the press
in England and Europe who were active
and zealous in promoting the definition
of infallibility by the Vatican Council.
If it is true that it has this extension, we
feel bound to express our painful sense
of the wrong done to a body of th« best
and true«t advocates of the Catholic
cause who are to be found among our
ranks.

In respect to the infallibility and
supreme authority of the Pope, wc
cohsider that Dr. Newman, whose doc
trinal soundness was always really un-
questionable, has given new and ex-
plicit evidence which must satisfy every
careful reader of the pamphlet who is
competent to judge of theological mat-
ters. We have careful ly scrutinised every

8S8

New PubUcatwns.

phrase and proposition, and find nothing
which in our judgment is contrary to
Catholic doctrine. Jn respect to the theo-
logical opinions and the tone of argu-
ment and expression of the venerable
and illustrious author, we think he is
sometimes open to criticism, as at least
ambiguous, if not inaccurate ; and in re-
spect to one point, which does not occur
as a direct statement of opinion, but as a
record of a doubt in his mind expressed
in a letter to a friend written several
years ago, vis., the famous question of
''moral unanimity.** that the position
there taken is altogether untenable.

Dr. Newman frankly assumes the r(tU
of a ** minimiier,** in which his confrire.
Father Ryder, figured with so much abi-
lity in bis controversy with Dr. Ward.
We have always thought that Father Ry-
der proved fairly that his own positions,
essentially considered, are within the li-
mits of that liberty of opinion which the
Catholic doctrine permits. To a certain
extent we approve of *' minimizing.*'
That is, we approve of not exacting as a
test of orthodoxy, and as per se obliga-
tory under pain of sin, belief in more
than the \zvr*certainfy requires. But we
are most cordially hostile to the system
of economy in teaching and practice,
which inculcates and recommends only
the minimum in doctrine, pious opinion,
or devotion. We do not attribute the
advocacy. of such a S3rstem to Dr. New-
man, yet we think it important to cau-
tion the readers of his pamphlet against
drawing such an inference from his lan-
guage.

In speaking of the Syllabus, in parti-
cular, vre fear that he has spoken in such
a way that some readers will infer that
they may disregard it altogether. He
says it has no dogmatic authority. That
it has not, Vy itself, the quality of a com-
plete and independent dogmatic doco-
ment, we may concede. It is a supple-
ment to a whole series of doctrinal pro-
nouncements, of the nature of a catalogue
ot the errors condemned in them. Yet
all the errors enumerated are really con-
demned by virtue of the sentence pro-
nounced against them in the whole series
ot pontiftcal acts. It is not lawful for
anv Catholic to hold any one of them.
I hoir interpretation is to be sought, by
ihv»se who are competent to do so, in the
oncin^l doctrinal pronouncements of the
Uol\ Father, and by the rest of the faith-
tul u» the explanation of their pastors.

and others who explain them under theii
sanction. So also, although a condesi-
nation of some particular system of mix-
ed education — /.^.. in Ireland — does not
involve infallibility, but only authority
to which obedience is due, yet an ex ob-
ihedrd judgment of the Pope defining as
a general proposition that mixed edoca-
tion is dangerous, is an i^^iUibie js^g-
roent on a question of moral&

Moreover, although the condeainaiioo
of errors frequently leaves a maigia for
discussion respecting the full import and
extent of the condemned error and the
precise limits of the contradictory vnnk
which is affirmed, there is always some-
thing positively and certainly decreed,
over and above the fact that there is as
error of some sort.* Frequently, ibe
meaning is obvious ; and, at least gener-
ally, it is soon settled by the agreemeot
of theologians, so far as its essenoc
is concerned. We cannot criticise in
detail every particular statement or ex-
pression in this pamphlet which, in oar
view, falls shorttof a clear and unmis-
takable and complete expression of cor-
rect theological doctrine. Dr. Newman's
particular line has led* through so many
caveats, exceptions, limitations».so mudk
subtle balancing of opi>osite weights, and
of what he consents to call ** minimizing,"
with which ordinary readersiarc not b-
miliar, that he leaves the impression that
troth, infallible teaching, the authority of
the church, even the Catholic faith, is
something to be afraid of, to be guarded
against, somewhat as Englishmen feci
about a standing army.. We would pre-
fer that, instead of being apparently so
solicitous to assure weak brethren and
timid converts that they need not bcliere
so much as they are afraid of being made
to, he would speak out with a more clear,
ringing, and full note of his own peculiar,
unequalled melody, to f>ersuade and en-
courage them to believe and confide ia
the church of God and in their prelates,
jo3rously, fearlessly, enthostastically,
with the noble spirit worthy of the diil
dren of God. We do not like to hear oar
enemies call Dr. Newman the bead of a
party of liberal Catholics in England,
and set him over against his archbishop,
and pervert his language into a weapon
against the Council of the Vatican. We
do not like to have to vindicate him fron
the praise of anti-Catholic writers, and to
qualify the approbation which we vroulJ
like to give to the productions of his sub-

Nnv Publications.

859

tile and erudite genius by " minimizing **
criticism. He once wrote of himself,

^ Time was, I shrank from what was right.
For fear of what was wrong."

Something of the same mood seoms to
have come over his sensitive heart in his
seclusion from active, ecclesiastical life,
during the Council of the Vatican, and to
have not quite withdrawn its penumbra.
We are reminded of S. Gregory Nazi-*
anzen, complaining of councils and of
S. Basil, as he went away weary from
Constantinople into retirement ; and of
S. Colman, gathering up his relics to
quit Lindisfarne and escape frbm S.
"Wilfrid. These were weaknesses of
saints, but still weaknesses, and it was
their heroism and not their weakness
which made them worthy of our venera-
tion. We trust that Dr. Newman will
remember that there are some others to
be thought of besides those who are
weak in the faith and his own petite
ctUntelU in England; and that he will
not close his career without one more
deed of prowess, which shall discomfit
the enemies of the Holy See and the
Catholic faith, and show that his pennon
still flutters beside those of his fellow-
champions.

Father Eudes, Apostolic Missionary,
AND HIS Foundations, 1601-1874. By
the Chevalier De Montzey. With a
brief of approval from his Holiness
Pius IX. Boston : Patrick Donahoe.

1874.

We have read this book with pleasure,
and have been glad to learn something
of the Congregation of Eudists— one which
deserves especial honor for its loyalty to
the Holy See and the glorious death of
some of its members at the massacre of
the Carmes in Paris during the French
Revolution. The author, who is a grand-
nephew of Father Eudes and of the
famous historian Mezeray who was his
brother, is a soldier by profession, and
his style has a freshness and novelty
about it quite refreshing in hagiography,
and contrasting very favorably with some
other specimens, which reflect more credit
on the piety than on the literary qualifi-
cations of their writers. Father Eudes
was originally an Oraiorian ; but after the
death of Father de Condren, when the
Oratory became infected with Jansenism,
he left it to found a new congregation of
priests, living in community without re-

ligious vows, and devoted to missions and
the instruction of young ecclesiastics in
seminaries. He was a truly apostolic
man, and his work was crowned with
success. Dispersed by the French Revo-
lution, his congregation has been since
revived, and appears to be at present
chiefly engaged in the work of secular
education. The history of the French
Oratory is both singular and instructive.
An institute formed by Cardinal de Be-
rulle, and including among its members
such men as Malebranche, Massillon,
Mascaron, Father de Condren, and Fa-
ther Eudes, would seem to have promis-
ed a most complete success. Yet it
perished utterly and ignominiously
through the deadly contamination of
Jansenism. It has been restored within
a few years past, and is now as strongly
marked by fidelity to the Holy See and
to the spirit of its saintly founders as it
was by faithlessness to both in the period
of its dissolution. Yet its past history
will ever remain a grave and warning
lesson of the deadly effects of tampering
or compromising with unsound doctrines,
and deviating into new and dangerous
ways. Father Eudes succeeded in ac-
complishing what the founders of the
Oratory attempted but did not carry out,
though at the cost of much persecution,
and in a way comparatively obscure and
humble. His character was an original
and admirable one, his institute seems to
have been judiciously and solidly organ-
ized, and we both trust and desire that his
successors may carry out the excellent
work which he commenced to the most
ample results. We recommend this life
particularly to all who are engaged in
similar undertakings.

Tub Religious State according to
THE Doctrine of S. Thomas. By
Jules Didiot, D.D. Translated from the
French. London : Burns & Oates.
(New York : Sold by The Catholic Pub-
lication Society.)
The Perfect Lay- Brother. By Felix

Cumplldo, S.J. Same publishers.

The Mistress of Novices enughtened

UPON HER DirriES. By M. L'Abb^

Leguay. New York : The Catholic

Publication Society. 1875.

The first of these three books, specially

intended for religious, needs no other

recommendation than its title. The second

18 considered by the Jesuits to be one of

the best-of its kind, and is equally useful

86o

New Publications.

for that most excellent class of religious
persons* the Lay-Sisters, as for brothers.
The third will be welcome to the ladies
in charge of the numerous and crowded
novitiates which are the most beautiful
feature in our American Catholic Church,
and, from the recommendations it has
received, we have no doubt will prove
satisfactory, though we have not had
time even to glance at its contents.

Margaret Roper. By Agnes Stewart.
London : Burns & Oatcs. 1874. (New
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica-
tion Society.)

Miss Stewart is one of our best female
writers. The sketch she has given of
Margaret Roper, in her usual felicitous
style, is in the main historical, with a
little fictitious coloring to give it life.

Characteristics from the Writings
OF John Henry Newman. Arranged
by W. S. Lilly, with the author's appro*
val. New York : Scribner, Welford &
Armstrong. 1875.

The American publishers have import-
ed their edition at the retail price of $2.50.
It is a London-printed book, which is
all that need be said for its typography.
The selections are miscellaneous and
made with taste and discrimination. The
volume must be welcome to thousands
of admirers of the matchless writings of
a man who is one of the modern glories
of English literature, as well as one of
the brightest ornaments of religion and
the church in the present century. One
of the best portraits of Dr. Newman
which we have seen, an admirably-execut-
ed engraving from a recent photograph, is
a welcome addition to the volume.

The Complete Office of Holy Week,

according to the Roman Missal and

Breviary, in Latin and English. New

and revised edition. New York : The

Catholic Publication Society. 1875.

This little book will be found very

useful to those of the laity who have an

opportunity of attending the Holy Week

services, and it will also be interesting

to those who may wish to know what

those services are which so occupy the

church during the " Great Week," as the

work contains all the devotions of Holy

Week, with the day and night office. There

is an abundance of spiritual reading in

the Scripture lessons and prophecies, so

that those whose duties prevent them

from attending the services may reap

much profit by a perusal of the ofliers ai
home. Each day is preceded by an In-
troduction, explaining the measiogof the
principal ceremonies. There is also added
the ritual for the blessing of the h<dj oils,
which is performed by the bi^iop oa
Holy Thursday.

Peace through tfe TRtrrH. Sscokd

Series. Part I. By Rev. J. Harper,

S.J. London : Bums, Gates & Co» 1875.

(New York: Sold by The Catholic

Publication Society.)

This ponderous volume is employed

with the topic of the Levitical impedi-

meats to matrimony, and its weight of

learning and argument is in proportios

to its size.

The Philosophy of Spiritualism, akp
THE Pathology and Tr£atb«>t cr
Mediomania. Two Lectures. Br
Frederic R. Marvin, M.D^ Professor
of Psychological Medicine and Medical
Jurisprudence in the New York Free
Medical College for Women. Read
before the New York Liberal Club.
March 20 and 27, 1874. New York:
Asa K. Butts & Co., Publishers, No.
36 Dey St. 1874.

Asa K. Butts & Co. have pnUisiwd
this small book with a long title inaverr
cheap and economical manner, very well
suited to its scientific and literary value.
It is decidedly the production of a medio-
monomaniac.

On the Wing : A Southern Flight. Bt

the Hon. Mrs. Alfred Montgomery.

author of TheBuekhn Siai^, AfimeOwn

Familiar Frietuf^ The IVron^ Mom, tK.

London: Hurst & Blackctt. 1875.

Those of our readers who enjoyed thi^

" flight'* during the summer and antuou

in the pages of The Cathouc Woui>

will need no assurance from us regardiof

the pleasure of the trip. To others we

will simply say that the volume contains

some admirably. told travelling ezpeii-

ences, graphic descriptions of Italian life

and scenery, together with romantic

episodes in which sundry characters, ml

or imaginary, pass through a variety of

piquant incidents.

Announcement. — In addition to iIk
new serial already commenced in The Ca-
tholic World, we shall begin in the April
number the publication of another stonr
by the author of *' Laughing Dick Cran-
stone," *• How George Howard w»$
Cured," etc.

ITERARY

ULLETIN.

PUBLISHER'S DEPARTMENT,

SPECIAL NOTICE.

This department was spcciaHy opened to keep the readers of The Catholic
World acquainted from month to month with all the new Catholic books published
in this country and in England, a list of which is given at the end of this Bulletin.
By consulting this list every month, much time and trouble will be saved by our
readers and the publisher ; for it will save the former the trouble of writing about the
price of certain books, and the latter the time lost in answering such letters. It is
the ptsbHsher's intention to make the list as correct as possible.

8i9fcs onr latt Bulubtin the Catholic Pablico-
cJon Society has pabllehed Dr. Newman*s An-
swer to Kr. aiadatone ; The Veil With-
drawn ; The Mistress of Xovioes ; De-
h»rbe*s Complete Catechism ; and a n«w
<<dltiDD of Holy Week. The Toun^ Ca-
tholic's Fifth and Sixth Beaders will be
reedy by March 1, and tho Tounar I«8uiies*
Baader f oon afterwards.

The Catholic Pablicatlon Society hat in prcaa
and will soon pnblUh the following booke:
ArAbitbop Manning on The Vatican De-
crees and th^r Bearings on CItU Alle-
fflaivoei Tounff Ladies' Hi«rh Class
Beader ; Life of Father Bernard* C.8S.B.,
tramUted firom the French, $1 60 ; Life of St.
John the Bvanffelist, translated firom the
fKnch, $S ; Be Kot Hasty In Judginr ;
and Mannal of the Blessed Sacrament, a
book that will be hailed with delight by all who
have a fervent devotion to tho Blessed Sacrament
The following is

The Approbation

of Ills Grace Archbishop McCloskey :

'* We approve, and wish to commend in a
•pecfal manner, \ht Manual^ tktBUtMd Sacra-
m^^, translated from the French. It abounds
with asef al iostraction, and breathes thronghont
a •pirit of faith and piety that can hardly fkil to
«xdto within the hearts of Ita readers a deeper
love for the most aagnst mystery of the altar,
and a more tender devotion to the Sacred Heart

of Jesn«. We hope from it many preclons fruits
to sonls.

*• ■!• John, Abcbbishop or New York.** \

This Manual will also contain Prayers at Mass,
the three Litanies, as well aa the Litany of the
Blessed Sacrament. It will be got up in good
style, and will be sold at the following prices :
Arabesque, $1 ; arabesque, gilt, $1 60 ; roan,
gilt, $3; morocco, extra, $3 50; calf, extra,
$i W.

The London TahUt thus criticitcs Dr. New-
man^s work :

** 1. However much we may deplore the bad
taste, to say the least, which led Mr. Gladstone
to drag Father Newman— through a surrepti-
tiously published confidential letter— into the
conflict he has so perversely raised, we cannot
regret that the veteran champion of the faith has
once more come into the lists ; and that the keen
swerd which made such mince-meat of Canon
Kingsley should be again nnsheathed to stop the
way of the angry statesman who bears down
with all the force of his powerful rhetoric against
the Catholic Church. How Mr. Gladstone will
answer this exhaustive refutation of his ground-
less charges we cannot pretend to say; but if, in
his present temper, any * expostulation ' conM
reach his better reason, he might be expected to
be touched by the evident regret with which
Dr. Newman smites him, and by the display of
such chivalrous anxiety to spare his adversary

Literary Bulletih.

while In the very act of destroying his weapons
of mischief. At any rate, Mr. Gladstone's re-
j )inder is not likely to be capable of being snm-
marized in the inimitable phrase with which Dr.
Newman described the attempted reply of his
former opponent : *'Qo to the shades, old man,
iznd boast that Achilles sent yon thither.* The
a-gnments of this remarkable LetUr are so nuan-
swerable that we ere inclined to donbt, with the
Times, whether Mr. Gladstone will attempt to
grapple with them. It Is far more likely that he
will attempt to evade their force by trying to de-
tect dUTerences of thought and expression
between the Tarions answers that his Ewpostula-
tion has received. At any rate, this is the line
taken by most of oar Protestant contemporaries,
and we are glad to find that Br. Newman has met
it by anticipation, and has with consummate
ability tamed it into a complete reply to one
of Mr. Gladstone's formidable charges :

*' * Mr. Gladstone should not on the one hand
declaim agalnat ns as having * no mental free-
dom,' If the periodical press on the other hand la
to mock ns as admitting a liberty of private jndg-
ment purely ProteeUnt. We surely are not open
to contradictory impatatlons. Bvery note of
triumph over the differences which mark our an-
swers to Mr. Gladstone is a distinct admission
that we do not deserve his injurious reproach
that we are captives and slaves to the Pope.'

** We have made these observations at tbe be>
g^QDing of oar notice, because we have no wish
to evade the force of the remarks that have already
been made about the dilTercnce between Dr. New-
man> way of treating certain questions raised by
Mr. Gladt^tone, and the way they have been handled
in the pages of the TabM, We would refer our
keen-sighted critics to the last three pages of hi»
letter, where Dr. Newman disposes of this objec-
tion, which he characterizes as a' showy and ser-
viceable retort in controversy, but nothing more.*
Nay, we will go fhrther, and admit that it is very
possible that the great Oratorian may have been
thinking of some expressions of our own when
he complains of * the chronic extravagances of
knots of Catholics here and there ' as having been
partly the * cause of the present excitement <tf the
public mind against oor religion.' We have
never pretended to claim for ourselves anything
more than an honest desire to serve the cause of
the church in the way that seemed to ns at the
time to be the beat. We have been proad of tlM
approbation that has been graciously accorded to
us by our ecclesiaetlcal superiors ; but we never
pretended that that ^probation meant more than
an approval of the general drill of our eifortSj or
that it in any way exempted us from the remon-
strance and friendly reproof of those who, Uke
Dr. Newman, prefer a different mode of defend*
\vti what is so dear to ua alU One of our ablest
writers has justified himself elsewhere by saying
that if one wishes to make one's self heard In a
crowd, it is necessary {to pitch one's voice in n
somewhat high key ; and Father Newman sets us
all a beautUO) ojounplt in the loyal, homble

words with which he dopes tbi:§ Utter, •i>d wbick
we would earnestly wish to make our own :

** • I say there is only one orac!e of Gsd— the
Holy Catholic Church, and the Pope as ber bead.
To her teaching I have eve? deaSied mH my
thoughts, all my words, to bo conformed ; to be
judgment I submit what I have sow vrzittce.
what I have ever written, not only sljs reigards Its
truth, but as to its prudence, Itm sale
and its expedience. I think I hare not
any end of my own In anythitg that I bsv« pab-
lished, but I know well that in maUers wK 41
faith I may have spoken when 1 ooght to Lave
been silent.'

*' Having made this acknowledgment, we are
not caxelhl to prof eas onr agreement with evoy
minor detail of Dr. Newman's ai;gnizkCTt. Uniry,
not uniformity, is the chief note of tbe CaSfcolic
Church. The anathemas of S. Cyril aerved the
church in one way, while the conoescioss d ^.
Basil served her equally !n another ; and while
we gratefully acknowledge the immen«c atsudst-
ance which Father Newman's gentle aiodcrailoD
has been to many sensitive oonsciance% w mmm
beg of his large heart to nuke allowances for ■*
when we conscientlonely believe thai some sonJ»
are also helped by the strong language which wr
have now and then thought It onr dsty to bhl
The present writer may fairly malEe *fci^ j
for there is no one on earth to whosa bs isi
indebted than to Father Newman, and tm him
chiefiy to that quality which he appowa to Uamt
ns for not possessing. At the same time wc
know of persons upon whom this gcatla Bto^n-
Uon has had precisely the opposite effect, and
whom it led to put off their convenios nsnl
other means were used by God to hring thsB
into the true fold. So differently conetltated are
different minds, and so important is It that the
church should have her doctrines presented fnai
different points of view. We have saade tte»
remarks because, though we certainly vooM
rather have had our ovm. opinions coolised Irj
so weighty an authority as that of Dr. Kewvaa
we do not feel that he has convicted ns d mi
serious fault. The terrible Diocletian pcaaca-
tion biased out in fury on the occasion of the
Indiscreet zeal of a Christ iau uho tore down tbs
imperial decrtse against Christldnity ; but weds
not read that the fathers of the ch&rth trvi i»
flioted any serious censure upon the iadiscreft
Individual in question ; indeed. Cardinal W\m- *
man in Fabioia makes him a buiuL The Glad-
itontan attack is not likely to have so tragicil m
issue ; and even If our indiscretion did 's« th*
hou«e on fire,' it Is a gain rather than a loss ta
find that Father Newman is mora than eqcal to
* the task of putting out the flames* Tldi UtUrr
is not likely to go through ao many editlou at
the pamphlet to which it is a reply; but it if
likely to live in English Ifterature long after Mr.
Gladstone's EaqpostuhiHim Is buried In oMlrlos.
*• We do not think it nece^^sry tog^veoar read-
ers a summai7 of the work before ua, as doubt-
less most of them have read it before these vonlt

Literary Bullethu

\ tlkeui, and it has been already v«ry Hairly
Bsnar Lzcd in the TUnts and other daily p{4)er8.
\ is marked by that gravity, and we might
, mm^ aadnc^, which pervades the illiutrioaa
r*^ Mter writings ; bat age has not dolled the
t «d^e of tbat marvclloas intellect, and here
at the playful satire of days gone by. It
■ nice a farewell to controversy , bat wo can ill
\ so i>owerral a pen, and we are sue that^ aa
MA life remains, John Henxy Newman will
' refose a call to defend the faith to which
. powers have been eo willingly consecrate
«il. 8«d. will it be for England when the grave
•bail eloee npon that hand whi<di F. Caawall baa
> intifnlly apof trophizcd ;

*• • Through thee this Isle, ^Z.^

So wrapt in Satan's chain,
A. moment seemed

As if aboat to own her early faith again ;
A moment eyed

With a half-wistfhl gaae,
As she in beauty passed.

The vision of the chnrch of ancient days.'

•* If we were to fix upon particnlar sections of
tlitf present LetUr which call for more especial
adaotration, we shoald select first of all that short
iMit pregnant section entitled *The Aneient
Cbarcii,* in which tbe aothor pulverises complete-
ly Mr, GlAdstone*8 cbarge of * repudiating ancient
litetory%* In a rapid review of the ancient Church
be abowB tbat her attitude of independence to-
vfmrdB the state has been indeed semper eadem ;
luav, that it is precisely because she so faithf^illf
maintains tbat ancient system that she is now as-
sailed. Ue goes further, and shows by nnmls-
takabla proofs that Kr. Gladstone's present po-
•itiooi la entirely antagonistic to the whole spirit
of the Oxford movement. In the next section
.be pasaas on to the action of the Holy See, and
abowa bow ' The Papal Church * carried on
tbrongh the mi<ldle ages the some work, and was
and la ihistorically) the sole beir of the rights,
prerogatives, privileges, and duties of the ancient
cbnicb:

** * No one else claims or exercises its rights or its
datiafl. la it possible to consider the Patriarch
•of Voecow (He) or of OohstantiDopIe heir to the
blitorical prcteccions of S. Ambrose or S. Mar-
« tbi t Does any Anglican bishop for the last 300
jmn recall to our minds the image of Sw Basil T
W«1U then, ha<s all tbat ecclesiastical power which
. mafccfl such a ehow in the Christian Bmpire
ainply vanished, or, if not, where is it to be
fboadf ... If all that can be found of it is
what can be di^tccmed at Constantinople or Can-
terbnry, I say it has disappeared. . . . We
most either give ap the belief in the chnrch oa a
divine institution, altogether, cr we most recog-
nise in it that communion of which the Pope is
the head. With him alone and about him aro
fooad the claims, the pNro;^tive«, and duties
which we ideuUfy with tbe kingdom set up by
Gbrtit. We must take things as they are ; to be-

lieve in a church is to believe in the Pope. And
thus this belief in the Pope and his attributes,
which seems so monstrous to Protestants, is
bound up with our being Catholics at all ; as our
Catholicism is with our Christianity. There is
nothing, then, of wanton opposition to the pow-
ers that be, no dinning of novelties in their
startled ears, in wliat is often unjustly called
Ultramontane doctrine ; there Is no pernicious
servility to the Pope in our admission of his.pro-
tensions. I say we cannot help ourselves. Par-
liamest may deal as harshly with us as it will ;
we should not believe in the church at all unless
we believed in its visible head.*

'« * I declare it aa my own Judgment that the
prerogatives, such aa, and in the way in which
I have described them in substance, which the
chnrch bad under the Boman power, those fha
claims now, and never, never will relinquish ;
claims them, not as having received them from a
dead empire, but partly by the direct endow-
ment of her Divine Master, and partly as being a
legitimate outcome of that endowment ; claims
them, but not except from Catholic populations,
not as if accounting the more sublime of them to
be of every-day use, but holding them as a pro-
tection or remedy in great emergencies or on
supreme occasions, when nothing else will serve.
as extraordinary and solemn acts of her religious
sovereignty.*

'* And then, alter a brilliant sketch of thebeuc-
flts conferred upon Europe by the popes, Father
Newman gravely rebukes ' the passionate invec-
tive against the Holy See and us individually
which Mr. Gladstone has carried on through sixty -
four pages,* and indignantly remarks, 'Surely
Nana Sahib will have more Justice done him by
the English people than has been shown to tbe
fathers of European ciyiUxation.'

" A ftsw weeks ago a letter appeared In our col-
umns from the editor of the IhthUn StvieWy in
which he disclaimed the assertion that all Catho-
lics held, or ought to hold, the Pope^s deposing
power, while at the same time he declared his
own personal belief in it. He probably did not
expect to have his views so completely endorsed
by Dr. Newman as they aro In this Letter. Our
author says of the deposing power : * It is hot
necessary for any Catholic to believe; and, 1
suppose, comparatively speaking, few Catholics
. do believe it ; to he honest, Immteay Ido ; that
is, under the conditions which the Pope himself
lays down in his answer to .the address of tbe
Academla.*

*' The fifth section Is a splendid vindication of
the true rights of conscience, confirmed by tbe
authority of the most approved moral theolo-
gians—the very authors, by the way, who are so
ridiculously caricatured in the current Quar-
' tertf. But Dr. Newman indignantly disclaims
the so-called rights of conscience so loudly ad-
vocated In the present day, which ho Justly stig-
matises as ' the right of self-will,* and against
which false ' liberty of conscience' ho shows the
Pope*s condemnations are levelled. Bat oor

Literary Bulletin.

9p*c« eompeb as to defer oor renuuks;oD tbe
r«tt of this most loUrestiDg lAtlUr to soother
occuion/'

The TaUA alio notioee Fftther Harper*8 Uto
work. Peace Thron^h the Truth, as follows :

** A book of 700 pegee mutt be either A very good
thii^ or a very bad thing. Father Harper*a
prcaeot inttalmest of his tecond aeries of essays
on Dr. Posey ^s EinMicon runs to that length, or
thereaboats, and it is folly as good aa his great
repatatlon wonld have led as to anticipate. The
present roliune difTers from its predecessor, pob-
lisb«d some eight years ago, in being a treatise
on a single snbject instead of a series of essays.
When Father Harper sent forth to the world the
fonr exhaoetlTe and condosiTe papers, in which
he not only disposed of Dr. Posey's feeble Angli-
caniim, bot enriched Catholic theology with
standard scientiHc treatises, he gare tbe pnblic
to nnderstand that he intended, if permitted, to
follow them op with farther stodies. He hinted
that he might, next in order, take np
the sobJect of the False Decretals. This,
howerer, he lias not done. Haring in the former
▼olome, after an introdoctory Ecsay on Reunion,
treated of the onity of the church, of Transab*
•tantiation, and of the Immaculato Conception
of the Blessed Virgin, he now dedicates the pre-
sent volome entirely to Dr. Posey^a first aap-
posed Papal Contradiction ; or the Lerltical Pro-
hibitions of Uarriage in their relation to the
dispensing power of the Pope. For oor own part,
having read the book carefhlly, we shoold b« dis-
posed to call it a monograph on marriage, consid-
ered legally, politically, and socially.

**Dr. Posey ^s share in the causation of Father
Harper's book is like that of the man who pulls
the string of the shower-bath. He has brought a
i^reat deal down upon himself. In trying to
prove the absurdity of Papal Infallibility, he haa
made an attempt, in his Eirtniamy to proro the
existence of what he calls Papal contradictions.
One of these contradictions be finds in the Csct
tibat certain popes, for in stanc e Alexander YI.,
hare giren dispensation for marriage within the
degrees prohibited in Leviticos, ch. xriil., former,
popes hsTiog formally declared that dispensation
in such degrees was impossible. Onthis hint Fa-
ther Harper speaks. He perceives, as every one
doe«, that the difficolty can be answered with*OTer^
whelming condoslveness * in aboot half a page.
No one, except the Anglican theologiana who
writo about reunion, ever thought of assertiBg
that a wilf ol act of a wilfol man contradicts any-
thing whatever, in any strict sense of the word.
If the ' onhappy Borgia,' as Dr. Posey calls him,
. had commissioned a man to a murder, only a very
loose writer wonld say that he was thereby ^con.
uadicting ' the Fifth Commandment, il nd if to
this plain answer we add (what we have to repeat
OTwy day with wearisome repetition) that not all.
uttecances of popes are infallible, it would cer-
tainly appear as if several hundred pages were
aot required to prove Dr. Pusey*s proofs to be

good for nothing. Bat Fisther Harps neesaa-4f^-
portunity. Detaining Dr. Pnsey in * ekochtie * fet-
ters, he turns to the pnblic and fbrgeta bis cs|p-
tive. Not that he quite forgeta him eSkber ; ftff
the reader will find greait edlflcatlonand Impcwsv-
ment in the elaborate castigatlons whieti ha be-
stows from time to time on tbe professor's bnd
reasoning, and liis evil prsctices in qnotaHoB, t»-
fsrenoe, suppression, and omission. We dsiAe
10 speak with respect of a name like that of Vf-
Pusey. We are aware how many of those wh»
are now our brethren in the faith cberiieh in iMr
hearts a deep alTection for one whom th^ leaat
to know in days before light came to them. Bat
the pages of the work we are noticing conlfBi Iftt
impression that Dr. Pusey, with all his
and reading, is one of the weakest and
consequent of reasoners.

^'Father Harper, then, lias sdzed the opportai-
ity of elevating a polemical tract into » i
treatise. Questions touching tbe &atm« i
attributes of divine law, the relation of tbeS
altic code to the church of Christ, the
ance or abolition of the Sabbatical ob
the natore and history of dispensations, tbe mo-
tive causes of matrimonial prohibitions withb
certain degrees of relationship— such are tbe
questions, set down in his own words, into which
he has entered at large, and which he justly w^
poses will not be without their interest for theo-
logical readers and the general public Sree
this list by no means exhaosts tbe list oC toptai
which the volume treats at greater or feaslaagft
We have, for example, a disqulsitioB on thr
fathers and their value nit witnesses to Bwiis-
tion; on the authority of the Decretals; onTts-
dltion; on Devdopment; and on Clcricri O0^
bacy, in the amusing and novel form of a repso
of a Royal Commission issued during the year st
our Lord 1896.

**In a notice like this it is quite fmpeaslbis f»
give an adequate idea of the oonttms and style
of so large a bo<^. But It is true to say tfefli
this volmmt of Father Harper's and its pisdiiassnr
are the best examples in modem Snglsh sf
theology mad» popular. We have theotoffy W
pUed to the spirttnal life ; theology in sczmoMcwA
in aseetical hooka; butwefindinFatlierfisipsr
theology pure and simple, yet not dry or |ffb>
nicaL It wonld be no compliment, of coenc, t>
say that hia theology is not sdontific in leoBia- i
ology and In aocnrate rigidity of atatement; sad
the technical Latin terms are so much a pait of
theological disdpttne that it is impoesaik to get
rid of them completely. Butit is Father HaipsKs
merit to have achieved the feat of comhia-
ing good Bnglish with a minimum of taeb-
nical Latin ; of moulding modem wortfa and
forms with happy skill into perfect eqjuiTa-
lenta for scholastic phraaer. Few
know how difllcolt this is. And yet every |
who has attended a course of theological instruc-
tion, in which the lectures are ddlvered in Lsda,
or who has even used a latin text-book, mast
have felt that after be had mastered his IsxtJUs

Literary Bulletin,

I <3fn\y balf finlehcd. It renia!oed for him
CO pat Into EngHsh what he had Imhihedin Latin.
*X^B g«t an Bnglish word for a Latin one !■ not
Wjr difflctilt ; hat to give the substance of a
Uttfai psra^raph tn easy, appropriate, and attrac-
tl1r« So^ish Is one of the most difficalt triomphs
«rslibeiml edncatiou. It it a matter which is
o ap octo lly important in this conntry. Priests
i'ynms^et Latin Scientific Theology, and they
. ntter Divine Truth in fair, Inteliiglhle^Bng-
tUh. Keither of the«e dnties can be evaded. If we
«M*s1ky in theology In Latin, we cat oorselves off
firotn tbe traditions of the schools, and onr know-
ledge of Divinity is apt to become meagre and pro-
▼titeial. Instead of sharing in the universality of
tlia cbnrdi herself. . If we cannot translate oar
lAtte l>ooks in current English, we shall do very
little good with onr theological learning; we
must either drop it Just when we could employ it
CO most advantage, or we must use it clumsily to
the disgust of oar hearers.

•* We are glad to see that Father Earper con-
templstes farther labors, and proposes to confute
CroBB Church History Dr. Pusey's attacks os the
Hnpremacy and Infallibility of the Sovereign
PoatiiL*^

This work is for sale by The Catholic Pabliea-
don Society, price $10 fiO.

The following letter lias appeared in the Lon-
don Jktilp N6W8 :

I>r. ZTewmaa's Beply to Mr. Qladatone*
Sir: In your leader this momirg on Dr. New-
amsn^t pamphlet, you say : ^ Dr. Newman, we are
Stsd to see, limits very distinctly for himself the
anthority of Papal Intervention. We certainly
did not understand Archbithop Manning or
Monslgnor Capel to adopt such view.^ Will you
jOIow me to ask that the following extract from
my reply to Mr. Gladstone's JSjopaatuiaCkm may
t>e Inserted in your columns? The underlined
columns will shew how thoroughly I am one
With the distinguished Oratorian :

"^The allegianoe of Catholics can only be tp-
preelatcd by remembering the principles on
wlkich it is founded. The following summary
o# them may aid our readers to do this :

*' (1) According to the teaching of the Catholic
Chtttbh, God has established on earth three dis-
tinct powers: (a) the Paternal, (b) the Civil, («)
» the Splritnal. These are invested respectively
In the family, the state, and the church. And
to each. In its own sphere, obedience must be
rendered Tor cooscleoco* sake.
** (9) Each of these powert ie supreme and imde-
endent in Ue 92Bn proelnee ; hoe fuU and free
oetMtjf in Its own order ; preserves its own auto-
iiomp; and ought never to be aibsorbed by either of
e other potters.

** (8) Bach is intended to attain a separate end,
nd is exercised within certain limits.

* (a) The Paternal Is etUblished for the life*
evrtare, and education of the Individual, and Is
limited to the family.

' i) The CivU watches oviv and (hrihers ths

temporal interests and well-being of Individuals
and fkmilies, and Is confined to the state.

^ (e) The Splritaal leads individuals and ftaml-
lies and states to eternal happiness ; Its empirv
is the church and Its sway is over souls.

** (4) These powers, emanating from God, and
having him for common centre and principle, in-
stead of being antagonistic, do mutually sustain
each other If each will keep within Its appointed
domain. Though each of these powers is dis-
tinct, and has its own special end to accomplish^
yet it must never be forgotten they have intimate
relations arising out of the final end for which all
have been established— the ralvation of men.

*' ({Q The spiritual power Is not only pre-eminent
on account of Its nobler end and its greater em-
pire, but also hi its very nature ; for having the
supreme authority to instruct individuals and so-
cieties of men in the law of God, and to judge of
Che morality and Justice of all actions. It Is mani-
fest this power is not only exercised directly in
Its own sphere, but likewise Indirectly over the
aetUms of the other two powers. In this sense,
then, it is supreme, and the other powers are
subordinate to it

^ (6) The church, as the representative of the
Spiritual Power, and as the Guardian of the Di-
vine Law,

" (a) Can define the limits of her own powers,
and consequently ipso facto those of the other
powers;

" (6) She does exercise Indirectly her power over,
though not in the stats, by taking cognizance of
the morality of its laws and acts ;

*^ {c) She does not intervene directly and absolute-
ly in the dutiee of the state ^ the forms of govern-
ment, the rights (ffciUzem^ eivU regulations and
thelike;

** ' ((2) And, lastly^ she intervenes in the etvil
domain only so far as is necessary to save and
sustain the spiritual power.

** * 7. To eaeh 4»f these pawere must loyal, con-
scientious obedience be rendered, within the
limits marked out by God. No human authority
can bind conscience, unless euch aathority acts
in conformity with the Law of God. In case,
then, of conflict between these powcn>, the indi-
vidual must follow conscience. But conscience
needs instrnction— who is to impart it? The
church, the Divine Teacher, say Catholics ; pri-
vate judgment, say Protestanta. Both agree in
asserting that conscience must be followed, but
differ in the mode of instructing conscience.
Mr. Gladstone ought, therefore, in common fair-
ness, to have asierted that Catholics do render
to Caesar the things that are Csesar^s ; but that
they learn what things are Cfle«ar*s, not by the
fallible authority of private judgment, but by
the infallible voice of their Church * (pp. 50-6S).

"Apologizing for trespassing on your rpace,
and thanking you beforrtiand for your courtesy,
I am, sir, your obedient servant,

" T. J. Cavwl.

"Catholic University College, Kensington, W.,
**JaimarylA.**

Literary BnlUtin.

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UNDBKlhithcMl we Intend to gfrenUetof aU
the new Catholic Booki pabliAed in tUeooontry
each month, as well u ell thoee pnbliehed in Sng^
l^d end fior aele here. PnbUehefS wm picese

■end n apcciel copy to the puhUeher fml^mpm
poee of heriBS its tkle inserted here. Al the
books mentioned below cmn be oedcred ef Tn
Qiamouc Pusucation Soobtt.

AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS

Cmieekitm •f ike CkrUiian Seliwimn.

Translated from the German of Debar be, by
Father Fender, S.J 76 cls.

lk€ Yeit Wtlhdrawn. Translated from the
French of Mme. Craven ^/ 60

Ikt MUtreti of JVoriees JPntigkitnta
upon ker i>utiei j or. Method of Direction
for the Use of Perione charged to form Souls
to Christian and Relifrious Perfection. By
M. I'Abb^ Leffuay. TransUited by a Member
of the Order of Mercy ^/ 60

Tke CompUU Offlte cfMofy Wetk, accord-
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and Enf llsh. Mew edition, rerised and en-
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A Zeiier Addresttdio kit Grate ike fhtke
of Norfolk t on occasion of Mr. Gladstone's
recent Expostulation. By John Henry New-
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Sngtiek Caikoiie Direeioty ^f 00

JMe of JTaiker Senry Young. By Lady

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Tke l\tbtie Life of Our LordJeeut Ckrisi.

By the Rer. H. J. Coleridf e, S.J. Part I.

0S »6

Our Zat^g f>owryi or. How BnRland Gained
and Lost this Title. A Compilation by the
Rev. T. E. Bridgett, C.SS.R. Crown 8vo,
436 pages. With four iUustratione. By H. W.
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tke Sivttabut for ike IPeopte, A Review of
the Propositions condemned by his Holiness
Pope Pius IX., with Text of the Condemned
List. By a Monk of St. Augustine's, Rams-
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Mr, Giadtione^s JBttpotiutaiion Un-
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Decrees, in their Bearing on Civil Allegiance.
Bv the Right Hon. Lord Robert MonUgu,
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Keeper of Mary, Queen of Scots. Edited by
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Faik€r MmdeM% ApotioUc Misria mmr y, and
kit Toundaliontj, fOO/'IST^. By M. Ck.
I>e Montxey. P. Donahoe, Bosion — SS i>0

l>ai(9 Zife of ike Sitk ; or, CMseolatioB m
the Hour of Suffering. Hv M. I' Abb« Hern
Perreyve. P. F. Cunnlnghaia, Poilad^bh^

Mutter* t Caieekitm ofCkHtHau 9oeirime
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Sweeney, O.S.B.. D.D #/•#

irko it Jetue Ckriti t Five Lectwts Mi«
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Right Rev. Dr. Hedlev, O.S.R, Ri^op Aaxii^

faiy of Newport and Mene via. SSob.

J^i/*,^^*^ne Caikerine Emmeriok. »t

Helen Ram. x vol. xsmo .^...SfS0

Tjeaee ikrougk tke trutk ; or. EsnfS ob
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—Part 1.— Dr. Pusey's First Supposed Pwal
CpntradicUon; or. The LeriUcal Krohibitioe*
of Marriage in their Relation to the Dispm-
fag Power of the Pope. i. The PvoIom. t.
FnndamenUl Principles. 3. The Isnc, coa>
taining a detailed examination of Dr. PcseVi
evidence respecting Marriage wkh a De-
ceased Wife's Sister. 4. Doctrinal PoetiL «-

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FirstPart #/*•

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78 dt.
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Timnslated by George Porter, S.J. « rdt
xamo..... ,,.Si 2S

DONAHOE'S PUBLISHING HOUSE,

BOTLSTON ST., BOSTON, 9IA8S.

Books for Husbands, Wiyes, Sons, and Daughters.

_ •f tbe Tonsrae and Jealonsy In Woman's Iilfo. Followed bj Discoan es on
BMSh Judgments, Patience, and Grace. By Monseigneur Landriot, Archbishop of Rheims.
Translated from the French by Helena Lyons. With Preface by the Bishop of Kerry. 12mo,
doth, $150.

X^e Valiant IToman. A Series of Disconrsei for the Uie of Women JAvSng In the Wotld.
By Monseigncur Landriot, Archbishop of Rheima. Translated from the French by Helena
Ljona. 12mo, cloth, $1 60. ,

SENTIMENTS OP THE PRESS.

CATHOLIC.

fironi Ike yew York T\al>let.

**TliMe works of the lenrned and ptons Areh>

lHWtaop of B&elins tre in all respeeia tke most yala-

mbleaddlUon oar Catholic literature has reclved

tar many years. They are so eminently practical,

«o acrfecliy adapted to the a«re in which we live.

aao so entirely calculated to instrnct and elevate

Use Christian woman to the fallhetgnt of her lefty

mtsalon on earth, that it is impoeslbie to orerestl-

iBAle ihelr ralnc. Then the style is so simple, so

nafural, yetsofnilofirrace and difrnlty, that the

reader la filled with admiration, while the willing

ffWBtlenesa, the tender sweetneav, pervadlna the dls«

eonraes remind one of nothing so much as the

wrlttngs of St. Francis de Sales. The elegantly

irrliten preface, by the eminent Bishop of Kerry,

forma ayahiable and most acceptable introduction

t*tlieflrst>named work. The Sin9 qfthe Tongua.

Tlw translation of this work Is deserving of all

pralae. In (hat of The Valiant Woman we noticed

•ome sllsht tnelegancies or Gallicisms, bat in The

JtOneofthe Tbnffue no such are to be foand; and,

vlth Bishop Morlarty tn his preface, we conirrata*

late Mrr. Landriot on having found a faithful and

«1eirant Interpreter, *who has preserved in her

traoalatlon the tenderness, the warmth, and the vl-

«or of the original.' **

I^wn the Pttteburffh Ca thoUc,
** We feel auured that none can read these lee*
terra withoat much good. They will learn from
tbeir peiosal how to restrain nasty impulses of
apeech, and promote patience, eharity, peace, and
irood will towards their neighbor, the greatest
characteristics of the Christian. The work should
alao receive a careful perusal from men ; as they
too have a good many sins of the tongue and
Jealousies that it would be well, for the good of
rallsloa and rociety, to correct.*'

Prom the Ifeui Orleans Star,
**. . . Domestic duties form the chief subject
ofuiese excellent instructions, in which the most
trf Tlal action Is so explained and elucidated that
life, with its many motives and designs, becomes,
aa U were, transpsrent before the mental sight.

** In the work entitled The Valiant Woman, even
•tcep Is treated In this manner; and that blessed
mantle, which enfolds so many weary heads snd
a«blog hearts, is shown to be, only too often, a
etoak to oover ' all the ingenious excuses of sloth,
dtaicnlsed under the form of pretended infirmities.*
Bat ihh chapter on this suhjeot Is so eloquent,
learned, and beauttfhl that we desire our readers
to epioy It without further details on our part.

** The comparison tahen from the Proverbs, that
woman Is like unto a ship, is an exquisite slmllfe,
•o fhU of original ideas and startling resemblances
that we are amased as well as edified by its pern*
sal.

Te quote a few lines of this beautifhl word*
^ng for th«« benefit of our lady readers :
Page t»: 'Our ship has another resource:
when the weather becomes too bad. It casu an*
rhor. The ponderous mass talis Into the deep,
fsstenadown the ship by Its weight, and becomes
a kind of solid foundation for it in the depths of
the sea. Oar soul should also be provided with Its
anchor; nay, with many anchors suspended from
the bulwarks; and when the storm comes, she
•hoold drop them into the depths of God's provi-
dence, and rest unmoved, awaiting the end of the
tempest. The anchors or the soul are many and
varloof, for under that name I would place ev^ry*
thing tending to support and eonsolldatelt: such
as gi>od ana well-established principles, great
firmness of character, safe and pious friend-
ships, and, above ill, unvhaken confidence In
<rOd, and eneriretto faith, capable of moving
mouotalns. Ladtes.amid the numerous difllcultl**s
of family life, amid those heavy ground*swells
which arise so unexpectedly, tosslbg about In all
directions thft vessel of the soul, follow this coun-
sel : rost anchor and remain quiet. And after
that ? you ask. Nothing more, only keep your
anchor firm, add pray. Is not this what the pilot
does at sea ?*

" And so on in regard to the compass, the masts,
the betm, its balancing power, etc.

** The Twelfth Discourse Is a mine of holy and
wise counsel drawn from the texr, * She hath open-
ed her hand to the needy, and stretched oat hei*
hands to the poor.*

** Ths delicate topic of Dress enters into this dis-
course, and there are many excellent and practi-
cal Instructions connected with It.

*' Every one of the seventeen Conferences in this
volume M headed hy a quotation irom Holy Scrip-
lures; and it Is the peculiar tact of the eloquent
Archbishop to make these sentences lines oi living
light, illumining the intellect, vlviiying the heart,
and tracing out the paths of love and duty.

"The second volume. Sine of the Tongue; or.
Jealousy in YTomaa's X</:i. deals with the most de-
licate considerations. It is, in reality, a sharp dis-
section of woman's heart; but the hand which
holds the knife is as tender as it Is firm, and
touches only the diseased and corrupted parts.

*' The work is prefaced by an able Hrtlcle from
the pen of the eloquent Bishop of Kerry, who con-
gratulates the translator upon the succtrss of her
labor, and assures her that she has preserved the .
tenderness, the warmth, and the vigor of the ori-
ginal.

**The chapters on Envy and Jealousy, Rash
Judgments and Christian Patience, abound in thst
prudent counsel and consolation of which we
make bold to say every woman stands in need
during some portion of her life.

"Both books are intended chiefly for married
women, or for those who have houvehuld cares de-
volving upon them ; but they contain inrtrucitun
suitable for every condition of worn -iii hood, an ft
would be a treasure In tlie hands ui maid or ma-
tron.

** These books are beautifaily bound In cloth,
with gilt sides, and would prove an acceptable or-
nament to the centre-table : but we do not hesitate
to a«sert, however much their exterior may de-
light the eye. that thr-ir Interior, when carefully
examined, will be held as a rare yet most useful
treasure, to be hidden away in woman's heart
only to be revealed in woman's life."
PROTESTANT OPINION.
From the Louiwille Courier Journal.
*' Two beautiful little volumes, elegantly print-
ed end tastefully bound, from the press or Patrick
Donahoe, have reached u». They are translations,
elegantly rendered, of the discourses of Monsel-
gneur Landriot, Archbishop of Kheims. upon The
VaUant Woman, and upon Sine (if the Tongne and
Jeatoueg in Woman*e Uft. Thi-se discourses are ■
earnest, eloquent, and eminently practical, and
we commend them to all our readers, Protestant
as well as Catholic, as abounding iu lessons of
wisdom well uttered.**

From the New York Independent.
'* Patrick Donahoe. of Boston, has published two
volumes of practical religious instruction for Ro-
man Catholic women living in the world, and. con-
sequently, unlikely to profit by all the maxims and
meditations contained In books written hy or fcr
pf^rsons devoted to the conventual life. They are
The Valiant Woman, a Series of Discourses in-
tend*«d for the une of wom^^n living iu th« worbl,
tind Sins qf the Tongue and Jealousy in Woman**
Life, followed by Discourses on Rash Judament*.
Patience, and Grace. The author of both Is Mon-
seigneur Landriot, Archblsnop of Rheims. France,
and both are translated by Helena Lyons, the
second having a preface by the Bishop of Kerry.
Ireland. It is one of the proudest busst« of thn
Roman Catholic Church that It shows the highest
regard lor the sanctity of marriage.'*
From the Soeton Christian Register, Unitarian

paper.
♦*We assnre our Protest *ot readers that they
need not turn from the books because they are
of Catholic origin. A fine snint breathes throuirh
them— almost the spirit of Fdaelon, whom the au-
thor loves to quote. Some of our more active and
Independent women might grow restive now and
then under the good arclib*shnp*s admonitiun : but
there are few women anywhere who can look
through these pages without benefit. The Ian-
guagn la very simnle. The priestly counsellor de-
scends to some of the mlna<est dttslls of life."

For 9aie by all Booksellers, Sent free hy mail

T->o-Nr A T=r O-RTi=t

PnbUsUng: House,

Boylston St., Boston, Mass.

-»^#»4-

The Christiaii Trxixnpet; or. Previsions and Predictions about

Impending General CaUmities, the UnlTenal Triumph of tbe Chnrcdi, the Camiag
of Christ, the Laet Judgment, the Bnd of the World. Ck>mpiled bj PeUeKzinoL
12mo, cloth. beyeUed $*«

The Sincere Christian 'Instructed in the Faith of Christ, &om

the written Word of God. By Bt. Ber. George Hay. New edition, rerised and cor-
reoted. ldmo,oloth ***

The Monks of the West, from St. Benedict to St Bernard.

By the Gount de Montalembert, Member of the French Academy. An Amsxlcan
edition of this great work has lone been wanted, as the price of the English editioe
places the book ont of the reach of most readers. It is published in two m a gnifl cert

Bro Tolumes, printed on good paper, clear type, and bound in oloth, bereUed 8 IP

Half calf , marbled edges »•■

Plain Talk about the Protestantism of To-Day. Prom the

French of Mgr. Segnr. One of the most remaricable books of the day. Orer 10O,OG9

copies have been soJd in America. 18mo, oloth JJf

Papercovers ®2

Bythehundred **•

Notes on the Rubrics of the Roman Ritual, regarding the Sa-
craments in General, Baptism, the Eucharist, and Extreme Unction. By the ReT.
James O'Eane, Senior Dean of St. Patrick's College, Majmooth. Third editioci, re>

vised and enlarged. Beautifully printed on superfine paper, 8to, fancy oloth > '

This work having been examined by the Sacred Congregation of Rites, is declared,

in a decree prefixed to the present edition, to be, with the corrections now made, **c«f«

eommtrUUibus eicouratisalmum opui.**

The Consoling Thoughts of St. Francis de Sales. Gkitheied

from his writings and arranged in order, by Bev. Pdre Huguet. Translated from

the seventh French edition. 18mo, oloth, tinted paper ^^

Father Huguet has given us in this little work the quintessence of everything that
our amiable samt wrote most sweet and consoling, especially in his letters, inwhi<n that
heart so good and tender, which God has formed to oomiort the aifiloted, is entirely
revealed.

Holy Week in the Vatican. The Ceremonies and their Con-
nection with History, Science, and the Fine Arts— Music, Painting, Seulptiire,
Architecture, Engraving, and Astronomy. With Rellsious Beflections on the Wod«
ders, in the order of Mature and Grace. By Bev. Thomas Canon Pope, Pxfest of
the Archdiocese of Dublin and Church of Saint Andrew. ISmo, doth, bevelled,
gilt centre tH

The Life of the Foimder of the Order of the Sisters of the

Good Shepherd. Father Eudes, Apostolic Missionary, and his Foundatioas,
1801-1874. By M. Ch. De Montsey. With a brief of anproval addressed to the « ^
Author by His Holiness Pope Pius IX. Uano, doth, bevelled •«

IN THE PBBSS:
Great Work on Education. Beady in a few weeks. Handsome doth, $1 fiOi

THfi CHUiD. By MonseigneurDupanloup, Bishop of Orleans.

Authorized translation by Kate Anderson. " Every head of a family should have
a copy.*'

For Sale by all Booksellers.

SEXTT FREE B? MAZZ..

MARCH, 1875.
G^ This supersedes ail previous Catatoi/ues. .j0

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Attention is called to the following Catalogue of our Books. The
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•* A wonderful \>oo\iy— Boston Pilot.
Hv (Clerical Friends, and their Rela-
tions to Modem Thought. ConteoU : Chap.
I. Tbe Vocation of the Clergy.— II. The
ClerKy at Home— III. The Clergy Abroad.
— rvT The Clergy and Modern Thought,
t vol. lamo, Il50

By the same author.

Attrck Deiimce: Report of a Conference
on the Present Dangers of the Church.
Bv the author of "My Clerical Friends."-
Members ot the Conference: Canon Light-
wood, Archdeacon Tennyson, Rev. Cyril
Hooker— Ritualisu. The Kegius Professor
of Chaldee. the Bishop of Rochester, Rev.
Prebendary Smiles— High Churchmen. The
Bishop of Brighton, Arcndeacon Softly, Rev
Silas Trumpington— Low Churchmen. Dean
Marmion« Rev. Prebendary Creedless—
Broad Churchmen. Rev. Mark Weasel— At"
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CooMdy of Convocation in tfao

Kofflisb Church. In Two Scenes. Edited
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aiMifimphia Catholica Americana.

A List <if American Catholic Books published
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t vol. 8vo 5 00

Itollia Nottervillo; oTt Ono of the

Transplanted. A Tale of the Times of Crom-
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VnU Times, a Tale of the Days of Queen
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and Wilfulness ancl its Consequences, i vol.
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Little Pierre, the Pedlar of Alsace

Translated from the French, and illustrsted
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2 00

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Sermons on Bcdesiastical Sntjects.

Vol. 1. By Archbishop Manning. Cloth,

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Love of Our Lord Je

Glinyl i

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lima, clotti.

Short Treatise en Prajer. Adao«e4 1*

aH CMsM*of ChrU*ian!L Wy Sl AlpMMa
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MVb ; '* l^'ere tt tn my pcuwer, I i
Ibli ftK many fop»e% of thia wcffk «« t
Chri«;ti*ns an earth. a»d w«uld rJT« wteh •
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Spirit of St. ^plkottvas 4m Ufmm^

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Tlie aioriea of Blarv> Tn&wiaC«<

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1»
Liib and Letters of Madame 9n^

ctiiDft Transt-ie^ Iroffii the f rend* ^ tW
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The Wiiting^ of Wadamn

Edited bv < mint de Kail due. i vol <^P^

Oakeley on CatboMc Wormhip s AA»»

nijjil of ]'*oin3»ar I niiitiittion r.n the Vrnt^^m
nic^ anil Devouonis at tJic rtiiitb. My f »»
dericlr t: A.nou Oakelev, M.A ., >1 buionaif
R ct to r tj r St. J oh n' s, T til or ton - \ toI- t4aif.

OiU£ol«y oa tho lllaa*. TIm Or€«r

Sacrince of t)i€ Mavs enittained ^fi a I>bl«*
tuclwecn a Priest anr1 * C«t«ckiiiiteB ^ W^

Cdtnpline.jind the BenedicllaQ al jtka Il*i*
Hijlr SacTiimtinU By" C«IIqd
Oakdey. i vol tgmo. .

PLu&resa ; or, Th« Spixitmal Si

of St Ignatlyt, Flu Gener*? u«e Srm
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A^^'^T Hv J^>hn Hetirf NewoiAO, L> D . «
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Apologia Pro Tita Sua i Boittgr * ^^

piy lo a Painphitt enlat)e*i '*Wtimi. t^tt,
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Sit

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(E3TABLJ8HEI* 1840. >

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NEW YORK.

r» Aiw>moN TO ouB usual ORmAT vaboitt of
^SONABLKAND FASHIONABLE 6AHM£NTS,

m TH8 0EP4RTM1OrT OF

READY-MADE CLOTHING,

Our Custom Rooms are suppUed with the

fwnar ajtd bsst fabrics of tbk eoms and forrig»

MAHKST8 TO BS

MADE TO ORDER.

W« 4RB ALSO PRBTAJllfiU TO HBCBrVIt AJfD KXBC7UTB OBDSEB WW

Cassocks and other Clerical doming,

•taoi FKitm nul Colon vlitoli »•?« Ui« «i»prof»i or tiio Bifiiopa uid Oltrgy of tut CbiPth*

PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD,

PITTSBORG, FORT WAINE. AND CHICAGO 8AILWAT

AND PAN-HANDLE ROUTE.

^tTEfctT, QUICKEST, AND BEST LINE TO CINCINNATI, LOtUSVILLJi,

ST, hOVm. CHICAaO, AND ALJ * PARTS OF THE

West, Northwest, and Southwest

Plac4> ; Defwt, foot o£ CartUudt
^ in Pfiodpal Uotcln,

^ \ TT, SAMUEL CARPENTER, D. M. BOYD, Jr ,

NfanaifKr, 0>^o. Ett^tern Paas. Agent. GetL Vnm. Agent.

DANIEL A. MORAN,

No. 40 Wall Street,

Majhiattaj} 1U.VK Dfiuiisu. NEW YORK

Railroad, State, City, County & Town Bonds Negotiat(a.
Buffalo City. Brooklyn City. Jersey City, Elizabeth City,

AND OTHICH KJltrtTCl^^^S^ BONDfe.

FOREIGN EXCHANSE BOUGHT AND SOLD,

'Urntlovi givim lo invo^lmcnti* for >4arin(fn fnwtitntiouM, Tru!<t itijij IntOJtica

CotnpfUiif*'*

1^.1.

STATEMENT Or

The Mutual Life insurance Company of fiewii

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ANNUiTY ACCOUNT,

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